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1 - 2008
There's a kind of comfort in the conformity. Just being part of a production line, pumped out with all the others, with their newly-shorn heads and their clean faces and nails. Little boxes made of ticky-tacky. His mom used to sing that. Or the universal soldier. Airman. That was always a guaranteed way to piss off Dad, call them soldiers.
It doesn't matter where you're from, why you joined up. They don't want to know about your childhood, your taste in music, or your first kiss. All that matters is you can follow orders, keep up with the pack, and you're not a complete idiot. And even that last one is negotiable.
Technical school will be different, a little less brawn and little more brain, but still conforming. It's something he knows, at least. In the last couple of years, he might have chosen to rebel, but he knows what it means to try and fit in with everyone else. Never could get it quite right at home. There's an anonymity here, though, a chance to start fresh. No one cares who your dad is. Or, he has to be more important than a Senior Master Sergeant in Roswell, New Mexico.
So far, BMT has been...it's been. Alex has just been going through the motions, and he's found it pretty easy. Early mornings and being pushed to his physical limits are nothing new. He knows, if he's honest with himself, that he's been feeling kind of numb, disconnected from the whole experience. But that's good. It allows him to switch off the part of his brain that's buzzing at him like a faulty neon lamp and just put his body through its paces. It all works out until they have any sort of downtime. Fortunately, they don't have much.
The lack of R&R also means that he's had to do surprisingly little pretending. Fitting in with everyone else turns out to be simple when you don't have time to hang out with each other. Most of the other recruits are around his age or a little older. They're all new to each other, they'll all be going in different directions soon. The conversation doesn't get that deep.
There's just one thing. He's never had a big damn coming out moment, he didn't get a high school coming of age movie, but he hasn't gone to great lengths to hide it either. Maria and Liz know, his family knows. Michael. The entire 2008 graduating class of Roswell High knows too, he's sure of it, even if he didn't make the rounds at graduation to personally confirm it to each and every one of them. While the other students marched across the stage, he and Michael were at their spot, Alex trying to absorb Michael into his bones, brand him into his retinas and his brain as he felt him slipping away.
What he had with Michael, they kept it private. It wasn't a dirty secret. It was just theirs. They went out to the desert to be alone, to find a new safe space. He had wanted to shout about it, let everyone know that this beautiful boy liked him, that he thought he was worth something. If not for Jesse, maybe he would have. He likes to think so.
It's not like it comes up all the time. Sure, there's the usual casual homophobia, from men and women alike. It's easy to brush off that stuff when you've heard worse from your own dad, and it's not like Alex gives away any sign that they're talking about him.
Sometimes he gets paranoid that he does, that there's something inherent in him, something everyone can see on his face, in his eyes or in the way he holds himself. Something Jesse saw before Alex even knew what he was looking at.
The point is, while no one has exactly spilled their life story, that can only last so long, and people get curious. Nosy. Which is how Alex finds himself sitting with a group of his fellow recruits in the mess, as they talk about their girls and boys back home. Like they'd been deployed already, playing at serving their country, pining for their sweethearts. Alex wants nothing to do with it.
"Manes?" one of his fellow trainees elbows him lightly, sitting next to him at the nondescript table, the harsh fluorescent lights glaring overhead, "anyone waiting back home for you?"
He thinks of Michael, back in Roswell, thinks about the idea of carrying a photo of him wherever he goes. But he's no longer Alex's anyone and he's definitely not waiting for him to return. Sure as hell wasn't waiting for him when he left.
There are two choices here: tell the truth, or some version of it - he's single, he just broke up with someone, pretend or let them think that someone is a girl - or lie and say he does have a girlfriend at home, that there's someone there for him to go back to, that there's anything that could make him want to go back.
He thinks of his parents, of his dad at eighteen, shipping off to basic and already planning a proposal, of his mom at 28, closing the door behind herself and planning a divorce.
