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"...Wow." Phoenix was laughing, but he clearly didn't find it funny. "Uh, this doesn't... I mean, it's never happened before."
"It does happen sometimes." It hadn't happened to Miles before, certainly. Too drunk to fuck, was it...? He wasn't in the habit of taking the inebriated to bed. That included an inebriated Phoenix.
"Not to me," Phoenix insisted, his breaths still coming as barely stifled laughs of something very different from amusement. "I swear. Never."
"Shh." Miles halted the helpless laughter with another kiss, pushing Phoenix back down against the pillow and settling beside him, willing his own arousal to go away until it would be more useful. "Don't worry about it."
But he would. That laughter was the nervous kind. Wright was embarrassed, ashamed of having ruined Miles's plans for the night. And Miles couldn't say that he hadn't - he had. It had all been carefully thought out, the first time they'd spent the night together since Phoenix explained the last seven years, and asked if they could try again. It had been a long time coming, and Miles had prepared carefully, dinner for two by candlelight and a bottle of fine wine.
He hadn't expected Phoenix to drink so much of it. Phoenix hardly ever drank when they'd been close before. And if he hadn't been acting particularly drunk, well, he'd gotten much better at hiding things than he had been. If pressed, Miles would have to admit that the man had changed a great deal while they were out of touch with each other, but the important things remained the same.
And so he could wait a little longer. He bent over Phoenix, kissing him again lightly when Phoenix mumbled another apology. "Sleep. We'll see how things go in the morning, when you've sobered up a little."
"Mm-hmm," came the quiet reply, and one arm wrapped around Miles as Phoenix moved to curl up against him. "Night."
"Good night, Phoenix."
Miles was traditionally up before the sun rose, and though he'd made sure to get rid of his alarm clock entirely before Phoenix had arrived, his internal clock was not so easily dismissed. He could see the sky growing lighter from where he lay.
On the other hand, if he turned his head in the other direction, he saw Phoenix. No longer with an arm resting over him - they'd shifted several times through the night, trying drowsily to reaccustom themselves to each other's favored positions and accomodate them. Now Phoenix was sprawled on his stomach, his left arm having somehow worked its way under Miles's pillow. As for his own, he was drooling on it, jaw slack and a little crooked.
Miles had never been one to use the word 'cute' about individuals he was attracted to. Even now, he could only grudgingly manage 'somewhat endearing'.
Since he was used to waking at such an hour and not going back to bed, Miles just lay there watching Phoenix sleep until he stirred, eyes squinting in mild discomfort as his breath caught. The hand beneath Miles's pillow retreated, rubbing itself over Phoenix's face instead.
"Good morning," Miles offered, as Phoenix managed to remember how to yawn.
"Nn... G'morning," Phoenix mumbled in response, and blinked past his hand. "...You know, I thought I was dreaming."
"Hmm?"
"I missed you." The hand scraped over a rough jawline, almost hiding a slight grimace. "There was a long time I thought I'd never wake up next to you again."
His hand dropped to the sheets beside him, helping him roll onto his side, to face Miles. Phoenix looked sober now, in every sense of the word. Never mind how disheveled he also looked after a night of shifting and turning - there was truth in those deep blue eyes, and Miles coveted it.
They'd stripped halfway the night before, leaving only thin layers between them, undergarments and in Phoenix's case a threadbare t-shirt. It smelled like him, and Miles buried his nose in Phoenix's shoulder as he rolled over to tug him closer, inhaling deeply. There had been a time he would have been revolted by the thought of sniffing clothes that smelled of anything more than detergent, perhaps with a mild floral scent, but the years had been long for him as well. His hand worked its way up under the garment in question, touching warm skin, and Phoenix mumbled something unimportant and hardly intelligible as their lips met.
Now, Miles thought, his breath quickening as Phoenix's arms surrounded him, as Phoenix's lips pressed against his mouth and his cheek and his throat. Now.
But when Phoenix drew back, all that showed in his face was fond relief. Only for a moment, until he took in the expression on Miles's face, and the subtle smile faded to thoughtfulness. Clearly they'd not been on the same page, but Miles didn't mind so much. It was - er - endearing, the way Wright could be so content just to lie there with him, stroking his hair.
However, Miles was not content. Patient, if necessary, but not content. "I won't be going in to work this morning," he pointed out.
Phoenix sniffed, and this time it was amusement. "I sure hope not - it's a Sunday."
"We didn't stay up so late last night as I was expecting, also."
"Yeah..."
"We therefore have plenty of time to do whatever we might want to do this morning."
"Hmm..."
Phoenix knew what he was getting at, of course. Just teasing, it was obvious - especially when Phoenix suddenly grinned and rolled Miles on top of him. It wasn't Miles's most favored position, but he wasn't inclined to complain.
Not until after they'd rolled over a few more times, changing positions, finding all the most interesting places to touch with fingers and tongues, and Miles found himself on top of Phoenix again, looking down at his face. His face which was a little bit distant, a little bit distracted. When Miles paused, though, Phoenix met his eyes again at once. Something else was there this time, but Miles had never been fluent enough to decipher all the things he saw there.
Other parts of Phoenix's anatomy, however, were generally simpler to assess. It wasn't that he was entirely unresponsive, but he knew this man well - knew his body well - and either age was catching up with Phoenix more than with Miles, or it seemed that Miles had failed to engage his attention. "Is everything all right?"
Phoenix nodded, but with some hesitation. "Well... my head kind of hurts," he admitted after a moment, reaching up to rub at his forehead again. "Sorry. ...I don't know why - I wasn't drunk last night or anything."
Miles opted not to remind Phoenix about just how drunk he'd been; it would only lead to embarrassment. And possibly making up for it, but if Phoenix wasn't feeling well, it could wait for another time. "Would you like a glass of water?"
"Good call," Phoenix observed. "But I can get it myself, don't get up."
"No - we might as well both get up," Miles stated, already pushing back the covers. "I'll put on some tea, and we can decide on breakfast."
"I can already tell you what my decision is," Phoenix remarked. Already he looked more cheerful. "That would be 'Yes'."
Phoenix downed his glass of water almost in one gulp in the kitchen, and went to refill it in the bathroom while Miles was filling the kettle. Miles heard the toilet flush as well, and then the water running in the bathtub. Pity Phoenix hadn't bothered to tell him what he wanted for breakfast before he'd decided to clean up, but Miles knew that Phoenix was even less picky than he had been seven years ago; it would be fine. And he remembered, of course, to pour the water for Phoenix's tea first, so it could sit for a time.
Even so, when Phoenix emerged, cleaner but still wearing last night's clothing, he winced a little at the first sip. "Still too hot for you?" Miles asked.
Phoenix shook his head. "You make your tea stronger than anyone I've ever known. It takes some getting used to."
"That's only because of your habit of burning your tongue," Miles pointed out with a little smile. "After those early mishaps, I learned to make sure that your tea sits and has time to cool before you drink it - thus if I forget, it often steeps for longer than most people's would.
"We'll have to work on getting the timing right," said Phoenix with a shrug, taking another sip.
Despite his comments, he looked used to it already. And disarmingly attractive, standing there in wrinkled slacks, wet hair sticking up in all directions, holding Miles's fine china as if it were a styrofoam cup from a fast food restaurant. "...We will," Miles agreed quietly, and was not entirely referring to the tea.
"You know that I trust you, don't you, Phoenix?"
The two of them had been sitting together in Phoenix's office - or former office, more accurately - well after the sun had gone down and Trucy had been put to bed. Kristoph had brought wine. Phoenix had pretended he was drinking it.
He had then given Kristoph a simple smile. "I should hope so. Otherwise, I'm not sure why you'd be here in the first place." Though he had his suspicions.
"Hmmph." Kristoph's answering smile was subdued. "Phoenix... may I tell you a secret? Something about myself that I've never told another living soul?"
Phoenix's smile had faded at the serious sound of his voice. "Sure. Of course."
"It's not entirely at random," Kristoph had explained. "It's something you should know. As my lover, my trusted partner."
And then Kristoph had confessed his desires. He'd spelled out his fantasies, in great detail, as Phoenix listened and nodded and pretended to drink more of the wine, and tried not to shrink away. And when Kristoph was finished, Phoenix had reassured him, as trusted partners should do. "It's... unexpected, but not that unusual, in the grand scheme of things. There are worse things to fantasize about, as far as I'm concerned."
"Thank you." Kristoph leaned forward, picking up the bottle to refill his own glass. "Already I feel better, having told you. It's... unexpectedly pleasant, having someone I can trust with the darkest secrets of my soul."
"It is, isn't it?" Not that Phoenix was thinking of Kristoph.
"Quite. ...It's always been a source of secret shame for me," Kristoph had gone on to say. "As a defense attorney, it's at odds with the image I should project. For a defender of the helpless to harbor such morbid thoughts..."
He'd shaken his head, and Phoenix tried to act supportive. "Hey - just because someone has a fetish doesn't mean they'd necessarily act on it. You of all people should know that, you've studied the cases that set the precedent for that sort of thing. Thought crimes can't be prosecuted."
"You always know just what to say to make me feel better," Kristoph had murmured, staring down into his wineglass. Once he'd resettled himself, he'd met Phoenix's eyes once more, holding his gaze.
"...And while we're speaking of trust, Phoenix, may I ask... how much do you trust me?"
As Miles had anticipated, there were other nights, other opportunities. Trucy was of an age where she could be left to herself overnight, particularly as the one person her father had previously been concerned about in regards to her safety was now in prison, and would remain there for the rest of his life. Phoenix had a day job, at least for the time being - a respectable one - and it was close enough to where Miles spent large portions of his days that it was no trouble to give him a ride in the morning. There was no reason whatsoever that Phoenix couldn't spend the night on a semi-regular basis.
On some of those nights, opportunities were taken. Even so, their timing still seemed to be a bit off. Something was off, anyway. Phoenix was having...
Miles was having just as much trouble trying to find a way to say something about it that wouldn't sound as if he was complaining. He had absolutely nothing to complain about - Phoenix had made sure of that. He ignored his own struggles and focused on Miles, using his hands and his mouth to great effect. He seemed satisfied with his ability to give Miles pleasure.
Well, so was Miles, but he preferred it to be a two-way street. Even on the rare occasion Phoenix was in the mood to get undressed, it seemed that nothing Miles could do was enough.
"No, no, it's okay," Phoenix murmured in the darkness, as he always did, and slid down under the sheets, kissing his way down Miles's stomach, dipping his tongue into the navel to tease. Miles spotted a sparkle in Phoenix's eye as he squirmed and dislodged the sheets, then only the top of Phoenix's head as it bent to take him in. It wouldn't take long - they'd been at it for quite a while already, and the only reason Miles hadn't already come was because he was trying to bring Phoenix to that same point. Trying, and failing.
Between the gasps and groans, the warmth and the coarse hair brushing the insides of his thighs, Miles couldn't help wondering if he was doing something wrong.
He tried to ask, awkwardly, after he was spent - and Phoenix swallowed now, he never used to swallow - and Phoenix was cuddled up at his side, as if everything was perfectly normal.
Phoenix shook his head, sleepy but with just a hint of frustration. "You're as good as you ever were, Miles. It's just me that's a little messed up."
It had been a long evening, made longer by his trial and error, so Miles let it drop until morning, until after breakfast, while he was watching Phoenix comb back his hair in his bathroom mirror; it was a work day for them both. But he had to say something, as much as he knew he wouldn't have wanted to acknowledge it if it were him. "Maybe you should see a doctor."
Phoenix's reflection squinted at him oddly. "Huh?"
"Your inability to... perform." Miles had spoken of many uncomfortable subjects in the courtroom. Not so much in the bathroom. It was different. "There could be something wrong. And if we find out what it is, then there are methods which might be used to fix it."
Phoenix's eyes closed. "...Does it bother you that much?"
"It's not fair," Miles stated, arms crossing out of habit as he put forth his argument. "I seem to be getting a great deal more out of our physical intimacy than you are. You're very good to me, and it's... it's unsettling that I can't seem to return the favor."
Phoenix turned away from the mirror, setting the comb down with a little smile. Ignoring his discomfort, presumably feeling none himself. "Don't worry, I'm fine. I mean, you haven't heard me complain, have you? I'm happy just being with you."
"It could be better," Miles argued. "I know it's an embarrassing problem to acknowledge, Phoenix - but until it's acknowledged, it can't be solved."
Phoenix just looked at him for a moment, unreadable. Then, to Miles's surprise, he stepped closer, leaning in to give Miles a light kiss on the lips. "I appreciate your concern," he told Miles, "but you seem to be a lot more concerned about it than I am. This isn't something you should worry about."
"How am I supposed to not worry about the fact that I can't reciprocate?"
Phoenix shrugged. "...Just trust me, okay?"
"You're sure, then?"
Phoenix had nodded in the direction Kristoph's voice had come from. "This isn't a big deal." He was telling himself as much as he was telling Kristoph.
"It is to me," came the murmured reply, somewhere near his left ear as Kristoph moved closer. "I appreciate your willingness to indulge at least this little whim of mine."
"It's probably the kinkiest thing I've ever done, but there's not a whole lot of competition in that category," Phoenix admitted. His voice was surprisingly even, considering how nervous he was. He'd begun having second thoughts as soon as Kristoph had him test the bonds on his wrists, and he discovered that he really couldn't loosen them. Maybe he should ask Trucy for some hints about escaping ropes and bindings - but then, if she figured out why he was asking...
And there was no guarantee he'd have the chance to ask her. He didn't know what Kristoph's motivations were for what it appeared he'd done to Phoenix's career, or his show of support afterwards. Perhaps he was just insane. ...Why had he let a possibly insane man who already had messed up his life once tie him up and blindfold him?
