'til now, i always got by on my own.
i never really cared until i met you
and now it chills me to the bone:
how do i get you alone? how do i get you alone?

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Life went back to normal surprisingly fast after the intervention, after Kurain. It had a funny way of doing that. Before long, classes became the most stressful thing that the group had to worry about again. Maya had missed that. She'd take harsh exams over being almost murdered any day of the week.

When that thought occurred to her, she was sitting beside Phoenix in their shared art history class. He was having trouble getting his things back into his bag as he watched the clock for the quickly approaching end of the lecture.

Miles was near the front of the room like the goody-two-shoes he was, sitting perfectly straight, pretending that he wasn't as impatient to get out of there as everyone else was. The tapping of his fingers was what gave him away. He wanted to go and play piano.

Larry was half-asleep behind Phoenix. He had slumped forward onto his desk, eyes blinking open only once every minute or so. Payne's classes always did that to him. Maya would probably have to nudge him to remind him that they were supposed to be getting up soon. She leaned back just enough in her chair— just enough to be ready to smack the back of his head if need be.

Iris was with Ema, distinctly not sitting beside her sister, while Franziska and Adrian were on their other side. They formed something of a wall around her, keeping her away from the wicked redhead's occasional dirty looks. Franziska glanced at the clock and then back at Maya, almost smiling. Maya flashed her a thumbs-up. They had plans.

The bell rang. Phoenix was too quick to jump up, so Professor Payne went out of his way to point directly at Phoenix as his voice rose until it was loud enough to be heard over the commotion. Phoenix was red in the face before Payne even got the words out.

"And another thing, students— do not forget that the tournament qualifiers will begin soon!" He screeched. "If you have plans to enter, get your pieces ready and find the appropriate professor to fill out your forms!"

"Shit!" Phoenix exclaimed reflexively. Payne glared at him and the others laughed at his expense. One could tell just by looking at him— he had completely forgotten. There had been a lot going on lately. Whether the outburst was justifiable or not didn't matter, though. Phoenix would definitely have to stay after class. Maya saw, as she scurried out of that room, that Miles and Larry were waiting for him in the hallway.

"You boys behave yourselves, okay? The ladies and I have plans. Ladylike plans."

"Oh?" Miles seemed surprised to hear it. "Don't tell me you're going window shopping."

"Nothing like that. Adrian got us into a really nice restaurant. We're having a tea party! Girls only." Maya had to admit that she was excited. It was nice to get dolled up every once in a while, she thought. Especially after feeling as crummy as she had lately.

"I'm sure we can keep ourselves entertained for one day," Miles assured her. "Besides, Nick and I have some studying to do. Once I'm done with piano practice for the day."

"Good, good. I have to go get ready! I have a dress picked out and Ema's going to help me with my hair."

Miles nodded.

"I'm sure you'll both look lovely."

"Miles!" Maya feigned girlish embarrassment, her hands on her cheeks. Miles was just being polite, she was sure, but she'd take the opportunity to tease him anyway. "For a moment there I almost thought you were straight!"

That one got a laugh out of Larry and a grouchy little frown from Miles. He wasn't seriously angry, but he wasn't thrilled either. Larry slapped his shoulder.

"Ha, ha," Miles replied flatly. Maya gave him an apologetic side-hug.

"Seriously, though— I'm proud of you, okay? We won't be gone long."

"...Right."

Miles was still a bit pink in the face when Maya left him behind with Larry. He had come clean with them about his orientation after doing so at home, but he still seemed a little self-conscious about it, and seemingly at random times. Ema said that it often took a while to get used to being "out", and that made sense. Years of internalized negativity wouldn't go away overnight.

Even so, she knew that Miles would be okay. He had gotten past more difficult things than that.

Maya had worried that getting ready for a formal restaurant would take too long, and that she would be late for their reservation, but everything went according to plan and she and Ema joined the rest of the group exactly on time. Franziska seemed to like getting dressed up, even if she would never admit it, because she always had something impeccably tailored to wear and paired with the perfect accessories. Iris looked like a princess, and Adrian like she was a high-powered CEO. Maya almost felt dwarfed by them, but they complimented her, and that feeling went away. Comparisons didn't matter.

Adrian's family had managed to get them a nice table. They were on a little platform, under their own tiny chandelier. She explained that the occasion was, technically, her birthday— business had unfortunately called her parents out of the country, so they couldn't celebrate with her. They had sponsored this little banquet to make up for that. It seemed like a fair enough exchange, Maya thought, and she couldn't help but be a little bit jealous that Adrian had two parents with that kind of money to throw around.

For a while, Ema and Maya and Iris got to relay a story that Franziska and Adrian hadn't been present for. They'd been told that the intervention had been successful, but not much beyond that. Adrian said something that was meant to be subtle about Franziska's role in it. Maya's expression gave it away, even if she had intended to keep it a secret, and before she knew it, Fran was being prodded and gushed over by Ema and Iris.

"I— I said it's not a big deal!" She insisted.

"Five grand isn't a big deal to you?" Ema asked, her tone suspicious. Franziska forced her haughtiest grin.

"For a Von Karma, no. It is not."

Maya shook her head. Miles wasn't the only tsundere around here. Besides that, though, it was a shame that Franziska still felt a need to credit her family for it. She herself had said that the personal fund was her father's way of apologizing. Which meant he had definitely done something wrong.

The conversation moved on. Iris admitted that she had had a little talk with Phoenix, that she had accepted that they would never be an item again. While Ema sounded sympathetic, she was also encouraging.

"Really, you should get back on the market," she coaxed. "You're a catch, Iris! And you deserve the attention."

"M-Maybe you're right," Iris relented, "but it's been so long. I'm afraid I wouldn't even know how."

"Just project that energy out there," Ema suggested. "That you're single and ready to mingle! Somebody's bound to pick up on it."

"...Maybe."

Adrian briefly speculated about whether or not Miles would start dating soon. Franziska seemed confused by that. Maya didn't want to risk saying anything if Miles had not told her himself— had he not told her? It seemed strange that he would come out to the rest of them and not the one he had known the longest. Maybe he wanted to tell her alone? Before they could breach the subject, Iris perked up.

"Speaking of Miles... Professor Armando was talking about the tournament yesterday, during practice. I do not know that I am ready for a solo audition, but don't you think it would be fun to sign up as a smaller group?" She looked at Adrian and Franziska. "...A piano quintet, perhaps?"

Franziska's eyebrows raised, and she stroked her chin. Adrian nodded along.

"That could be a lot of fun," Adrian agreed. "I'd love to perform something of Brahms'."

"And with Miles at the piano, we'd likely be nearly unmatched," Franziska added. Maya was surprised to hear that kind of compliment from her. Whenever Miles was around, she was always boasting about how much more perfect she was than him. But maybe that was just banter. A sibling rivalry, almost. Maya smirked at that thought.

"What IS a piano quintet?" Ema asked.

"The arrangement can change slightly, but these days it's usually used to refer to a group consisting of a string quartet and a piano," Iris explained. "Adrian and Franziska play the viola and the cello. My sister and I on our violins complete the string quartet! Add Miles, and you have a piano quintet."

Everyone tensed. Everyone but Iris, who didn't seem to realize what she had said.

"...We would incorporate Dahlia?" Adrian asked carefully. Iris blushed.

"I... I know she isn't exactly pleasant, but she and I are used to performing together and she does take her music seriously. I doubt she would cause any problems for us."

No one knew what to say. Franziska and Adrian clearly didn't want to shoot her down, as they knew how badly Iris must have wanted to enter if she was willing to do so alongside Dahlia. And it was a natural enough urge— to want one's relatives to succeed even when they didn't always get along.

Still, Iris was making excuses for Dahlia again. How many times had Maya made excuses for Aunt Morgan? There had been more than one occasion where Phoenix had overheard her say something mean. But when he had looked at Maya with concern, she had laughed it off, explaining that he just didn't get her Aunt's sense of humor even as her heart ached. Knowing full well that that was a lie. And how had that turned out? Maya didn't want to believe that Dahlia would resort to murder, but she wouldn't have believed that about her own aunt if she'd heard it from a time traveler six months ago.

No one wanted to address that. No one knew how to do it. Franziska told Iris that they would think about it, and she promised that she would ask Miles if he was interested. Ema tried to change the subject.

"My birthday isn't for a while, but I like this idea! Doing something sort of themed, I mean..."

"I am curious as to what Miles plans to do," Franziska wondered aloud. "He often refuses anything of this sort. He makes celebration difficult. My father would throw grand parties for him anyway. It's how he operates."

"Is... Is his birthday coming up? He didn't say anything about it," Ema said, sounding confused. If Maya was remembering right, Ema had asked him when his was so she could add it to her planner and he had dodged the question. Franziska blinked.

"Oh— it is not as if it's next week, but with the way that time flies, it will be here before we know it." Maya knew what Franziska meant by that, and she had to agree. "His is towards the end of February. The twenty-second."

Maya felt like her brain was buzzing with excitement as she absorbed that information. If they had nearly a month, it was enough time for certain people to prepare a special gift.

This would be good ammunition for Phoenix. Maya could hardly wait to pass the information along.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

"So. What are you gonna do about it?"

Maya's question was a more intense one than she seemed to think it was. Phoenix had an idea. He did. But he didn't know if it was too big of an idea.

"About Miles' birthday?" Phoenix asked. He was stalling, of course, because he knew that was what she had meant. Maya hadn't stopped pestering him about it since the previous day, when she had told him the exact date. "I've... got something in mind."

"A painting, I'm guessing." Maya smirked victoriously. Apparently all she had wanted was the confirmation that her information-gathering hadn't been for nothing. That she had done the right thing in telling Phoenix about it. She'd given him a long window of time, too, in which to come up with a plan.

"Of course. It's not like I'm gonna serenade the guy," Phoenix laughed. Maya, too, because she knew that Phoenix couldn't sing to save his life and that Miles would likely be very offended by that gift.

They were together in Maya's dorm, lounging around after about an hour of gaming on the Switch that Ema had procured. Ema herself was out with her sister for the day, helping her with some kind of pre-tournament task. The professors were always busy around tournament season. Phoenix had once helped Mia carry many a box up and down several flights of stairs.

Phoenix tugged aimlessly at his shoelaces, making sure his sneakers were on tight for the fifteenth time. He had to go to Miles' dorm for another one of their study sessions in a little while, and now Maya had gotten him all nervous. He'd been trying not to think about where the relationship was headed. The kinds of butterflies he had felt in the beginning were back, and this time with a vengeance.