"Nah," he decides on the truth, but then it doesn't feel true enough, so he adds, "we ended things. Whole lives ahead of us, you know? Who wants to be tied down to their high school sweetheart?" Then the final deflection, to get the attention off him, "except Keahi," he says, poking fun at the one guy who hasn't stopped mentioning his girlfriend at every turn.
"Aw, he's just a big old romantic!" someone calls from the other end of the table, while someone else good-naturedly jostles the man in question.
They move on, and Alex takes a moment to process something that meant nothing to any of them. That's it. He can do this.
2 - 2010
Alex wouldn't generally call himself naïve. He can admit that he was naïve to think he was prepared for being deployed to Iraq. None of the growing up in the desert, the survival training from his dad, his experience in the USAF so far has made him completely ready for this.
It's sort of like being on base back home, and simultaneously nothing like it. It's like a weird simulation, a pale facsimile of an American town, this futile attempt to create a home away from home in one of the most surreal places Alex could ever imagine.
The routine is good, familiar. He's been raised on routine, never has any trouble jumping out of bed and straight to attention, can time everything he does down to the second. He likes the camaraderie too, feels like one of the guys for the first time in his life. In high school, he gravitated towards having female friends, but in the Air Force it's different. He works with women, of course he does, but they're outnumbered by the men in his unit. And only hanging around with women draws the wrong kind of attention.
Still, it's different here, like the rules aren't the same. It's like, in recognition of the fact that they're in a war zone, the higher-ups let things slide more. No need to be on your best behaviour all the time when there's a slight chance you could end up dead tomorrow. Alex doesn't think he's afraid of dying, but he does worry that he'll have to do it alone.
He hasn't dared go near another man in the last couple of years. Michael Guerin is still his one and only. And, if you'd asked him, he would have said that this place would be the last place he'd even think about doing anything. It's also the last place he would have expected to catch someone making eyes at him.
It's not another airman. No, this guy is a contractor, in many ways removed from the Air Force itself, an outsider. And yet, here with the rest of them, all the same. He looks nothing like Michael Guerin. He's all gym muscles under his civvies, swept back hair a shade lighter than Alex's own, broad shoulders, lightly stubbled jaw and a dimpled smile pointed in his direction. Dark eyes unmistakably giving Alex a slow up and down.
Michael is the only man - barely a man, his sun bleached curls framing the last lingering remnants of a baby face - who has shown interest in him. Wanted to kiss him, touch him, fuck him. He never hesitated, not really, when he took Michael back to that shed, when they touched each other assuredly and giggled uncertainly. When they lay in the bed of Michael's truck, touching lips to hips to knees to ankles. It was just natural, settling into each other like he lived in Michael and Michael lived in him.
This doesn't feel right. Maybe that's an unrealistic expectation, to want it to feel like it fits, to have that connection before even saying hello. Maybe Michael has ruined him forever. Maybe he's ruined Michael forever. Or it's that he just can't risk it, getting caught, sent home, discharged. This is his life now, it's the path he's chosen to walk and he wants it to end on his terms, not because he's unceremoniously tossed out. Most people wouldn't see joining the military as gaining control, but for Alex it is, it had been, has been. He's not going anywhere before he's ready.
He turns away, heads back inside. He promised Maria a letter.
3 - 2014
The drive from Roswell to Albuquerque is quiet, the silence stretching out before them on the road and between them in the truck. Alex doesn't know what to say, doesn't think that there is anything that he can say to fix this.
Last night, this morning, he had no idea if Michael would still be picking him up, if he'd have to find a ride from someone else or hire a car to get himself out to Kirtland. Now, as the clouds hang low over the highway, he isn't sure why Michael turned up. Maybe he shouldn't have, he thinks for a second, before guilt and regret snuff out the thought faster than it came. How could he wish for less time with Michael, even contemplate making this drive alone when he could spend these few precious hours in his company?
