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“Going out on Boxing Day should be illegal,” Alex grumbled as he dug through the shoe rack looking for a specific pair of boots. Not that he had a specific pair in mind, but he continued his fruitless rummaging in the hopes they would reveal themselves to him by divine intervention. Or something. Maybe all the appropriate ones were back in London; he made a mental note to buy more boots for their home in the north. Or rather, ask Miles to choose and order more boots for him. Miles was far better at all that. “I can think of at least thirty things we could be doing on Boxing Day without having to leave our bedroom, let alone going outside in the cold.”
“Yes, and we did six of them this morning, and four last night. We’re goin’.” Miles picked up a pair of boots and thrust them into Alex’s hand. “Here, these.” Alex considered them for a moment and found they somehow matched his outfit intentions perfectly. He shrugged and pulled them on, balancing precariously on one foot then hopping onto the other, almost sending his haphazardly stacked side of the shoe rack crashing to the floor. Alex felt solid arms draw around his body, holding him steady and reorienting him. But wasn’t that what Miles did, had always done, been the constant counterweight keeping him balanced and grounded when his dreams, his ego, or his spiralling anxiety threatened to carry him away on a gentle breeze. “Not so fast, no getting out of the match by ending up in A and E with a ridiculous foot injury.”
Alex chuckled. “I see you’ve seen through me sneaky plan. Foiled again eh?”
“Always.” Alex felt warm lips brush his neck, just above the spot that drove him wild, that by association drove him just as crazy with its purposefulness. “Besides, how would you do the other twenty things on that list of yours with a broken foot?” Miles’s voice was low in his ear and Alex couldn’t suppress the shiver that betrayed how affected he still was, even nine months into their relationship.
“In the interest of fairness,” Alex said taking Miles’s hands from around his middle and turning to face him, “the overwhelming majority of the list can be done lying down, so a broken foot wouldn’t necessarily ruin me plans.”
“Well they’d ruin mine. Can’t let you have all the fun can I?Time to go,” Miles said, placing a light slap on Alex’s backside.
After bickering over whose turn it was to wear Alex’s brown leather jacket - “you’ll get cold wrists again Miles, it’s too short in the arms,” which Miles gave in to much sooner than usual, they set Max up in his bed and bundled into the car in matching bobble hats and scarves.
They sat mostly in silence as Alex drove them towards Anfield, with just the low rumble of John Lennon from the car speakers. Miles was uncharacteristically quiet, especially so given his love of both Christmas and football. Alex kept sneaking glances at the passenger side of the car. He knew Miles would share what was on his mind, when he was ready. He always did. Alex had a good idea what that might be, and his heart ached in anticipation. If he could take everything away and feel it tenfold for himself, Alex would do it in a heartbeat. Instead, he settled for rubbing soothing circles into Miles’s knee, feeling the roughness of the denim under his hand, grateful that he’d changed cars to an automatic. Comforting Miles was so much more important than something as daft as changing gears.
Alex parked the car and steeled himself for the chilly walk down to the stadium. Liverpool and Leicester wasn’t exactly the most thrilling of matches, but as long as Miles was happy, that’s all that mattered. Alex unbuckled his seat belt and went to click the door open when he felt a hand on his arm.
“Can we talk first? We’ve got time.”
Alex turned to see Miles smoothing the furry collar of his black leather jacket, worrying the fluff between his fingers. Miles was never nervous.
“Of course, what’s on your mind?”
“I know I should be overjoyed, first Christmas together, just the three of us, and I am. I’m so happy and grateful. It’s just… the Boxing Day match. It’s somethin’ all me mates did with their dads.”
Alex’s heart sank at the twinge of sadness in Miles’s voice; he gently laced their fingers together and waited for Miles to continue. Miles’s gaze was still fixed insistently on his lap.
“Every year he’d say “yeah, we’ll go”, and then… nothin’. I’d be excited for it for months, and mum would sit there, bitin’ her tongue, knowing he’d let me down again, I can see that now. And she’d have to pick up the pieces every time. Stupid, I know, it’s been twenty-five years probably. It’s just a bit…”
“Bittersweet?”Alex supplied. “Lennon probably isn’t helpin’.”
