Chapter Text
They’re five units in, and Phoenix has the distinct feeling that his realtor is two seconds from strangling him.
“Look,” Phoenix tries, with a placating tone he immediately regrets if the look on Ms. Andrews’ face is anything to go by. “I really appreciate you helping me, I know my budget is, um, not the best for the area.”
An understatement if there ever was one, but was it really his fault that everyone he had ever known lived in one of the most expensive cities in the country? “But, uh,” He glances balefully at the completely bare industrial studio they stand in. “I was really hoping for something furnished?”
He makes it a question, hoping that his realtor takes pity on him, but she merely frowns, and sighs, and pushes her glasses up on her nose. “Mr. Wright, I appreciate the situation you’ve found yourself in, and while I did promise Ms. Fey that I would work with you at cost,” (Phoenix truly owed Mia everything in the whole entire world) “I really don’t know if we can even find what you’re looking for at your price.”
He deflates, hand coming on instinct to worry the necklace that is no longer there before he lowers his hand. “Right. Of course.” He knows he could stay on Larry’s couch for as long as he needed, but that very situation was why he wanted to move. He cringed at the thought.
“The best thing may simply be to wait a few months,” Ms. Andrews continues once they’re outside. The shabby industrial building they just stepped out of is surrounded by renovated townhouse, with a brand new, shiny complex Phoenix had seen billboards towering on the other side. He wonders how long the studio would even exist, let alone be available for rent.
He frowns, digging his shoe into the sidewalk. “Do you really think waiting will help?”
Ms. Andrews smiles at him so tightly Phoenix is worried her face may split. “I’ve worked with clients in very similar price ranges before, Mr. Wright.”
He lowers his gaze, cheeks heating. “Right, of course.” He digs his shoe further into the concrete, following with his eyes this time. They’re standing a few paces from a telephone pole covered in flyers and stickers. He’s about to sheepishly return his gaze to Ms. Andrews when one flyer catches his eye.
Frowning, Phoenix takes a step and picks it up. He feels his eyes widen. “Maybe we can try here?” He turns the paper around, showing the realtor the “SEEKING TO SUBLET” poster for a unit in the same swanky complex across the road. The poster is asking for a ridiculously low price – so low, in fact, that Phoenix could actually afford it.
Ms. Andrews looks up from her phone, and frowns, taking the flyer gingerly between two fingers. She glances at the paper before glancing at Phoenix. “It’s most likely already gone.”
He gives his best charming smile to her. “Could you at least give them a call?”
Either his smile really is that charming, or Ms. Andrews is just that ready to be rid of him, because she sighs, plugging in the number and raising the phone to her ear.
Fifteen minutes later, they’re exiting the elevator onto the tenth floor.
“It appears that they’re only offering a month-to-month sublet, which is most likely the only reason the place is still available.” Ms. Andrews smoothly unlocks the door and swings it open for Phoenix.
He steps inside, and Phoenix can feel his eyes widen to the size of saucers. He circles the room for a moment, taking everything in with an air of bewilderment. He’s standing in a modern open concept kitchen-dining-living room, with sleek stainless-steel appliances, and sturdy looking dining room table. The plain white walls are mostly bare, with a few generic pieces of modern art on the walls, and the furniture is all creams and pale mauve.
But what really catches Phoenix’s attention is the south facing wall – all floor-to-ceiling windows that fill the space with golden sunlight. He’s over at the window before he even realizes he’s moved.
Ms. Andrews continues speaking from behind. “There seems to have been a family issue – wouldn’t specify, but everything appears to be in order. From what I’ve gathered, there is a chance that they won’t renew the lease, so the sub-letter could purchase the rent for themselves.”
Phoenix turns around, feeling his full-face grin spreading. “I’ll take it!”
The realtor pauses. “Excuse me?”
“The apartment. I’ll take it!”
“You haven’t seen the bedrooms yet.”
Phoenix doesn’t even process ‘the bedrooms,’ plural. “It has the windows.” He gestures, as if she couldn’t see them herself.
“The windows,” Ms. Andrews repeats.
“Yep! That’s all I need!” He only smiles wider.
~~~
The keys are his the next morning.
~~~
Phoenix has been in his new apartment for almost a week, and he really can’t figure out the former resident at all.
