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"We'll start with something simple. This is called the Ruy López."
"Is that Spanish for 'I'm about to be humiliated'?"
They were seated around the coffee table—Phoenix sitting cross-legged on the floor, Miles perched on the edge of the sofa—looking down at a chess set Phoenix guessed had probably cost the same price as a decent used car. It was one of Miles' nicer sets from among his collection, and he'd taken a particular sort of pride in bringing it down from the shelf and arranging the pieces with meticulous ceremony. He'd even lit the fireplace and pulled out a bottle of Bordeaux, proclaiming tonight to be a special occasion. He had spent an interminable amount of time babbling on about wood grain and ivory and ebony—"not very ethical these days, I know, but this is a vintage piece"—as he got everything set up, clearly thrilled to be able to show off a little.
Phoenix had indulged him. He recognized it hadn't been bragging; just the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely wanted to share something he loved. He didn't have a clue what a bishop was, or why it mattered what directions a knight could move in. He just knew this was important to his friend, so it was important to him, too. Although, he had to confess, he hadn't really been paying attention. Miles could wax poetic all night about carving and polish (no, really—he probably genuinely could), but, as far as Phoenix was concerned, the real masterwork of craftsmanship was the man bustling around the flat.
"Hm. Hardly," Miles smirked over the rim of his glass. "As long as you keep your wits about you, that is. So maybe you are in trouble."
Phoenix laughed.
“Now, then.” The energy shifted then; still friendly, but now with the addition of that unmistakable glint of competition in Miles' eye. "I'll let you make the first move."
"Very chivalrous of you, Miles."
A quirk of the eyebrow. "Your pawn to e4."
"My pawn. Sure." Phoenix paused, fingers poised above the board. "...that's these little guys here, right?"
"Wright," Miles sighed.
"Jeez, I'm kidding."
Phoenix slid the pawn forward, if not a little clumsily. He was honestly a bit hesitant to touch the pieces, especially after Miles had talked his ear off about how valuable they were. But when he looked back up, his opponent was giving him an encouraging nod.
"Mine moves to e5," Miles countered, shifting his own pawn to the appropriate square. "Now your knight advances to f3."
"f3?" Phoenix asked, brow furrowing. He set the knight down with a gentle clack.
"Puts pressure on my pawn; starts development."
"Development," Phoenix echoed. "Right. Very exciting. Maybe when we're done here, we can go watch some paint dry."
"You say that now." Miles took another measured sip. "But this game can be intense, if you let it be."
"You mean if it lets itself be." Phoenix's tone was pointed as he took a sip of his own.
Something about those words made Miles' breath catch.
Phoenix was trying not to let his gaze settle too long, but he was doing some analysis of his own. Analysis that had nothing to do with castling or en passant, whatever the hell any of that even was. Stuffy refinement and clinical strategy, all concealing an explosion of intensity just beneath its surface, hm? Reminded him of somebody he knew...
"Still." He pushed himself up from where he'd been leaning on the table. "I don't know if this is my game, really. Poker's more my speed these days."
"I'm well aware." Miles' nose crinkled in disgust. Phoenix had filled him in about his new job—not every dirty detail, but enough to paint a picture—and what he'd learned hadn't exactly thrilled him. But part of him felt it wouldn't be right to pick and choose what parts of Phoenix to accept. So, it was safer to avoid the matter entirely. "I suppose I might have to have you show me sometime," he added.
"Yeah, maybe." It felt stupid, but Phoenix felt a little twinge of apprehension go through him at the thought. He didn't like to dwell on how far he'd fallen—the chasm that now seemed to yawn between him and Miles—and letting him in to that part of his life felt...wrong, somehow. Like he'd be dirtying Miles; cheapening him in some way.
"Anyway." He folded the thought up and tucked it into his back pocket for now. "It's...I don't want to say it's an easier game than chess, but, I dunno. I picked it up pretty easily, at least."
Miles regarded him wryly. "A game based around bluffing and dumb luck, hm? I can't imagine how you ever took to it." But there was a grin blossoming across his features as he said it.
"I'd like to say it's because of my boyish charm," Phoenix countered with a grin of his own.
That earned him a shake of Miles' head and a long pull from his glass. "You're absolutely insufferable."
"And yet, here you are, suffering."
"Hmph. You said it, not me."
Phoenix couldn't help but smile.
He had no idea why his next words came spilling out—the wine was pretty strong, maybe that helped loosen his tongue—but he went right ahead and rambled anyway.
"Y'know, some of the guys at the club say poker's kind of like sex."
Miles nearly choked on his next sip. "I can’t wait to hear how you justify that," he sighed, half laughing, half resigned.
