Phoenix's laughter trailed off, much more gently than the grin that fell abruptly from his face at the question. He nodded dumbly, only half-hearing the apology, caught in those few seconds of grace before the hammer came down.
"It's okay. And I think we could've," he argued, though he knew before he'd spoken that the cool weight would come circling up, insidious and invisible. He managed not to shudder, but his hand tightened in the back of Miles' coat regardless, tensing in synchrony with every muscle between his skull and knees. "I mean-"
Stop it. Stop making me tell him everything, he ordered silently, as if that would change anything. The heavy weight around him didn't retreat, but it didn't draw any tighter, either. He shifted one leg, and found that he could actually move it, though it took a second to work through the paralyzing feeling of shouldn't.
"I- I think that depends," he answered quietly, trying to keep his voice easy and cool and knowing that he was failing to completely banish that strained pitch. "It's complicated."
You liar. You filthy liar. It's not complicated; it's the simplest thing in the world. You don't even let go of him, because you never even try to hold on in the first place. You let him live his life, and you live yours, and you resign yourself to waving goodbye at the airport and telling yourself that everyone feels this way when good friends go away.
"But - no. In two years, it doesn't happen," he continued, almost inaudibly. "And - I mean, it doesn't tear me apart or anything-" He didn't know if that would be an insult or a relief, and forged on before he could find out. He'd felt something break and crumble atop his knee, the weight grow lighter. "You have a really great career, and you're in Europe almost all the time. As far as I can tell, you're happy with where you are. I know that I helped you get there, and . . . " He shrugged an unburdered shoulder, lifting his eyebrows invisibly in the dark. "I never ask more than that."
Re: Inside M92
"It's okay. And I think we could've," he argued, though he knew before he'd spoken that the cool weight would come circling up, insidious and invisible. He managed not to shudder, but his hand tightened in the back of Miles' coat regardless, tensing in synchrony with every muscle between his skull and knees. "I mean-"
Stop it. Stop making me tell him everything, he ordered silently, as if that would change anything. The heavy weight around him didn't retreat, but it didn't draw any tighter, either. He shifted one leg, and found that he could actually move it, though it took a second to work through the paralyzing feeling of shouldn't.
"I- I think that depends," he answered quietly, trying to keep his voice easy and cool and knowing that he was failing to completely banish that strained pitch. "It's complicated."
You liar. You filthy liar. It's not complicated; it's the simplest thing in the world. You don't even let go of him, because you never even try to hold on in the first place. You let him live his life, and you live yours, and you resign yourself to waving goodbye at the airport and telling yourself that everyone feels this way when good friends go away.
"But - no. In two years, it doesn't happen," he continued, almost inaudibly. "And - I mean, it doesn't tear me apart or anything-" He didn't know if that would be an insult or a relief, and forged on before he could find out. He'd felt something break and crumble atop his knee, the weight grow lighter. "You have a really great career, and you're in Europe almost all the time. As far as I can tell, you're happy with where you are. I know that I helped you get there, and . . . " He shrugged an unburdered shoulder, lifting his eyebrows invisibly in the dark. "I never ask more than that."