He could feel Kristoph's breath on his throat, then on his chest. Cool, smooth skin rested against him, the unusual and distinctive folds of an ear. "Your heart's beating quite fast, Phoenix. Are you afraid? Or perhaps, may I dare to hope, as excited as I am?"
"...It's different," was all Phoenix could bring himself to say. His hands, suspended above his head, were already feeling numb. "I wouldn't mind getting started, though."
Lips pressed against his skin - and lower, fingers had traced along his ribs with sharp, manicured nails. "I agree."
'Persistent' had always been one of the best words to describe Phoenix. Even in elementary school; Miles hadn't thought so much of him immediately following the class trial, but Phoenix followed him around, drawing him pictures, sharing his lunch, until Miles had no choice but to consider him - and Butz, by association - a friend.
And now, though Phoenix had been content with the status quo, he was not. Two weeks later, after having hardly touched each other, it was Phoenix who led Miles into the bedroom, telling him to go ahead and get ready - he had something to take care of first. Miles undressed, turned down the sheets, and listened idly for any signs of what Phoenix might be doing in the bathroom, but Phoenix returned quickly, smiling at him before flipping off the lights and getting undressed as well.
Perhaps, Miles thought, Phoenix had taken his advice and seen a doctor without saying anything about it. His responsiveness had already improved noticeably by the time they were on the mattress. His kiss seemed different, hungrier. It was a good sign.
But perhaps, Miles began to think, it was only determination. Phoenix was still lagging behind, far from ready long after Miles was.
"Do it," Phoenix breathed when Miles paused to ask. "Just go ahead. If it works, maybe I'll return the favor." It was too dark to say for sure, but Miles thought he heard a smile in the answer.
And so he did as Phoenix suggested, kneeling between Phoenix's legs, slipping the condom on. No need for further preparation, Phoenix claimed, and when Miles pushed inside him, he got results. Phoenix moaned, reaching up to clasp the pillow beneath his head, and his erection was stronger, twitching and leaking in Miles's hands as it hadn't done in years. Miles began to move, and the sounds Phoenix made in the darkness were gratifying.
Encouraging, as well, when Phoenix urged him to go faster, harder, come on, Miles, harder. Miles was mildly concerned about the lack of preparation, but he couldn't say no when Phoenix was reacting the way he was, moaning incoherently and finally crying out, almost agonized, just before a warm, wet pulse gushed over Miles's left hand.
He was still trembling a little when Miles finished, but his voice sounded happy, exhausted, when Miles lay down, only to have the man at his side excuse himself to clean up. Miles nodded against his shoulder, and reluctantly allowed Phoenix to withdraw. Whatever Phoenix had done, it had worked, and he drifted off to sleep before Phoenix returned, thinking to himself that that's a relief.
It was less of a relief the next morning, when he went in to take a shower as Phoenix kept an eye on their breakfast, and found amidst the heap of damp towels a washcloth - nearly soaked through with blood.
"Wright?"
Phoenix looked up at the sharp tone of his voice, looking worried. "...What? I rinsed out the shower, didn't I?"
The guilt in his eyes made Miles pause. His disgust, regardless of what Phoenix might have thought, wasn't aimed at Phoenix at all, but at himself. "Why didn't you tell me I was hurting you?"
"...Hurting me? When?"
"Last night."
Phoenix rolled his eyes in exasperation, poking at the eggs on the stove with a spatula. "You didn't hurt me."
"Then why, precisely, is there a washcloth covered with blood in my bathroom?"
"Ahhh... so you do have evidence to back up this theory of yours, Prosecutor Edgeworth." He turned back to Miles with a lazy grin. "But you're on the wrong track. I cut myself shaving."
Miles looked at Phoenix, long and hard. "I don't see any wounds, let alone a cut large enough to produce that much blood."
Phoenix's left hand emerged from his pocket - with a large wad of gauze wrapped around it. "I didn't say I cut my face, did I?"
Miles blinked at the sight of it. "...How on earth did you manage that while shaving?"
"To be specific, it wasn't while I was shaving so much as afterwards. I was trying to change the blade."
Miles could almost believe it. Wright did have a tendency towards clumsiness. But one more thing didn't add up. "The blood on the washcloth was already dry. It had been there for several hours."
That casual smile slipped from Phoenix's face. "How can you be sure?"
"Wright, how many years have I spent investigating crime scenes? How many bloodstained objects have I had to deal with throughout my career?"
"You did not hurt me last night," Phoenix restated evenly. "Look - do you want me to go get the magatama to prove it?"
Miles just stared at him. He couldn't identify what that expression was on Phoenix's face, not quite honest but not quite dishonest, until it hit him. Damn that blank look - he couldn't tell if Phoenix was bluffing now any more than he could have during a poker game.
"...What's going on, Phoenix?" Miles asked him, point-blank. "Something isn't right here."
The shake of Phoenix's head was just barely perceptible, and then he reached for his cup of tea, sitting there on the counter. "Just drop it."
"Something isn't right here, and-" He was suddenly distracted by the fact that the cup was still steaming - Miles had poured it from the kettle just before he headed for the bathroom. "Wait, Phoenix, that's-"
Phoenix swallowed, and lowered the cup. "...What?"
Miles just stared for a moment. "...Still too hot."
Phoenix shrugged, and belatedly set it aside. "I guess it is."
There had been candles on the table at dinner, for the occasion. Phoenix had seen them before Kristoph brought him upstairs, stripping him, binding his hands and securing them upwards to the hook in his ceiling, blindfolding him. Kristoph had disappeared then, citing the need for hospitality towards his guests. Now that they'd gone, Kristoph had returned to remove the blindfold.
Phoenix found it easier to just keep his eyes shut for the time being.
"Are you feeling sleepy already?" Kristoph inquired. "Having spent so much time alone in the dark...?"
"A little." Best to get it over with. "I'm sure I'll wake right up if given reason, though."
"I'm sure you will," Kristoph agreed, and Phoenix could feel his fingers stroking the underside of his jaw. "I had had an interesting thought during dinner," he began, and Phoenix did open his eyes to look - something felt warm.
Kristoph had brought one of the candles upstairs.
"Fire is a strange beast, isn't it?" he murmured, almost fondly, as he held it up for Phoenix to see. "A terrifying, deadly force of nature - and yet mankind has required it for warmth, for light, until recent years. We invited it into our homes, and now we only do so on special occasions. A candle seems like such a harmless thing, though its flame has the same hunger as a raging wildfire."
Phoenix couldn't see past the flame; it was so bright, and so close to his eyes. "...What are you getting at?" he dared to ask.
"Oh, only musing on the possibilities," Kristoph replied. "It occurred to me that there were two guests in my home tonight who might still be hungry. And that perhaps I should introduce them."
Phoenix closed his eyes again. Hot wax, he discovered, only stung for a few moments if he tried to think about the way Kristoph's fingers were caressing him instead. But occasionally, where they crossed paths, it was hard to differentiate.
Soon he had been panting, and he couldn't be sure why.
Miles had, in the end, dropped it. If he had been too rough with Phoenix - and he had begun to think there was something more to it than that anyhow, because Wright had been acting strange all around, and he did seem to have hurt his hand somehow - then he would simply make sure he was more careful next time.
He was, and it worked. Phoenix continued to ask him to go faster, push harder, but it was safer when Miles had taken the time to prepare them both adequately beforehand. Still Phoenix didn't seem up to topping him, and though Miles missed it a bit, he wasn't so picky when it came to Phoenix. He'd be patient, and take his time, and try not to be so impatient or frustrated that it led to Wright bleeding on his belongings again.
Though there was one more oddity that he'd discovered, when he went to pick up the towels from the bathroom floor, and just toss out the ruined washcloth. The washcloth wasn't his. The color was off, and the label marked it as having come from a discount store that was by no means the place where Miles acquired his linens. Perhaps, he thought, it had gotten mixed up with his towels somehow in the building's laundry room. Perhaps. Or Phoenix had somehow accidentally ruined one somehow, and tried to replace it without his noticing, in which case it had obviously worked.
Then one evening, having been distracted all day by thoughts of his bed and memories of Phoenix having been in it, Miles drowsily started to change the sheets after he returned. He hadn't had time that morning, he and Phoenix had been up so late the night before, but it was necessary before he could get any sleep in it.
He woke up rather quickly when he lifted the pillow on Phoenix's side of the bed and found spots of blood beneath it. Nothing so dramatic as the soaked washcloth, just a few drops' worth, but it was most certainly blood.
It had been three weeks, he recalled. Phoenix's hand was still wrapped. It didn't seem possible that the blood could have come from that wound - it shouldn't still be bleeding, or if it was, it needed medical attention - but it also didn't seem plausible that the wound should still need any significant dressing, either.
That was, Miles thought, and was somewhat ashamed of himself for doing so, if there was anything wrong with Phoenix's hand at all. But how else would it have gotten beneath his pillow?
He went to see Phoenix the next day, at his office.
"Oh, it's healing all right," Phoenix said mildly, leaning back in his chair, the gauze-wrapped hand tucked comfortably behind his head. "It takes longer when you're older, you know. And I'm older than I used to be."
"Not that much longer." Like bloodstains, Miles had learned a few things about wounds and how they healed over the years, and he sat down on the corner of Phoenix's desk. "Let me see it."
Phoenix regarded him incredulously. "No offense, but you're not a doctor."
"Let me see it anyway."
"...Okay," Phoenix said with a shrug, sitting upright again to start unwrapping. "But I'll warn you, it's kind of gross." That was not enough to deter someone with Miles's experience, and when Wright finally peeled away the last layer of gauze - clean, Miles noted - Miles took his offered hand to examine.
...It made no sense. The cut across Phoenix's palm wasn't infected, as he had feared. On the contrary, though severe, it looked well-cared-for. Miles ran his finger gingerly over the scab, fresher than it should have been by this time, but stopped when he heard Phoenix draw in his breath. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, withdrawing his finger and looking to Phoenix.
Something was funny about the way Phoenix looked - flushed and a little dizzy. "No, it's all right," he told Miles.
If Miles hadn't known better... No, there was a better explanation. "Does it hurt?"
Phoenix shook his head. "Not much." He looked like he was going to say something else, but then he shook his head again, looking away.
Miles looked back to the wounded hand. Phoenix had always had a low pain threshold. Regardless of whether or not it all made sense, he couldn't think of any manner of explanation for it that would fit with any of the scenarios he'd been imagining. Neither could he explain the way Phoenix was behaving. Evasive - but what was he evading?
At last, Miles stroked Phoenix's wrist, lightly and parallel to the wound. "Never mind," he said. "I'll take care of this."
Phoenix still looked odd when he returned from the bathroom, having retrieved a roll of gauze from the back of the sink - it must have been seeing frequent use. Out of it, Miles thought, was the best way to describe that expression, as he settled down on the desk again. "Give me your hand." Phoenix obeyed.
The fingers trembled against his when Miles pressed his thumb against the palm, keeping the end of the gauze in place until it had wrapped around. "Too tight?" he asked. Phoenix shook his head, and when Miles looked up, he was alarmed at the look on Phoenix's face. At first glance, he looked ill - squeamish at the sight of blood?
But no, Phoenix was staring straight at him, and the reason Miles had been having trouble identifying that expression was because it was one he hadn't seen since their reunion. No matter how hard Miles had tried to make Phoenix look at him that way, he hadn't, until that moment.
"...Miles..."
"Yes...?"
Miles waited, as Phoenix licked his lips, preparing to speak. That plan was suddenly abandoned, and Miles fell back on the desk as Phoenix practically leapt on top of him. There was the clatter of pencils and pens falling somewhere behind him as he half leaned and half fell backwards, and the corner of a book was digging into Miles's shoulder; but Phoenix's tongue was in his mouth and a firm erection was grinding against his hip, so Miles was not paying much attention to the rest, though he took it all in. This was what he'd been waiting for, the Phoenix he'd held out hope for.
Belts were unbuckled swiftly - well, one belt, Phoenix wasn't wearing one - pants and underwear shucked off in a shaking rush. Never mind that they were in Wright's office, on his desk; Miles drew up his knees, taking a deep shuddering breath as Phoenix flipped open his wallet and fished out a condom, almost dropping it. But before he went any further, Phoenix fixed him with a firm look. "Hold my hand, Miles."
Miles nodded, dazed, and started to raise an arm, but Phoenix shook his head. "The other one."
"...But..."
"Hold it." Phoenix's eyes glazed over a little as he reached forward himself, the scab scraping against Miles's own palm. "Squeeze it." This time Miles hesitated a moment, but again he nodded.
The pressure against the wound when Miles squeezed made Phoenix's breath catch, and he pressed closer. "Unh, yeah - like that. Keep doing it..."
Phoenix was functioning perfectly normally this time, at least - or rather, Miles guessed, exceptionally well judging from the fact that he was hard as a rock. And all the preparation they had was one lubricated condom, and Miles suspected he'd be sore in a few hours - but it was worth it, it was so, so worth it to have this side of Phoenix back again. He was making the most amazing sounds, grunts and moans, and Miles hadn't thought that they might be as desperate and pained as they sounded until he realized that there was blood on his hand; Phoenix's cut had ripped open again. "Fuck," he breathed, because it was the only exclamation he could remember at the moment. "Phoenix, your hand-"
But Phoenix just nodded, his eyes downcast, and thrust into him harder, until Miles bit his lip, trying to stifle a cry, and came over his own free hand, Phoenix's having been necessary for balance.