"Speaking of," she said, almost like she had read his mind and intended to torture him with the information, "are you planning on saying anything to him? Like, EVER? He's out now. It's not like you have to hope he's gay anymore. We know. More importantly, HE knows."

"S-Sure, but do I really wanna pounce on him the second he comes out? That seems almost predatory," Phoenix pointed out. He watched as Maya seriously contemplated that. He appreciated the fact that she did.

"...Yeah, you might be right about that," she admitted, her tone glum. "I probably wouldn't like feeling like I'd been tricked into admitting it just so somebody could ask me out."

"Exactly. He has to come to terms with things at his own pace. I'm not going to rush him through the process." After an awkward silence, Phoenix sat up straight and smiled. "Oh, but, uh— I dunno. Maybe he'll tell me?"

Maya jolted upwards like her spine had been struck by lightning. Phoenix chuckled at the movement.

"He'll what now?"

"I mean... I mean that I think we might be getting somewhere." Maya started to open her mouth and to make some kind of noise. Phoenix put up a hand to silence her. "I don't want to jump to conclusions! And I'm not gonna jinx it by asking him about it, but he's... I don't know. He's been different lately. Around me."

"Different how?"

"...Cuddly?"

"CUDDLY?!"

Phoenix laughed as he tried to calm her again.

"Okay, I'm sure I'm exaggerating, but I just mean he's been closer physically. We held hands for a minute a little while ago. The park."

"When you were both tucked under that blanket?!"

"Yeah, then. And since then he's been, uh, like that. He'll randomly touch me. ...He always seems embarrassed about it afterwards, though. If I acknowledge it."

"Yeah, well. That's just how he is, isn't it?"

"I guess so. I just wish he could feel more comfortable with himself." Phoenix shook his head and shrugged. "I do feel like we might be getting somewhere, but even if that's true, I think it's best that I just let things evolve on their own. I wanna let him decide."

"I guess that's fair," Maya grumbled, pouting. "I'm just getting impatient at how long it's taking!"

Phoenix laughed, and for a moment he thought about telling her that he agreed, but he decided against it. Because he wasn't impatient. Not really. He liked being around Miles even if they weren't a couple. He had decided that a long time ago. He checked his phone for the time and flinched at the realization that the hour had arrived. He moved to stand up.

"It IS time for our study date," he reminded her. "Miles is probably expecting me right now."

"Go, then. Go ahead!" Maya tossed Phoenix his hoodie, which he managed to catch as he also grabbed his stack of supplies. He had a lot more stuff than he had remembered bringing, and he had to stack it all in a very particular way to keep it from falling over.

"...You sure you'll be alright?" Phoenix asked, pausing in the doorway. He had to lean against it to keep his things from falling on him. He was reluctant to leave Maya by herself, but she nodded.

"You'll only be gone, what, an hour?" For a moment, she laughed. Her expression softened after a moment and she gave him a genuine, if slightly pained, smile. "I'll be fine."

"Still—"

With nearly comical speed, Maya was on her feet and literally shoving Phoenix into the hallway. He still didn't know how she moved around so quickly, and he just barely reacted in time to save his supplies.

"Just go, Nick! I'll meet you here when it's time to head out!"

She closed the door behind him, leaving him with little choice. Phoenix sighed.

"I really need to start carrying a tote bag around more often," he muttered under his breath as he edged his way through the halls, occasionally having to hold his breath to let someone else squeeze past him. He was immensely relieved by the time he got to Miles' dorm. He knocked on it with his foot.

It took Miles a short while to answer. He was used to Phoenix knocking just to let him know he'd arrived before he let himself in. When he saw Phoenix's armful of stuff, he nodded in quiet realization.

"Oh," he laughed. "And here I thought you were just being lazy."

Phoenix feigned annoyance, rolling his eyes, as he pushed past Miles, but as always, he couldn't keep the act up and he was betrayed by the quirk at the corner of his lips.

Miles' dorm was as warm and inviting as ever. Just as it had been the day before. Phoenix didn't know how he managed to keep the place so clean, so organized, especially considering how busy he was. Maybe Miles didn't have the time to make messes. Double majoring— it still seemed absurd every time Phoenix thought about it. The man juggled a thousand tasks and made it look easy. Phoenix had learned, though, that being gifted was also a curse. People like Miles couldn't handle failure like "regular people". If only because they weren't used to it.

By now, Phoenix had gotten so used to his study routine with Miles that the actual schoolwork was often over and done with before their scheduled time came to an end. This was one of those days— they'd gotten most of it done the previous afternoon. Phoenix's stack of items was misleading. It mostly consisted of art supplies that he'd forgotten to drop off in his own room. Miles showed some curiosity about it, so Phoenix took him on a guided tour of a sketchbook that had been designated the "ink book". Phoenix wore a soft smile as he watched Miles carefully pore over each illustration, inspecting the lines as if he would somehow understand how to draw if he stared hard enough.

Phoenix was careful to only let Miles see that sketchbook. The others likely contained evidence of Phoenix's crush. His sketchbooks were like weighty journals that carried every bit of him in a collection of doodles and portraits, telling a detailed life story. He couldn't help himself.

"You really ought to invest in more of these," Miles chastised. Phoenix laughed knowingly.

"I know, I know. But I'm picky. The ones I like are pretty expensive— see how thick the paper is?" Phoenix gave the corner of a textured page a little twist, demonstrating the cardstock-like thickness of it. "...Besides, I get carried away if I let myself buy more than I need at the moment. Ask any artist and they'll tell you they probably have thirty sketchbooks that they thought were pretty or inspiring but haven't touched. I've definitely been there."

Miles chuckled.

"It might come as a surprise, because he was usually very careful with his money, but my father had a similar weakness for leather-bound notebooks..."

They shared a laugh at that. For now, Phoenix was stuck using every spare corner of the few sketchbooks he did have, until it was time that he had to get a new one. He suddenly remembered the unnecessary amount of money he had spent on reference books once upon a time that could have, instead, been invested in more supplies. All because he had wanted excuses to talk to a handsome cashier.

Phoenix's face grew hot and he quickly changed the subject. Or, he tried to— Miles beat him to the punch, apparently sensing a change in the atmosphere. He looked up at his ceiling fan with a speculative expression. Phoenix watched the light glint off of his glasses.

"Speaking of art," he began, sounding shy, "Iris approached me about the tournament. Professor Skye, too."

"Professor Skye?" Phoenix had already heard something from Maya about Iris' idea, but the mention of Ema's sister was news to him. "What did she want with you?"

"She thinks I should enter a short story. I was... thinking about it, on some level, but it seems sudden."

"Haven't we already had this conversation?" Phoenix teased. "What's the point in majoring in Creative Writing if you never let anyone read anything you write?" His smile faded. "...I mean, in all seriousness, I think it's fine to have art that's just for you. A lot of people get too caught up in the likes and retweets and forget why they're doing it in the first place."

"Retweets?" Miles parroted, looking confused. Phoenix forgot, sometimes, that Miles was an old man disguised as a college student. Meaning he didn't know anything about social media. Anything at all, seeing as he had once used "instagram" as a verb. Phoenix waved a dismissive hand.

"I just mean people end up doing it for the approval instead of improving. Mia, back when she lectured me for not showing her my sketchbook— I think she wouldn't have said what she said if I had just told her it was private. She only took issue with me saying I didn't think it was 'good enough' to share."

"I don't know that it IS good enough," Miles grumbled. "The problem with only ever writing for oneself is that I rarely have constructive feedback."

"Doesn't the professor count? She's a professional. I think she knows how to spot talent when she sees it. ...Is it a particular story?"

Miles nodded.

"It was for an assignment... we had to write a memoir of sorts. I wrote about my father. About the grieving process. And about living in his shadow, I suppose, though there are negatives and positives to that. I don't know that shadow is the right word. I ended up referring to him as a ghost most of the time."

Miles pulled a little stack of papers from his pile of schoolwork. It was stapled together at the corner, an A+ marking scrawled across the top in red pen. Not Quite A Ghost Story. Phoenix reached out a hand for it, assuming that Miles was trying to hand it to him. Instead, Miles jerked it away. Apparently had had only intended to prove that he had it and show Phoenix the title and the grade.

"I can't read it?" Phoenix pouted. Miles shook his head. "Why not if you're gonna show it to me anyway?"

"Can I look through that sketchbook?" Miles gestured with his chin at the one labeled life studies. Phoenix blushed.

"...No." They had had this argument before, technically, but the facts remained the same.

"There you have it, then," Miles said emphatically, and Phoenix knew he had too good a point to refute. "Whatever the reason, Professor Skye thinks I should submit this one. I've been obsessively re-reading it. ...Maybe I'm just frustrated? I wouldn't even consider it my best work. It's not like I had to invent a unique story. It's just reminiscing on paper."

"Art's like that, though," Phoenix pointed out. "Peoples' favorite is rarely the one you worked the hardest on. Musicians talk about that all the time."

"That's... fair."

"It is, but still— even if you think it's not your best, Professor Skye must have liked it so much for a reason, right? It's probably really moving. The stuff that comes from the heart is usually like that, and if it's about your dad I know it must have."

Miles stared at the paper.

"It... did. Anything else wouldn't feel right."

"There you have it, then. If you submit it, a lot of people will read it. Professor Skye must think it's the kind of thing people SHOULD read."

"Maybe you're right." Phoenix started to open his mouth. Miles, to his surprise, punched him in the arm. "And I swear to god, if you make that stupid pun one more time—"

"Alright, alright! But you know it's true," Phoenix laughed.

After a few more minutes of small talk, Phoenix glanced at his phone and made note of the time. Maya would be expecting him any second now, and then they had someplace very important to be and people to meet up with— it was a bit too easy to lose track of time when he and Miles were together. Phoenix explained as much (leaving out the sappy bit about why he'd gotten so distracted) and Miles wished him well as he ran out of the room, now in quite the hurry.

Maya didn't lecture him for being almost-late. She probably understood. Phoenix managed to get dressed in record time. He wasn't sure if he was overdressed, or if he was underdressed, because he didn't know what sort of attire a person was supposed to wear for such an occasion, but Professor Armando and Pearl looked similar when he saw them waiting near the parking lot, and so he assumed that he had dressed appropriately.

Diego drove, while Maya rode in the front with him and Phoenix kept Pearl company in the back. Diego was apparently a bit paranoid and made her use a booster seat. She clearly didn't like it, but knew better than to argue that she shouldn't have to use it.

The ride was, largely, silent. It wasn't awkward. It was contemplative. The sky had turned somewhat grey by the time they arrived at their destination. Normally, that sort of thing seemed foreboding, like it had one day on a roadside when Phoenix had watched the man he loved collapse onto the ground, barely able to breathe, and didn't understand what was happening, or like it had when Phoenix had looked out a window wondering where his dear friend was only to find that something awful had happened to her and she could not be reached. It wasn't like that on this day.

