Chapter Text
-- Miles Fairchild stood in the hallway as if he belonged to that place more than to himself, and at the same time, as if he didn’t want to belong anywhere at all. He wore a dark uniform, perfectly fitted, the jacket tailored in a style that spoke of rigidity and order, though the sleeves were slightly wrinkled and his tie hung looser than regulations required. His curly hair fell messily over his forehead, a soft halo that contrasted with the seriousness of his expression. His dark eyes carried a distant look, as if Miles’ mind wandered through faraway landscapes only he could see.
He wasn’t doing anything. He simply… existed. And in that state of invisibility, he became part of the dull scenery of the hallway, where the murmurs of students and the echo of footsteps blended into a melody that felt foreign to him.
That was when Boris Pavlikovsky appeared before him. With dark hair full of rebellious waves sticking out in every direction, Boris looked like a small tornado defying order itself. His uniform was more relaxed, his shirt partly unbuttoned and sleeves carelessly rolled up, giving him an effortless air Miles almost admired. But what truly caught Miles’ attention was the strange resemblance between them. It wasn’t exact, but close enough that someone might stop and stare a second longer than normal. They were like different versions of the same idea, two shadows reflected in a mirror that had duplicated them at the exact moment they crossed paths.
When Boris smiled after noticing Miles staring, a playful spark lit up his eyes. Without thinking, he stepped directly toward him.
“You look like you don’t want to be here,” he said, with no greeting and no hesitation.
Miles slowly lifted his gaze. He looked at him. Silence.
“And you do?” he replied flatly.
Boris let out a quiet laugh through his nose.
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t pretend I don’t care.”
Miles said nothing. He only watched him for another second, as if deciding whether he was worth continuing the conversation with. Boris took advantage of that. He looked him over more slowly now, more carefully.
“Hey,” he said with a half-smile, “do you always look like that, or is it just to scare people?”
Miles raised his eyes slowly and looked directly at him.
“What do you think?”
Boris laughed softly.
“I think maybe it works a little.”
A short silence settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… strange.
“Then you can leave now,” Miles added.
“I could,” Boris replied, hidden fragility beneath the words.
That made Miles glance away for a second, as if considering ignoring him entirely. He didn’t.
“You’re new,” he said.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
“HA!” Boris answered. “Good, because I need someone to tell me who to avoid.”
“Everyone.”
“Including you?”
Miles didn’t answer immediately. He remembered how Mrs. Grosse always insisted that he bring a friend home, since he was constantly buried in loneliness. When he failed to answer, Boris realized that, for him, silence already was an answer.
“Hey,” Boris said. The closeness between them was far too intense to be accidental. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like me?”
Miles slowly raised his eyes again. He scanned him from head to toe, as if evaluating every detail, every imperfection.
“No,” he answered, the word leaving his lips like a cold sentence.
Boris let out a low laugh, leaning forward as though sharing a secret.
“Yes,” he insisted. “Same type of face… different attitude.”
“No.”
Boris smiled wider, amused by the dry response.
“Okay, let’s just say I’m the upgraded version.”
Miles, without changing posture, kept his gaze fixed on Boris, unreadable.
“What do you want?” he asked, allowing the smallest crack of curiosity into his usual seriousness.
Boris kept studying him, as though he were trying to solve a difficult riddle.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he finally said, his expression now filled with intrigue, “but it’s definitely not leaving.”
Miles’ eyes sharpened, revealing the faintest spark of curiosity.
“Then you’re wasting your time.”
“Maybe,” Boris admitted with a shrug.
Silence settled heavily between them, as if the atmosphere itself had tightened. A couple of students passed behind them, exchanging curious glances, but neither boy moved.
Boris stepped even closer, completely invading Miles’ personal space.
“You have curls,” he murmured, his voice low.
Miles frowned slightly, a mixture of annoyance and surprise.
“So?”
“They don’t match your attitude.”
Miles barely furrowed his brow.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“The curls,” Boris murmured, “don’t match the whole ‘don’t talk to me’ face.”
“They don’t have to match,” Miles replied.
Boris raised a hand and dared to touch one of the curls falling over Miles’ forehead. With gentle movements, he twisted the curl lightly between his fingers, as though he were genuinely curious.
Miles watched him intensely. More serious now.
“Don’t touch them.”
But surprisingly, he didn’t pull away. Boris smiled to the side, enjoying the clash of emotions reflected in Miles’ face.
“Okay,” he said calmly. “Noted.”
Instead of pulling his hand away immediately, he let it slide slowly downward, brushing Miles’ temple and then his cheek for barely a second before finally stepping back completely. It was a delicate movement, as if testing invisible boundaries, challenging the limits of what was allowed.
Miles, still silent, followed Boris with his eyes. There was something new in his seriousness now, a spark of genuine attention beginning to seep through the distance he usually kept.
“You’re weird,” he finally said, breaking the silence.
“Well, I’m not the one standing in hallways like the air outside burns,” Boris replied with a dazzling smile. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”
That left Miles in another silence, one loaded with palpable tension. Boris, sensing he had gained ground, leaned in slightly again, his voice nearly a whisper.
“Boris.”
Miles took a second.
“Miles,” he replied, keeping his tone flat.
“Good,” Boris said. “Now we’re not complete strangers anymore.”
“We still are.”
“That’s easy to fix.”
Miles looked at him.
“I’m not interested in fixing it.”
The atmosphere thickened with possibility. Boris stared at him for a long moment, as though memorizing every feature of his face, every line in his expression. Then he smiled again, this time with a calmness that bordered on devotion.