At once, Miles started to let go, but Phoenix shook his head - "No, hang on, harder, harder" - and Miles did as he asked, letting Phoenix try to bring himself to completion. Blood was trickling over the back of his hand, and Miles was beginning to get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, between that and the growing look of desperation on Phoenix's face, when Phoenix looked up to meet his eyes again. "I need you to do something for me," he whispered. "Don't ask, just-"
Phoenix didn't have to finish. "What?"
"I need you to bite me."
That had not been what Miles expected, and he paused. "...What?"
"Bite me." Phoenix had averted his eyes again. "The shoulder works. Please, Miles. I'm so close..."
They still had their shirts on, not having wanting to squander any of Phoenix's sudden fire, and they shifted back into the desk chair, Miles straddling Phoenix's lap while he thrust upwards, desperate. It was, Miles quickly determined, a suitable position, and whatever the reason, Phoenix was serious. He couldn't refuse - he'd done things in the past for this man that were even more mad than this - so he tugged the neckline of Phoenix's shirt aside, and... he tried.
"No," Phoenix moaned. "Not just nibbling. Harder. Harder. Oh..."
Miles tried, tasting the salty skin between his teeth, biting down harder than he felt was appropriate - if any of this could be considered appropriate - until the revolting taste of blood met his tongue, and still Phoenix was begging for more. Miles wondered if this was some sort of bizarre dream, and was willing to name it a nightmare on waking, but finally Phoenix choked, arching up beneath him one last time before falling still.
Miles sat back then, easing himself off of Phoenix and looking at the man beneath him. Bleeding through his shirt from the shoulder, hand slack and stained, eyes turned away and dark.
Miles just looked. A dream, or a hallucination.
It wasn't as if he had been enjoying the pain. That would have been ridiculous. Once you started enjoying something, it wasn't pain, was it? It was just this... thing. Something Kristoph liked, that made Kristoph happy. And when Kristoph was happy, he was, well, amazing.
Never mind that their entire relationship was built on mistrust and surveillance. He was sleeping with Kristoph, and if you were going to be sleeping with someone you didn't love, wasn't it better to be sleeping with an amazing lover than a mediocre one? Kristoph was much more enthusiastic about pleasing Phoenix once he'd been pleased. He was attentive, he was generous and thorough. It was an unconventional pleasure he was taking, of course, but either way, he was pleased. When pleased, he treated Phoenix well. It was as simple as that.
Phoenix had learned what pleased Kristoph. What would inspire Kristoph. As long as he put up with it, he would be rewarded, and he knew it. Though perhaps he didn't trust Kristoph in any other way, this much was a certainty.
It wasn't as if he'd ever do anything like this with anyone else. No one who actually cared about him would want to do such terrible things to him, and he'd known that. It was just something that made his time with Kristoph more pleasant, in the end. When this was over, it would be irrelevant.
So if he found himself breathing faster when Kristoph began wrapping the cord around his wrists, getting seriously hard when Kristoph teasingly toyed with a letter opener shaped just like one of his silver knives - it was no big deal.
...Was it?
One of the deep breaths Phoenix was taking finally caught, and he held it before speaking. "I should go get cleaned up. Apollo was in court today, but he knew where he needed to take this case - he and Trucy won't be there all day."
Cleaning up. Yes. Miles absently reached back for the box of tissues that Phoenix usually kept on his desk, but it had been knocked off, along with nearly everything else that wasn't more or less flat. No distraction there. "...Phoenix."
But Phoenix was already on his feet and turning away towards the bathroom. Not that he'd looked Miles in the eye yet.
Miles knew he should go after him. Instead, he looked for the box of tissues, and when he had found it, took a few to wipe off his hands and his thighs. Next to it on the floor was Phoenix's wallet, lying open where it had been tossed aside. A gleam caught Miles's attention, and he looked closer to find a bare razor blade tucked in next to his state ID card. And behind that, a foil packet - not another condom, an alcohol swab.
Miles waited a moment longer, steadying himself, before he got to his feet again, reaching for his underwear and his pants. He wanted an explanation, that was all. He wasn't angry, or disgusted - well, the fact that he could still taste blood in his mouth was disgusting, but that was another matter.
That was easier to approach than the other subject at hand, however, so the first thing he did when he entered the bathroom was reach around Phoenix for a paper cup, fill it with water, and rinse out his mouth. Sitting on the closed toilet seat in just his t-shirt with a tube of something - antibacterial gel, it appeared - Phoenix just watched him in silence. And, it appeared, dejection when Miles spat into the sink. "I guess I can assume you weren't into that."
Of course not, Miles wanted to exclaim, but he was fairly sure now that that wasn't what Phoenix wanted to hear. He wasn't going to lie either, though. Instead, "You were." Phoenix nodded, reluctantly. "Is that why you've been..."
"I can't get off without it," Phoenix said, his voice as blunt as his words. "I didn't realize, until that first night we were at your apartment. I just couldn't. And I wanted to believe it was just that I was nervous at first, but..."
Miles remembered. "I thought you'd had too much to drink."
"No - I kind of got used to alcohol," Phoenix admitted, looking back down to his hand. He'd stopped working on the wound when Miles had walked in, and he squeezed a little of the gel onto his palm, spreading it around the broken skin with his fingers. He smiled faintly, and it was bitter. "I guess I got used to a lot of things, huh?"
"You got used to being bitten?" Miles was still incredulous.
The bitter smile widened. Self-preservation, Miles thought. "Not usually. But I figured you probably didn't have a knife on you, and I wasn't sure where my wallet went - I've got a razor blade in there. ...Speaking of not knowing where things are, you brought the gauze out into the office, didn't you?"
Miles went to retrieve it without him having to ask, and handed it over. "That's what you were doing in my bathroom?"
"Yeah." Phoenix didn't look up, he was busy winding the gauze around his hand. "It did the trick, if not so well."
Miles wanted to ask if he needed help, but Phoenix was obviously accustomed to the application of bandages. Which only made this more disturbing. "So well as..."
"Edgeworth," Phoenix broke in. "You're not a stupid man. I think you know what's going on."
"How did this come about?"
Phoenix didn't answer, until he'd cut off the length of gauze, taped it securely. "...I guess I need to take care of my shoulder next, huh...?
After several months, Kristoph had stopped excusing himself for his 'morbid' fantasies. He didn't apologize, he didn't say anything about how terrible he felt, living with such a strange curse as this fetish of his. He merely did what he wanted to do, and Phoenix accepted it.
More than accepted - Phoenix had begun to crave it. There were times when Kristoph pulled back from his sadism, to touch Phoenix as an ordinary lover might. But his heart wasn't in it, and it was Phoenix who suggested the knives or the candles, who carried a blade with him.
"Ah, well then," Kristoph would say, with a fond smile and a fingertip tracing along Phoenix's cheek. "If you insist."
But that had stopped. Kristoph never talked about how wrong it was anymore, taking advantage of his generous, understanding lover. Perhaps knowing that Phoenix had accepted it, so had he decided that there was no need to argue against it himself. He could do as he pleased, and Phoenix would enjoy it.
When Kristoph left him tied and gagged naked, wrists to ankles, in his office's coat closet while consulting with a client just on the other side of the door, Phoenix felt a thrill through the humiliation and fear.
When Kristoph took up smoking cigarettes - and he was hardly smoking, Phoenix had known enough smokers in college to know the difference between having a cigarette in your mouth and actually smoking it - only to extinguish them on Phoenix's bare skin, for the first time Phoenix found that he considered a man with a cigarette to be sexy.
When Kristoph carved intricate little designs upon his chest, Phoenix occasionally hit orgasm before Kristoph had even reached down to stroke his cock, and that was when Phoenix had begun to suspect that he was in trouble.
Since their reunion, if Phoenix had gotten entirely undressed at all, it had been in the dark. Miles knew there was something he was ashamed of, but he'd assumed it was the fact that Phoenix had put on a little weight. Which was absurd - even under the baggy clothes, Miles could tell that he wasn't overweight by anyone's standards. Maybe a bit softer, but these things happened with age, especially when one wasn't eating as healthy as they used to, and was under a lot of stress besides. When Phoenix was in his arms, it was all that much more obvious that Phoenix had no place being ashamed of his physical condition.
But now, as Phoenix peeled the blood-spotted t-shirt over his head, Miles understood. His torso was a patchwork of scars. Rough lines, fine lines, lines that ran parallel, lines that crossed each other, lines that formed shapes and designs, large round blemishes and uneven patches of color. He could almost have been a walking city map.
"Kristoph Gavin did this?" Miles asked, his voice tight, and Phoenix nodded. "Why didn't you tell someone?"
Phoenix turned to meet his eyes seriously. "Because they might have made him stop."
Which pre-empted the point Miles was trying to make, but he told himself that was fine. It was a moot point anyhow; Gavin hadn't stopped, and there was no way to retroactively make him have done so. What he was faced with was... what he was faced with.
And what he was faced with was his boyhood friend turned lover turned old flame turned soulmate, naked and covered with painful-looking scars, acquired while he had been on the other side of the world trying to pretend that he'd never known a man named Phoenix Wright.
Miles didn't know what to say, except... "...And to think, you cried for two hours when you got a paper cut back in school."
"I probably still would," Phoenix remarked. "Paper cuts are way worse than knives. Even razors aren't quite as bad."
His voice was so light - almost cheerful. Miles couldn't blow it off so easily as he could. "But now you enjoy it...?"
"Not really. I didn't wake up one day and decide pain felt good, I don't cut myself for fun or anything like that," Phoenix began. He was trying to be casual about it, but there was a tightness at the corners of his mouth. "It's more like after all this time, the parts of my brain that register sexual pleasure got crossed with the parts of my brain that register pain. Not that they're exchanged - it doesn't hurt when you touch me or anything - but they go together. ...It's hard to explain."
"...Well." Miles still didn't know what to say. "I'm glad for that, at least. That I wasn't unintentionally hurting you."
For a moment, Phoenix let his guard drop; his shoulders drooped a little as he looked back in the mirror at his reflection. He picked up the tube of antibacterial gel again. "If you had, it would have gone a whole lot smoother."
Coming up to stand behind him, Miles rested his hands lightly on Phoenix's shoulders, mindful of the marks his teeth had left, and the marks that had been left long before. Phoenix's skin had felt strange in the dark, uneven, but Miles had assumed once again that it was age. Poor nutrition, no skin care maintenance. He couldn't believe he'd missed this.
Phoenix tilted his head to the side to get a better look at the tiny wounds on his shoulders, and caught Miles's reflected gaze. "You can't do this to me, can you?"
Miles couldn't find a good answer. If he said no, Phoenix might just decide he needed to find someone who could. If he said yes, he'd be lying.
"I didn't think you would," Phoenix acknowledged. "I never did. ...It doesn't make any difference, you know. I still like doing things to you, and you doing things to me, even if it's not as satisfying as it used to be."
And he used to be more open, and the way he was looking at Miles now made it obvious. Before any of this happened, he would have said it with his voice, not just his eyes and his smile.
But then he leaned his head back against Miles and said it aloud after all. "I love you, you know. ...I didn't want you to have to deal with any of this. I still don't, if you don't want to."
"I don't want to," Miles replied. "But I have to." Because there were still some things about him that hadn't changed, he couldn't say it back. It was all right, because it seemed that Phoenix had always been able to see it in his eyes and his smile as well, even if the smile wasn't all there.
It was natural that his arms should go around Phoenix's waist, and Phoenix's hands, bandaged and unbandaged, rested atop them comfortably. "I can take care of it myself, like I've been doing."
"No, you can't." Miles was sure about this. "It doesn't satisfy you."
"But it lets you be satisfied."
"Have you already forgotten that I'm not satisfied unless the feeling is mutual?" His arms tightened around Phoenix's waist. "...I'm not going to ignore this. And I'm not going to let you keep hurting yourself."
Phoenix's head raised a little, peering at him via the mirror. For all that Miles had expected he'd wind up pitying Phoenix for all of this, at the moment it was him who felt very small. ...He didn't want to do this. Not to anyone, especially not to Phoenix.
He sighed, nudging Phoenix away from him so they could move. "Let me take care of that," he murmured, taking the tube from Phoenix's hand. "You sit down."
Phoenix obeyed, and Miles was rewarded with an honest smile before Phoenix's head lolled forward against his stomach, giving his hands access to Phoenix's shoulder and neck. He seemed so comfortable, so grateful...
Miles didn't want to ask, but he did. "Did he take care of you afterwards?"
Face buried in Miles's shirt, Phoenix's answer also sounded reluctant. "Sometimes."
Somehow, Miles found himself just a little bit jealous. Trying not to think too much about it, he cleaned the traces of blood away. Phoenix's shoulders drooped, relaxing under his touch, as Miles carefully rubbed the ointment in.
Carefully. That was the key. Maybe he could do this, as long as he was careful.
As expected, they hadn't gotten a chance to fully discuss anything - Phoenix was still seated, shirtless and bandaged, leaning comfortably against Miles's stomach as Miles stroked his hair, when they heard the office door open. It was Miles's responsibility to deflect the attention of Trucy and Apollo long enough for Phoenix to quickly finish getting dressed and put away the dressings for his minor injuries.
"Wow, it looks like a disaster area in here! What happened to all the stuff on Daddy's desk?"
"...I, er, lost my balance."
Trucy raised a knowing eyebrow, and Apollo was staring at him in that odd way he had. Miles had the feeling that both of them thought they knew what was going on, and it wasn't exactly comforting that they only knew half of it. He just knelt, collecting some of the fallen objects, and Trucy helped too, until they heard the toilet flush (entirely for show) and Phoenix returned, acting perfectly normal.
But Miles had known what was underneath that shirt, and he excused himself when they were done picking up. It would have been impossible for him to act normal.