Sitting across from him, stealing glances at him in profile, it's magnitudes better than the alternative. The dusty road ahead of them looks like it could take them anywhere, like they could just drive off the ends of the Earth. It's not a frosty silence between them. It's hot, raw, stoked by their blow-out fight and its aftermath, all the burning, stifling feelings that followed thick in the air between them. Anger, frustration, disappointment, guilt, hurt. Alex isn't sure which are his and which are Michael's.
They have barely exchanged words for the whole drive, sticking to practicalities - turning the radio on, stopping for gas, passing a water bottle. There's nothing Alex can say to fix this. He wants to reach out, bridge the gap, the physical and the emotional. He doesn't know how; almost inches his hand towards the edge of the sun-warmed bench seat a couple of times but is too scared of what he'll be left with if Michael doesn't meet him in the middle.
His hopes of anything changing, of some kind of magical solution to all this materialising somewhere along the 200-mile road to Albuquerque, dwindle to nothing as they hit the city limits. He gives up the pretence of looking out the window, and drinks in his fill of Michael before they arrive at the base. His slightly crooked nose, his strong stubbled jaw, his honey eyes and lovely curls. The way his hands curl slightly unevenly over the steering wheel, the bunching of the muscles in his arms as he changes gears.
His duffle at his feet as Michael leans against his truck, he can't quite make himself give in to that last temptation, doesn't know if his touch will be welcome and can't bear to be rejected. So instead he tries to use his words, to imbue them with sincerity, to show Michael that he really, really means it. "Thank you, for the ride. And for coming to say goodbye." He doesn't say this time . It's not meant to be a guilt trip. From the way Michael's face shutters, he thinks it might have sounded like one anyway.
"Yeah. See you in another four years, maybe."
His instinct is to react, to bite back, say that at least he'll know where to find Michael if he needs him, guaranteed to still be in Roswell, killing time doing nothing with his life. But he doesn't want to start that argument again, not when he has no idea when or if they might see each other next.
"I'll call you," is what he says instead, even though he's not sure he can make that promise, and he's certain Michael wouldn't pick up. He doesn't wait to hear what Michael thinks of that, so he picks up his bag and turns to go.
"Alex," Michael half-shouts, a little too loud, like it's been dragged out of him, like some cosmic compulsion won't allow him to just leave. He doesn't touch Alex, doesn't try to physically keep him here. Michael knows never to grab him from behind. Alex turns around anyway, as if his name from Michael's lips is a physical force of its own, always drawing Alex back to him.
And it's when Alex is facing him that he lunges forwards and holds on tight. His arms slide firmly around Alex's shoulders, the pressure loosening something inside him. Michael's chest, hair peeking out from where his shirt is unbuttoned to a ridiculous length, presses warm against his own. It takes a second for Alex to react, to tell his own arms to wrap around Michael in turn, his hands to bunch up the fabric over Michael's shoulder blades. He doesn't have that instinct, to hug back when someone puts their arms around him. He's had to work at it, to teach himself to give and receive physical touch. Except with Michael. It's never felt like that with Michael before.
Michael's head dips down, his nose brushing the side of Alex's face, breathing into his neck. Alex smells the generic shampoo scent of Michael's hair and closes his eyes, tries to let himself have this one moment as his body sings to be so close to Michael's.
They're broken out of their private bubble by a voice shouting at them from across the lot. Another airman, James, who he's made plans to fly back with.
"Manes! Gonna be late!"
Michael pulls back with a sniff, a tick that Alex knows means he's trying to suck all of his emotions back in. His eyes are wet, but his jaw is firmly set.
"Take care of yourself, okay?" he says, and it sounds like an order and like a plea. "Maybe try and stay out of warzones."
He laughs, sort of, a short huff as he feels his own eyes start to burn, and doesn't bother to tell himself it's the dry desert air. "I can't make any promises." He studies Michael's face, trying to assess whether to say what he wants to say, if it's only going to make things worse. And then he figures that's not really possible, that one hug hasn't fixed anything, so he might as well say it. "Will you think about what I said? Take a look at those online degrees?"
