Sick

"I thought you watched this show when it was first on," Miles complained, forking another helping of noodles into his face and then immediately gulping his beer. "Fuck, why do you like your pad thai so spicy!"

"This isn't even as spicy as I usually get it, you baby," teased Waylon, eating his own dinner out of a Styrofoam container on his lap. The pair was sitting on the couch in Waylon's apartment eating take-out, drinking beer, and watching The Office. "Lots of people re-watch shows that they enjoy."

"Not me," Miles said, shoving more noodles into his maw. "Once it's off air and I've seen it all, it's dead to me."

"Oh, you liar, I see you watching repeat episodes of Golden Girls all the time," Waylon said, putting his half empty container on the coffee table in his living room and standing up. "I'm getting another beer. You want one?"

"Sure. Thank you for being a friend," Miles said, draining the last sip in his current beer and handing the empty bottle to Waylon. "Don't recycle that."

"I'm going to recycle that," Waylon glared as he walked out of the room holding the two bottles. "You're so lazy not to even bother to separate the easiest recyclables. Mother Earth is going to be pissed at you."

"I'm a busy man," Miles said, his attention being ripped away from the television when Waylon put a cold bottle up next to his clean shaven cheek, making him jump. "Thanks," Miles deadpanned taking the beer.

Waylon chuckled, taking a rather long drink from his own beer. "How are the blogs?"

"Soul crushing. You should slow down on the beers," Miles commented as Waylon sat down on the couch next to him, scooting closer than he would normally sit. Miles pushed his own container of noodles onto the table and slid an arm around Waylon to make them more comfortable. "You are a lightweight."

Waylon hummed at the sentiment. "Eddie still hasn't called."

"I'm sorry. Maybe it's for the best..."

"Don't say that. I just hope Eddie does not suspect that we are spending time together. He might feel threatened," Waylon said.

"Threatened? He's threatened by me? Does he know that we slept together?"

"Hell no! He would not want me spending time with you if he knew," Waylon said.

"Why not? You chose him over me from the very start," Miles said, drinking deeply to wash out the taste of bitterness that bubbled inside of him at the admission.

"Oh hush, I didn't choose anyone. You were still visiting Chris when I met Eddie. You considered you two still in a relationship," Waylon's face was flushed from drink. Miles thought it made him look even cuter than usual.

"Yeah. I was a fucking idiot," sighed Miles. "I thought if I kept visiting maybe he would get better. Every visit he recognized me less and less. I went to see Jeremy today..."

"Jeremy Blaire?" Waylon interjected, his face wrinkling in disgust. "Why would you voluntarily spend time with that dick?"

"Threatened him with some of what I found out. I think he restarted Project Walrider. Some kind of weapon research. Now he knows that I am onto him. I was hoping to goad him into admitting something, but he's too good at what he does," Miles said. "He told me that Chris has gotten worse. Apparently he's resorted to eating away at his own lips and cheeks. So bad that he needed specialized restraints on his face."

"Oh Miles," Waylon said, nuzzling his head against his friend's shoulder. "Jeremy's a dick to say something like that, even if it turns out to be true. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"I would feel better if I could drag those corrupt bastards down," Miles said, drinking his beer with the arm that was not around Waylon. "I know they're restarting that project. I just don't know if he knows why it was shut down in the first place. I highly doubt it, considering his reaction today."

"Is that good?" Waylon asked, drinking the last of his third beer. He leaned forward to place it on the table and missed, dropping it onto the carpet with a thud.

"I don't know. I guess it gives me the upper hand on that secret information, but I'm not sure how I can use it to expose what he has going on now. I'm heading back to Leadville in the morning. Maybe my source can give me more information to help me shut the project down for good," Miles said.

Waylon yawned and laid his head on Miles' shoulder. "You'll make it right Miles. I believe in you."

Miles highly doubted that his friend had intended to allude to the conversation they had when they first met, but hearing Waylon say those words brought him right back to that cold night on the roof. Miles felt considerably less comfortable. He retreated into his own head, reliving that night. The night he met Waylon. The Office came to an end, and Miles realized that Waylon had fallen asleep on him. He sighed. Typical.

Miles stood up carefully and laid Waylon out gently, his head at one end of the couch and Miles sitting at the opposite with Waylon's legs in his lap. Another episode was already starting, but Miles was distracted by the close proximity of his sleeping friend.