They did have to discuss it, though, and so when Phoenix called a few hours later, Miles agreed that they should make a date to do so. But not tonight. He needed some time to process all of this before he could discuss it properly. Two days, he decided. That was the most he was likely to get when putting together a case, after all, and if that was all he needed to form a decisive argument that could decide life or death, it would surely be enough time for him to come to terms with the fact that his lover wanted him to hurt him.
That, he discovered, was dependent on how one defined 'come to terms with'. He was not all right with this. He was still having trouble believing it, because it was so different than anything he'd ever experienced. Of course he'd heard of masochism before, but he didn't understand it. He knew that there was logic behind it, in cases like Phoenix's, but the end result was still completely illogical as far as he was concerned.
His thoughts were still scrambled when the time came to pick up Phoenix, so the two of them could discuss it in private at his apartment. It was the safest place. No children to worry about, no one to potentially overhear. And Miles didn't own any of the sorts of things that Phoenix might be interested in having him try, so there was no threat of Phoenix asking anything of him tonight. They would talk, and that was all.
"You have no idea what a relief this is for me," Phoenix told him, once they were behind closed doors. It showed in his eyes, in his posture. He looked truly relaxed for the first time since that first night he'd stayed over. "I know it's a cliche, but it really does feel like this gigantic weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Knowing that you know, and I don't have to hide it anymore. And you're not upset."
That wasn't entirely true. That gigantic weight that had been lifted off Phoenix's shoulders - Miles knew exactly where it had gone, because it felt as though it were hanging directly over his head. Waiting. Miles said the only thing he could say honestly. "I'm glad you're feeling better."
"Thanks." But Phoenix was never one to take a hint. "What about you? Have you gotten used to the idea at all?"
"I did some research." A good sidestep, Miles thought. "There are... extensive resources online."
Phoenix's lips quirked. "You googled."
"I did," Miles stated, giving his amused lover an exasperated look. "I was not about to go looking in an honest-to-goodness library. They know me there - if they saw me going over books about sadism and bondage and - and bloodplay-"
"Whoa, stop right there, unless you want to finish this conversation some other night. I'm getting weak in the knees already."
His smile was a teasing one, but it also looked pleased. Even hopeful. And just a little too intense. Miles supposed that was what he should have expected if they were going to have a conversation about something that turned Phoenix on, even if it had approximately the opposite effect on him.
He was trying, though. He was really trying. He thought of his early days in the courtroom, when his success had been nearly a foregone conclusion. He had confidence. He was unflappable. "Anyhow, I researched. I'm not familiar with what one might call the 'lifestyle', but I am aware that a great many people practice such activities, and-"
"Hold it!"
Miles gave Phoenix the same kind of look he might have given him from the prosecution's bench. "What?"
"We're not in court," Phoenix reminded him, leaning back on his couch with a lazy grin. "You don't need to repeat things that everyone here already knows. Relax, okay? We already know the backstory."
Sometimes Miles thought that he'd known Wright for far, far too long - it wasn't fair that he was able to see through him like this. "...Fine. I was looking into safety practices. If I'm going to do any of these things to you, I don't want to chance causing any permanent damage."
Phoenix's smile softened. "...Thanks."
Miles was puzzled. "You didn't expect me to be careless, did you?"
"No, but I like the fact you're telling me this beforehand. And that you took the initiative, so I didn't have to teach you."
"You may still have to," Miles admitted. "Perhaps not so much about hygiene, however."
"Yeah, you were always kind of a stickler on that point anyway."
That look on his face was so earnestly happy, just looking at him and talking to him. Miles had to repress the urge to just grab the man and kiss him senseless. The knowledge that it would do very little for Phoenix was frustrating. The knowledge that what would do something for Phoenix would take that happy, contented look away was maddening.
Miles tried to get back to thinking logically about the subject. "...A handful of rules to follow."
"Mmm." Phoenix did look slightly sheepish, despite the happy little hum. "...Rules are nice."
Miles stared at him, and then tried to focus. On something other than how much he loathed Kristoph Gavin. "Anything we use will be sterilized. Before and after. ...I expect I'll have to keep rubbing alcohol on hand."
"There's also heat sterilization," Phoenix suggested. "It has its advantages."
"Such as?"
Phoenix shrugged, looking somewhat self-conscious despite himself. "...It's, uhm, hot?"
Miles hadn't expected that. "...You like burns, too?"
"You hadn't noticed?" Phoenix sat up straighter again, lifting up his shirt and twisting to expose the scars across his back. "See this?" he said, running a finger across one line. "Hot knife. I would have screamed out loud the first time, if he didn't have me gagged."
Miles could almost feel his soul shriveling up.
"And these here," Phoenix continued, lifting the shirt a little higher and turning back to face Miles. "He used to light cigarettes, and put them out on my stomach. ...I don't want you to do that, though," he added, rubbing the cluster of scars absently. "I never cared about him, you know. But you, I wouldn't want you to start smoking. It's bad for you. ...Maybe matchsticks would work."
Miles couldn't believe that of all the things he could think of that were wrong about what he'd just heard, his first thought was of just how unsafe it would be to play with matches in bed; smoking in bed was bad enough. It may have just been that thinking about the rest was too much for him to deal with. "...Do you like that better than being cut?"
Phoenix shook his head. "Generally, no. ...Except the cigarette thing. For some reason..."
Miles bit his lip. And quickly stopped, when he recalled that Phoenix might find that inspiring. Speaking of... "By the way, I'm not biting you again. It's unsanitary."
"That's fine by me, it was just a quick fix. And yeah, I guess it is kind of gross, if you don't have a taste for it."
"I meant unsanitary for you. Do you know how many bacteria live in the average human mouth?" Phoenix only chuckled, so he went on. "Similarly, another rule about knives and other sharp objects - there will be objects for use by you and I, and objects for use in the kitchen. No substitutions."
"Mm... I guess that makes sense." Phoenix sounded a little disappointed, and Miles aimed a questioning look at him. "Oh - well... sometimes, we'd eat dinner together. And then I'd realize what Kristoph was using to cut the... I know it sounds sick," Phoenix conceded, seeing the look on Miles's face. "No big deal."
Because it was sick. All of it was sick, as far as Miles was concerned. "...I'm not him, Phoenix."
"I know." Phoenix nodded. "If you were, I wouldn't be here, talking to you about it and trying to figure out how this is going to work... and feeling like the creepiest person on the face of the earth for getting really turned on by this conversation when I know you're not into it."
Just as Miles had suspected - the matter-of-fact facade Phoenix was giving him was exactly that. "It's all right," Miles lied.
"It's not," Phoenix told him. "I can tell."
Yes... he probably could.
Phoenix's shirt was still riding up, his fingertips still rested beside those ugly scars. Miles wasn't sure what he was doing when he reached out to lay his own fingers on the marks, caressing them lightly. This was what a lover's touch was supposed to do. Not that.
The muscles beneath were tense, and Miles leaned in closer. Not thinking too much about his motives, only following his instinct, he pressed his lips against the marred skin, kissing it softly. He wished he'd been there, he wished he could have put a stop to it, but all he could do was try to make up for it now.
Phoenix took a deep breath as Miles nuzzled against his stomach, and Miles discovered that it wasn't only his stomach muscles that were tense. "...Miles," Phoenix warned him. "Don't start something you won't be able to finish."
He was right. But Miles pressed on anyway, following a jagged scar up to his ribcage and another back down. Phoenix was already aroused, just from talking and thinking about it. Maybe that was all he'd need. And then all this talking was all they would ever have to do.
"Miles..." Phoenix murmured, as Miles's hands worked into his lap to unfasten his pants. "Miles, this isn't..."
But it wasn't working. Just like it hadn't worked the first time.
Phoenix sighed, and put his arms around Miles's shoulders anyway, hugging him tight. "I've still got that razor blade. If you want to give it a try now, before you go out and get a whole new set of cutlery or something."
Miles wanted to say no. Never. And definitely not with an ordinary razor blade. He used them to cut packages open, not people. But, reluctantly, he nodded and pushed himself upright.
Out of habit, he started to lead Phoenix to the bedroom, but Phoenix said no - not unless Miles wanted blood on his sheets. There were ways around that (Miles had even read about some of them already), but they weren't prepared yet; the bathroom would do for a first try. The bathtub, specifically. They could turn on the shower afterwards and wash everything down the drain.
They started to get undressed, and Phoenix pulled the razor blade out of his wallet, leaving it shining on the counter beside the sink, resting on two little foil packets. Miles opened the alcohol swab, to wipe off the blade; as of yet, he had no need for the other packet. He wasn't the slightest bit aroused. When he turned back to Phoenix, already waiting in the shower, however...
Phoenix was reaching up to hold onto the showerhead, showing off the whole length of his scarred torso, as well as a half-hard cock. "I sure hope you can do this," he murmured, eyes half-closed as he looked Miles over. "Just thinking about you doing it's getting me all worked up."
Aside from the posture, which left Phoenix oddly exposed and looking uncharacteristically vulnerable, it brought back memories. Unnerving, perhaps, but Miles felt his own body beginning to respond nonetheless. "...I see."
The problem was, he had no idea how to work up to this, or how to do it in an erotic manner. He stepped over the lip of the tub to join Phoenix, looking him over, and finally just asked. "How should it start?"
"However you want it to."
Miles didn't want it to. "What about what you want?"
Phoenix shrugged - oddly, given the position of his arms. "Part of the thrill is not knowing what exactly is going to happen."
Miles considered this. "...I am somehow not feeling that thrill just yet," he muttered. Just dread. He brought up the razor, watching the expression on Phoenix's face. Phoenix's breath caught, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back. Bracing himself.
Miles looked at the razor in his hand again. This just wasn't how things were supposed to be. This wasn't what that look on Phoenix's face should be rewarded with. Knowing that it was the reward he wanted didn't help.
Changing tactics, he lowered the blade and moved closer, putting his other arm around Phoenix and pressing against him, getting an anticipatory little sound in reply. This was what he was comfortable with, and he needed to be comfortable before he could do something he was this uncomfortable with, he decided. Unfortunately, Phoenix didn't seem to be taking any initiative at all, and that was what made Miles most comfortable. Well - he did know how to top, he told himself, and leaned in to kiss Phoenix.
Phoenix mumbled something into the kiss which sounded slightly impatient. That too was not outside the realm of what Miles considered ordinary, so he largely ignored it, kissing Phoenix more firmly and letting his hands touch where they would. He was pleased when a caress made Phoenix gasp. Not so much when he realized that he'd let the cold metal of the blade brush against Phoenix's skin.
"Come on," Phoenix murmured as Miles got in front of him, hands on his sides, blade tucked away between his fingers as he maneuvered a knee in between Phoenix's. "I'm ready anytime."
I'm not, Miles thought, but he was getting the impression that he wasn't likely to get any more ready in the near future. "All right," he replied, watching Phoenix's eyes close as he raised his hand again, turning the blade and gripping it. He had to look down, to see where it was in relation to Phoenix's skin as he moved. There were multiple scars curving along with his rib cage, so perhaps that was a favorite spot...?
...He didn't want to see this, let alone do it.
But the best way to get over that was to stop thinking about it and just go ahead. Pressing one corner against the flesh, he drew it downward. Easily. Too easily.
Slicing into Phoenix's skin was effortless, and that disturbed him even more than the thin red line that followed in the razor's path, or the shudder that ran through Phoenix's body. It was the last that made his hand still, however. "Are you all right?"
Phoenix nodded. "If anything, I was expecting more."
"...Give me some time."
Given the encouragement, Miles could try again. And again, and a little deeper. Phoenix's breath hissed between his teeth, but he told Miles to keep going. Miles had set himself now, he was concentrating on doing this right, the way Phoenix wanted. Which meant that it wasn't the slightest bit erotic for him anymore, and he'd nearly forgotten that it was supposed to be until Phoenix, nearly beyond words, lowered one hand and began to stroke himself.
This was what made Miles stop entirely. It was unnerving. It was frightening, if he was to be honest, seeing Phoenix bleeding and touching himself. It was something he just couldn't reconcile, and he backed off, leaning against the far wall of the shower area.
Phoenix opened his eyes at the movement, and he moaned quietly, needily. "Miles..."
"I can't do this."
Phoenix's eyes rolled back in his head for a moment, and he groaned. "You can. You're doing fine."
"I can't." Miles wanted to drop the blade - or better yet, fling it somewhere far away, but there was enough reason left in his mind to know that throwing a razor blade to land in some unspecified location in his bathroom, where he spent a great deal of time barefoot, was not a good idea.
"You have to," Phoenix told him. He was almost pleading. "You can't stop now. Not now, Miles... Miles, what do you want me to do? I'll do it, just..."
He wanted... nothing more from Phoenix than for him to calm down and let him bandage those wounds. That was what he wanted, because he wasn't the slightest bit aroused. Miles pinched the blade hard between his thumb and index finger, slippery as they were. He didn't want to look down to see why. He could already see where the sparse trails of red had been interrupted on their path down Phoenix's body.
Looking Phoenix in the eye, on the other hand, painted a different picture. Breathing heavily, tossing his head, eyes gleaming, he looked like Phoenix always had when they were in bed together. ...Except that Miles had never made Phoenix so desperate before. Phoenix had never had to ask.
He was about to, when Miles made himself step forward again. His free hand moved Phoenix's aside, so that he could touch Phoenix directly, and the other drew more red lines across Phoenix's belly. He tried not to think about what that hand was doing, and focused on the way Phoenix's erection strained and twitched in the other as he stroked and pumped. He listened to the harsh sounds Phoenix was making, the grunts and the groans and the panting, and closed his eyes.