This time, it seemed like it was only the promise of rain. Phoenix stood before a headstone beside Maya, who stood beside Diego and Pearl, and watched as Diego put the flower he had brought in a vase that Maya had carefully crafted for the occasion. The vase was handed to Pearl, who set it down with gentle hands and then sat down on the ground to tell Mia all about everything that had happened since the last time they spoke. Maya and Phoenix waited for their turns. And as he waited, Phoenix occasionally looked to the sky, at the promise of rain in those dark and ever-growing clouds, and he thought about rain and what it did. It refreshed the earth and gave new life to everything it touched, allowing little roots to grow into flowers and trees.

New life, like what this tiny family that Phoenix had been allowed to be a part of was slowly but surely becoming. He waited until Maya was finished speaking, and then he sat down to tell his mentor a story.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Miles wasn't sure what had happened to him as of late. He did know that he'd turned sappy without realizing it. He was quickly becoming an overly sentimental fool, he was sure, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to care much about that.

His fingers flew across the keys, a melody finding them as they landed. It was less like he was writing the song and more like the song was writing itself, writing him. He had written several in the past few months, and each time it became easier. He didn't always write them down, because they weren't all good enough to be preserved, but this one, he thought, just might be. He paused his playing for a short while, just long enough to scribble down another string of notes, before he resumed.

He was supposed to be practicing. He had practiced for about two hours before getting distracted with whatever this was. Now he was just playing the piano. There was no academic context to it this way. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing— why had he started playing to begin with? When he had first sat down on a piano bench, on his father's lap, and learned to tap out the notes to Yankee Doodle, he hadn't been thinking about scholarships or competitions. And he wasn't thinking about that now.

When he finished his song, he sat down on his sofa to transfer it to the right kind of paper. He'd gotten tired of fixing his messy lines and had purchased a little packet with the lines already drawn. Phoenix, when he had looked at said packet and compared it to Miles' hand-drawn ones, had insisted that he couldn't see the difference. But Phoenix wasn't as perfectionistic as Miles was.

Speaking of Phoenix— Miles looked to his coffee table, just then, and saw that the man had forgotten something. Several somethings. A whole stack of books and office supplies, including a few sketchbooks and a little zippered tube full of pens and pencils and erasers. They all belonged to Phoenix.

Miles smirked. He'd known that the scatterbrained artist would forget something eventually. And it was no wonder that he had done so today, as he had hurried off with only minutes to spare before he was supposed to be someplace else. He contemplated waiting for Phoenix to retrieve everything himself— he had his own key for that very purpose, after all— but thought that it wouldn't kill him to do something nice. He'd bring them to Phoenix's dorm for him instead. He would appreciate that, right? He was an overly sentimental fool and had always been that way.

Larry would have to let him in. Miles sent him a quick text letting him know he was on his way. Then, he picked up the entire stack of items and tried to balance it in his arms. It was harder to do than he had imagined, mostly because some of the sketchbooks were unusually large. Phoenix had not been exaggerating in the slightest. The bag of pencils rolled precariously near the edge of the stack's top. Miles tried to adjust himself to keep it from falling, and instead, his foot caught the edge of the table, where Phoenix had also forgotten his hoodie.

He didn't fall on his face, but he did allow a sketchbook to fall and land, opened, on the floor, and the bag and a few other items landed atop it. Miles put the stack down as quickly as he could manage. He could see the sketchbook's pages being bent and wrinkled already. He remembered Phoenix telling him that it was expensive and swore under his breath. He grabbed it without thinking, sweeping it up with the intention of closing it.

This particular sketchbook wasn't one he often saw Phoenix using. The front cover was labeled portraiture, and the paper was tinted tan. Most of the drawings inside were done in charcoal and some kind of white colored pencil. That made sense, Miles thought. It made sense that Phoenix would study faces that way, since painting was made up of values more than lines.

It wasn't the type of book or the drawing techniques that Miles objected to, though. That wasn't what had given him such pause. What irked him was the fact that he was looking at a two-page spread that had been filled up with dozens of pictures of him. Of Miles. Each one was a small semi-realistic portrait, and the collection captured a variety of his own expressions and mannerisms. And though they were small, they were crafted with care. No detail was forgotten.

Miles knew that it wasn't any of his business. Perhaps Phoenix had needed to study a face for a homework assignment and had simply chosen one that he knew he could depict from memory. There were plenty of logical explanations like that one. Still, he found himself picking the book up off of the ground and flipping to the next page, where he found something very similar.

The next page, and then the next, and then the next, until he was flipping madly through them and trying to find something different, anything else. And he did find that. Phoenix had drawn plenty of other faces. He found a similar two-page spread for Maya, and one for Larry, and then two of them for a pair of older people that Miles assumed were the man's parents. Phoenix had drawn most of the people he had met. Miles recognized the faces of Uncle Ray, of Miss Star, even of Kay. Franziska made a few appearances, sometimes alongside Adrian, sometimes in her formal performance wear and sometimes in her everyday and only slightly less formal clothes.

Still— for all of the people he had drawn, Phoenix always seemed to gravitate back to one face. Miles made more cameos in this book than anyone else did. And it wasn't just the portraits that made Miles uneasy and all too aware, suddenly, of his own face. It was the way that they were drawn. Each one was unusually fleshed out, startlingly clear for something Miles had not posed for. Phoenix had scribbled little notes and arrows on some of them that explained things like Miles' unusual hair color, or the way that he pursed his lips when he was biting back a mean comment, or the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. More than one of those notes described him as handsome.

Miles' hands tightened on the pages, nearly threatening to smear the pencil or tear the paper, before he restrained himself. The vibration of his phone startled him so much that he gasped aloud and nearly dropped the book again.

Larry Butz: we're not in the dorm, srry! nicks still w maya + i'm w iris, ema, and prof skye

Miles sighed. Now he felt even more foolish than he already had. All of this had been more or less useless. He set the sketchbook down to reply, and he tried not to think about what he had just seen.

Literal Mozart: Why are you with Professor Skye? Are you even in any of her classes?
Larry Butz: nah but iris has gotten me interested in the poetry thing so we're all chatting about it over some food
Larry Butz: i'll tell u guys abt it when i know wtf i'm doing
Larry Butz: anyway i'll let nick know u have his stuff and send him when he's back
Literal Mozart: Alright. Thanks.

Miles sighed and shook his head. And then he decided to forget that it had happened. To pretend that what he had seen didn't mean anything and to refrain from thinking about it any longer. He put everything on the coffee table, adding the hoodie to the pile, and did just that. Or, rather, he tried to— no matter what he did, and no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, those images would swim back into his mind from time to time.

Phoenix stopped by roughly forty minutes later. Miles suddenly couldn't meet his gaze, or felt like he didn't know him as well as he'd thought he had.

"Sorry about that," he laughed as he approached the table, this time armed with a canvas bag that he had already decorated with some enamel pins. Miles recognized one of them as a pride flag of some kind, one he didn't immediately recognize, and wondered if Ema had given it to him. She had gifted Miles with a little rainbow that he was still too afraid to display anywhere. "It's a good thing you got Larry to let me know— it reminded me that I've been meaning to buy one of these. I had Professor Armando stop by a department store so I could run in and grab one."

"...Right."

Phoenix finished collecting his things and looked to Miles with concern in his eyes.

"You okay?"

"Hm?"

"I asked if you're okay. You sound really tired or something."

"N-No, I'm... fine."

Phoenix frowned.

"If you say so, but you should probably take a nap or something. You're always overworking yourself!"

"Why did you convince me to transfer here?"

Phoenix's frown went away, but not because he was smiling. All expression was wiped from his face for a moment, and then visible confusion settled in.

"What do you mean?" His brow furrowed. "You weren't thinking of transferring back to Prestige—"

"No," Miles interrupted. "I was just... wondering."

"Oh." Phoenix stroked his chin. "Well, I mean, it was technically Maya's idea. But when you mentioned it to me, I'll admit that I was kinda excited that we could become proper friends if we went to the same school. It wasn't just that, though. If you were bringing it up I knew you must have been unhappy at Prestige. And I also happened to know that Franziska and the others were stressed out about that other guy leaving. It just... seemed like the perfect fit, I guess."

Miles nodded slowly.

"Right... Right. I'm sure it was."

"Seriously, though, are you alright?"

"Just fine." Miles gave him a smile. It didn't work, because it had been a polite smile, the kind that he had given him when Miles was just a cashier and Phoenix was just a customer. "Forget I said anything."

Phoenix still seemed unsatisfied, but shrugged and bid Miles a farewell that might have been a bit too fond before he left Miles alone again.

What was he thinking? Miles was getting worked up over nothing, he was sure. That anxious feeling must have been misplaced. Phoenix was his friend. Nothing more and nothing less. It didn't mean anything and he had no reason to be questioning his intentions, especially not for things that had happened so long ago.

He violently shook his head, forcing himself into a mental reset, and told himself that nothing had changed.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

The day after finding that god-forsaken sketchbook, Miles sat through a lunch more awkward than any he had had in quite some time.

Everyone else had acted normal. They chatted excitedly about the upcoming tournament, about the holiday right around the corner, and about their plans for the weekend. And Miles tried to pretend that he was the same as he had been the previous day, before he had seen what he saw.

He couldn't. Everyone saw it. Phoenix, especially, who was always so very attentive to Miles' every word, every need. Normally Miles might have smiled and thanked him for being such a kindhearted friend in his own roundabout way. Now, though, he found himself squinting at him, likely wearing an expression of suspicion or apprehension, and rather bluntly told him to stop asking. And then he'd apologized for that bluntness because of the face Phoenix made in response.

What was he meant to do? He wanted to continue on and act as if everything was the same, but Miles could be obsessive at times and couldn't remove those drawings from his mind. Maybe that would pass with time. He was overthinking things again, he was sure. It wasn't like he didn't know he had that problem. Miles overthought most things.

"You're sure you don't want to join us?"

Miles perked up and looked over to his left, where Iris and Adrian sat with Will Powers. Iris had said something at lunch about asking him if he was interested in being a part of a string quarter. Franziska wanted as many chances to win a prize at nationals as possible. Will, however, shook his head.

"I think I'll pass," he answered, eying Dahlia out of the corner of his eye. Miles wouldn't fault the man for avoiding any alone time with her. He knew very little about the extent of the woman's cruelty, but he had seen small bursts of it and that alone was enough for him to make up his mind.