It was painful—physically painful—for Miles to sit so close to Waylon and watch him sleeping peacefully. Painful because Miles had to hold himself back from touching his neighbor in any way that could be deemed inappropriate while everything in him screamed to reach out. Miles could not be sure if Waylon had dozed off or passed out from drinking. Miles did not want to leave; he resisted whispering Waylon's name or shaking him to find out if he was sleeping. Instead, Miles just watched. It was just an innocent gaze on his friend's sleeping face with its splotchy bruise. An innocent gaze, yet Miles felt guilty. Very guilty. Why should he have to feel so guilty? Was it some kind of crime to look at Waylon and feel attracted to him.

Well, if Miles had to feel so goddamn guilty about it, he might as well do something to make himself legitimately guilty. It was horrible reasoning, but Miles had been drinking. He indulged his sickness for a moment by leaning over to swipe an errant lock of hair away from Waylon's bruised eye. The man barely stirred when Miles tucked the hair behind his ear, fingers lightly following the shell of his friend's ear. Miles leaned in close, adjusting himself on the couch, until each exhaled breath was right against Waylon's lips. He knew it was wrong; he knew he shouldn't. Miles pressed his lips to Waylon's anyways.

One kiss. That's all Miles meant to allow himself. He considered it a goodbye kiss to help put some closure behind his complicated feelings for Waylon. He hadn't anticipated lithe arms wrapping around his neck or lips moving lazily against his. He could not have foreseen the way his neighbor responded to the warmth of a body hovering just over his on the couch. When Miles settled his weight on top of Waylon, his neighbor let out a breathy sigh and Miles took advantage of the opening to taste Waylon's mouth.

Why was it so much better than Miles remembered? They had kissed and touched and fucked that night on camera, but it had been so casual and playful. Having Waylon under him that night was much different. It was wrong, his subconscious repeated insistently, but Miles was helpless to stop. Encouraged by Waylon's actions, conscious or not, Miles sucked and kissed along Waylon's exposed neck. His hips had a mind of their own, grinding down on the supine man beneath him. "Waylon," he moaned softly against his neighbor's neck, the name foreign on his tongue since he rarely called him by his first name. It felt good. Miles needed to stop. Had to stop before things went too far.

But Waylon responded to his actions by emulating them, bucking his hips up to meet Miles' and letting out a soft moan that set Miles' blood on fire. The reporter was careful not to leave any marks that could raise unwanted questions. He needed to stop, but felt powerless, like a recovering addict in the grip of a relapse. He wanted to overdose on Waylon.

It was okay as long as he did not touch Waylon, Miles rationalized in his sick brain. Each excuse he concocted was more pathetic than the last. He was a pathetic being in that moment—humping Waylon while he was passed out. But it was okay as long as no one knew and no one got hurt, Miles lied to himself. He thrust a hand down his pants, groaning at the feeling of even just his own hand. His back hunched as he stroked himself while straddling Waylon. He continued to kiss and lick at his neighbor's lips and neck while he debased himself. It did not take long before Miles was biting back a moan and jumping back to catch his seed before it could sully anything in his neighbor's apartment.

Miles walked to the kitchen in a sweaty daze, washing his hands in the sink, and the full realization of what he had done threatened to crush him. Shame. Disgust. He hated himself so much in that moment. He walked to the door, putting on his jacket, and left the apartment, locking the door behind him. He didn't deserve Waylon's friendship. He could not stay the night and see his friend's unassuming face in the morning. Miles knew he was acting like a pathetic piece of shit.

He shuffled over to his own apartment and prepared to sleep off the beer he had drank. He would leave for Leadville first thing in the morning. He would delete that video of him and Waylon. He would be a friend and try to help Waylon with his relationships without always selfishly trying to claim his friend as his own. Or maybe better yet, he would leave Waylon alone. Miles was a walking disaster. Using his friend like some kind of masturbatory aid against his will was a new low.

Miles found his own collection of bourbon and skipped the cup, drinking long and deep until he managed to pass out on his own filthy couch, swimming in self-loathing.

When he awoke, Miles' head felt like it was filled with cotton and being rung by a hammer at every heartbeat. For a few blessed minutes, Miles felt tired and fuzzy, trying to remember the previous evening. Then the avalanche of self-disgust hit him and threatened to crush him when he remembered Waylon. Miles packed up his belongings. He had to get out of town. He would run from his problems. It wouldn't be the first time.

Miles sat in his own dirty kitchen, glaring at the tabletop. He could leave town. He could change his number, break his lease, and never see Waylon Park ever again. Miles put his elbows on the table and hung his pounding head in his hands. No. Not after everything they had been through together. He could never do that successfully.

He could pretend that nothing happened. If Waylon had no memories, what was the harm? A little bit of self hatred was nothing to Miles, just add it to the mountainous pile already weighing on his conscience. But then what if Waylon one day was single, could Miles really offer himself to his friend and live with the daily reminder of the wrongs he had committed? Well, maybe. Miles was finding avoidance and denial to be the best option.

