trace (vestiges)
He opens his eyes. Light still streams into the windows, casting his familiar bedroom in a hazy, ethereal glow; this heavenly light contrasts starkly with the sight of his phone screen plugged into its charger upon his bedside table, the time reading in bright, harsh neon letters betraying the fact that it is barely midday.
How did I…? He yawns, lifting himself upon his elbows as he glances around. He does not remember lying down- the last thing he recalls is turning the page of his German philosophy book. It had been more than engaging, but his eyes had continued to drift downward, landing upon tousled, dark hair that no longer lay in such a severe, pointed style away from a handsome, kind face, soft over a stern forehead with eyes closed so peacefully that it felt like Miles had finally been worth something-
Where is he?!
Just as quickly as his heartrate spikes in fear, in loss, in anxious anticipation, it calms down, for the face he had been expecting to see is right by his side- mouth slightly agape, a thin line of drool running down the side of his cheek and absorbing into Miles' pristine pillows.
He knows he should be disgusted. Instead, he simply feels relief. He pauses, wondering if it would be better to take this opportunity to move away, to straighten himself up, for his heart cannot handle this constant game of building his own demise up in his mind-
His hands move without his consent, but he cannot be upset by them, for once an alarm is set for them to wake up for a late lunch, it is so much easier to simply crawl closer underneath the sheets. Phoenix must have tucked him into the bed, he realizes, for he spots his bookmark tucked neatly into the pages of his book, now placed properly upon his bedside table next to his phone. The blankets around his torso have been tucked in with far too much care for him to have done it himself in a half-asleep daze, too.
These little gestures ease some of the aching, pervasive worry that had been creeping through his mind after their shower. Phoenix looks utterly contented in his state, sleeping halfway upon his side, an arm and hand stretched out towards Miles, fingers curled invitingly. His expression does not bear any semblance of irritation or unease, his usually-furrowed forehead absolutely smooth, utterly calm.
Those fingers are far too empty, he thinks; so, he sighs, puts down his alarm clock and slips back underneath the sheets. At the motion, Phoenix's fingers seem to stretch out unconsciously; Miles finds that they open up, the spaces between each digit interlocking with Miles' without any effort at all. Although he is asleep, Phoenix's arms open almost automatically for Miles, drawing the man close without even opening his eyes, without betraying any sign of wakefulness.
Miles is grateful for that. It is easy to fall asleep next to Phoenix, he is finding- he is unused to having another in his bed, and the thought of being intertwined as lovers do for an entire night still fills him with discomfort beyond compare, but this tender distance- touching fingertips, an arm hooked loosely around his waist, the gentle rise and fall of another's chest lifting the bedsheets in time with Miles' own heartbeat- is something which he knows even he can welcome.