Phoenix felt his neck flush—whether from the wine or the words, he wasn’t sure. But he charged on ahead. "Yeah. You either need a good partner, or a good hand."
Miles blinked, slowly setting his glass down.
Phoenix winced. "Too much?"
But to his surprise, the corner of the other man’s mouth twitched. "Well, then. Which do you have, Wright?"
Phoenix stared at him. There were about five different ways he could answer that, and every single one of them would end in disaster. Miles, for his part, had turned vaguely pink, and his smirk was decidedly more sheepish now. But he was sitting back against the couch cushions with the smug air of someone very pleased with himself.
"I, uh..." Phoenix stammered. "I'm...well. Single Pringle over here."
"Single Pr—" Miles rolled his eyes. "You keep saying things like that, I think I understand why."
His gaze flew down to the chessboard again. Not to plan his next move—at least, not as part of their game. He just needed an excuse to hide the way his eyes had lit up.
Wright was unattached. This was—stupidly, hopelessly—very welcome information.
He could feel Phoenix's eyes boring a hole into him, and slowly, he looked back up, only to find himself face-to-face with that cocky little grin that never failed to make his heart do a flip. He reached for his glass again, just to give his hands something to do.
"Yeah." Phoenix leaned back. "Not a lot of time for dating, between work and having a kid at home. Truce keeps telling me she wants a mommy, but I don't see her getting one any time soon. Or a second daddy, for that matter."
Miles almost dropped his wine.
Wright was unattached—and into men?! He was going to spontaneously combust.
"Surprised? I thought you knew that."
"Can't say I did," Miles mumbled, taking a hasty sip. "But...well. Good to know."
("Good to know?" Hmm. Alright, filing that one away for later...)
"How about you, Miles?" Phoenix asked then, a touch too breezily. "You seeing anyone?"
Miles let out a startled kind of squeak. "I—uh. N-no. No, I'm not."
"You're kidding."
"No, it's true." Miles had calmed some, but his eyes still didn't leave his glass. "I've...never been involved with anyone before, actually."
"What?! Okay, now I know you're screwing with me. You could..." Phoenix swallowed hard, then pressed on, too tipsy to care. "You could have anyone you wanted. I mean, look at you."
"Hm." Miles set his glass back down again with a full-fledged blush. "I've gotten attention, now and then. Just never from anyone I've wished to give it back to."
"Married to the job?" Phoenix smirked and reached for his own glass.
"...not exactly. Something...more out of reach."
The brief pause that followed said more than either of them was ready for.
Phoenix tilted his head, watching him closely. "You okay over there, Mi?"
Miles took a moment to let his gaze linger, drinking in the way the firelight seemed to illuminate Phoenix from within. Then he cast his eyes back down to the board. "...just thinking."
“Dangerous habit.”
“Mm. So I’ve been told.”
The room fell quiet for another stretch—too long to be comfortable, though neither of them reached for the silence to break it.
“…so?” Phoenix finally said, gently prodding. “What’re you thinking about?”
When Miles' voice came again, it was soft and low. "This set was my father's when he was a boy," he said, the words drifting in from far away. "He learned on it, and it's what he used to teach me to play, in turn. I thought it would be appropriate for tonight." Phoenix was looking at him in that open, honest way, and it made it hard to focus on anything else.
"Continuing a tradition," Phoenix ventured.
A faint smile was his answer. "Something like that."
"It's an honor."
Another slow beat.
"And I've also been thinking about...well," Miles continued, in a tone that tugged something loose in Phoenix's chest. "Wondering when it might pay off to make a risky move."
Phoenix blinked, and something in his expression shifted. "You're still talking about chess, right?”
Miles met his eyes again, and, this time, he didn’t look away. “I haven’t decided yet.”
They abandoned the game not long after that, both mumbling something vague about needing to get to bed soon. Both breathed secret sighs of relief at the suggestion. There had been something far too heated pulsing in the air between them, and they thought it was probably best to extinguish the flame before they could get burned.
Just like always.
Miles emerged from the bathroom and cast his eyes across the darkened room, until they fell across the outline of the sleeping form curled up on the couch. He had offered Phoenix the guest room several times now, and every time, Phoenix had refused. Said it didn't sit right with him. Miles had tried to tell him he was being ridiculous, but. Well. It had gone over like the old one about the immovable force meeting the unstoppable object.
He looked back over his shoulder one last time as he stepped into the bedroom, and a fond look crossed his face.
Wright can't be that good of a poker player, he thought, and shut the door behind him.
He can't even recognize a bluff when it's staring him in the face.