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Phoenix sits four feet from Miles, legs crossed on the couch in a way that makes Miles’ skin crawl. His face is mangled, screwed up in confusion and concentration. He’s too lost in Shun’s affidavit to catch on to the eyes eating him up. And Miles is too lost in sleep-sappy opportunities to look, to gape, to miss the minutes he’s reassigned from testimony study.
Miles wants to fuck this thing up beyond recognition.
And it’s just horrible, the way he has utterly no clue how to go about it. No notion of how to give in to urge, to desire. To eschew common sense and consequence and just take. He had never done anything wrong in his life.
Well—morally dubious trial conduct in his younger years and one faked suicide aside. Perhaps a better phrasing would be that Miles had never done anything rebellious in his life.
He’d been a happy kid under his father’s care, and as far as he could tell, the rebellious instinct that came standard on other models of child didn’t kick in until around thirteen. By that time, Miles was thoroughly entrenched in the von Karma perfection complex. Even if the watchful eye of his mentor closed long enough for misconduct to slip past unseen, there was little chance Miles would have wanted to. To rebel would be to oppose everything he had learned to become. He’d bought into Manfred’s ideals wholeheartedly.
So it was all out of the question: stolen beers at fifteen, slipping out his window to kiss someone past midnight, alternative fashions and visible piercings. They were the playthings of a man he would never get to be.
Now he’s this. Nearing thirty five and he’s never taken a risk in his life. Never taken action without mapping out the consequences fifteen years down the road, never expressed himself in a way he knew others might disapprove of.
Perfection is the mother he clings to.
Phoenix looks up, finally or unfortunately. It’s past 2 am, that’s how Miles can justify it, the way his eyes linger just long enough to not be read as running away. He drinks in Phoenix in more detail for a moment—the circles under his eyes, the way his brow softens before furrowing again under such scrutiny—before returning to the pages on his desk.
His heart pounds. Miles’ eyes scan back and forth in a cheap imitation of reading. He feels the belated return of his gaze like a hot branding.
It’s too much, already. Too risky, too volatile. One mere moment not lived in abject dismissal of his desires has welcomed horrors.
He waits for the rebuke as his eyes scan the same line for the seventh time.
“I think I might head home.”
Miles swallows. There it is: rejection. His inner monologue must be written on that page Phoenix has been studying so fiercely, clear as day what he’s doing. And before he goes further, before he takes any real step that could be criticized in any way, Phoenix is letting him off the hook. Ever the saint.
Miles looks up, plastering a polite raise of his eyebrows on his face. Phoenix has put the papers down on the coffee table, but his feet are still tucked up under him. He meets Miles’ eyes for a moment before flashing a small smile, the kind that highlights the ever-deepening lines around his eyes. Miles likes those lines.
Silence has already stretched out uncomfortably long between them, and Phoenix seems unwilling to budge without some sort of acknowledgment. Miles nods.
“Okay.”
Cowardice is comfortable. It’s an old friend Miles relies on, increasingly so these days. Cowardice is his inflexibility, his dutiful adherence to curfew and wardrobe expectations at sixteen, his inability to come out to anyone he’s known fewer than two years. Cowardice pushes him down easily, expecting he will not fight back.
But Miles wants to fuck this up. Miles wants Phoenix to know how badly he wants to live in his skin, to taste him in the mornings and fight in the evenings. Wants to be flawed, wants to be rebuked, wants to relinquish control.
Utter perfection—a miserable way to live one’s life.
“Actually,” Miles chokes out, the word acid. “Would you mind staying for a moment longer?”
The avalanche happens at once: nausea, racing heart, flushed face, choked voice. Phoenix plays it cool, though, granting Miles one more moment of mercy before pulling the rug. His face remains neutral as his legs remain crossed.
“Yeah, I’m not in a rush. What’s up?”
Miles stares Phoenix down, searching for answers in the tomes written on his face. Phoenix’s jaw clenches—a suppressed yawn or an expression of discomfort. Good. Miles is taking. He is being selfish for one moment in his life, and soon Phoenix will free himself of him. It’s good.
Miles sits back in his chair and keeps his eyes on Phoenix. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for. Nothing short of an outright clairvoyant rejection could stop him at this point. Wreckage is the goal, after all, and he’s determined. Phoenix mirrors Miles, leaning back to stretch his arms along the back of the couch.
He’s not planned this at all, but he’s off the hook for propriety and eloquent speech for perhaps the first time in his memory. He could point at Phoenix and then himself and draw a heart in the air. The rejection would be that much sweeter. He almost laughs at the thought.
Miles blinks away the eye contact that’s gone on for too long. Phoenix looks far too open, even through his exhaustion. Guilt knocks at the door. Here is this man, this honorable man, meeting his gaze earnestly. And here is Miles, winding up to lob back all the sincerity he has in a hail mary intended to self-destruct at his inevitable failure.
Phoenix smiles, lopsided and unsure. Miles does something wrong.
“Would you like to go on a date with me?”
Brace for impact.
It’s out of the blue, out of character, out of left field. There’s no build up, no padding to soften the blow. The words are out. Soon Phoenix will be, too. Miles will have to disable the alarm system when he leaves; it switches on automatically at midnight.
Phoenix’s mercy runs out.
“Oh! Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”
It’s like a guest arriving an hour early to a party. The rooms of his mind are unprepared—the table is not yet set, the kitchen is in disarray. He suddenly must scramble to accommodate.
Phoenix’s smile is surer now. Wider. Miles can’t even appreciate it, can’t appreciate this moment for everything it is—his energy is focused entirely on reconciling his brain and reality.
Phoenix uncrosses his legs and sets them on the ground. Not leaving. Just adjusting.
“You look like I just told you that you have a terminal illness.” He punctuates the statement with a short laugh.
“I apologize,” Miles finally chokes out. I’d like that a lot. “I was not expecting you to,” he swallows. The opposite of a rejection, a reward for a rebellion. “Be interested.”
“I am.” He says it simply. I am.
“I am as well.” It’s less simple of a statement for Miles, but it comes out with more ease than he expected. The bandage has been ripped off. He’s greased the way for future rebellions.
Phoenix lets out a single huff of laughter, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, good.” He laughs again, the sound like silk. “I’m glad we finally got that cleared up.”
Finally.
And maybe it was the kind of thing that called for finally. Maybe they were on this track all along, and they were running out of strength to slow the train hurtling toward their destination. Maybe Miles wasn’t fucking something up by acting out; maybe he was putting something in place.
Phoenix stands at last, and it’s not to run away. He smooths his hands down his jacket. Miles’ eyes linger on the trail his hands walk.
“If that’s it, then, I should be getting home.” Phoenix is already looking at Miles when his eyes flick up. He’s sporting a half-baked smirk.
Miles nods as he grows a small smile of his own. “Yes, I believe that’s all.” He stands from his desk. “I will call you tomorrow.”
He’ll call Phoenix tomorrow, and maybe he’ll try to fuck up again. It might be nice to see what he could get away with.
Phoenix nods vigorously before turning for the door. Miles nearly forgets to disable the alarm as he goes.