Professor Armando arrived just then. Miles managed to smile. Practice always managed to clear his head of anything else. Everyone gave their full attention as he took his usual spot near the front of the room. He fiddled around with some paperwork.

"Before we begin, let's address the topic on everyone's minds, shall we? The tournament will be here before we know it, and of course, we're set to compete. I can already announce that we have been approved for transport— when the time comes, the school will put everyone up in what appears to be a very nice hotel and send everyone by bus. Meals will also be provided, so be sure to take full advantage of the trip." 

There were cheers around the room. It definitely sounded exciting. Miles was already accustomed to rather luxurious travel thanks to his affiliation with Franziska and her father, but for the others, it could be a brand new experience.

"If you are interested in performing a solo or entering as a smaller group," the professor began, and Iris gave Miles a knowing little smile at the mention of groups, "you need only seek me out and fill out the appropriate forms after you've made sure that each of your team members is on board. Each member of a group must fill out a form. You have roughly two weeks left to decide." 

Miles already had everything in order for his own solo performance. He had decided on a piece, too, and had chosen to stick with the ever-reliable Chopin. If he managed to make it to nationals, he might choose something different. Something a bit out of his usual comfort zone. He wanted to challenge himself where and when he could.

"As for what we will be performing..." no one spoke as they waited for the moment of truth. "...I have yet to decide." There were several groans. "I DO, however, plan to choose only one piece that we will perform at both the state tournament and at nationals."

"At nationals?" Ron repeated shyly. The professor nodded at him.

"Yes. There. I'm certain we'll make it." Professor Armando paused and watched as several people exchanged confused glances. "Don't look so surprised, everyone! I have been quite clear in saying that this is the best group I've assembled. I do not say such things lightly. So I plan to pick our best and strongest piece and fine-tuning it until it's perfect. We will stick with what we know best and with what plays best to everyone's collective strengths. I'll make an announcement once I have chosen the piece, and then you'll all have plenty of time to practice on your own as well as with everyone else. Am I understood?" Everyone nodded or voiced audible agreement. "Good. Let's get to practice, then, shall we?" 

Miles was grateful for that.

For the next couple of hours, he didn't think about anything but the piano. He had forgotten about the fact that he had once lived like that. He didn't have to worry about things like friendships, like relationships, like whether or not he was actually happy. All that had mattered was the store and Uncle Ray and whether or not he was keeping up with his rigorous practice routine. Now there were all of these other factors that complicated things.

When they were through with the day's work, the professor announced that he would stay behind a while to talk to those interested in the tournament. Several musicians immediately rushed him and he laughed as he told them to calm down, and to speak one at a time. Miles, suddenly too tired to do anything else, joined several of the others that were arranged a small semi-circle of chairs and listened as they talked. He didn't have anything to input, but keeping up with the conversation at least kept him mentally busy.

As the chatter died down, Miles looked over his shoulder. To his surprise, the professor was having what appeared to be a very calm discussion with only one student, and he had set down his stack of papers, leading Miles to believe that the conversation had nothing to do with the tournament. It was Sebastian. He wasn't smirking.

"Does he seem more serious to you?" Miles asked. He hadn't spoken in a while and the others seemed surprised to hear from him. Doug paused in putting away his oboe.

"Who, Sebastian? He is, actually. It's..." He stopped, looking past Miles to make confirm that Sebastian was properly distracted. "It's his father."

Miles blinked.

"Sebastian's father. Blaise DeBeste, right? I believe Manfred Von Karma and Damon Gant are friends of his... I've never met him in person, though," Miles recalled. He vaguely remembered hearing Sebastian bragging about his father's influence, or arguing with Franziska that his father was even more wealthy than hers. "What about him?"

"Poor Seb's done nothing but try and earn his daddy's approval since day one," Desiree explained, pouting as she polished her flute. "But no matter what he does, and no matter how hard he tries it's just never enough for him. Blaise is always tearin' him down, makin' rude comments and tellin' people that his son is an idiot."

Miles frowned. Sebastian had a tendency to be a bit of an airhead, yes. But he was talented. He wouldn't even be in the orchestra if that wasn't the case.

"Ivy doesn't let just anybody play in its orchestra," he argued. Maggey shook her head.

"That's true," she agreed, "but Blaise wanted him to go to Prestige, and he wasn't quite good enough to make the cut there."

"Well, that's just unfair." Miles scoffed. "Prestige is more expensive and requires a higher GPA on top of the musicality. Most people can't get in. That doesn't make Ivy any less prestigious."

"WE know that," Doug insisted, "but old Blaise? He takes that last name of his very seriously. Either you're the best, or you're... Well, a waste of time. That's probably why Sebastian used to act so cocky all the time. It was overcompensation."

"...I understand." Miles said it very quietly, but he truly did understand. Because from the sounds of it, Sebastian and Franziska actually had a great deal in common. Franziska, too, tried to cover up her own insecurities with boasting and family prestige. And Manfred, too, was overly critical of everything that his daughter did.

Everything.

Miles felt his hands tighten on the case of his flute. He was thinking about something that he hadn't in a long while— about standing outside of Franziska's bedroom door, only able to hear her faint sobs. No one would open the door, no matter how many times Miles knocked or called out for her. The sound didn't even deter Manfred, who continued to shout and scold. He remembered hearing a paper get torn into pieces and thrown about the room, and then Manfred left, acting like nothing had happened.

Franziska didn't speak at all. Not for several hours, at least, and she wouldn't explain what had happened in that room. Miles had been left to piece it together himself, and quite literally at that. He'd gathered up the torn bits of paper and tried to tape them back together again. What he found when he had finally finished had seemed... innocent. It was only a child's love letter. Valentine's Day was coming up, after all.

Why did it matter that it was addressed to a Julia and not to a John? Apparently, it mattered a great deal. And Manfred never let them forget it. Either of them.

"So what happened, then?" Franziska's ever-sharp voice distracted Miles from his recollection. "Did they have some sort of falling out?" Miles' mind took a moment to catch up, to recall what they were supposed to be discussing.

"Somethin' like that," Desiree confirmed. "And from what little we've heard, it was pretty bad. Seb... actually got kicked out of the house. He lives in the dorms now. He had to go to the school and ask for financial aid."

"That's—" Miles couldn't even think of a suitable word.

"Shitty," Doug finished for him. "It's really shitty of Blaise. But... Y'know, I think it's been good for him. Sebastian finally told that guy off. He can do what he wants now. He doesn't have to try and meet that impossible standard anymore."

"And he's been much easier to talk to!" Maggey chirped. "It happened a couple of weeks ago, and he's been changing pretty quickly ever since. He's... actually a pretty sweet guy, once you really get to talking with him. I'm proud of him!"

Miles was too stunned to respond right away.

"Perhaps he'll irritate me less, then," Franziska muttered. "If he has other things to focus his attention on."

Desiree laughed.

"We can only hope. But c'mon, Franny— I think the two of you could be real good friends, if you gave him a chance! You've got so much in common, after all."

Franziska didn't respond to that. Miles hadn't expected her to.

Miles cast one last glance to Sebastian, who gave Professor Armando a quick hug before he took off. The professor chuckled to himself as he watched him leave, and then he formally dismissed everyone.

The music hall emptied out rather quickly after that. Miles only stared at the nameplate on his flute case, his head empty of any other thought but that note. That innocent, childish note, torn to pieces like the highest form of blasphemy. Before he had even realized it, the room had emptied of all others but himself and the author of that letter.

"...Fran."

Franziska didn't pause. Instead, she stiffened and glared up at him.

"What is it, Miles?"

Her voice was already low, already angry. Miles wondered if she, too, had been thinking about, seeing as it was that time of year again. And lately she had been conflicted— happy and laughing with everyone else at the lunch table one day, locked alone in her dorm the next. Or maybe she just knew what Miles was about to say. Because of Sebastian.

"If..." Franziska's eyes were daggers, even to someone like Miles. He gulped, wondering, for a moment, if he should pursue this conversation at all. But there was no one else left in the hall. He might not get this chance again. "If someone like Sebastian can stand up to someone like Blaise, then surely you—"

"Save it." Franziska slammed her cello case shut. Miles couldn't help but flinch. "Spare me your pity, Miles Edgeworth!"

Franziska stormed across the room, her heels clicking furiously against the wood of the stage, until she was right in front of her "little brother". Her hand lingered by the space where the handle of her whip had once been. Miles stared at that empty space and bit his lip. Was she really angry enough to strike him?

"I don't mean to offend you," he choked out, his words tripping over themselves. "I just... I just want what's best for you! Honestly! Manfred is... he's... You know damn well what he is, Fran, and it's nothing good."

Franziska jabbed a finger into Miles' throat, cutting off his words.

"I don't need to hear that from you!" Another jab, and then another, accentuating each venomous word that she spat. "I don't need to hear it from a hypocrite!"

"H— hypocrite?! How am I—"

"Do NOT play the role of the fool with me! I..." She sighed, sighed heavily, and her shoulders didn't fall. They collapsed. "I looked up to you, Miles. But you, YOU... You gave up. You don't get to lecture me, to tell me to do what you couldn't."

Miles froze. He stared her directly in the eye, and he was sure he looked pained. This was not the way he had wanted to have this conversation.

"I did do it."

She blinked.

"Did what?"

"I came out. I did it, Fran. Everyone knows now, and that includes my Uncle and the others. I just... hadn't found the right moment to talk to you about it."

"Ah." Another blink, and then took a pause to don her cello case across her back, fixing the strap firmly in place. When she had finished, she flashed a mocking smile. It wasn't directed at Miles, though, and that was worse. She shook her head. "Well, you always were better than me at everything, weren't you? Congratulations. I must be going now."

Franziska tried to turn away. Miles grabbed her wrist. She turned back to him, likely to demand that he let go, only to watch as he seized the other one. He normally wouldn't resort to that sort of thing, but Franziska was the sort of person that left him in these positions. The kinds of situations where he felt like he had no other choice.

"What happened?!" He demanded. "You keep getting closer to us, and then suddenly withdrawing again. It's hurting her, you know! You're hurting Adrian! What's going on at that mansion?!"

She scoffed. She didn't yet bother to jerk her arms away.

"Why do you bother asking me? What do you intend to do about it?"

"I want to help you, Fran! Do you think that I like seeing you suffer this way?"

"Help me. ...Help me?" Franziska laughed, and then she sobbed as she violently threw Miles' hands off and shoved him back. His chair nearly toppled over. "You're going to help me?! You can barely even help yourself! You're just as afraid of him as I am!"

Miles gulped. If it were anyone else he would be angry about the fact that she had nearly thrown him to the floor, but he didn't care about that in that moment.