Phoenix's utterances were growing louder as his self-control eroded, and then there was a sound like a small cry as his hips bucked up against Miles's fist, flooding Miles's left hand with wet warmth.
A different consistency than the kind that covered his right hand, and Miles dared to look at the razor blade in dismay.
Murmuring something quiet and grateful, Phoenix sagged against the wall under the showerhead, lowering his arms. After a moment to catch his breath, he smiled and pushed himself up again groggily, turning on the water. The smile only lasted until he met Miles's eyes. "...Hey. You did fine. I'm all right." Mostly what registered to Miles was the shakiness, the slight wince as Phoenix moved. As he flipped the water over from the faucet to the shower, he leaned forward, putting his arms around Miles. "...Thanks. I really needed that." Miles didn't know what to do but hold him as the water rinsed the blood from both their bodies.
"...I know you weren't into it," Phoenix mumbled against his neck. "It's okay. We'll learn. For now... I'll make it up to you. Okay?" When he got no reply, he pushed away a little, holding Miles by the shoulders and looking at him seriously. "Okay? ...If we're going to find a way for things to work for us both, we need to talk about it. What we both want. What do you want, Miles?"
His eyes were averted. What he wanted was to get away from anything involving sharp objects and pain and blood. Perhaps a nice warm bathrobe, a cup of tea, and a few nights of watching the snow fall past his window somewhere in Europe. But what he did instead was reach for the washcloth. No soap - that would make the cuts sting - but he could at least wipe away the blood dripping down Phoenix's stomach. Phoenix seemed satisfied with that, resting his head against Miles's shoulder. Miles was not.
When they got out, and Phoenix started rummaging around in his medicine cabinet, that was the point at which he decided he needed to get away. Not for long - he wasn't going to run away from this - but he just needed to sit and collect himself. The warm bathrobe was manageable, at least; he gathered it from his bedroom and settled down on the couch, head in his hands. He felt awful.
At long last, the bathroom door opened again. Presumably finished cleaning up, Phoenix came to stand before Miles again. Only stand. Having expected that Phoenix would sit down next to him, say something comforting and affectionate, Miles looked up when he did not, and saw Phoenix was looking down, fully dressed, expression blank.
"I get the feeling I should leave you alone for awhile."
...Phoenix was scared. There was nothing in his expression or his demeanor that Miles could point to as definite evidence, but somehow he could tell - Phoenix was scared.
Though he wanted nothing more than to get away from this situation and anything that would make him think about it, Miles scooted over on the couch. "...Wright. Sit down."
After a moment, Phoenix sighed and took him up on it. Immediately Miles was slipping an arm around his waist - carefully - and Phoenix hesitantly leaned into him. "Sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't have pushed you into doing that if you weren't comfortable with it."
"You didn't push - you warned me against it," Miles reminded him. "I offered regardless. I'd never become more comfortable with it if I didn't try."
"Trying didn't help, though. It creeped you out, didn't it?" Phoenix shifted in his arms, but didn't quite pull away. "It was sort of obvious."
Miles couldn't refute that. But even so... "It doesn't mean I'm writing you off, if it had occurred to you to wonder. I'm not."
Phoenix noticeably relaxed, settling down with his head on Miles's shoulder. "Thanks. ...I'm trying not to let this be a big deal. But I guess it is."
Miles nodded. "But if we weren't able to get over things that are a big deal, you wouldn't be here in my apartment tonight."
Phoenix nodded against his shoulder, mute, and after a moment, Miles sighed. "Let's go and lie down - it's getting late."
He felt a little worse again when Phoenix took off his shirt and Miles was faced with all the fresh bandages. He should have helped with that - but he just couldn't deal with any more. Not just then. Perhaps tomorrow he could help Phoenix change the dressings. Perhaps they could talk some more.
But for the time being, he was exhausted, and though Phoenix looked just fine, Miles knew he never showed it; he was probably even more drained than Miles was. And just as worried; when they lay down together in Miles's bed, Phoenix seemed distracted, staring up at the ceiling.
After a half hour or so of Miles lying there beside him, one arm over his waist, Phoenix turned over, curling up to lie against Miles's chest. When Miles asked if he was all right - he seemed to be shaking - Phoenix just apologized again. Telling him it wasn't necessary, Miles tightened his arm around him, but it only seemed to make Phoenix shiver more, until he fell asleep at last.
There had been a time, at the beginning, when Kristoph took as much time cleaning and comforting Phoenix afterwards as he did on the rest of the process. He would talk all the while about how sick he was, and how grateful he was to have someone as generous as Phoenix, who would let him do such evil things. He would wash off the blood, apply antibacterial agents, gently bandage him and kiss the wounds. And then he would hold Phoenix, all night. It made the little injuries he'd inflicted not hurt so much, and sometimes Phoenix even wondered if perhaps - despite all his own suspicions - Kristoph really did care for him.
But after a while, as the excuses and apologies faded, so did Kristoph's assistance. Kristoph would do part of the work, but Phoenix was left to do parts of it himself. Sometimes Kristoph licked his skin clean of the blood, and grinned as he told Phoenix to 'go take care of that.' It was, Phoenix thought, part of the game they were playing. Something more he would be rewarded for.
It wasn't until he was sitting in Kristoph's bathroom one night, trying to look over his own shoulder in the mirror to see if the gash there was fully covered by the bandage, that he realized Kristoph never helped him anymore, and hadn't for a long time.
He hadn't particularly missed the self-recrimination or the concern, or the assistance with the bandages. He did, however, miss having Kristoph there with him, healing as well as hurting.
He was in what seemed to be a pizza parlor. Wright was wearing an apron; he worked there, Miles thought. They were talking over the counter about a case, and everything seemed unremarkable, except that Wright had one of those rotary pizza cutters, and kept running it over his own hands. Miles kept having to pause mid-sentence and tell him to stop - he was going to take off a finger if he kept it up.
He was bleeding all over the counter, not that anyone else seemed to notice, or maybe it was sauce - and Miles was getting more and more agitated as time went by. Then, Wright finally put the thing down. "You look stressed," he remarked, with a teasing little smile, and reached out past the counter that apparently wasn't there anymore to grope Miles through his... well, if he'd been wearing pants, which he wasn't, and how had he not noticed that before? All this time, they were in front of a big glass door...
Miles's shock and humiliation faded with a start as his alarm clock went off. He took a deep breath, and it caught; the shock rushed back as he realized he was being groped. He lifted his head to look.
"Morning," Phoenix told him cheerfully from his position under the sheets. "You've been good about putting that thing away when you know I'll be here, but I thought I remembered what time you used to set it for - some things never change, huh?"
"Wright-" Miles croaked. It was not exactly a protest.
"I woke up about ten minutes ago." Phoenix lowered his head, turning his eyes back to what his hands were doing. "And I figured I owe you for last night. I feel kind of bad about it. So why not give you a really good morning?"
"You don't..." Miles's voice trailed off, and he lay back with a sigh, turning off the alarm and then pressing a hand against the side of his head. There was no sense fighting it, he thought, allowing a wry smile - if this was what Phoenix wanted to do, he might as well enjoy it.
Phoenix had a track record of becoming very good, very quickly, at anything he had his mind set on doing well. The times they'd spent together, before the seven years apart, had shown Miles what a quick study he could be, and twenty minutes later, Miles was spent and exhausted, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch his breath as Phoenix settled at his side again. "I'm going to be late for work," he muttered, wriggling a little to slip an arm under Phoenix's shoulders.
"No you're not," Phoenix pointed out. "You're just not going to be an hour and a half early."
Exasperated grey eyes met laughing blues, and rather than argue the point, Miles pulled his head down to kiss him. It was nice to have a little while where everything was so normal.
But kissing was as far as it was going to go, even if he hadn't been running behind schedule. When Phoenix drew back, he wasn't smiling anymore. "I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have... well, I don't know what I should have done differently, but obviously it didn't go smoothly. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too," Miles told him.
Phoenix closed his eyes, snuggling against him. "...For which part?"
"Hmmm?"
"For changing your mind halfway?" Phoenix asked. "I understand - you don't have to be sorry for that. Or for hurting me? You don't have to be sorry for that, either, because I wanted you to. And I appreciate the fact you gave it a chance."
Suddenly lying there with Phoenix, watching the room brighten little by little, wasn't so comfortable. A new day was dawning in more than one sense, and Miles didn't know what it would hold.
He did know a small part of what he needed to do, however. "How are you feeling?" he asked, resting his fingers lightly on the bandages over Phoenix's ribs.
Phoenix thought for a moment. "Physically? I feel great. Everything stings a little, but that stopped being a bad thing a long time ago."
Since he'd specified, Miles had to ask. "Other than physically?"
"Worried."
"...Me too."
They just lay there a little longer, in each other's arms. Finally, Phoenix spoke. "I don't want to make you do anything you hate doing."
"I know you don't."
Though Miles wished they could just stop it there, Phoenix went on. "So I've been thinking about options. You know I spent a lot of my life without any sort of regular sex partner, so if I have to go without, I'll manage."
Miles didn't care for that idea - the thought of having Phoenix right there, and not being able to do any of the things they used to enjoy...
"But that means I either shut you out, or I'm getting you off and you're not getting me off," Phoenix went on to say. "The first one's unfair - this is my problem, and you shouldn't have to bear the burden. And I know you won't agree to the second one. Unless..."
He sounded reluctant. "Unless...?"
"...There are people who specialize in this sort of thing. Professionals. It wouldn't have to be romantic - just sexual."
Which was exactly what Miles had thought he was getting into, the first time he'd ever invited Phoenix to his apartment years ago. Just something sexual. He couldn't very well deny any longer that it was something far more, especially when his heart pounded so painfully at the thought of someone else giving Phoenix what he couldn't. It made some sense, but he still hated it.
"Professionals..." he muttered. "I wonder, if I were to track down an excellent therapist, if we could get this straightened out."
"You mean me needing pain? Or you being afraid to give it to me?"
Miles just shook his head - he wasn't willing to come that close to assigning blame to either of them this early in the morning, while they were still in bed and at least one of them was post-orgasmic.
Phoenix sighed, and rested his head against Miles's shoulder. "All I know is that I'm not giving you up if I have anything to say about it. I spent fifteen years chasing after you, even when I didn't realize that's what I was doing."
"And I'm not about to waste your efforts," Miles agreed, tightening his arms around Phoenix. "So don't worry."
Phoenix squeezed him in return. "...Thanks."
They lay there a little while longer, until the thought that had been nagging at Miles grew too troublesome to ignore. "...I'm running behind schedule, and I definitely need a shower now."
Phoenix laughed softly and nodded, moving to let him up. "I could stand to clean up a little myself."
Miles found himself slightly wary of his own shower, after the night before. If there had been any traces of what he'd done remaining after they ran the water for a while, Phoenix had obviously cleaned them up; the tub was spotless. The idle thought crossed his mind - no wonder, he's so accomplished at cleaning toilets, and may have expanded to other bathroom fixtures - and Miles could let himself smile as he climbed in.
Phoenix didn't need a shower, but he did start peeling off the bandages while Miles gave himself a quick scrub. When Miles turned off the water and emerged, he found Phoenix examining the fresh cuts in the mirror. Now scabbed over, there seemed to be more cuts than Miles remembered inflicting, and he grimaced, opening the cabinet to look for his own tube of antibacterial ointment. And for that matter, "I'm surprised you managed to find enough first aid material to take care of all that - I rarely have the need to bandage extensive injuries."
To his mild annoyance, Phoenix laughed. "Miles, I wouldn't count this as 'extensive injuries'. I don't think it would have been enough if it had been anyone but you doing it - it probably won't even leave scars."
"Thank goodness," Miles muttered, taking the top off the tube - not as full as it had been, he noted - and spreading some of the gel on his fingertips. "Keep using this, and it should help with that."
Phoenix quieted as Miles carefully brushed his fingers over the shallow wounds, covering them with the ointment. "...To be honest, Miles... I kind of hoped I would get a scar or two out of this."
"Why?" Miles's eyes squinted at his abdomen in the glare of the light over the sink, making sure he'd gotten every inch. "You hardly need more scars."
"Yeah, but they're all from Kristoph," Phoenix explained quietly. "That's all they make me think of - times when he was doing these things to me. I wouldn't mind having another, if it was from you. You, cutting me because I asked you to."
Miles froze. Only for a moment before he reached for the roll of gauze (also rather depleted), but it was long enough that Phoenix caught it. "Does that creep you out? Sorry."
Slowly, Miles shook his head. "On the contrary," he murmured. "Just for an instant... I think I understood that."
It was sick, yes, but it made sense. The rest of the fetish, not so much, but to think of the resulting scars as snapshots, memories of the times a partner gave you pleasure...
And to think that his partner only had such reminders of Kristoph irritated him greatly.
This could be a starting point. This could be something he could use.
He was so distracted by the realization that he'd at least begun to understand that he didn't even bother to glare at Payne when the man smarmily asked him why he was at the office only fifteen minutes early today.
Jealousy, oneupsmanship. Marking one's territory as one's own. These were things Miles understood, having been raised by such a perfectionist as Manfred von Karma, alongside such a perfectionist as Franziska. Kristoph had had a strong competitive streak as well, a need to prove himself as the best, or so Miles understood from records of the defiant testimonies he'd given during his trials. It stood to reason that the same urges which he'd dared to give into when he set Phoenix up with the forged evidence may have led to his desire to dominate Phoenix so completely.
Miles was acquainted with the desire for revenge, a counter-attack - but unlike Kristoph, or von Karma, he knew that giving in to such a degree was the sign of an unsound mind. Miles was not mad; he never would even have considered letting it go so far as to kill a rival, or even harm him. No, Miles had always proved his superiority by simply being better.
