This was probably the only thing that made Phoenix admit to himself, if only briefly, that being stuck in a place without hair gel might not have been entirely bad. He turned his head into the hand, just enough to press that pressure harder against his scalp, permissive and prodding at once. His mind wandered in close, idle little circles, but didn't trouble itself much for the moment beyond things like the the stitching under his thumb, or the way that noise made him wish he was in better shape to just grab Miles' lapels in both hands and flatten him back against the bed.

(I . . . kissed you then? he'd never found a chance or a way to ask. Some maniac just finished experimenting on and torturing you, your dead dad was talking in your head, and I decided that then was the perfect time to make out? He was glad now, that he'd never had the opportunity to utter those words. It was the kind of thing that was hard to explain, and besides, he just would have felt stupid now.)

He leaned a little closer into the embrace, past a point he was sure would have made the room wobble around him again if he hadn't been held so solidly, giving a low murmur of approving encouragement.