"That's... That's not true," he argued.

"Oh? It isn't? Then why haven't you confronted him?"

"...Confronted him on what?"

They stared one another down. Miles didn't want to admit to the source of this. The conflict. The person who had put him in that metaphorical and god-forsaken closet to begin with. Franziska clicked her tongue.

"Miles Edgeworth. Do you think that I am a complete and total fool? Do you view me as stupid?"

Miles' shoulders stiffened, and he looked down at his lap, his eyes full of shame.

"Of course not, Fran—"

"He's called you a faggot, hasn't he?"

"Don't—" Miles stood up before he had realized his intention to do so, and he returned Franziska's glare with equal force. "You shouldn't repeat those things," he said after taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. It had been a very, very long time, he thought, since someone had said that word to him, but he still reacted as though the wound was fresh. "He... He said some terrible things, but—"

Franziska's condescending laugh interrupted him.

"Do you think that he's taken a break from it?"

"...What?"

"He still says things, Miles. He never stopped. Hell, he still says things about you, and you aren't even there any longer. But what would you know? You don't have to live there! You have your Uncle and your little shop to go back to. I do not."

With that, Franziska turned her back made her way for the exit. She clearly had no intention of finishing the discussion. Miles had made little to no progress with her. If anything, he felt further behind than he had. It seemed like for every step he took forward in one aspect of his life, he had to take three backwards in another area.

"Fran... Franziska!" Miles called out after her desperately. She stopped and turned only her head when she heard his footsteps threatening to chase her down, huffing in annoyance.

"What?!"

"Does he hit you?"

"What did you say?"

"Has he ever hit you? While I wasn't around?"

For a moment, she looked like she was planning to laugh and leave without answering the question. But she studied Miles' face, and her anger seemed to waver, if only for a moment.

"...He's never struck me."

"You promise?"

Franziska sighed.

"I promise."

Miles paced about for a moment, frustrated. For one thing, he didn't know why he was asking anyway. It wasn't like he could do anything about it even if he did know for a fact that she was being physically abused. Franziska would never admit it to an authority figure, as he had too much control over her, and he had enough money to make it go away.

"It's just that I..." Miles tried to find what he wanted to say. He saw Franziska raise an eyebrow at him. "I only ask because I don't fully understand what the man is capable of. I don't know how he does what he does. For one thing, I don't know how he even knows! About... about me. It's not as if I walked around advertising it. I hardly understood it back then." Miles did mean that. His father had died when he was still so young. Back before he would have thought to ask about love and marriage and sex and any of those related subjects.

"...Oh? He knows everything, doesn't he?" Franziska smirked in a strange and self-deprecating way. Miles scoffed and threw out his hands.

"I'm being serious here, Fran. I... never wrote anything down." He did not have to clarify what he meant. He knew Franziska remembered that letter. That had been one of her formative experiences, he feared. "I never discussed it in the manor. I've... Until a little over a week ago, I had never even said those words, Franziska. Not properly and not out loud. So I don't know... how he figured it out. How did he know it before I did?"

"We've talked about it before—"

"But never around him," Miles insisted. "We only ever discussed it when he wasn't around, remember?! Wasn't that the point?!"

Miles was certain that many wouldn't understand. They would never understand the way that he and Franziska communicated. Franziska was not out of the closet, and she had never in any way spoken of or acted on her feelings, but Miles knew. Because they had spent many a late night huddled together on the safety of Miles' balcony, speaking in whispered half-truths and codes, Franziska armed with a box of tissues that she regularly had to refill while Miles told her seemingly unrelated stories or played his flute.

Franziska never told anyone about the things that her father did behind closed doors because no one would believe her. Because she was terrified of the repercussions. The same was true for Miles, though there was also the added weight of guilt. Manfred, for all his cruelty, had taken a great burden from Uncle Ray's shoulders, had given Miles opportunities he would never have had access to. How could he throw that all away just because his mentor could be mean from time to time?

He had been too young then. He had been too young to understand the difference between a mean man and an abuser. And now he felt like he had enabled it. Miles had told himself that he wouldn't care any longer, that he wouldn't let his backwards ideals hurt him any longer. But it seemed he could never be free so long as those ideals continued to hurt his friend.

No, not his friend. His sister. Franziska was his sister. Why couldn't he say that? Why couldn't they both just say that? Had he ever even told her that he loved her?

"He's just a homophobe," Franziska argued, shrugging. She wouldn't meet Miles' eyes and he knew that she was thinking of the same things. Even so, she looked strangely guilty. More guilty than she should have, like she was hiding something from him. "He... probably assumed, just because you didn't have a girlfriend. Or show any particular interest in women. Or because you were always somewhat... dainty."

"Dainty?"

"What do you want from me, Miles?!" Franziska snorted. "I don't know how else to describe it. Be as dainty as you wish! It is no concern of mine!" She huffed again, adjusting the strap of her cello case and turning away with a too-casual wave. She thought she could escape with a joke. "I MUST be returning home. Father wishes to speak with me, and you know very well that he does not appreciate tardiness. ...Take care of yourself."

"I already told you what I want," Miles mumbled. "I want to be happy. I want you to be happy. I want us both to be rid of him."

Franziska did not respond, but Miles was certain that she'd heard him.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

"Put that one up there!"

"No one will be able to see it. ...YOU won't be able to see it. You're too short."

Miles was stone-faced as he shut down Kay's suggestion of putting the plastic Cupid he was holding on top of a particular bookshelf. Sure, he would look like he was flying up there, but he would also be invisible. Maybe he could do that? Miles didn't know anything about the lore behind Cupid.

Valentine's Day was right around the corner. Vintage Volumes hadn't done much of anything special for Christmas, but customers had reported that they loved the Halloween event, and so Ray had decided to attempt something special once more.

At the moment, the decor was mostly made up of the standard hearts. Kay had apparently had a grand time assembling the garlands of paper ones. She had made many of her own in the style of paper snowflakes. Something about the handmade quality made it all look more sincere. Miles found the decor typically used in department stores to be almost nauseating to look at, the obvious marketing an empty mockery and the bright colors sickly. Paired with the "fairy lights" that she had strung up, Miles had to admit that Kay's decorations were cute. And he didn't mean that in a diminishing way. It was sweet.

Still, though, there was a lot of work to do. They had to find places for the rest of the decor and had to set up the displays and put up the posters. This time around, the store planned to display pieces about love from local artists. Miles had a feeling that he would recognize most of the work. Kay had a cardboard box that contained only some frilly pink curtains and a fabric banner. Those would accentuate the stage. On the day itself, they would host a poetry reading and some musical performances. The customers were already excited.

Miles, however, was annoyed. Under any other circumstances, he would, admittedly, find it charming. Charming enough, even, to make him forget about the argument he had had with Franziska. But every time someone talked about their spouse, and every time he saw an advertisement of a cute couple holding hands, he felt a pang of anxiety, usually like a shock to the back of his neck, just above his shoulders. It made it impossible to avoid the subjects he had been trying so desperately to dodge.

As if on cue, Miles heard the bell that signaled the opening of the front door followed by several pairs of feet. He had long ago memorized the sound of Maya's wooden sandals, and Larry's hair was visible above the edge of shelf Miles stood behind. He risked poking out his head to find that, no, the two of them had not come alone. Ema and Phoenix were with them. Phoenix looked around, taking in the new decor, before his eyes settled on Miles. He instantly lit up. Miles frowned back at him and Phoenix paid it little mind.

"So," Phoenix prodded as soon as he had reached the employees. Uncle Ray lounged in an armchair, taking a much-needed breather. "What is it?

Uncle Ray feigned offense.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You always want us to move something," Larry reminded him. "You've got a hell of a habit of exploiting free labor!"

It wasn't a sincere dig, apparently, because everyone laughed. Ray gestured towards the back of the store.

"Since we're hosting another performance spectacular, we figured it was time to upgrade the sound system. The new stuff is much more compact, but it's still heavy, and, well. I've got a bad back."

"Like somebody else I know," Ema grumbled, giving Phoenix a side-eye. He chuckled nervously. Miles had seen the way that he hunched over when he was drawing and knew it was something Phoenix would regret when he got older. Miles would have joined her in scolding him about it on another day.

Phoenix and Larry, as usual, got right to work with helping Ray move the equipment. Ema and Maya helped out with the garlands and things where they could, insisting that it was fun and that they didn't mind. Maya had an eye for these things and pitched ideas. Her taste was a bit over the top, but Miles wouldn't fault her for her enthusiasm.

He usually enjoyed these little work sessions. For whatever reason, working together to accomplish something had a tendency to bring people closer together. His friends never complained about the work, either, as they wanted Ray to keep the store afloat as easily as possible— as much as they joked about being unpaid laborers, they'd actually refused to accept his money.

This time, he kept sneaking glances. At Phoenix. He told himself that it was only to make sure he wasn't being glanced at, and he thought that no one would notice, but something in his expression must have said that he was hiding something, because Uncle Ray nudged him the next time they were out of earshot of the others.

"You feeling okay, kiddo?" He asked. Miles stiffened and forced a laugh.

"What? I'm fine, why?"

"You look like you have a fever or something."

Miles huffed. His face must have been a bit red. He was sure of that, because he was embarrassed. But he had hoped it was something he could dismiss due to the circumstances.

"It's nothing," he said. "Just... worn out."

Miles hadn't been moving anything especially heavy, and he hadn't been running around the store, but he hadn't been sitting still, either. So Ray shrugged, even if he did still seem a bit uncertain.

Uncle Ray wasn't the only one who noticed Miles' demeanor— Phoenix did, too. He always did. Miles didn't know how he hadn't seen that before. The fact that Phoenix was always keeping an eye on him, watching him for any signs of discomfort. How could he tell, anyway? Miles liked to think that he was hard to read. He had kept it that way, and he had done so on purpose. He didn't want people to know what he was thinking all the time. He didn't want people fussing over him, constantly worrying about him. And so, every time Phoenix met his gaze, he looked away.

It became less noticeable when the work was done and the group moved on. The others planned to walk back to the school, stopping for lunch along the way. Miles might have refused to to along with it if not for Maya pleading at him with sparkling eyes. He couldn't disappoint her. She hadn't done anything to him. Phoenix hadn't, either, not technically, but he wasn't eager to talk to him right now. He still didn't know what to make of the whole thing.

Thankfully, this group he'd found himself in was a kind one, and not artificially so. When he said that he did not feel like talking, they didn't push it much. They left him to his own devices, assuming that he needed some space, glad just to have his company. That should have felt very nice, but for some reason it made Miles anxious. Perhaps because he hadn't taken this much time to contemplate it before. Acknowledging that he had found something very nice also meant that he had found something that would be very painful to lose. He tried not to think about Phoenix, so he thought about Franziska. He tried not to think about Franziska just to land back at Phoenix. He said nothing about either subject.