Michael sighs, a harsh breath in and out, but he concedes, "I'll think about it."
Alex isn't sure he believes him, but it's more than he was expecting, so he leaves it there. And he leaves Michael there, giving one last squeeze to his shoulder as they both mutter a low 'bye , quiet and just for them. They don't say see you later .
As he hefts his duffle onto his shoulder and moves to meet up with his colleague, he takes a slow, purposeful breath. A technique he learned in counselling. He hopes that by the time he reaches the entrance to the base, he looks composed, like he definitely wasn't just on the verge of bursting into tears. He assumes he's got away with it when James just nods towards Michael.
"Who's that?"
The first man he ever loved. The only man he's ever loved. His high school sweetheart. The man whose life he ruined, who his father destroyed. Everything, and really nothing at all, at the truth of it. Nothing.
"A friend. Michael. A good friend from high school."
4 - 2016
"Attention to orders." There's a brief shuffle as everyone stands. "The President of the United States, acting upon the recommendation of the Secretary of the Air Force, has placed special trust and confidence in the patriotism, integrity, and abilities of First Lieutenant Alexander Manes. In view of these special qualities and his demonstrated potential to serve in the higher grade, First Lieutenant Alexander Manes is promoted to the permanent grade of Captain, United States Air Force, effective July 16, 2016, by order of the Secretary of the Air Force."
The room is stuffy, even with the air conditioning running. His dress uniform is constricting, so much more formal than his usual fatigues or the cuffed jeans and USAF T-shirt he usually defaults to when he's off-duty. This isn't his first promotion, and he's proud of himself for making it this far, but the audience makes him uncomfortable. It's not for him, the pomp and circumstance. He's proud of himself, and grateful for the recognition, but milestones in his career, both big and small, always make him think of what could have been.
"I'd like to ask Alex's father, Master Sergeant Jesse Manes, to come up and pin on Captain Manes's new rank."
Just like his previous promotions, Alex has conflicting feelings about his dad being here. On the one hand, he enjoys rubbing the fact that he outranks his father in his face. On the other, it feels like just one more way his career is still tied to Jesse. He suspects his dad has the same thoughts in reverse. While being outranked by his son rankles him, there's a part of him that loves taking the credit for how far Alex has come.
The promotion ceremony is shared with First Lieutenant Rachel Coleman, who has been struggling to control her grin since she came into the room. She clearly feels a thrill about her promotion that Alex is struggling to muster, especially with Jesse in the room, watching him closely, and now coming in close to slip his new Captain's insignia onto the shoulders of his jacket.
With his dad at his side, he forces himself not to react to having him in such close proximity. It's always been a favourite tactic of Jesse's, getting right into his face, not to touch him or hurt him physically but just to show that he could. He'd speak low and measured, reprimand Alex about whatever transgression he had committed, remind him about how he was expected to behave. His voice never rising above normal speaking level, so Alex would be the one accused of being emotional, of starting a fight, of disrespect, if he shouted back.
It's not until Jesse takes a step back that Alex realizes he's been holding his breath. He has to force a couple of cleansing breaths to reset and stave off a sudden panic attack, get himself together so he can raise his hand and pledge himself to his country.
"I, Alexander Manes, having been appointed a Captain in the United States Air Force, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office which I am about to enter, so help me God."
There's a reception after the ceremony, the friends and family of those who were promoted and some of their colleagues and senior officers in attendance. Jesse immediately makes a beeline for more important people, after a perfunctory congratulations and pat on the shoulder. Alex is just wondering whether it would be inappropriate to head straight for the cake when he's intercepted by Colonel Ranalls, another man dressed in civilian clothes at his side.
"Captain Manes," he smiles, shaking Alex's hand, "congratulations."
Alex can't help but smile in return, "Thank you, sir."
"I'd like to introduce you to my husband, Louis," the Colonel says, gesturing to the man at his side, "Manes is one of our brightest and most dedicated officers. He has a long career ahead of him, if he wants it."