That was only because the arguably best option sounded so...bleak. Miles had to confront Waylon. He would admit his transgressions and ask forgiveness. Not just the night before; he would lay it all out: the video, the fantasies, the reality of his feelings. Their friendship was strained to breaking because Miles could not handle being just friends any longer. Either Waylon could share the feelings, or else his friend would have to agree to help Miles get over him through distance and time.

That's assuming Waylon did not spit in his face when he admitted what a disgusting pig he had been. He chuckled to himself in his apartment alone. Pig. Yeah, Chris had been right all along. It was a fitting nickname after all.

It took a heavy shot of Irish cream in his morning coffee before Miles worked up the courage to walk down the hall to Waylon's apartment. He packed up his belongings and put them in his jeep before preparing for the confrontation. Miles needed to be ready to run just in case the reaction to his sinful confession was a violent one. He would not even blame Waylon. It was possible they would have matching black eyes by the end of the day.

Miles knocked on Waylon's apartment, 2536, and waited. His nerves made it impossible to stand still as he waited, pacing in front of the door. His heart leaped into his throat at the sound of Waylon's door opening. He started to open his mouth to greet his friend, but stopped suddenly and stared. Eddie Gluskin answered the door with wet hair and a towel around his waist.

"Uhhhh..." Miles momentarily lost the ability to form coherent sentences. Eddie Gluskin was probably 6'5" with washboard abs, chiseled muscles, and a striking jawline. The tiny white towel hanging off his hip bones was too much for even a straight man. Miles could not stop staring, though instead of desire he was flooded with depression. So that's what Waylon saw in Eddie. "I...uhh...dammit, Gluskin, put some pants on."

"You stopped by to tell me to put on pants?" Eddie asked, raising an eyebrow. Miles glared at the man, aware of how blue and hypnotic his eyes were, made more mysterious by the wet black strands glistening on his forehead. Miles was accustomed to Eddie resembling a biker goon with his frown and slicked black hair. It was disconcerting to see him looking like some kind of sex god washed up from a shipwreck.

"No, dammit, I need to talk to Park. What are you even doing here? I saw what you did to his face," Miles sneered, forcing himself to look at Eddie's face and not check on whether or not that towel was going to hold.

"I do not see how our personal relationship is any of your business. And Waylon is a bit indisposed at the moment," Eddie said, the smug ton grating on Miles' nerves. Eddie leaned slightly closer to whisper conspiratorially, "just out of the shower." The following wink made Miles seethe internally.

"Well, get him. I need to talk to him about something private," Miles said, trying to look around Eddie in hopes of catching a glimpse of Waylon wandering around in a similar state of undress. Eddie seemed to notice his intent and leveled a murderous glare at Miles.

Eddie stood immovable for several heartbeats before shrugging his massive, bare shoulders and shutting the door until it was only open a tiny crack. Miles heard him call out into the apartment, "Darling? Someone bothersome is here for you..."

Seconds later Waylon appeared at the door. "Bothersome?" he asked before flinging the door open. "Hey! Miles. Sorry I passed out last night. I'm really thankful that you stuck around even though I was being such a downer." Waylon was wearing blue plaid boxers and a plain white t-shirt. His blond hair was still wet indicating he had most likely been in the shower at the same time as Eddie.

"I see Eddie's back," Miles stated, glancing where he could see Eddie disappear down the hallway that led into Waylon's bedroom.

"Yeah, he showed up early this morning and apologized. Poor thing, I think he was hurting more than I was," Waylon said, causing Miles to stare at the bruised eye that was still painfully purple. "You leaving town again, or what? I'm leaving for work soon but we could all hang out after five o'clock if you want..."

"Look," Miles said, feeling flustered that Eddie's return had thrown a considerable wrench in his plan. "I hate the way Eddie treats you. But I'm no better. I came by to apologize to you."

Waylon's green eyes were gloriously wide and bright. "Whaaa..."

"I'm sorry, Park," Miles pressed on. "I have not been a good friend to you." Miles clenched his fists and forced himself to continue, though he was unable to continue meeting his friend's eyes. "I don't want to be friends. I want more. I thought I could handle not having you that way, but I...I'm sick. I can't remember a time I got myself off without thinking of you. I watch our video...way more than I ever should..."

"I thought that video got deleted! Oh my God you still have it..." Waylon interjected, though Miles ignored the interruption.

"And last night, I...you were passed out and I..." Miles closed his eyes, preparing for a slap, "...I kissed you. You were passed out and I kissed you. And I got off on it."