But he did understand where such urges came from. He was uncomfortable with examining them, but he could relate. And there were any number of essays he'd found online during his research that stressed the point: provoking pain as part of a consensual arrangement did not mean that the sadist was likely to harm anyone except the partner who agreed to be harmed. It may provide relief from one's frustrations, but it was not directed at the world at random or in general. It was directed at a specific person who was willing and prepared, and responsibility was acknowledged; a role one stepped into, and then out of.
In other words, Kristoph Gavin was the exception, not the rule. Being a prosecutor, Miles considered himself very well acquainted with rules, and certainly much better with them than Kristoph. Knowing this, Miles thought, was moving him closer to the point where he might be capable of the kinds of things Phoenix wanted done to him, or at least some of them that he'd mentioned. He prepared, buying a few supplies...
Blades, however, he couldn't manage. The idea of making Phoenix bleed - making anyone bleed - made him retreat from his propositions. He couldn't manage to even discuss it further, lest Phoenix get his hopes up as he had before, and then Miles would have to follow through... He'd spent nearly half his life living with the guilt of presumably having killed his father. He didn't care to relive similar feelings with a lover.
He considered, briefly, contacting Franziska. She never had any qualms about causing physical harm to people. Quickly he decided he didn't want to have to explain why he was asking, and abandoned the idea. He was very glad that he did, when shortly thereafter it occurred to him that he also wasn't so sure he wanted to hear any answers she might have given; there were things that one just didn't want to know about his siblings.
Phoenix came over and spent the night, as he had been doing, but all they could do was sleep. Talk, sometimes, about what Phoenix had been through and what he might want, and what Miles was capable of, but it always ended in sleep. It was better than sleeping alone, but Miles suspected that Phoenix was as tense and frustrated about it as he was.
There was a degree of progress, however. Phoenix took his shirt off under the bathroom lights, and Miles would inspect the wounds he'd inflicted - they were, as expected, healing quickly without any danger of scarring. It didn't take long, only a few weeks, before he couldn't even find where they had been anymore.
Amongst the maze of scars inflicted by Kristoph, which stood out bright and strong. It continued to make Miles irritable, this constant reminder of Kristoph's existence, an aspect of him perpetually present in their lives.
For long minutes after he'd confirmed that his own marks had healed, his fingers traced the area, caressing the abused skin as Phoenix leaned back against him, his own hands resting on Miles's wrists and watching both of them in the mirror. "...And you did all this for information?" Miles murmured.
Phoenix gave him a slight nod. "That's how it started, anyway."
"Was it worth it?"
"I thought so," Phoenix admitted. "Up until I realized what he'd really done to me. Even then, I didn't mind so much, until I saw the look on your face when I told you."
Miles closed his eyes, just holding Phoenix against him. "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for being normal," Phoenix told him. Yet again. "In fact... I bet this was his insurance."
"Mmm...?"
"He probably did it intentionally. So even if his plans fell through, he'd still have a hold on me. So I couldn't be with anyone but him, even after he was gone. And I would never even know unless I was unfaithful to him, so I couldn't call him on it."
Given some of Kristoph's other acts, the nail polish left with Vera Misham and the like, the idea wasn't far-fetched. Miles could feel his blood burning; never, in all his days in the courtroom, had he ever so badly wanted to prove a defense attorney wrong.
He opened his eyes again. "Phoenix..."
"Hmm?"
"I... hadn't managed to admit to it yet..." But he wanted, very badly, to at least make some overtures. "I've purchased some things recently."
Phoenix quirked an eyebrow at him in the mirror. "Oh...?"
"More gauze and ointments. ...Cords, scarves..."
Phoenix's eyes widened just a little. "...You did, huh?"
Miles nodded against the side of his head. Having Phoenix look impressed rather than worried made him feel better about it. "I also happened to stumble upon a particular site while, er..." He did still feel silly saying it, however. "...while it was running a special on shackles."
Definitely impressed - Phoenix blinked. "Seriously?"
"I haven't managed to get up the nerve to buy anything I'm not sure I'll be able to use," Miles admitted. "But you'd mentioned being gagged, tied up... I'm sure I can do that much. And perhaps, if we start slow..."
"...Wow. Miles..." Phoenix was speechless for a moment, before he turned to look at Miles face to face, instead of in the mirror, hands on his shoulders. "...Why'd you buy that stuff, though? I mean, scarves are a dime a dozen at my place, thanks to Trucy - and working in law enforcement, I'd have thought you'd be able to get your hands on some shackles pretty easily."
"I could have..." But aside from the humiliation of asking for such things, and the possibility of someone cracking a joke about what he might want them for - and him giving it away by blushing - "I told you before that anything the two of us are going to be using will be specifically for us. No other purposes - just for our play."
"Well, yeah, but if you aren't sure you're okay with it..."
"I'm fine with this much," Miles told him again. "Restraint is one thing. Physical injury is another. It's an experiment I can afford."
Phoenix just looked at him, and a wondering smile spread across his lips as he leaned in, hugging Miles tight. "Do you have any idea how glad I am you're willing to give any of this a try?"
Miles couldn't help smiling himself at the look on Phoenix's face. "Some idea, perhaps." Phoenix's obvious enthusiasm encouraged him - to the point that he felt silly for having been so reluctant to admit his purchases. "...Would you want to try it tonight, then?"
"Are you kidding?"
Not so unfortunately, Miles was usually not the person who was responsible for restraining criminals upon making arrests, particularly criminals who were likely to resist. His experience had largely been with handcuffing already-resigned suspects who did as they were told, and letting Gumshoe or others take over if they began to resist. Blindfolding Phoenix was easy enough, but the shackles... He didn't have any particularly creative ideas, nothing beyond shackling ankles and wrists together. But Phoenix could feel what he was doing, and once he'd pointed out that wrists could be shackled to ankles and the chains twisted together...
Miles had to admit that the sight of Phoenix face down on his bed, naked and blindfolded and shackled with ankles and wrists behind his back, was an intriguing one. The sight was more specifically erotic than the sight of someone bleeding, of course, and if he had had any uncertainty about it at all, it helped that Phoenix was grinning. "So now that you've got me where you want me... what are you going to do to me?"
That was a very good question. Although... "...I'm not sure what I could do to you, with you locked in that particular configuration of limbs."
"I could think of some things, if you want suggestions." Phoenix hesitated. "I'm not sure how well they'd work on me, though."
Miles paced somewhat, walking around the bed to look at his work from another angle. "You're not in pain, I take it."
"Discomfort, yes - pain no."
He wasn't entirely surprised, but he had had hopes. "So bondage isn't enough."
"No, but it's nice," Phoenix replied. "As foreplay goes."
Miles thought he agreed. He was still dressed, and beginning to wish that he wasn't.
Especially when Phoenix squirmed. "To be honest... in this position you probably can't tell, but I'm so turned on right now."
Miles wished he hadn't said that - so was he. "...But I'm still not comfortable with hurting you," he muttered. "It wouldn't go anywhere, would it?"
"Probably not," Phoenix admitted, squirming again. "Except for you. But we could try."
Miles paced around the bed again, considering the position. This time, he didn't try so hard to ignore how hard he was getting, seeing Phoenix's body taut and writhing, his head tilted upwards as if trying to see despite the blindfold, his breaths short and quick. Of course, even if he gave in, he was fairly certain that it would not be a comfortable position for either of them, if it were even possible with Phoenix contorted in such a way.
Phoenix shivered a little as Miles sat down on the bed beside him, stroking his hair. "I'm willing to try," Miles told him. "But first, we'll see what you think of another position."
The trick was that he needed Phoenix's legs up and out of the way, but the restraint had to be done in a way that couldn't easily be escaped. After some critical thinking, a little experimentation, and switching out of some of the restraints, Miles managed to find an answer - Phoenix's wrists were attached to the headboard of his bed with the shackles, and the length of cord between his ankles was run through a few links of the chain, leaving enough give for him to move, but forcing him to keep his legs up, almost bending him double. It may not have been a particularly interesting position, Miles admitted as he considered his handiwork, but he couldn't say it wasn't pleasureable to look at. The sight of Phoenix flat on his back, legs in the air, wriggling uncomfortably to try to relieve some of the frustration of a full erection... The main reason Miles hadn't gotten undressed before he began this was because he suspected he might never get around to finishing it otherwise.
Before he could get around to removing his own clothing, however, he had to ask. "What do you think of this?"
Phoenix squirmed again, grimacing beneath the blindfold. "I think that if you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to lose my mind."
Miles didn't need to hear any more, and unzipped his pants.
But as they'd feared, it wasn't quite enough. No matter how hard Miles pounded into him, no matter how rough the strokes of his hands, Phoenix couldn't come. He moaned, he strained, he leaked, but ten minutes of effort past Miles's own orgasm - which, he had to admit, had been mind-blowing enough to leave him dazed, so he was not in top form - and still Phoenix had no relief. He was panting, practically sobbing, when he finally told Miles to let it go, it was all right.
Obviously it wasn't. But Miles didn't know what else to do. ...No, he did, but he just wasn't prepared to do it. And Phoenix knew it, and he wasn't begging for it, and Miles appreciated that. He still felt terrible, though, as he drew back. "...You're sure?"
Phoenix nodded. "Worse things have happened," he admitted, though in a wheezing whisper. "It'll pass."
Miles wasn't sure what he should be doing, in that case. "Do you want me to stay here?" he asked. "Or will that just make it worse?"
"I don't know..." Phoenix mumbled. "I just... I don't know."
After some considering, Miles decided it would be best to leave him alone to calm down. If he didn't, his urge was going to be to try to help, to keep trying to bring him to completion, and that wasn't going to work. Better to remove himself from the temptation to drag it out longer. He could go wash up a bit... and maybe Phoenix would have relaxed by the time he got out of the shower.
But as he was gathering his pajamas, he found he couldn't ignore the sound of Phoenix's breathing, harsh and desperate and miserable. This wasn't fair at all. They'd both expected all along that this was how it would end, and even though Phoenix had been willing to agree to it anyway, Miles shouldn't have been.
And Phoenix's pants were still on the floor by the bed.
Miles closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and went for Phoenix's wallet.
Phoenix actually cringed when Miles sat down on the bed again, and Miles had to remind himself - that wasn't why. He was blindfolded, he didn't know. "Phoenix," he murmured, running a finger up the back of one thigh.
The sound Phoenix made was almost unbearable in its frustrated need. "I'm okay," he groaned.
"So am I," Miles told him, as much for his own reassurance as Phoenix's, and he grasped Phoenix's knee, hesitating for a moment before drawing the razor blade down the path his fingers had taken.
Phoenix actually cried out, and Miles almost dropped the blade as Phoenix's body jerked. Before he could apologize, though, Phoenix's words were tumbling over themselves on the way out, thank you and please and yes, yes, yes. At the next stroke, his body twisted in its bonds, and finally he found completion, stickiness gushing out over his thighs and his stomach. Miles didn't think he'd ever seen a man come so hard... but he'd never seen a man hang on for so long without, either.
Phoenix's face was turned into his own shoulder, his arms still held above his head, and even without being able to see his eyes past that blindfold, Miles could tell from the way his teeth were bared and the way his shoulders shook that he was trying not to cry. "Thanks..." Phoenix murmured. "Miles..."
Miles leaned in closer, and was troubled when Phoenix twitched at his touch. "Are you all right?"
Phoenix nodded. "Just give me a minute to come down, okay?" he mumbled. Miles hummed something affirmative, and reached up, but Phoenix shook his head when he felt the touch on the cords that held his legs up. "No, no - leave it. Give me a minute. This is good."
Miles didn't understand how it could be - it seemed like a very uncomfortable position to him - but he'd respect Phoenix's wishes. "All right," he agreed softly, getting to his feet. The soiled razor blade was still cupped in one palm. "...I'm going to start cleaning up," he told Phoenix, and Phoenix nodded, his breaths evening out.
The blade was easily dealt with, and so was the mess on Miles's hands. A damp washcloth took care of the worst of the rest of him. It didn't give him much time to think about what he'd done at all.
To his surprise, he wasn't sure that he needed to. It hadn't been so bad. Phoenix had obviously needed something, and Miles had given it to him. He hadn't done anything that would seriously hurt Phoenix, of course, and what he'd done had made Phoenix feel good. At least, it seemed like it at the time. He was acting strangely afterwards, but not in such a way that it seemed he regretted it. Still, Miles was a little concerned.
When he returned to the bedroom, he brought the rubbing alcohol and other supplies with him, as well as the damp washcloth. Phoenix seemed to have settled down, at least as much as it was possible for one to do while his arms and legs were being held above his head. His head was tilted back on the pillow; his breathing was even and deep. It was possible he was so worn out, Miles thought, that he'd fallen asleep. "Phoenix?" he whispered from beside the bed.
So much for sleep - Phoenix smiled at the sound of his voice. "I'm all right. I just had to... I don't know, it's hard to explain," he said finally. "But I'm okay. I'm glad you came back."
"I don't know how exactly I would have managed not coming back," Miles pointed out, sitting down at his side, "seeing as this is my bedroom."
Phoenix chuckled, and then jumped as the washcloth swiped between his legs. "Sorry, I had no idea what that was for a second," he said, laughing a little bit again. Right - still blindfolded, he had no warning of these things. Miles left the washcloth where it was on Phoenix's stomach for a moment, reaching up to the scarf with a murmured apology, but Phoenix shook his head again. "It's okay... it's interesting."
"Is it...?" Phoenix nodded, and Miles resumed washing him. "...This is easier with your legs up like this," he observed. "Or are you tired of this position?"