Alex greets Louis on auto pilot, takes in a friendly pair of crows feet eyes over a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard, but his mind is going a mile a minute. Is this some kind of code? A gesture of "it takes one to know one"? It's unusual for someone of the Colonel's rank to bring their spouse to a promotion ceremony just for a couple of newly minted Captains. He can't help but shoot a look at his dad across the room, talking to the Brigadier General, like he might be able to sense his son talking to a queer couple.
"Listen, Manes, if you ever need anything, my office is always open," Colonel Rannals says, and now Alex knows it's not just a coincidence that he's been introduced to his husband.
He manages to choke out, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," and that's all he's got. He doesn't know what to say, what's expected of him in this situation.
It feels like the Colonel is all but going "wink, wink, nudge, nudge", and Alex wonders whether he's expected to say ,"hey, snap, I too am attracted to other men". Or maybe he's overthinking it and he doesn't suspect a thing; he's just introducing his spouse and offering support like he would with anyone else.
"I think we might have a lot in common, you and I," Rannals continues. Alex feels a hot spike of panic jolt through his chest. Jesus, don't say it. Alex has never had him down as being cruel enough to out him in a room full of people, but then he doesn't know the Colonel all that well. "My father was an airman too, and his father before him. Long military line."
Fuck. Maybe Rannals has good intentions here, but Alex would rather not be scared half to death in the process. He has no idea what to say in response, can't go with another dumb "yes, sir".
"My mother was in the Navy," Louis chips in, perhaps sensing Alex's discomfort and coming to his rescue.
The two airmen both scoff in unison, which seems to break the tense bubble at last. Truth be told, Alex couldn't care less about any rivalry between the Air Force and Navy, but if it gets him out of one of the most awkward encounters in his life, then fuck those sailors. It's definitely the gayest branch of the military.
5 - 2017
Alex has never had any trouble sitting still. He used to be so great at not doing much of anything. In high school, he could spend hours in his room or in the shed, playing or writing lyrics. Or lounging around with Maria and Liz above the Wild Pony, doing nothing but drinking, smoking weed and wrestling for control of the music. It's just that, in the last ten or so years, he hasn't stopped moving. He's out of practice. If you'd asked him out in Iraq if he'd like to spend six months not working, he'd have said he'd give his right leg to make it happen. Now that's the reality he's facing, he doesn't know what to do with himself.
It's not like he isn't busy, sometimes. It turns out healing from an amputation is pretty time-consuming. But, as his team of doctors, nurses and therapists keep insisting, rest is an important part of recovery too. Apparently it's not possible to plan your rehabilitation down to the day and hit deadlines out of pure determination.
So he's bored. Restless. Spending way too much time with himself but really not in the mood to be with anyone else. His dad came by once, for appearance's sake. Greg has called, promised to try and visit, but Alex isn't convinced he's going to make it here before he's discharged. Flint is in Germany; Alex thinks he briefly stopped by the hospital before he was transferred stateside, but honestly he's not sure if it was a pain and morphine induced hallucination, and he hasn't heard from him since. Clay sent a 'get well soon' text. And Mom has called a couple of times, resulting in stilted conversations that can't have lasted more than five minutes each.
And the thing is, Alex has always thought of himself as a loner at heart. Or he is now. Maybe he never used to be. He's a people pleaser, goes out of his way to be nice to people, hoping it's the right thing to do. Given the chance to keep to himself though, no obligation to socialise, even if his therapist keeps pushing him to, he'll stay out of people's way. At work, he's a team player, but in his personal life? He just hasn't been able to really let anyone in. There are people who he thinks call him a friend, but he can never quite bring himself to return the sentiment. His team matters to him, they've shared personal stuff, he trusts them to have his back, but there's always that one barrier preventing him from fully opening up.
