𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 james x alex

Hate it when you leave

Alex doesn't pay attention to anything. He forces his brain to go blank. His Anxiety attacks take hours at a time and feel like days, endless. Those are nothing compared to this. Minutes crawl by where he can feel each breath dragging on, where he checks his phone every few minutes and swears it should be at least fifteen minutes later.

He doesn't go back to his room. He doesn't want to see James. He doesn't look at Erling. Eventually, after about thirty minutes have passed, he goes downstairs and sits in a chair in the hotel. His phone buzzes. Flatly, he looks at it. It's George. He reads the message.

u ok?

He ignores it.

He people watches. He lets time pass by as he stares at people. He creates stories and time drifts by in an endless sink of thought and hazy energy. He ignores everything besides staring at people, ignoring the way that they occasionally stare back, obviously perturbed.

He ignores everything until his phone starts buzzing incessantly. He ignores it the first three times but the fourth time it vibrates on his thigh, he pulls it out.

Three missed calls and a message from George again. where r u?? we need to get ready to leave for the airport, come meet us at your room plz.

Alex stands and takes a long look around the hotel. The room is flat and eggshell white and there's a couple distinct crowds of people in groups, plus a couple checking in. The room looks a hell of a lot smaller, a hell of a lot less happy, than when they checked in.

He can't wait to get the hell out of here.

He rides the lift upstairs and goes to his room where James's standing, pushing the last remnants of Vegas, dirty clothing, into his suitcase and zipping it up. Alex stuffs last minute things away, not caring if he gets it all.

He doesn't care. He doesn't want any memory of this trip more than he has to. This was the worst mistake of his life.

He zippers shut his own suitcase. “Let's go,” he states. Voice toneless. Nobody dares talk to him. He exits the room, dragging his suitcase behind him, knocks on the room next door. Fraser answers.

“We're ready to go,” Alex announces, no-nonsense. He nods, looking worried. A minute later, the rest of the group joins them. They're a silent group of seven. Alex doesn't look back, doesn't look to see James in the group.

Checking out is a series of barely audible responses, signing forms, ignoring whatever the fuck their receptionist is saying, just shoving back information and marching resolutely out of the hotel.

The fresh air does nothing to revitalise him.

They hail a couple of cabs, cram into it. Hannah and Erling have different flights than the rest of them, but they're going to the airport with them to see them off.

Him and George, Fraser and James, all sitting silent. Nobody dares speak a word. It's uncomfortable and heavy and awful. Alex wants to slam his fist into a hard wall until his knuckles bleed.

He thinks he might do that anyways when they get home. His stomach is sick again.

He realises, as they sit in the cab, that he caught James stuffing the marriage certificate in his suitcase. James's bringing home that relic for whatever godawful reason. It's a reminder of the mistake and James is bringing it home.

He hates Erling the most and he hates Will a little and he almost wants to hate James. He doesn't hate any of them, honestly, but right now he does. He feels sorry for George, Hannah and Fraser, who are all uncomfortable, who all regret what happened, just the way he does.