"Not really. It's not as uncomfortable as it probably looks - I could probably hold it all night."
"...That might be pushing it." Now that Phoenix was moderately cleaned off, Miles reached for the alcohol and ointments. "But if you can continue for just a little longer, I'll take care of this."
Phoenix relaxed with a small sigh, remaining still while Miles cleaned and bandaged the cuts on his thigh. It was thoroughly strange, the way he was so at peace after all of that. While still tied up, even. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I shouldn't have made you do that."
"You didn't make me," Miles informed him firmly. "My own conscience made me."
There was a soft laugh. "Thanks. ...I'm not sure I believe you, though."
"Well, you should." In fact, as Miles kept on working, enjoying the feel of Phoenix relaxing under his hands - even if his position was still anything but relaxing - he let himself think about it. "...I think that was all right." No guilt... mild concern, but that was vanishing quickly, now that Phoenix was sounding more like himself. And Phoenix didn't seem to have any regrets.
"Good - so we managed to get it together once," Phoenix said. "I think it's a good sign. Things will get easier from now on."
Miles nodded slightly, before remembering that Phoenix couldn't see it. Having finished the bandaging, he reached up again to undo the cord that bound Phoenix's ankles, but paused first. "Are you ready?"
"I am. ...Sorry if I got weird on you earlier," Phoenix told him as he began to work at the knots. "It was... I don't know how to explain it, really. The best way I can think of to put it sounds stupid: it was like I found a happy place, and I wanted to stay there just a little longer."
Miles, as was the norm when they discussed these things, didn't fully understand. "...So you wanted to stay tied up?"
Phoenix opened his mouth to speak, and yawned widely instead before he could manage it. "I wanted it to go on forever."
He'd only unknotted one ankle, and he carefully helped Phoenix lower it - he'd had his legs drawn up for... he wasn't even sure how long, probably more than an hour. The end of the cord he'd untied was easy to slip back through the chains by Phoenix's wrists, freeing the other ankle, and Miles bent down to untie that one. "But you're all right now?"
"Yeah." Phoenix hesitated. "But I wouldn't mind doing that again."
"That position?"
"I don't know if it was the position or..." Phoenix's voice drifted off, and shrugged as well as he could with his hands still shackled. "I don't know - it just... Can we talk about it later? I'm really tired."
It was no wonder. Miles nodded, and wound the cord around his hand, coiling it to set it aside. But then, when he reached up to unlock the shackles, Phoenix stirred. "...I meant it when I said I could keep this up all night."
"That's absurd." He looked back to Phoenix, who was harder to read with the blindfold on. He wasn't serious, was he? "Are you seriously suggesting that I leave you all night with your hands shackled to my headboard?"
"Well, maybe not leave me. I'd rather you stayed." Though drowsy, and fading quickly, Phoenix's voice was still teasing. "Unless it would bother you."
Miles's hand dropped to Phoenix's shoulder. "Is that what you want? To stay bound?"
Phoenix nodded. "...I don't know why. I guess I like being at your mercy. Because it's you."
Miles paused to think about it. He wasn't sure - was it something like the scars? The way Phoenix was talking about it made it sound like a similar issue, but there was so much that Miles just couldn't wrap his head around about this whole matter.
But he was trying to learn how to best please Phoenix, and just the blindfold and shackled wrists wasn't so mad as the legs as well. "...Fine, then. I'll keep you tied to my bed until I see fit to release you." The tone of his voice probably didn't convey how bewildered he was; he tried to sound firm. Dominant. That was what Phoenix wanted, if not exactly what he most needed, and he could manage the former while he was working on the latter.
"Mmm..." Phoenix hummed happily, smiling blindly up at the ceiling. "That was fairly convincing. Now if we can only get you to suggest these things on your own..."
Miles didn't get it. But he understood more than he had when this all surfaced, and he would come to understand more in time. In the meantime, Phoenix sounded half-asleep, and he was feeling rather tired himself. Even if it was a little early, the best thing for them to do now was sleep. Tied up, or otherwise.
Given how exhausted they both seemed to be, and the fact that Phoenix at least was unlikely to rest easily, Miles reached for his clock as he pushed the sheets back and lay down at Phoenix's side. It was a weekday, after all. "How long will you need to get ready for your time at the courthouse tomorrow?" he inquired, clicking the display over to the alarm settings.
Phoenix just started laughing. "Miles, I love you, but you're the worst dom ever."
It was a dubious insult, but Miles bristled a little anyway. "I didn't say," he said brusquely, trying to recover, "that I'd release you then."
"That's more like it," Phoenix admitted, and yawned again. But then he made a sound that was almost a giggle. "More like you'd release me with plenty of time to get showered and shaved and ready and to have a nice breakfast before then," he murmured.
Which had, in fact, been exactly what Miles was planning to set the alarm for. ...On second thought, he decided, Phoenix was asking for it. "You caught me," he said with a smirk, and set the alarm clock for one hour later than usual - and the clock itself two hours ahead. If Phoenix wanted limitations and pressures, he could do that. But he'd do it on his own terms.
Given his having gone to bed early, it was no surprise when Miles woke before his alarm. On the other hand, it was a surprise to turn his head and see what the clock displayed - but only long enough for him to remember, and smile. He stretched idly, and got up briefly before settling down again, his arm resting over Phoenix, who seemed to be fast asleep despite the shackles.
It was truly odd, how this could be comfortable.
The next time Miles woke, it was to the beeping of the alarm clock, and Phoenix was stirring beneath his arm. "...G'morning," Phoenix mumbled. "Already...?"
"It appears so," Miles agreed. "How are you feeling?"
Phoenix smiled, tilting his head in Miles's direction. "Pretty good. A little stiff, but..."
"Excellent." Then Miles didn't have too many reservations about going through with his plans, and he moved to sit up. "I'll go take a quick shower while you wake yourself up."
"...Uh, okay, but..." Phoenix hadn't been expecting that, it seemed, and he called after Miles tentatively as he exited the bedroom. "Hey, Miles...? I'm about ready for... hmm."
Miles smirked, and pretended not to have heard, turning on the water. He didn't bother actually showering, of course. There was little point, since he had other intentions for the morning.
Phoenix had hardly moved by the time Miles returned - not that he had a whole lot of choice about the matter, but that seemed to be wearing thin. "Miles?"
"Yes?" Miles set down a few things he'd brought from the bathroom, by the clock on the nightstand.
"I think I'm about done with these shackles. My shoulders are kind of stiff."
"I would imagine so," Miles observed, sitting down at his side, pushing the bathrobe from off his shoulders. "With your arms having been held above your head all night."
"Yeah, exactly. Maybe that wasn't the best idea..."
"Perhaps. However, I'm sure their condition can be improved with a little massage."
"Ahh..." Phoenix grinned as Miles leaned over him. "That sounds-" He was taken somewhat by surprise when, rather than releasing his wrists, Miles simply rolled him over onto his stomach, causing the chains above his head to twist together.
Miles was cautious of where Phoenix's wrists were, made certain that Phoenix's head was supported by a pillow, and listened for any sound of serious protest as he maneuvered Phoenix into a more useful position. Instead of a protest, Phoenix just laughed, surprised and delighted, and Miles began his work.
Phoenix's shoulders were indeed stiff, and that was where Miles started, but that wasn't where he intended to end. His hands worked gradually downward, encouraged at first by Phoenix's contented hums, and then by the deeper breaths he took as Miles's hands found their way to his hips, his buttocks, his thighs. Miles was careful not to stroke too hard there, mindful of the bandages from the night before, and conscious of the increasing tension in Phoenix's backside, eventually tugged them apart, kneeling between Phoenix's knees. "I take it you've recovered from last night?" he inquired, his hands continuing to work Phoenix's inner thighs.
"Mm-hmm," Phoenix agreed, dazed and half-muffled in the pillow, and then groaned as Miles's fingers slid up between his legs, probing for a split second before retreating. "Ohhh yeah, definitely recovered. But, well... I know we didn't talk about it last night. So..."
Miles did have all of this planned out, assuming that Phoenix was in any condition for sex, which he certainly seemed to be. But he paused for a second, something having occurred to him at the sight of Phoenix wriggling under his hands, tilting his rear up expectantly...
"I mean, you know I can't get off without... well. You know what I need. And I know you were okay with it last night, but now that you've had some time to think about it..."
He'd been told often enough that he lacked spontaneity, and Miles thought this was a good time to change that.
"Are you okay with doi-"
Phoenix's voice cut off and his body jerked as Miles brought his hand down flat against Phoenix's rump with a loud smack.
Miles waited for a further reaction, more telling than just a startled gasp and stunned silence. "...Okay," Phoenix said at last, breathless, "what brought that on?"
"You provided me with a very inviting target," Miles stated. He still didn't have an answer, though, so he asked. "What do you think?"
"Not enough to get me off," Phoenix began. "But unexpected. Unexpected is good."
Which was what Miles had suspected, judging from what he'd observed in the past with Phoenix. "I'll keep that in mind," he murmured, caressing the place where his hand had landed, keeping his thumb out to tease between Phoenix's legs. And then, without warning, another sharp slap. When Phoenix's hips rose, Miles noted with satisfaction that he was indeed properly aroused now. Further discussion could be left for later.
Miles did try it a few more times, with pleasing results, the gasping of his name and the startled little sounds Phoenix made, but as Phoenix had expected, it wasn't enough pain to allow him completion. That was fine; Miles hadn't expected to be doing any spanking in the first place, and after he'd finished - and driven Phoenix to practically the point of exhaustion, he reached for the razor blade he'd left on the nightstand.
Once Phoenix had thoroughly soiled his bedsheets, Miles reached up and unlocked the shackles around his wrists. Still dizzy and panting for his breath, Phoenix didn't lower his tired arms right away; instead, they went around Miles, squeezing him tight and pulling him back down on the mattress.
Next time, Miles thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd bandage the fresh cuts before he freed Phoenix. He was fairly sure that his sheets were going to be even tedious to clean now. But he couldn't very well deny that it was worth it, with Phoenix laughing in his arms.
It didn't take so long to care for the new cuts, since he had everything ready right there at the nightstand, and could so conveniently straddle Phoenix's knees as Phoenix lay on his stomach, relaxed and sated. He himself had almost forgotten his plot from the night before - everything had gone so much more smoothly than he'd been expecting - until he untied the scarf over Phoenix's eyes, and after blinking a couple of times, Phoenix glanced over at the clock. Instantly his eyes widened. "I forgot it was a work day," he muttered, starting to get out from under Miles in a hurry. "How did it get so late?"
"I set the alarm for an hour later than usual," Miles informed him, trying not to smirk now that Phoenix could see it. "Since you seemed to like the idea of having some additional pressure placed on you..."
"Yeah, but you're going to be late now too," Phoenix told him, getting up. "Not just 'not really early', but late - you should have already left, you're not even dressed yet, now you need a shower..."
"You go ahead," Miles suggested. "I'll see what's in the kitchen that we can eat in the car - just be quick."
Phoenix took his advice to heart - by the time he'd emerged, frantically towelling off his head and with a shirt hanging unbuttoned from his shoulders, Miles had only just put on the eggs, and the kettle wasn't even quite hot enough to pour. Phoenix looked at him in disbelief. "Miles, we don't have time for a real breakfast - look at the time-"
"Oh?" Miles interrupted him, letting that smirk show freely as he gestured to the microwave's display. "Perhaps you should look at the time."
Phoenix did. He squinted at it from under the towel, and frowned in confusion. "...What the hell...? I could have sworn the alarm clock said..."
"It did," Miles explained simply. "Do you honestly think that I would put my professional image at risk because you were hoping for some additional pressure?" Phoenix still looked blank, so he elaborated. "I set it two hours ahead. You get your punishment for lazing in bed, I get to work on time."
Phoenix just stared at him for a long time. Then he dropped the towel to his shoulders, laughing. "I knew you could be a jerk, Miles, but I didn't really expect you'd be okay with doing it on purpose."
Miles just smiled; he couldn't be too offended. "I'm getting there," he murmured - and the tea kettle's whistle briefly derailed their conversation, as he got out two cups.
The pretense had dropped, slowly, over the course of years. Phoenix hadn't even noticed it going until it was gone. Sometimes there was nothing at all except the blades and the cigarettes and the ropes, and Phoenix was shocked one day when he tried to remember when was the last time Kristoph had even bothered touching him in a sexual way. He couldn't remember. The two were blurred together in his mind, true enough, but every time he thought he had a memory within the last six months, closer examination revealed nothing but pain.
There was no help with the aftercare. Kristoph was pleasant enough in conversation, hinting at the idea they had a relationship, but he offered nothing when it came to following through. Which was, in a sense, perfectly fine with Phoenix - they never had had a relationship in truth, after all - but he had to wonder. Did Kristoph even realize that their cover had slipped away? Or was he too far gone to remember that once he had treated Phoenix kindly? Or perhaps it was all part of the game Kristoph had started them playing, deeper than Phoenix had expected.
It would have been enough to make Phoenix put a stop to it, but he couldn't. Not for the sake of his investigation, not because Kristoph didn't offer him the opportunity to go.
He'd stayed because he wanted it. He craved it. Every chance he got, he returned to Kristoph's bed, to his easily-cleaned hardwood floors. To the nonchalant scribbled note he would wake to find, with neither the name of the writer or the recipient, saying that he was free to whatever he might find in the refrigerator.
His excuse had been that it was better than nothing, but he'd begun to think that the lines carved into him were, in addition to memories of pleasure, a tally of unredeemable sins. The next time would bring punishment for the last, but it would add one more line to the total. He was never going to be able to catch up.