“Hey…” he said softly but directly. “Do you always look like this?”
Miles lifted his gaze slowly. He didn’t answer right away. He only looked at him.
Boris tilted his head slightly, his expression turning thoughtful.
“It’s not just your face,” he said, dragging out the words as though searching for an echo in the air. “It’s everything. Like…” He paused dramatically, searching for the right meaning, as though dialogue itself were pieces of a contradictory puzzle. “Like you’re lighter than you should be.”
A lazy silence settled between them, filled with the friction of insecurity and desire. Miles didn’t move. He couldn’t.
But now Boris was looking at him directly, as if every glimmer in his grayish eyes measured each of Miles’ expressions with precision. Fixed. Intense. Emotionally charged.
“You’re too skinny,” Boris added in a lower voice, almost like a private confession. “It’s more noticeable up close.”
There was no mockery or pity in his tone, only deep attention that pierced through the layers of Miles’ fragile exterior. Miles felt observed, stripped bare, and though he refused to respond, his gaze carried a different weight now. It was as if every silent second pushed Boris back without Miles needing to move at all.
Boris, sensitive to those shifts, didn’t retreat. Instead, he smiled again, though not in the carefree way from before. This smile carried electricity, a silent challenge.
“You look fragile,” he murmured, as if the word itself floated in the air. “Like you’re missing weight.”
The silence afterward was dense, a universe collapsing inward. Miles remained just as serious, just as still, and then something happened. The icy seriousness in his gaze cracked from within, and through that fracture emerged something new. Something heavier. Sharper. A glint like polished steel that might have intimidated someone less confident. It was a look that didn’t simply return attention, it consumed it.
And for Boris, that was the moment. That look struck him like an electric shock splitting his existence in two. A violent, thrilling shiver ran down his spine, heat spreading from the base of his neck to the tips of his fingers. He felt overwhelmed by the intensity of it, by the raw force of Miles finally focusing entirely on him.
The silence afterward was dense, compressed into something almost unbearable. Miles remained still, but there was now something different in his eyes. Something heavier. More focused.
Boris noticed how that spark changed the air around them, thickening the atmosphere with possibility.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he finally said, lowering his voice slightly, as if speaking to someone who wasn’t entirely a stranger anymore. The warning sounded hollow, a formal protest against something much stronger beneath it.
Miles didn’t react. No distracted gestures. No retreat. He remained fixed in place, like a soldier standing at the border between what is and what could be.
That was when something shifted in the playful tension between them, as though both had been waiting for the other to make the first real move.
The hallway was still empty. But for them, the world had narrowed to that exact point.
“Are you done yet?” Miles finally asked.
Dry, but not cold. Boris let out a low laugh.
“Not even close.”
“You know,” Miles began, finally allowing himself the smallest smile, a subtle, teasing curve of his lips, “you talk about how skinny I am, but you’re not that far off yourself.” He looked at him now with the same attention Boris had used earlier. “Not enough for your bones to show… but close.”
Boris blinked in surprise for a second. Then he smiled, wider this time, more genuine.
“Was that a compliment?”
“No.”
“Then I’m taking it as one.”
Miles barely shook his head, though the smile didn’t disappear completely. And that… that was enough. Boris leaned against the wall beside him, shoulder to shoulder, as if it were already natural to stand there together.
Miles held his gaze, aware that he was making a decision, aware that something larger than simple attraction was pulling their worlds together.
They remained there, trapped in an endless moment where possibilities intertwined in a game of glances, a dance before words beyond introductions. The story of two reflections was finally beginning.
The noise of the hallway still buzzed around them, distant and dull. Irrelevant. Boris lowered his gaze again, drawn by the same gravitational pull. To the shoulder. To the way the rigid uniform fell over a frame far too narrow. To the sharp outline of bone beneath the fabric.
And without asking permission, without even thinking twice, he leaned in. It was quick, but not rushed. Precise. His lips brushed against Miles’ shoulder, right where the bone showed most clearly beneath the cloth. The touch was soft, almost weightless, the warmth of his lips contrasting briefly against the cold fabric.
Miles tensed slightly. A subtle tightening in the muscles of his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t push him back. But his breathing changed, becoming deeper, more aware. And for Boris, that was enough. That tiny reaction meant everything.
Boris lingered there for one more second, close enough that his voice was barely more than a murmur.
“It’s a shame you hide it,” he said quietly. “The way your bones look… should be illegal to cover up like this.”
A pause. He let the words hang heavily between them.
“I wonder what they’d feel like under my hands.”
Then he straightened slowly, savoring the final trace of closeness. His eyes returned to Miles’ face, which still revealed no clear emotion. He held his gaze in a silent challenge. Then he smiled again. Not teasing. Not light. Something steadier. A promise that this wasn’t over.
“See you around, doll.”
He stood up without hurry and walked away, just like that. He disappeared into the noise of the hallway as though nothing had happened, even though every cell in his body screamed otherwise.
Miles stayed there alone, leaning against the wall. Motionless, but no longer the same.
His gaze remained fixed on the empty space where Boris had stood. Slowly, he raised a hand and pressed his fingers against his shoulder, exactly where Boris’ lips had touched him. The fabric no longer felt cold. He could still feel the ghost of warmth, the invisible trace of someone else’s audacity.
And for the first time in a very long while, the look in his eyes, fixed on nothingness, no longer seemed disconnected.
It seemed… thoughtful.
As though a missing piece had finally clicked into place, even if he still didn’t know what picture it formed.
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