Larry said something about being tired, and Phoenix groaned.

"Lucky for you, you're done for the day. I still have to help Maya, remember?"

"Oh, right. Kinda sucks to be you today."

Miles raised an eyebrow and very slightly raised his head.

"Help her with...?"

Phoenix seemed surprised to hear from Miles, as he had been quiet for what was likely thirty minutes how, but didn't hound him about it or point it out. He just smiled. Again.

"Oh— well, part of that whole money-making scheme we had going involved making some stuff for Professor Hoquet. Maya had to make something pretty big and elaborate. Somebody has to hold it while it's being moved or it'll probably break."

"If it breaks, I'll cry, because I'm actually really proud of it," Maya emphasized. Miles knew what she meant by that— it seemed like most artists were their own worst critics.

"And I had to make a massive painting. I had to go and volunteer to help him hang it so Maya wouldn't get stuck doing all this stuff alone."

Ema hardly seemed to be paying attention. She had been texting someone throughout the last couple of hours, and every once in a while she would pull Maya in to ask for advice. Sometimes she looked happy about it and sometimes she seemed nervous or confused. Miles didn't plan to pry.

"Is he at least driving you two?" She asked, though her eyes were still on her phone's screen.

"Yeah, he is, otherwise I would have had to drag Larry into this too." Phoenix glanced at Larry, who gave him an appreciative nod. That Phoenix was always so thoughtful. "...Or maybe Iris, though you're still the only one who actually HAS a car."

"Shouldn't she have one?" Ema asked, and that question did perplex her enough that she put her device down to furrow her brow at Maya, and then at Phoenix. "It's not like her parents don't have enough money."

Phoenix groaned.

"It's a long story. Dahlia's got that whole family under her thumb. Basically, her parents won't let her properly work because they think she should focus on her studies and pay for her expenses, so she can't make enough money to buy her own car. And they won't get one for her because they think she's a bad driver."

"...She isn't, though. She was perfectly in control," Maya reminded everyone, thinking back to when she'd driven them home from the park after the intervention. She was quite a responsible driver. Miles recalled her refusing to pull out of the lot until she could confirm that everyone had properly buckled their seatbelts. Phoenix nodded and pointed at Maya, voicing his agreement. It only then occurred to Miles that as her ex, Phoenix probably knew a lot of things about Iris that the others didn't.

"She's a very good driver. But back when they were in high school, Dahlia was driving and crashed the car, and she didn't wanna get in trouble, so—"

Larry and Ema and Maya all groaned loudly at the same time. Even Miles winced. Phoenix didn't have to finish his sentence. They all knew what Iris had done. Miles wondered what it was going to take to make Iris realize how manipulative her sister was. Maybe nothing ever would.

"You're telling me I have to carpool you people everywhere because of that she-devil?!" Larry shouted, slamming his fork against the table. He earned a glare from the waitress for that and ducked down out of embarrassment. Phoenix gave him a very glum, tired nod.

"Yeah, she's responsible for more people's problems than you would think."

They finished up their food, and Larry apologized to the waitress while Ema paid for everyone. She checked her phone again and seemed happy with what she saw. Then they walked, together, the rest of the distance to their shared academic home. Ema sprinted ahead of them a short distance and turned back to face them.

"So I'm gonna go hang out with my sister for a while and go see a movie," she announced, and Maya clapped. Miles guessed that this was what they had been huddled over Ema's phone about, though he didn't know enough about Ema's relationship with her sister to understand why it was such a big deal. "I'll see you guys tomorrow! She's letting me spend the night."

The others bid her a farewell. Maya and Phoenix turned to go in a different direction.

"We have to go meet the Professor," Phoenix explained, "so we'll be out for maybe an hour."

"I've got the dorm to myself, huh? Guess I'll study. Maybe." Larry grinned at that last bit. Miles was certain that he had no intention of studying. Whatever the case, they returned to the residence building alone, and they went their separate ways in the hallway.

Miles reached the privacy of his own dorm room. The door closed behind him and locked the mess of human communication away. And he could have stayed there, blocking it all out with the sound of a piano. Instead, he leaned against it, and a wicked seed of an idea had been planted. Phoenix was gone. Larry was not. He was alone, in the dorm room, where Phoenix kept all of his things.

Phoenix told Larry everything, didn't he? Weren't they best friends? Hadn't they known one another since they were little kids, even going so far as bringing Larry into the Wright family home for the holidays?

Miles abandoned his dorm room and marched down the hallways. He didn't stop until he had reached his destination and then he knocked politely on the door, trying not to betray his intentions in his movements.

"Who's that?" Larry yelled through the door.

"It's me," Miles replied, and being loud enough to be heard was hard on him in that moment. He didn't like to yell. "Miles."

"Oh yeah?" The door opened and Larry peeked out. "Didja need something?"

"Not particularly," Miles said as casually as possible as he wormed his way into the room. Larry didn't make any attempt to stop him, even if he did seem confused as to why he was there. "I was just bored, and we both know you weren't actually studying."

"You've got me there," Larry grumbled. He floundered about for a moment before he gestured at the floor. "You wanna sit down? We don't really hang out often, but, uh, we could fix that. I guess."

Larry had always had an unusual relationship with Miles compared to the others. They didn't spend a lot of time together outside of the group. And yet Larry had always been up to speed. He'd talked to him like he knew him the first time they spoke, when he had been some overzealous stranger who had burst into his store out of nowhere asking about magazines. Miles had dismissed that, and maybe he shouldn't have done that.

Miles wandered around the room and made it look as natural as he could. He could feel Larry's eyes on the back of his head.

"Perhaps you're right, Larry. We should talk. Let's see..." Miles saw what he had been looking for sitting on Phoenix's mattress. "Phoenix draws all the time, doesn't he?"

"Huh? ...I mean, yeah, he does. He's kinda always been like that. Used to get in trouble for doodling in class all the time."

"And yet for some reason, he refuses to let me look in this particular sketchbook." Miles opened the canvas bag in the bed and slowly started to pull out the fateful sketchbook. The one full of portraits. "You'd think if he draws all the time he would be more accustomed to that kind of thing, right?"

"U-Uh, well..." Larry eyed him nervously. "He's just private about the stuff in there. He lets people see the finished pieces all the time. You, uh, shouldn't mess with that—"

"And why not, Larry? Why not?" Miles posed with the book in a way that made it clear he intended to open it, and that he wasn't planning to let Larry take it from him. "It's just a sketchbook, right?"

"It's just a matter of, uh, of principle! I-If he told you not to look in there you shouldn't do it! You don't need a reason other than that, do you?!"

Miles' hypothesis was correct. Larry looked downright terrified of seeing Miles open that book, and he'd chased after him in an attempt to physically stop him. But he was conflicted, and Miles backed away from him before he could grab it anyway.

"You really don't want me to look in here."

"Out of respect for my friend and his boundaries! Unlike YOU, apparently!" Larry's hand lashed out. Miles spun away in another direction and hugged the sketchbook to his body.

"Oh, is that all? Or is it something else? Do you, perhaps, know for a fact that there is something in here that Phoenix does not want me, and me in particular, to see? Could it perhaps be something like that?!"

There was a painful silence. Miles' words seemed to echo. Larry shook his head furiously as soon as his head had caught up.

"Its, uh... it's just—"

"I'll be honest. I already saw it."

"...Did you?" Larry looked guilty as he said that. Miles nodded, tapping the front cover with one hand.

"When I was trying to return his things to your dorm. It was an accident in the beginning, but I... I did."

Larry was silent for another second, and then he feigned casual annoyance and scoffed.

"What are you freaking me out like that for, then, man? It's just a bunch of, uh, studies. That's all. He's just around you so often, and I guess your face is more interesting than mine or something. Must be an artist thing, right?"

"Larry. I'm not stupid." Larry stared at him. "These— these aren't studies! They're nearly obsessive, and there's these, these..."

Miles sighed and flipped open the book. Larry didn't bother trying to stop him. Miles made his way through the pages until he found one in particular that demonstrated what he was talking about. In the bottom corner was an arrow that pointed at the large portrait, one that depicted Miles laughing and constructed from soft lines. Isn't it some kind of crime to be this gorgeous? the note read. It was accompanied by a little heart. Larry inhaled, and Miles watched him stiffen, watched him panic internally.

"It's full of things like this," Miles said. "Everywhere. Just about every page."

"I'm sure that's just, uh... he must have..."

Larry struggled to find an excuse. There wasn't one. Larry seemed to understand, already, the larger picture of what Miles was saying. A picture that had somehow evaded his sight until he had seen a collection of literal ones.

"He acts... different. He treats me differently than he treats you, doesn't he? I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner, but..." He didn't finish that sentence. He readied himself for confrontation instead. "Tell me the truth, Larry. I know that you know."

Larry almost hissed through his teeth.

"Uh, yeah, I don't know about that."

"You two tell each other everything! You looked ready to pass out when you saw me grabbing this. You weren't surprised by what he wrote." Larry wasn't looking at him. He couldn't respond, so he acted like he hadn't heard it. "You might as well tell me! Otherwise I'll be left to draw my own conclusions. Or to confront him directly."

Larry stiffened in his shoulders.

"Don't do that."

"Then tell me. Talk to me! I won't leave until you do."

Another silence. This one lasted nearly a full minute. It was a measurement of time that sounded brief to someone that hadn't stared someone down in total silence for that amount of time. Larry sat on the edge of his bed in what appeared to be deep though.

Then, Larry groaned and fell back against the mattress, his head making a loud thump as it hit his pillow, and then took a breath to steady his nerves.

"...Nick is gonna kill me."

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Ema took off her jacket as soon as she was inside of her apartment. Or, not quite her apartment. Not anymore. It was more or less her sister's apartment now. She lived in the dorms and her old bedroom had been turned into a guest room that Lana tended to use as an office and a storage room. Ema just knew that the spare bed was covered in documents. Lana was a serious person, but she was surprisingly disorganized.

They had managed to avoid talking about work and school and the weather for at least an hour. This was because they were watching a movie for most of that time and weren't speaking to one another at all, but it was a start. Lana tended to fall back into her professor role the moment she caught sight of her work, and today was no exception.

"I still have to approve so many of these forms," she sighed, gesturing at the kitchen table and the stack of papers there. Lana taught so many classes that she had potential competitors in just about every literary category. "I'm always encouraging them to enter, so I suppose I can't complain."

"Does everybody get approved right away?"