Miles had thought Phoenix was putting it off. Not for long, as it turned out - Phoenix was inclined to discuss what they were doing, what they'd done, over breakfast.
"I really appreciate it... all you did for me. Or to me. However you want to think of it."
His voice was soft, a little wistful, and Miles looked up from his eggs and toast to see Phoenix looking back. "I didn't do all that much," he stated. He wasn't really not inclined to discuss it.
"You did things you didn't want to do," Phoenix pointed out. "Because I wanted you to do them."
Miles pondered for a moment before answering. "Very little of what we've done in the last twenty-four hours were things I would have definitely preferred not to do," he clarified. "The majority of what we did - the shackles, the blindfold, the unusual positions and the spanking and the pushing you around - those were merely things that I had no particular desire to do."
"You did them pretty well so far."
"I like to think I'll get better with some practice," Miles muttered. "I suppose I'll have to thank you, for letting me use you as a guinea pig."
Phoenix made a face. "Don't tell me you'd do things like that to a guinea pig - that's awful." At the look Miles was giving him, he grinned. "I'm serious! Guinea pigs are adorable, all cute and chubby and squeaky. I don't get how anyone who's ever met one could even think of using th-"
"Enough, Wright." Miles took another sip from his cup. "You're off-topic out of the courtroom as often as you were off-topic in it."
"Yeah..." Phoenix sobered slightly. "Seriously... so you're willing to do that some more?"
Miles nodded. "It wasn't so bad."
"What about the parts that you do prefer not to do?"
Miles set his cup down, thinking. "...Also not so terrible this time." Phoenix's hopeful look made him smile, just a little. "I thought about it, while trying to fall asleep, and some more this morning. About why it wasn't as disturbing this time. I think it was because it wasn't the main focus in what we were doing - more of an afterthought."
"Heh." Phoenix chuckled. "Maybe for you. I kept thinking about it... wishing for it, so I could get into it as much as you were getting into it. I miss being with you like that. Mutually."
Miles stared down into his tea. "...I'm not ready for it to take center stage just yet, Phoenix. The only reason I could cut you at all was because you were desperate. It was guilt that made me seek out your razor blade."
"Ah." Phoenix's amusement vanished. "Sorry."
"Don't be," Miles told him. "As I said, it wasn't so bad. Not when I wasn't thinking about it for long before doing it." Even if Phoenix had been. "Despite wanting the pain, were you enjoying yourself at all beforehand?" It wouldn't do to find a way he could mostly enjoy sex with Phoenix again, if Phoenix wasn't enjoying most of it as well.
Fortunately, Phoenix nodded emphatically. "Absolutely. Being restrained like that, with you doing things to me - it was driving me crazy. In a good way," he added quickly. "Actually, it was making me all that much crazier, thinking it wasn't going to go anywhere in the end."
"So perhaps the key," Miles suggested, "is not to expect anything. On either of our behalfs."
But he knew, deep down. Seeing Phoenix lying there, wriggling and panting and needing to find relief, would always be enough to make him pick up the blade. Even if his mind shied away from the thought now, guilt would take over again. Guilt had, after all, driven him to do any number of things he wouldn't ordinarily have approved of.
"Maybe," Phoenix agreed, picking up his own cup to take another drink. "So the uncertainty and anticipation will keep working on me whether you end up doing it or not. And I don't want you to feel you have to - I know it's not your cup of tea." He paused, eyeing what he held in his hand. "...So to speak."
The sad excuse for a joke earned him a long-suffering look. But in the silence that followed, Miles remembered something.
"...Did you know that the first time I tasted black tea, I found it revolting?"
Phoenix raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. "I guess it's not really surprising, depending on how old you were..."
"I was ten." Miles could remember it, though the edges of the memory were faded; he couldn't remember the pattern of the china, but he recalled the color that the drapes painted the carpet, shifting in the breeze through the window. "von Karma had decided that part of my education in how to be a proper European aristocrat involved the drinking of tea. I asked if we could use milk instead, but he refused. I was to drink tea, and drink it properly. Every afternoon, day after day. And no making faces - it was both immature and insulting."
Of course Phoenix could connect the dots. "And you got used to it?"
Miles nodded. "More than 'got used to' it - obviously, since you've seen my cupboards. There came a day when I realized that my dislike for the tea I was served was not because it was so strong, but because it was too weak. von Karma seemed proud of me when I suggested that it should steep a bit longer; I suspect he'd been making it a bit weak on purpose, to start me off slowly. I grew curious about other teas, and found the variety of subtle flavors that were available to be rather intriguing. The way they appeared as they lingered on the different areas of my tongue..."
Phoenix smirked across the table. "And that was how you became a tea snob."
"Something like that. But my point is," Miles finished, "that there was a time when nothing in my collection would have been 'my cup of tea', if I'd had anything to say about it."
"Point taken," Phoenix said with a nod.
"So just give me time," Miles murmured.
"Of course." Phoenix took another drink from his cup, and gestured towards him with it idly. "And in the meantime, I'll take some comfort in the fact that with that kind of background, you grew up to make a really good cup of tea."
This time, Miles smirked. "Thank you. ...It's not too strong this time?"
"It hasn't been, since I started drinking it hot."
If Phoenix was trying to continue the metaphor, all that Miles could think of was to thank the powers that be that between the two of them, they'd come to a proper balance between youthful adventurousness and the maturity to reason things through.
Miles hadn't been comfortable about keeping knives anywhere but the kitchen, ever since the incident involving Detective Goodman in the trunk of his car. Never mind that a blade was a perfectly acceptable and useful tool to have on hand; he'd made the decision to leave them in the drawer unless he was intending to have a use for one.
Which meant that he was lacking in that department. Phoenix had taken him shopping one day - and honestly, the way his face was flushed bright red, you'd have thought they were in a sex toy emporium rather than a department store's kitchen cutlery aisle. When Phoenix pointed this out later, Miles pointed out in return that in their case, they were one and the same. And also that Phoenix's running commentary about what kind of scars the different kinds of blade would make, how long it took for them to heal, not to mention the frequent question 'Would you be comfortable with this one?' was embarrassing even if there hadn't been anyone around to hear. Which there mostly hadn't been, except for a salesperson who glanced down the aisle and immediately decided they didn't need help. At least not her help.
The one Miles had been willing to go with in the end was small, thin, and weak. The kind of thing that it took more effort to cut with than the end result was really worth. But it was a step - it was something larger and more deliberate than a razor blade. Phoenix could live with that, for the time being. Someday, they would work up to something more dangerous, or so he hoped.
In the meantime, since Miles hadn't been capable of driving him completely out of his mind yet, Phoenix was watching him, taking note of the differences between him and Kristoph. He'd never smiled while pressing the blade into Phoenix's skin - instead, he always frowned. Not in an unhappy way, but thoughtfully, the same way he looked when he was examining a crime scene or evaluating a witness's statement. He was cold and focused, concentrating on doing his job right, though he never found pleasure in it. None of Kristoph's obvious, manic relish could be found, nor any enjoyment whatsoever, and Phoenix would have felt bad if he hadn't been more than willing to make it up to Miles.
Besides, it was erotic in its own way, that look on Miles's face. Knowing that Miles was thinking only of him, and his pleasure, rather than taking it. On the occasions when he wasn't blindfolded, which were becoming more frequent, Phoenix found a guilty sort of pleasure in it.
Besides, the frown would disappear eventually anyway, after Phoenix was finished, and Miles could wipe the blade clean and put it away. He'd begun to look downright satisfied as he cleaned the wounds he'd inflicted - and he always did. Phoenix had decided it was progress.
He felt a giddy glee the first time Miles checked over his torso in the bathroom, all the little injuries in various states of healing, and pointed out a line that was his.
There were still so many of Kristoph's marks on his body, but maybe Miles could - literally - cross them out. At the suggestion, after a hesitant moment, Miles had shown that satisfied look again.
The next time, he cut deeper.
Crossing out.
Crossing out Kristoph's scars.
Crossing out Kristoph.
Though Miles had started off trying to think as little about what he was doing as possible, this was a goal he approved of. He took no pleasure in hurting Phoenix; he was sure he never would. But if he thought of it from another angle - the angle of breaking up Phoenix's memories of Kristoph, of making him harder and perhaps someday impossible to remember - it was a task that he could dedicate himself to.
He began to pay closer attention - much closer attention. It would have been irresponsible not to, when he was trying to find the line between 'enough pain' and 'too much damage'. He listened carefully to the little gasps and cries as he slid the blade across the flesh, kept a hand on Phoenix's body to steady and stroke.
Because he was paying attention, he could hear the nuances in Phoenix's voice. Those sounds weren't sounds of pleasure, no, but there was pleasure hidden within. He heard more of it when he pushed harder, and that was how he told himself he was doing it right, despite all his instincts telling him otherwise.
There were options, too, besides taking turns with their pleasure. Sometimes he had Phoenix bent over in the shower, penetrating him from behind while the blood left little red trails up his back to his shoulders. Sometimes he would ride Phoenix, straddling his hips and letting Phoenix buck up against him as he worked over Phoenix's chest. Sometimes Phoenix knelt before him, while the knife bit into his shoulders. Phoenix was willing to try nearly anything, because Miles was willing to try the one thing he really needed.
Miles had to admit that his sex life had never been so exhilarating. But somehow, it lost some of the intrigue when he thought about it logically - he was slicing his partner with a kitchen knife. The picture it painted lacked something, and he had some idea of how that could be remedied.
It had always been difficult, deciding on exactly when their anniversary was. They weren't married - they had no official date. Did they count the date that Phoenix had, completely unexpectedly, caught Miles against the wall and kissed him? The date that Miles had invited him over, intending to take advantage of Phoenix's interest in him for a night of much-needed sexual catharsis? The date he invited Phoenix over for no explicable reason at all except that he wanted Wright there, and subsequently realized that he'd misjudged what had become of that night?
Their courtship had been awkward and unspecific, full of days of such significant insignificance; but Miles's inbox still held the itinerary he'd booked last January, with no return flight. That was significant enough for Miles's purposes, and there was plenty of time for him to place the order.
Apparently not significant enough for Phoenix to remember, judging by the blank look on his face when Miles appeared at his office one afternoon with a bouquet of flowers. "...Okay, don't get mad, but... I have no idea what the occasion is."
Miles wasn't mad at all; Phoenix was terrible with dates even when he knew they were important. "We've been together for exactly one year as of today."
Phoenix scratched his head, not quite trying to hide a bewildered smile. "...I think we've been together a lot longer than that."
"Continuously, as a couple, in the same place," Miles specified. "I returned to the United States one year ago. And did you realize, we've never made it a full year together, any of the times we've been in the same country before?"
The smile faded. He was aware, yes. Once it had been Miles's fault, and once it had been Phoenix's fault, and once it had been Kristoph's fault, but it didn't matter anymore as far as Miles was concerned. "Don't waste more time on thinking of all the time we've wasted in the past," he suggested.
"Yeah, you're right." The smile returned, less bewildered - but still a little bewildered, as Phoenix reached out to draw the tissue paper aside, looking at the bouquet Miles was still holding. "Somehow I wasn't expecting you to be the type to give me flowers, even on a kind-of anniversary."
"I wouldn't have expected it of myself either," Miles agreed. Except that he'd had an ulterior motive. "I considered also making us reservations in a suite at the Gatewater," he noted, offering the flowers, "but I believe their housekeeping staff would not have approved of the state of the room after we'd checked out."
Phoenix grinned his agreement, reaching out to take the flowers - and promptly did a double-take, nearly dropping them as the bouquet shifted oddly. "Whoa - what's in here?" he inquired. Miles didn't answer, but just watched as Phoenix got a better grip on the package, pulling the fern fronds and baby's-breath aside with one hand to get a look at whatever it was that was making the bouquet so much heavier towards the bottom. His eyes widened appreciatively when he spotted it.
"Something more exciting than flowers, perhaps?" Miles was quite pleased with the look on Phoenix's face.
"You could say that." Phoenix tested the tip with the pad of his thumb, then pinched the blade between his fingers to pull it free of the wrapping. "...Wow."
"Damascus steel," Miles informed him as Phoenix examined the dagger. "Eight inches, hardwood and brass hilt. A piece of this sort isn't sold sharpened, as it's not meant for use, but for display. I took the liberty of sharpening it myself towards the tip."
"That's... gorgeous." Phoenix brushed a finger along the edge, not firmly enough to cut himself, but his eyes glazed over a little anyway, perhaps fantasizing. "...And probably pricey. You didn't have to do this."
"I felt you deserved something very special," Miles stated. "More romantic than inexpensive kitchen cutlery - something wholly impractical for any purpose other than ours. And now that I'm accustomed to your tolerance, I knew that the roses' thorns weren't going to be enough."
Phoenix laughed. Miles let himself smirk, and considered the blindfold again tonight - then perhaps he could see what Phoenix thought of the thorns after all.
Miles loves him.
He would hate the fact that he'd ever let anyone else do these things to him, except that Miles has found his own way, and it's better. Every clear line on his body now is one he asked for, a gift given rather than a prize taken. It's not the same thing at all, and after a time, he's forgotten that he ever thought it was.
He still enjoys the unpredictable, the unexpected twists Miles will throw at him when he's blindfolded or bound - and he'd never expected Miles to be so imaginative as he is - but there are some things he's glad to know as constants. Miles is always right there, making sure he's enjoying it. Miles cleans and bandages his wounds when they're done, kisses them gently, and falls asleep with his fingers resting cautiously on the patchwork of gauze and tape.
Miles is always still there in the morning, and will fix him the best cup of tea he's ever had, now that he's learned how to enjoy it.