When the slap did not come, Miles slowly opened his eyes and saw Waylon staring at him like a deer stuck in headlights. The most adorable pink blush Miles had ever seen crept onto his friend's cheeks. "Miles...that's...that's not right."

"I know. You trust me, you had no reason to know what a disgusting pervert I was and I...I'm sorry. I know it's probably too little too late but I am sorry. I can't be your friend. I'm leaving town. I'm sorry. I need you to keep your distance for a while. I'd understand if you never even wanted to see me again. So. I'm sorry," Miles said, turning to walk away from the door and down the stairs. There really was not anything else to say and he was beginning to doubt he could keep himself from begging for forgiveness and abandoning the last shred of dignity he had left.

He had not expected the bare feet running behind him down the cold concrete breezeway, though he probably should have.

"Miles. Miles. Do not walk away, asshole, what, what is your problem, please don't be like this," Waylon pleaded, keeping up with Miles. The reporter continued to walk and ignore his friend until he reached the stairs that would lead him down to the parking lot. Miles took a deep breath and turned to look at Waylon seeing only fear and concern.

"Okay, so we need to discuss some boundaries," Waylon started, talking faster than usual, "but, we can still be friends. Even if there's space, we will still be friends. You're not thinking about...that...again are you? You're not going to do anything permanent, right?" Waylon asked, his arms wrapping around himself as he shivered in the chilly morning while under-dressed with dripping wet hair.

"No. I'm not going back up to the roof," Miles assured Waylon before turning to walk down the stairs. He was stopped by a frigid hand grabbing for his own.

"Miles! Don't leave like this. Come in and have some coffee, we can talk about this more. I can be late to work. Eddie's on his way out and we can talk in private, we can..."

Miles glared at Waylon, effectively stopping his friend's thoughts as they held eye contact. Miles launched himself at Waylon without warning, wrapping his arms around the barely dressed man and covering Waylon's lips with his own. For a brief moment, Waylon went stiff as a board, before melting into Miles' arms. Miles' lips moved over Waylon's and he pressed their bodies together.

Waylon's lips were soft and cold from the air. He tilted his head as his eyes fluttered close, happily sinking into Miles' arms and returning his kiss. Memories of the previous evening flew to Miles' mind. The sting of disgust caused Miles to growl as he resumed where he had left off, kissing a hot trail across Waylon's cold skin. Waylon's mouth flew open as he inhaled sharply. Miles mistook Waylon's hands on his shoulder as encouragement until he realized his friend was calling his name repeatedly...

"Miles! Miles, are you drunk? You smell like a distillery," Waylon chided, pulling himself away from Miles' possessive embrace and trying to make light of the slip.

The pair separated with a disgusted groan from Miles. "Do you see now? This isn't a joke these are my real feelings. I can't be around you, I'm not well. I'm leaving."

"Wait!"

"I'm going back to Leadville. Don't call me; I'll call you when I want to talk," Miles muttered, stomping down the stairs while Waylon called after him.

"You better call! You know I will worry about you! It's okay Miles, everything is okay, I don't hate you, we can still work through this, I will give you space but please, you have to call, I will worry so much and..."

It became background noise. Static. Atmospheric interference happening around him but not affecting him any longer. Miles got into his jeep and drove back to Leadville and once he arrived, he could not remember a single detail about the journey. He also had no recollection of consciously deciding to go to Billy's house before checking back in at his own motel room, but he found himself turning down the familiar dirt drive.

Miles drove out to the house and banged on the door. The old truck was parked outside, meaning Billy was not out with the cows. When no one came to the door, Miles knocked again. "Billy," he shouted. "Billy, I need to talk to you. I know you're probably mad but..."

The door opened and Miles realized he had not heard all of the locks. Once the door was ajar, Billy practically fell into Miles' arms. "What the fuck?" Heat was radiating off the boy's body. Billy was only wearing a stained white shirt and flannel pajama pants, but he was burning up. His face was paler than usual and his entire body covered in a sheen of sweat that caused his glasses to slip down his nose.

"Can you get me back to the couch?" Billy asked in a tremulous voice. Miles nodded and wrapped Billy's arm around his shoulder. The tall young man was a lot more difficult to carry than Waylon had been. "Hurry," Billy encouraged. Miles grumbled to himself as he hauled Billy to the couch and helped him sit down. No sooner had Miles stood back up than Billy doubled over a trash-can and wretched loudly.

"Uh, are you contagious?" Miles asked, taking a step back. His face went blank as he stared at the thick, black sludge Billy wiped from his mouth.