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"Look at you, all clean and cozy in your pajamas," Phoenix says through a toothy smile. He says it like everything is fine.
Everything is not fine. Sure, the day is squared away; they've clocked out from work, cooked and shared a warm dinner and taken their showers and sure, Miles is technically safe within the four narrow walls of their bathroom. He may fantasize about the toilet sucking him up whole (as disgusting as that is) so he can escape his very fate, but the fact of the matter is that he's safe in his beloved's hands.
Beneath his slippered feet lays a cold linoleum tile with a repeating flower motif— petals various shades of coral and leaves a solitary kelly green— which is graciously watered by the droplets falling from Miles's damp hair.
His fingers curl into the velvety fabric of his pajama pants (the silk set Franziska and Maya gifted him for Christmas) but it provides no comfort as Phoenix dutifully carries on, tearing open a prepackaged syringe.
Miles doesn't look at the needle, doesn't look at it breaking the skin of the vile to siphon up the pale, viscous compound up, up, up. He instead looks at the tiles. Counts the pink petals, one, two, three, four, five.
"So Larry brought this girl with him to the bar," Phoenix starts, "and she was rather pretty. Clearly his type because she was blonde and skinny and had a lot of makeup and I mean a lot." Miles can pick out the sound of a papery tear between sentences. "But when I looked closer, she had something on her eye. What is that thing called? The- the bump on her eye. It's like- starts with an S?"
Miles doesn't flinch this time when the chill of the alcohol wipe makes contact with his arm, swirling in clockwise motions. "Oh! A stye! She had a stye on her eye and I asked him, 'Do you think that's contagious?' and he said, 'I dunno, but the sex is great.' God, what a horndog."
Warm, dry fingers pull the skin of his upper arm taut, it's coming. Phoenix kneels beside him. "But she was nice. Very intelligent and honest too. I value that in a person. Alright, 3, 2-"
Miles gasps as if he's breaking the surface of the ocean after nearly drowning in it, sharp and caustic, as the pinch in his arm alerts him— there's a needle in my arm.
Just as quickly, Phoenix's free hand fishes for Miles's and clutches it tight. He can feel the thick material being shoved into the tissue of his arm as Phoenix presses down on the plunger, and he's about to scream.
"Miles, baby, focus on my hand. Focus on my hand." Phoenix squeezes his hand tight, relaxes, and squeezes again, slower than a heartbeat but rhythmic. Miles seizes his hand as tight as he can, drawing all his attention to the pulsing grip.
"Almost there, baby. You're doing great. Keep squeezing, you won't hurt me."
Phoenix is quick as he draws out the needle, practiced, and presses the gauze square to the small wound. "Hold this here for me, Miles."
With teeth, he tears open the band aid's casing. He insisted upon Steel Samurai band-aids when they were at the store. Miles had accused him of being juvenile then, but he's grateful now when Phoenix slaps that silly band-aid on and says, There we go! All patched up.
"There we go! All patched up."
Miles can at least manage a shaking smile, but he's unable to hide how he still trembles. His breath, even worse, picks up pace. Dizzying, as he draws in too much air and not enough.
Phoenix responds the right way (he's always right) by pressing his forehead to his anxious-sweaty one and retaking his hand.
"Hey, you're okay. You're okay."
The nod Miles give is instinctual, not actually indicative of belief because he believes he's dying.
"Look, Miles." A squeeze of the hand. "Just match me." Miles squeezes back— yes, okay.
He breathes in, slow and deep.
A crawl, Miles breathes in.
Phoenix pushes the breath out, cold against Miles's flaming face. He follows suit.
Miles doesn't track Phoenix's mouth, not with his eyes closed, so he listens to the sound and the feel of his breath.
Phoenix doesn't fill the dead space with ramblings about styes or horndog friends. Neither of them speak for minutes
Finally, Phoenix breaks the silence. "How we feelin'? Doing okay?"
Miles frowns beneath his glasses. He refuses to say the words, so he just shakes his head.
"Honey, what is it?"
"I'm being ridiculous again. And you have simply too much patience for my antics."
"Too much patience? Nooo," he drawls. "No such thing! In fact, I could bear to be more patient!"
"You shouldn't have to do my injections every time, Phoenix. I'm a grown adult and I'm putting you through such unnecessary trouble."
Phoenix brings himself lower to the ground so he's looking up at him. He grabs both of his hands this time. "Hey, hey. Listen. It's not trouble for me. I want to do this for you. It's my honor, actually, and I'd be disappointed if you stopped asking me for help."
"You're... idiotic."
"Call me idiotic all you want." He stands, and those patient hands take his head as those loving lips lay a tender kiss to drying hair. "Just know that I love you."
"I know, Phoenix. I love you too."
Phoenix steps on the lever of the little trashcan and discards the packaging. The needles go in a special sharps container. "Hey, guess what. I got some ice cream at the store."
"Pistachio?"
"Yes, pistachio. You game?"
"It sounds delightful."
Phoenix offers his hand, and Miles doesn't hesitate. They exit the bathroom together and make their way to the kitchen.
"If I weren't an attorney, I'd be a pretty good nurse!"
Miles lets out a breathless chuckle. "Tch, that would be dreadful."
"Hey, I think my bedside manners are pretty good!"
"Right... but opening a band-aid with your teeth?"
"I didn't think you were paying attention," Phoenix answers.
"You know what they say. The devil is in the details."
"Yeah, well, sue me!" Phoenix takes out two bowls for them both and plucks the ice cream container from the freezer. "Um, once we get ice cream, would you like to watch some Steel Samurai?"
"Yes, I'd greatly appreciate that."
"Great! I recorded a bunch on VCR the other day. Hey, did you know I love you?"
"Yes, Phoenix. I love you too. More than I could ever express."
"That's enough for me!"
"Tch, you dope..."