“I guess. You always have the words I don’t,” Miles said, finally meeting Alex’s eyes, and using his free hand to poke at Alex’s cheek.
“Good to know I’m useful for somethin’,” Alex said, squeezing Miles’s hand. “I know it’s not the same, but me dad thinks the world of you, y’know? Every time I ring, or visit, he asks about you, always wantin’ your opinion on which new bands he should listen to, or how to fix his whammy bar, or where you get your loafers from.”
“Really? You never said.” Miles’s eyes were widened in disbelief, a slight frown on his lips. Alex was desperate to kiss it away; if only Miles knew how special he was, how much everyone loved him.
“He likes you more than me, reckon it was a bit of the old jealousy. After all, which one of us did he teach the saxophone to eh?” Alex laughed. “You’ll see, when we go round on Saturday. From me mum too, threatening me if I hurt you they’ll never forgive me. They’ve always adored you, you’re like their second son. I never said because… I was worried it’d be too much, or it’d be…”
Miles seemed to consider all this, choosing his next words carefully. “Weird that your parents care about me more than me own dad?”
Alex stayed silent. Maybe he should have broken his foot after all. Then it dawned on him. “Well we’ll start our own tradition. Boxing Day match, the two of us. On TV or in the stadium, if it’s not too far away. I’ll get me dad to come with us, if you want?”
“You’d do that, for me?” Miles’s eyes were shining in the soft light of the car, just as they had all those years ago when Alex would tell a ridiculous joke to make Miles giggle, before pulling him into a hug or onto his lap. When they were simultaneously nothing more and so much more than best friends.
“I don’t think you understand how this love thing works Miles Kane. I love you. I’d do anything for you. Surely you know that by now?”
Miles blushed, as if Alex hadn’t been declaring his love multiple times a day for the past nine months not only in words but in actions; a slow, heady kiss in the midst of their passion, in a smile and a gentle brush of fingers exchanging a shared cigarette, in a scattering of scrawled notes left on the kitchen table before Alex’s early morning walks, a collection of which Alex had found secretly tucked away for safekeeping in the back of a drawer.
“I still don’t believe it sometimes,” Miles said shyly.
“Well I’m goin’ to be tellin’ you every day until you do, and after that, for the rest of me life, okay?” Alex leaned over and drew them into a gentle kiss. He felt Miles finally relax, as if the weight of his feelings had been released into the ether.
Miles nodded. “Shall we go? Don’t wanna miss kick off.”
They started the short walk down to the stadium, hand in hand. Miles was much more like his usual self, and they’d started to talk about Christmas traditions. “So what other traditions should we have?” Miles said.
“Anythin’ you want darlin’. Just name it.”
“Hmm, eat a whole box of mince pies in bed?”
“Already on me list of thirty. Plus cream. Watchin’ Die Hard on Christmas Eve, havin’ sex on Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, and Boxing Day - well if we do all them next year again it’ll be a tradition,” Alex said, a smirk on his face.
“Alex, there’s people around, they might hear.” They’d approached the crowd all heading towards Anfield and Miles had instinctively slipped his hand out of Alex’s, though he couldn’t quite hide his pleased smile.
“I can’t help that you’re so gorgeous I can’t keep me hands off you. Ever.” Alex laced their fingers together again and prodded Miles’s cheek with his nose.
Miles squealed insisting Alex’s nose was colder than his own cheek, even though, no, it didn’t make sense to him either and leaned in for a kiss, before withdrawing at the last second, a hesitant look on his face. Alex held in a sigh and simply stroked the back of Miles’s hand in soothing circles, fingertips tracing the length of Miles’s slender fingers in an attempt to steady his own racing thoughts. They hadn’t had a conversation lately about how they should act in public, and Alex knew now definitely wasn’t the time, given Miles’s heightened emotional state. Though Miles’s reluctance for even a small peck on the lips was to be expected, it still stung. But they’d get there. They always did.
They entered Anfield and found their seats in The Kop. When they’d first talked about the Boxing Day match, Alex had wanted to book hospitality in one of the boxes, assuring Miles as always he deserved nothing but the best. And if it afforded them some privacy at half time, then so be it. But Miles had wanted to sit in The Kop, and assured Alex the authenticity and atmosphere would be well worth it, and that hospitality was for the rich people. Alex had simply bit back a grin and agreed, not bothering to remind Miles that they were the rich people, even if they rarely acted like it.