In high school, although he's not sure he realised it at the time, there was a part of him constantly waiting for Liz and Maria to wake up and realise they didn't have to hang out with him. That they were just thrown together through circumstance, three archetypal weirdos; the geek, the free spirit and the gay kid. And they'd do things that would prove to Alex that they could do better, like dating Kyle Valenti or starting a campaign against the school's sexist dress code, and Alex didn't know whether to take it as them looking to build their social status or as proof that they chose to be his friend. Now he thinks they might be the last real friends he made.
Forging connections with anyone here is not worth the effort. Soon enough he'll be out of here, and then he has a little over a year left before he's done. Really done this time. Another reenlistment is not on the cards; he's made his decision. He's ready to get out of here, and then out of the Air Force completely.
All of this means that he's not exactly having a fun time right now. Montgomery has cornered him and is reminiscing about home, looking forward to some R&R as she continues her rehab back in Georgia. It's all tales of barbecue and grandma's peach cobbler and evenings on the porch, a collection of clichés like she's had to make up a backstory on the fly and doesn't know anything about her supposed home state. Alex is aware that he hardly has a picture-perfect upbringing, but he's having a hard time believing that this fairy-tale bullshit is real.
They're in this little rec room. Slightly beat-up sofas and armchairs, a small TV, a paltry collection of dog-eared books in a bookcase and generic art on the walls; a flower, a seascape, a sunset. He should have known if he came in here that someone would try and engage him in some form of human contact.
"Manes," Montgomery half sing-songs, reaching out to poke him in the bicep. He has to grip the arm of his chair to avoid flinching away like she's just slapped him. She's been talking, but he's not sure when he stopped listening. Her face is open, curious, her auburn Air Force regulation ponytail swaying slightly as she tilts her head.
He mirrors her with his own head-tilt, tries not to look or sound quite as grumpy as he feels, "What?"
"I said : where's home for you? Texas, right?"
"New Mexico."
"Right! Alien town, I remember. So? Going back home for a bit, spend some time with the family? Or you got a girlfriend back home or something? Married, kids?"
Alex thinks back to basic, those first few weeks and months when it seemed like everyone wanted to know if you had someone back home. Was there someone you left behind, were you trying the long-distance thing, or were you one of those idiots who got married before reporting for training, tying some poor sap to your choices for the next few years, maybe the rest of your lives. Questions his team has learned not to ask him by now because they all know Cap's a private guy. And he thinks of Michael, of what it would be like if he was waiting for him, in Roswell or anywhere else.
"No, not anymore," he says, and he doesn't know why he says it, "not for a long time."
Her face is a picture of intrigue and delight, "Oh? Is this...are you revealing something personal about yourself, Captain Manes? Are you exposing yourself to the terrifying ordeal of being known?"
"Hilarious," he mutters, reaching for his crutches. This is too close for comfort, he shouldn't have said anything. Heaving himself to his feet, he takes a second to catch his balance and his breath before he turns to leave. "Enjoy your time at home, Montgomery."
+1 - 2019
"Manes, finally," Reggie grumbles as Alex approaches the group in The Wild Pony, "it's your round. Drinks!" He's suddenly a lot more enthusiastic at the idea of getting a drink in his hand, even though he's already holding one that's only half finished.
Briggs is standing next to an empty bar stool and Alex knows it's been silently reserved for him. At one point he might have protested, complained of being coddled, but now he's comfortable enough to just sit down and nod his thanks. He's finally ditched the crutch for the most part, but long days like today still take their toll. It's tiring and the more tired he gets, the more the phantom pains seem to raise their head. Nothing like feeling like your foot is cramping when you don't even have a foot.
"Actually, we're still waiting for someone," Alex says, surprised at his own lack of nerves. He thought he'd be worried, afraid of the backlash. Instead, this just feels right. And long overdue.
"Oh yeah, who?" Diaz asks, raising her eyebrows in a way that makes Alex think she might suspect something.
He looks at his team. Reggie, a pasty white, skinny dude with a wide mouth who towers over all of them. Diaz, First Lieutenant, who has taken the time to get changed into a cocktail dress and heels after work because "if I have to go to the cowboy bar, I at least deserve the opportunity to ride a cowboy". And Briggs, a well muscled black man whose brains Alex thinks could very well rival Michael's. He hasn't known them long but he's working on letting them in, trusting them enough not just to call them his team but his friends too.