"No." Lana threatened to leave that alone for a moment, to not elaborate at all. But she caught a glimpse of Ema over her shoulder and amended it. "There's a quality standard. A regional panel that judges whether or not the entry is worthy to make it to the state level. Most of my students will pass that part easily enough."

Ema wasn't sure how to remind her sister that she was one of those students. She wouldn't ask if she was safe, though, because that would feel akin to nepotism.

"They always say that, but it always felt like everybody got through, so..."

"Well, we're a prestigious university. Average artists don't get in."

Ema didn't say anything as her sister put away her keys and her wallet and her scarf. Like Ema and her goggles, the scarf was so much a part of her that she looked wrong without it. Eventually she sat down on the sofa with a few of her forms and a glass of wine, though she didn't bring a pen with her. Maybe she wanted nothing more than to read them over. Ema sat down beside her. Her bag felt heavy and her mouth was too dry to ask if she could get something to eat.

"I wish I could speak to him on a more personal level," Lana said. Ema didn't know what she was talking about until Lana lowered the page just enough to let her see the name and title atop it. Ema had been incorrect in assuming that she was holding a few of the entry forms— it was a short story attributed to someone she had come to know very well. Not Quite a Ghost Story. "I think that more people ought to be able to read this. I can't help feeling like I'm doing something wrong having it all to myself."

Lana set it on the table. Ema had a clear glimpse of it, and it seemed like Lana wouldn't stop her if she wanted to read it, but she didn't do so. Not yet.

"Miles is... like that. With his writing. He said it has a lot to do with his dad— he wouldn't want to be compared to him all the time because he'd probably come up short." Ema laughed softly. "I... don't think he's being completely honest, though. I mean, the guy definitely doesn't want to handle failure, but... I don't think he wants to surpass his dad. I think he would feel awful if people forgot his father's work because of him."

Lana looked sad at that. She shook her head slowly.

"I think his father would have been proud of this. It's about him." Lana's hand swept out, and the stem of her glass pointed down at the sheets. "Why don't you read it? I'm sure you would appreciate it, seeing as you both write."

"O-Oh, no no no," Ema stuttered, waving her hands about. "I couldn't do that. Not unless he asked me to." She looked down at the stack and felt curiosity gnawing at her gut. She smirked. "...Maybe later, though."

Lana sighed. She badly wanted to share that story. She wouldn't be a teacher if she didn't have that urge. Ema rarely saw her like this anymore— she was always trying so hard to keep up a stoic, professional front. She had missed conversations like this.

"Diego has it so easy," Lana whined dramatically. "Miles has always played competitively. He doesn't have to convince the boy that he has talent."

"...Is that why you two have been talking so much lately?"

Lana gave her a blank stare.

"What do you mean?"

"You and Professor Armando. You guys are always meeting up in private, always going out for coffee together..." Ema grinned sheepishly, trying to look like a mischievous little sister. "What, do you like him or something?"

"What?" Lana looked annoyed and Ema feared that she had undone the entire evening's work. "It's nothing like that."

"Oh. I-I was... just kidding, you know."

Ema didn't wait for Lana to respond. She knew that Lana wouldn't. She scooted forward on the cushion and opened up her bag, emptying it of the contents. It wasn't as much as she remembered. It was a big idea, so it gave her memory the impression of something physically large.

For the most part, it was just a blank scrapbook and some bits of paper and stickers and some photos to put in it. She had pens and scissors and that special scrapbooking tape that came in a strange little roller. She had notes where she had scribbled out her plans and jotted down what she wanted to write inside. So far, all that she had completed was the cover, and Phoenix had had to lend her a bit of a helping hand with that. Typography and calligraphy were both harder than they looked on paper.

For a few minutes, she laid out her things and worked quietly. She had planned out the first couple of pages meticulously enough that it came to her without much trouble. Lana sipped from her glass, rereading Miles' story. There was a gentle look in her eye and Ema wondered how many times she had done that— how many times she had been drawn back to those words. Ema promised herself that she would say something to Miles. That she would tell him it would mean a lot to her sister if he allowed his story to be submitted.

"What are you working on?"

Ema had not expected to hear from Lana, and so she didn't respond right away. She glanced up at her. She had finished her glass of wine, though she was still holding onto that story.

"O-Oh, it's, um..." Ema paused. She didn't often talk about these things with her sister. Lana had never said anything bigoted. She had never implied that she disapproved of Ema's identity. But she so often seemed disinterested, even when Ema was talking about something this important, and Ema wasn't sure what to make of that. "It's just an idea I've had. Based on some thinking I've been doing lately. There's a gap for certain kinds of resources."

Lana squinted, trying to read Ema's handwriting from where she sat.

"What kind of resources?"

Once again, Ema took too long to respond. Lana seemed awfully interested all of a sudden. Part of her wanted to be cynical, to assume that there was an ulterior motive there, or to assume that Lana was only pretending to care. But she'd grown tired of being cynical. Tired of being angry. She and Lana hadn't spent much one-on-one time together in a while. Maybe Lana, too, had gotten tired of the way things had been between them for so long.

Ema held up her book, proudly displaying the cover that she and Phoenix had worked so hard on. Be True to the New You, it was called. The title was technically Maya's idea. Ema had promised to include her in the credits.

"There are lots of books and videos and things on coming out," she explained. "Like it's the end-all-be-all. And, yeah, it's a big deal, but there's not a lot on living your truth after that. You internalize a lot of horrible things, and it doesn't just magically go away because you finally worked up the nerve to say something to somebody."

"But you want to talk about that," Lana guessed. Ema nodded.

"Uh-huh! All I can tell is my own story— that's why I made it a scrapbook. Other people can add theirs as I expand it. I picked one of the ones with rings so I can even add more pages if I want to."

Ema fidgeted and smiled nervously down at her finished spread. If she was being honest, she wanted to add specific stories. At least two of them. Maybe it was too painful for them to do it now, but she believed that they could do it in time. That they could tell their own stories. Miles was apparently quite good at that already. And Franziska wasn't a writer, but she had a dramatic flair that would lend itself well to this sort of thing.

She couldn't ask them yet. She would ask Phoenix, she decided. He had adjusted so well that she just knew he would be eager to participate.

"That's... a lovely idea."

Ema's head shot up, and her eyes went wide, and she beamed in a way that she hadn't in quite some time.

"You... you think so?"

"I do." Lana emphasized this with a nod. "I... I don't know much about what it must be like, so it's something I would never have considered had you not mentioned it, but I can easily understand why it's a resource that people may very well need."

"I-I hope somebody will find it helpful."

"Did you have anyone specific in mind?"

Ema blushed, and she laughed sheepishly. Lana wasn't openly emotional, but she had known Ema all her life. Ema couldn't slip anything past her that easily.

"A little bit. It's not my place to talk about it, though."

"Right. I understand."

Ema gave her sister an appreciative smile before returning to her assembly work, and with renewed vigor. Inspiration had driven her to finish it much more quickly than she had expected to. Her part was done. All that was left was to collect the accounts of others like her. She put away her supplies and looked up at Lana, who had finished reading and was now staring contemplatively into the distance. Ema wondered what she was thinking about, but didn't pry.

"I'm going to bed early, then," she said. She was still a bit hungry, but she was tired enough that she thought she would fall asleep easily anyway. "Are you planning to stay up?"

"Not especially," Lana said through a shrug. "It does take me a while to wind down, but... It's probably best that I wake up early to get a head start on the applications."

"Okay. Cool. Do you, um, want to go get coffee in the morning, then...?" Ema tried not to sound too eager. Lana didn't look at her.

"I won't have time for that."

Her tone was abrupt. Ema's shoulders sagged. Lana looked at her, and for the first time in what felt like years, Ema saw visible uncertainly in her eyes.

"...Although..." Lana appended that to her earlier statement, and Ema perked up. "I'll likely be stuck working on the forms in my office for my lunch period. So if you don't mind keeping me company, I suppose we could have lunch."

Ema nodded enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I don't mind! I'll bring you something good, okay?"

Lana smiled. It looked pained, as it always did, but she smiled.

"Alright. Have a good night, then."

That was that. A pleasant enough ending for one evening, Ema thought. As she prepared for bed, she thought about the last few years.

She supposed that she had actually had a difficult life. It didn't often feel that way— not in comparison to some of her friends. Sometimes she felt like she hadn't earned the right to complain. Sure, both of her parents had died, but she had been so young that she barely remembered them. She would have remembered them more if they had been around more often. But they had been a busy couple, always out on business. Ema had been seven when they died and she had hardly known them at all.

Besides that, she had Lana, and she had extended family that she got to see over the holidays. They weren't in need of money for the most part and Ema had always had a relatively stable home that provided her with the opportunities that she needed to succeed.

Her only complaint and her greatest happiness had always been the same thing— Lana. Lana took care of her. Lana had taken care of her since she was a little girl, so much so that she was more like a mother than an older sister. She had given Ema every material thing that she needed.

At the same time, Lana could be a cold woman. She had become emotionless the day their parents died. And this had caused many a fight when Ema was younger. She had felt like Lana made no effort to understand her, that she thought she was better than her and that she didn't care about her at all.

Lana had denied those things. But she had done it with a straight face when Ema had wanted her to cry. And so Ema had only gotten angrier, grown more certain of her conclusions.

But the last few months had taught her something. She had begun to realize something about her sister that she had never truly appreciated— Ema had had a tense, sometimes tumultuous life with many a rough patch. Lana had experienced trauma. She had lost her beloved parents suddenly, and she had taken on the responsibility of taking care of Ema in their stead. There was a deep grief within her, and she had never had enough time to address it, and then to top all of that off, she had lost her best friend.

Ema once failed to understand why Lana acted so frigid. Now, she wondered how on earth Lana managed to stay so calm. And she realized that she, too, had failed to understand.

As she felt herself drifting off, she made a mental promise to herself that she would do whatever she could to fix this. Even if she couldn't do it tomorrow, it would be done.

Because she dearly loved her sister, and she knew now that her sister loved her, and it was high time they started saying that to one another again.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Miles did not believe in love at first sight.

He didn't believe in miracles, and he didn't believe in fate. He did not necessarily believe that true love could conquer all, and he did not believe that it was unconditional.

Those were things he had told himself for a long, long time. There was no use, he was sure, in entertaining beliefs like that— the kind that could do nothing but set him up for disappointment and heartache. And he had always avoided the sorts of people that would have him hoping for such things, or those who would promise him anything more than what he was accustomed to.

Once, Miles had kept his heart carefully guarded. And now he was remembering why he had done so in the first place... to avoid exactly this kind of unnecessary complication.