The apartment is all simple elegance with almost no personal details – save for the shiny black upright piano in the living room, and the expensive record player next to the equally expensive liquor cabinet that Phoenix is almost afraid to play his own beat-up secondhand records on. Really, the only area of the apartment with any personality are the four tall bookshelves in the primary bedroom, which are stuffed with well-loved paperbacks and weighed down with hefty law books on the bottom shelf.
To be honest, Phoenix feels uncomfortable about fully moving in – so he hasn’t. He knows it’s ridiculous, knows that the apartment is his, according to the contract he carefully saved in an overstuffed folder.
But despite the clear signs that someone did live here – from the carefully curated tea collection he found in one of the kitchen cabinets to the ridiculously expensive looking fountain pen he found in the drawer of the desk in the bedroom before immediately putting it back out of fear of breaking it – the apartment feels like a hotel.
So, most of his things remain piled up in the living room, in boxes and suitcases and chipped plastic bins he should have replaced years ago.
He’s circling the islands of items with his modest dinner of dollar store pasta and more dollar store pasta in hand when he glances, sees a man standing in front of the couch, and screams.
The man screams too.
“Don’t hurt me, we can work something out!” the man says, at the same time that Phoenix blurts, “None of this stuff is mine, you can take anything, except for the bins but there’s nothing worth taking there!”
They both pause. Phoenix actually looks. The man is tall, wearing a dark magenta suit and – was that an ascot? – with grey hair, although he didn’t look much older than Phoenix himself.
The man’s eyes narrow. “Why are you in my apartment?”
Phoenix blinks. “What?”
“I said,” the man took a step back, hands clenched at his sides. “Why. Are you. In my. Apartment?”
“Dude,” is all Phoenix can say. “This is my apartment.”
The mystery man splutters. “It most certainly is not.” He points sharply at the piano. “That is my piano. I bought it five years ago. And that,” he points at a painting on the wall Phoenix recognized as an original by an artist he never much liked. “Is my painting.”
“Well, it’s a shit painting,” Phoenix says without thinking, and when the man’s eyes narrow, he hurries on, scooting himself back towards the hulking dining table. “Listen, man, I don’t know what’s happening here, but this really is my apartment. I have my lease.” He straightened. “Aw, you know what, this must be one of those rent scam things.”
At the main’s blank expression, Phoenix plows on. “They put both of us on the lease. These fancy new places are always corrupt at the management, they’re just trying to get double the rent.”
The man frowned even further, which Phoenix hadn’t even realized was possible. “I moved in right when they opened.
“Well, I dunno man, my realtor’s a trustworthy lady. If this really is your stuff, then, well. Were you on vacation recently?”
The man blinks. “I – no. No, I wasn’t on vacation.” He shakes himself, and straightens his shoulders, before pointing a finger at Phoenix, making him feel like he’s back in elementary school for a moment. “I will be calling the police on you, sir.”
Phoenix’s shoulders slump. “Dude, I’m just trying to eat dinner!”
The man shudders. “Just – stay there! And do not call me ‘dude’!” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, but when he removes his closed fist, there’s nothing in his hand. He blinks. “That’s… strange… I must not… have my cellphone…” He frowns, and glares at Phoenix. “Give me your phone.” He holds out his hand.
“You want me to give you my phone so you can call the police on me?” Phoenix will be the first to admit that he is not always the most logical person – unwanted, Dolly’s face flashes across his memory, and he flinches – but even he isn’t so stupid as to supply someone with the means to arrest him. Not that he even did anything!
The main simply shakes his hand, and Phoenix, feeling a bit like Orpheus about to turn around, sighs, reaches into his back pocket, and plops the phone down into the man’s open fist.
It plummets straight to the ground. They both frown down. “That is… well!” The grey haired man huffs, and bends down to pick up the phone, but his hand merely swipes through it. He tries again to the same result. “I…”
Phoenix decides enough is enough, and he turns around to place his now definitely cold bowl of pasta onto the table.
“Alright man, I don’t know what is happening, but we – Phoenix turns around, and the man is gone. He freezes. He never heard a door open, which wouldn’t have meant much anyway, because he had been facing the only door out of the apartment.
He stared at the place the man had been. His phone was still squarely on the ground.
“What the fuck?”