The stadium filled around them and the atmosphere in the stand was electric. Alex hadn’t been to a match in ages and he was drawn into the varying cheers, mind whirring over every flat note from the crowd and whether a stadium chant could be incorporated somehow into the Monkeys’ next album. Alex fidgeted with his scarf and lowered the zip of his jacket, only to feel two hands push hard against his chest.
“What are you doin’?” Miles said, frantically pushing the zip back up and tucking Alex’s scarf back in place. “Wearing blue in The Kop? You’re gonna get us lynched!”
Realisation dawned on Alex and he huffed. “Wanted to wear your Mr Bridger shirt and represent. Didn’t think o’ that.”
Miles looked at him quizzically. “Since when do you use lingo like “represent”? And that’s sweet an’ all love, but not if we get our heads kicked in. So no more unzippin’, alright?”
“Does that go for tonight as well?” Alex smirked and received a poke in the arm in response. “And since when do you use words like “lingo” for that matter?”
“You’re insatiable Alex. And insufferable,” Miles said, though Alex could hear the smile in his voice.
“Only for you darlin’.” Alex threw Miles a wink, one that had brought fans and journalists alike to their knees and sure enough, Miles’s neck started to flush. Perfect. Miles glanced left and right and slipped his hand into Alex’s, a gentle caress of fingers and a short squeeze a promise of what lay ahead not only tonight, but for the rest of their lives together; enduring love, a deep reciprocal understanding and acceptance, and hours lost in each other, a tangle of pants, and sighs, and limbs. Alex’s list of thirty suddenly seemed far too restrictive and he was drawn from his fantasy of being buried between Miles’s thighs later tonight by an elbow in his ribs.
“Stop thinkin’ about what you’re gonna do to me after and pay attention, they’ve kicked off.”
Maybe Miles really could read his mind. Alex looked up, and sure enough, the players were chasing down the ball with the same ferocity Miles chased a tune that had got its claws into him. Alex was soon swept up in the match, the roar of the crowd infectious and he joined in the cries for offside, and a penalty in injury time, which to The Kop’s relief, was granted and scored thanks to VAR. All too soon, it was half time and Miles slipped into the stadium in search of drinks.
Alex suddenly felt a little exposed. When he was with Miles, whether in public or at home, he was simply Alex, or Al, nothing more, nothing less. But on his own, he didn’t really know who he was sometimes. And now, in a stadium surrounded by sixty one thousand people, at a football match being broadcast on live TV, he might have to be Alex Turner at any given second, with no prior warning or preparation. Alex took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. Everything was fine. People around them hadn’t seemed to recognise him or Miles, and they were the immediate issue. Alex took another breath, and to his relief, Miles was heading down the stairs towards him with their drinks and two pies balanced precariously on top of each other.
Miles sat down and Alex grinned, his chest feeling infinitely lighter. Miles grinned back victoriously, gesturing for Alex to take his drink and pie. “Bet you wouldn’t get these in hospitality. It’d be poncy finger food.”
Alex took a satisfied bite out of his pie. “Take the lads out of the north, eh?” Alex said. “I’ve missed it, I’m glad we got this house.”
“Me too,” Miles said. “Feels like bein’ home.”
“Home’s wherever you are Miles, always will be,” Alex said with a smile.
“Not quite the romantic moment you had in mind love, what with the gravy on your chin.” Miles laughed and swiped the gravy away with his thumb, before licking it clean.
“It’s all part of my allure you see,” Alex raised his eyebrow and Miles giggled.
“Traditions then,” Miles said, chewing thoughtfully. “Christmas just us three, with a big dinner. Boxing Day match, maybe with your dad, catchin’ up with family and mates, obviously. Mince pies, steak pies at the match, what else?”
“Cream pies,” Alex said and earned another hard elbow in his ribs, for his sins. “Come off it, you were thinkin’ it too, Miles Kane. Gonna be countin’ down the minutes to the final whistle now so I can take us home and…” Alex was drowned out by the roar of the crowd as the second half kicked off. Miles threw him a mischievous smile and nodded in the direction of the pitch. What was another forty-five minutes when they had forever?