"It was the first day he found the store," Larry said in answer to Miles' question of when. "He came back all different and we knew something weird had happened to him."

Something weird, indeed.

Phoenix had allegedly fallen in love with Miles the moment he laid eyes on him— as if such a thing existed. And then Phoenix had made a point of returning to the store as often as he had, and buying as much product as he had, just so that he could have an excuse to talk to Miles. The others had caught wind of it, and then they had gotten involved. Acting like his personal spies, mostly likely. Miles should have been more suspicious of how many questions they had asked.

Miles shook his head, wringing his hands together and staring at the carpeted floor as he tried to piece Larry's fragmented timeline together. It was all he could do. What was he meant to say? What was he supposed to say to the fact that Phoenix Wright— the man that he had begun to consider his best friend— had been hiding the truth from him since the moment they first met?

That was the only way that Miles could see it. He felt like everything he thought he'd known was wrong. Like the last few months had been founded on a lie.

"A-At first we were just trying to figure out what had snagged his attention," Larry claimed. "It seemed crazy that he could just fall head over heels so fast, even if he is kind of a hopeless romantic. After we talked to you, it just seemed like he had an obvious type, and you just... checked off all of his boxes, I guess. We, uh, didn't know that he had a dude box, and he didn't either, but that was okay!"

Phoenix hadn't lied about that much, at least. He had needed Ema's help to understand his own attractions. Miles didn't know how to feel about that, though, with the new understanding that he had unknowingly acted as a catalyst. And that he had later gone to the very same person for aid. Had she helped him come out in the hopes that he could go out with Phoenix afterwards? Would she do something like that?

"...But you kept coming over," Miles reminded Larry, thinking of the visits he had gotten from them all when he had still found them an overwhelming and confusing bunch. His voice was barely audible. "You continued to visit, even alongside him."

"Yeah. We were just trying to help Nick at first, but then we kinda grew to like the place ourselves. Kay's cool, and Uncle Ray is really nice, and you were there, and the stuff can be ridiculously cheap, so... why not, you know?"

A part of Miles wanted Larry to elaborate on what he meant by "help". But he had a feeling that he wouldn't like the answer, and he already had an inkling— he should have known all along that things were too good to be true. Like four separate people would want to befriend him at once... Miles should have known there was something more to it. He laughed under his breath. He should have known.

"S-So that's it, really. We might have gotten a little out of hand," Larry admitted when he had finally concluded the long-winded and somewhat disjointed tale, "but we were just trying to help because it was obvious that Nick really cared about you. After a little while we started to care, too. One thing led to another, and now we're all here! Together! I think it all worked out for the best. ...Don't you?"

Miles groaned. He wasn't about to tackle that question and all that it contained. He wasn't ready.

"...Those times that you came in asking about our dirty magazines..."

Larry laughed, but he sounded embarrassed.

"I'll admit that that was probably rude, but I couldn't think of any other way to tell if you were into guys or not! Maybe it shouldn't have mattered? Just because you like guys doesn't necessarily mean you'll like the one we had for you. I was... What's the word? Presumptuous? I was presumptuous. I guess. And I'm sorry."

A pause.

"I-I know that maybe someone should have said something sooner," Larry stammered, "but we figured it wasn't our secret to tell you and we didn't wanna scare you off! You always get so flustered so easily, and Phoenix didn't wanna jeopardize your newfound friendship! You have to understand— it's not like he wanted to hurt you or anything. You've gotta understand that."

Miles didn't have to understand anything. He wasn't looking at Larry's face, but he could feel him staring and could see his lower body moving around through the cascade of hair that had covered his eyes.

"...Dude, are you okay?" Larry asked. He had clearly expected Miles to have more questions for him. "You keep laughing and it's really freaking me out." He was mumbling, probably too ashamed to speak at his usual volume. Miles scoffed.

"Oh, I'm... perfectly fine. Just fine."

Miles sighed. He had been laughing, even if it was just the occasional quiet chuckle. He wasn't laughing at Larry, though. He was laughing at himself. His legs felt weak and he wanted to sit down, but he wouldn't do so in this dormitory. No— he had to get away from this man first. This man that he had thought he'd known. More importantly, he needed to get away before Phoenix got back.

"I understand now," Miles elaborated. "I'm... sorry that this had to take up so much of your time."

Larry's face was a perplexed blank.

"What... What are you apologizing for? What do you mean?"

Miles shrugged. He took a slow step back, away from the edge of the bed. For a while he had stood there cross-armed, glaring down at Larry as he had woven his tale. Eventually he had slumped, had lowered his head. And now he was distancing himself. As always, it seemed.

"Your friend was..." Miles swallowed. "Your friend was interested in me, and solely for my looks, and the rest of you had no choice but to play along."

"That's— that's not what I said! That's not at ALL what I said!" Larry protested angrily, throwing out his arms. "Dude, if you would just listen to me—"

"No, it's fine! It's fine," Miles insisted. He forced a smile. He knew it wasn't convincing. He knew that he must have looked awful, like he was ready to break at any moment. "You don't have to pretend anymore, and you do have plenty of other things to be worried about... I'll spare you the effort."

Larry's mouth hung open slightly and he stared, waiting for Miles to say something else, before he shook his head.

"You— you'll do what?"

"I'll just... I'll go. I won't bother you anymore."

Miles shrugged, still smiling, and turned around. He made his way for the door. Larry took a while to respond, like he thought that maybe Miles was joking and would turn back around and laugh. He didn't. Larry jumped up, pursuing him out into the hallway. All the way back to his own dorm, Larry pursued, rambling on and on about Phoenix's intentions and other things. Miles didn't know what else, because he wasn't listening. He closed the door and locked Larry in the hallway. Then, he sat down at his piano to play loud, angry music. Music that Larry knew he wouldn't be heard over, which eventually resulted in his giving up and leaving.

Miles probably wasn't playing very well, because his fingers were smashing into the keys rather than pressing them down and he was likely rushing through the tempo of the piece. It was in some effort keep up with his own racing thoughts.

How had me managed to get things so wrong? With Phoenix, things had always been different. They were pure. Simple. Easy. That was what Miles had thought, anyway— had he really been wrong all along? Had he been taken for a fool? He must have been. He had fallen for a trap that was designed to ensnare him. He had been waiting for the catch, and it had reared its ugly head, and now he felt like the most foolish man on the face of the earth.

For that matter, was any of it real? Larry and Maya and Ema had all come to the store for the sole purpose of reconnaissance. To boast their friend's virtues whenever they could. To analyze him from head to toe, searching for any hint of his orientation, and this when Miles himself had not yet been ready to admit it. Larry insisted that they'd done it of their own accord and that Phoenix hadn't orchestrated them, but did that matter? They hadn't actually wanted to befriend him.

And that must have been why Maya convinced him to transfer. That was why Larry had sputtered when she had first brought it up— because that wasn't part of their plan. They had included him in their circle and walked him through the neighborhood and taken him to the park just to set up a pseudo-date for the two of them. Maya had left one of his father's books on her shelf, in plain sight— a coincidence? Or a setup for Phoenix to express sympathy, to bond with Miles over an overlapping loss, and just to seem like a more ideal boyfriend?

It was all called into question now. All of it.

Speaking of that— he stopped to catch his breath, to try and calm down, and noticed a piece of sheet paper that was still sitting atop his piano. One that he had been working very hard on all week. Apparently even his source of inspiration had been tainted. That piece was written about friendships that might not even exist, wasn't it? Why should he keep it, then? Miles grabbed the paper and he tore it in half, and then he tore those halves and threw the pieces on the ground. And he went back to his playing, determined to never compose anything so sappy and juvenile again. He was an expert-level pianist, after all. What was he doing writing such simple songs anyway?

Maybe Miles was better off alone. He missed the days when things were simpler. When he was perfectly happy with pretending to be happy for his Uncle's sake and not bothering to search for things that he couldn't find.

His phone rang. He recognized the tune. Another foolish thing he had done— he'd picked different ringtones, chiptune-esque versions of classical pieces, for each of his friends, putting an admittedly silly amount of thought into the right piece for each person. He knew right away that it was Phoenix calling. He was the third movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata no. 21 in C Major.

For obvious reasons, he did not answer the phone. He didn't dismiss the call, or else Phoenix would surely get suspicious. But Miles was usually punctual about answering his phone or calling back as quickly as possible, so even without the dismissal, Phoenix was quick to text him asking if he was there and feeling alright.

Another ding.

Phoenix "Nick" Wright: You've been acting kinda strange the last few days and I'm really worried about you. And you keep saying that you're fine but we both know that's not true. Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me? If it's private I can leave it alone. I just want you to know you can trust me.

Miles groaned. He turned away from the piano and opened the message.

Billy Joel: I'm just dealing with something personal right now and it's exhausting a lot of my mental energy. It has nothing to do with any of you and I just don't feel up to talking about it. That's all.

He just couldn't do it. Even with the knowledge that Phoenix was probably only interested in his face, or in his body, he couldn't ignore the message. He still felt the need to reassure the man, like a compulsion.

On the floor, he saw several bits of paper. He felt a sharp twist in his chest. The pain of guilt. He sat down on the carpet and picked the pieces up. He tried to realign them. He suddenly couldn't remember what he had written down and wanted to read it again. But for some reason he couldn't make the little symbols line up. Something was in his eyes. Water. It was making his vision blurry.

A ding.

Phoenix "Nick" Wright: I understand. Sorry for prying. Just let me know if you need anything. ANYTHING— understand? Anything you need. :)

Miles put the cell phone and the paper scraps down and hugged his knees to his chest and bit his lip, not allowing himself to make the sound that was a sob. He sat there like that for what must have been twenty minutes, and then, with no idea of what else he should do, he elected to go to sleep early. He turned off his phone.

Maybe in the morning his head would be clear enough to navigate all of this.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

A/N: NO YOU ARE NOT HALLUCINATING, I DID UPDATE AGAIN WHAT'S UP BITCHES anyway "alone" is like one of my favorite songs EVER (GOD do i love a really dramatic power ballad) and it so pains me to use it in this way, but it's just too perfect for the chapter. sorry, heart!! stay tuned for more heart music and for miles working through some deeply rooted personal issues that involve some new backstory and some franziska and some focus on ema, finally. by the time you're finished the chapter you'll probably want to shake miles and scream "JUST ADMIT THAT YOU LOVE HIM", but bear with the boy. he's got some problems.
(phoenix is such an amateur, EVERYONE knows you keep your special drawings in a different book hidden somewhere at home bc people just flip through them without asking you. also callout post @ myself: stop buying sketchbooks and notebooks valethra you literally never fucking use them)