"My boyfriend." He's thought about how he would say this, whether he should ease them in with the gay reveal first, before pulling out the boyfriend card. But he figured, fuck it, might as well go all in. So just to completely lay all his cards on the table, he follows with, "if anyone has a problem with that, you can go."
This was how he had decided he would remain in control. He couldn't choose how anyone reacted, but he could make it seem like anyone leaving was his choice and not theirs.
There's a second or two of silence as the group seemed to breathe the new information in, all seemingly blinking at him in unison before their faces catch up to their brains. Diaz's lips slowly curl up in a grin. Briggs looks annoyed for just a moment, which might have been worrying if he didn't then take out his wallet and slide a couple of notes across the table to silently slip into Diaz's hand.
"Not cool, Cap," Reggie proffers, a teasing lilt to his voice, "no significant others at Friday night drinks. But I guess we can let it slide this one time if you're still buying."
"So who's the secret BF?" Diaz asks, as she pockets her ill-gotten gains. "Do we know him? Is he an airman? Is he local? Cowboy?"
As if he's been summoned, a familiar head of curls ducks into the bar. A brief glance around, and Alex catches his eye with a lift of his hand - not that it's needed; Michael's gaze seems to find him wherever they are. A couple of strides and he's next to Alex, wearing that soft smile reserved just for him.
"Hey," he says, and he looks like he wants to lean in but isn't sure where he stands, has no idea if Alex has even gone through with it. So Alex sets the record straight, reaches up to hold onto Michael's jacket lapel and reel him in for a short, soft kiss.
"Hey," he can't stop the smile that takes over his face, full of so many things: relief, pride - in himself, in Michael, in what they have together - joy. The best he'd allowed himself to hope for after tonight was the lightness of a lifted burden. So he's feeling pretty good about the warmth of acceptance, and everything wrapped up in his love for Michael Guerin.
With a hand on Michael's back, he turns back to the others, gesturing to them one by the one, "Michael Guerin - Reggie, Briggs, Diaz."
"Sofia," Diaz says, shaking Guerin's hand - and god help her, Alex thinks she might actually be charmed by him - then shoots a look at Alex and the others before anyone can say anything. "No," she says, sharp and wagging her finger along with it, like she's scolding a naughty puppy, "still Diaz."
Alex playfully narrows his eyes at her as Guerin and the guys exchange quick greetings, getting her patented no-nonsense face in return.
Michael leans down to murmur in his ear, "All good?"
He slides a hand under the back of Michael's jacket, settles it on his hip, finds a warm patch of skin under his shirt to rest his thumb. He had thought maybe he'd be hesitant about any kind of affection in public. "Yeah, I'm good."
"Was all this just to get out of paying for drinks?" Briggs asks, "because it's still your round."
He ropes Michael into helping him, telling him he needs an extra pair of hands to carry the drinks back. It's true, but he also wants to steal a moment in semi-privacy, at least away from the others if not entirely alone.
As Michael saunters towards the bar, Alex takes a second to breathe before he follows. One slow breath in and out, holding it at the top just long enough to reset, to release all of the tension that has built up over the last few minutes - hours, really. It almost feels anticlimactic, years of working to get to this point and that's it. It's not really the end of it, he knows that, but it feels like the biggest hurdle is behind him, that initial confession to people who matter.
Michael looks back at him from the bar, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously and sticking his tongue in his cheek as he grins. Alex shakes his head, doesn't bother to repress his own responding smile. When they're standing together at the bar, he reaches out for Michael, drawing him into a hug. It's like coming home every time, holding him close in every way.
"Proud of you," Michael rumbles, barely audible over the hum of the bar. His ever-present scent of petrichor fills Alex's nose, refreshing and invigorating, the ground singing after a storm.