Phoenix does not know what to do with his mouth. Not since he crunched up the glass bottle, felt the shards splinter and crackle between his teeth, slicing their way down his throat and his trachea. The warm well and salty tang of blood mixed with the acidic bile and bitter aftertaste of lingering poison. His throat fluttered in furious spasms, driving the knife-edged blades more fiercely into himself.
Lying in the hospital bed, his whole mouth bleeding and pierced in a thousand places, he thrashed wildly for escape. Anything to get away from his shredded tongue, its swollen, bloody mass inexorably suffocating him.
Anything to get away from his mouth.
- O -
Miles does not know what to do with his mouth. Not since he swallowed the bottle of Xanax and washed it down with the fanciest German wine, its name yet an incomprehensible jumble. The mixture was lumpy and horrible on his tongue, chalky and tangy and bitter all at once. His stomach heaved in protest; he shoved in a handful of M&Ms and gummy bears, cloyingly sweet and pathetic.
Waking up with his face pressed in his own vomit, his mouth putrid with stomach acid and decay, Miles gagged and heaved into the growing puddle. Blood and vomit coated his hair in clumps. Too weak to roll over or lift his face clear, he sobbed pitifully, desperate to escape the foul contents of his ruined body.
Desperate to get away from his mouth.
Their first stolen moments are a breathless exchange of lips and tongues. Miles had simply come to talk, and instead found Phoenix pale and feverish, asleep on his bed.
Two worlds stretch out before him: Phoenix awake in the hospital, Phoenix's gray body in the morgue. He's laughing at his side; he's rotting in his grave. The wall between the realities is paper-thin. He's afraid to move, lest he tear some indecipherable balance and awake to glassy, dead eyes.
Miles blinks and is surprised to find his face wet.
"Hey, are you ok?" The real Phoenix sits up and looks Miles over concern. Miles doesn't answer. He takes gulping breaths and shakes his head, and stumbles to his knees and catches Phoenix's outstretched hand. Miles presses Phoenix's knuckles to his lips with his body shaking with suppressed emotion.
He's not surprised when Phoenix kisses him. Instead he is terrified out of his mind, and only in that moment does he become inopportunely, horribly aware of every part of his damned mouth. Lips, teeth, cheeks, and tongue—Phoenix's teeth clink against his, and Miles draws his lips in shame. His tongue rests hesitantly just past his teeth, and he freezes, unsure whether to push or to withdraw. Phoenix coaxes his mouth open. His breath is stale from sleep, but Miles doesn't mind. He's had worse.
Abruptly, Miles remembers the foul stench of vomit in his mouth and nose, as real as the man before him, as persistent as his own tongue. His throat closes up, and he gags.
"Oh Jesus! Sorry!" Phoenix stammers.
"No, it's not you," Miles tries to explain, but nothing he says can resurrect a moment lost.
Phoenix had eaten a thousand times before and never given it a second thought. He'd sat in a booth with Maya, both of them tearing ravenously into burgers, the meat pulverizing into paste between his teeth. Crisp, bright lettuce and the cool squelch of the tomato, springy buns that dissolved on his tongue. Ketchup clinging to his lips and juice running down his jaw. A shred of lettuce wedged tightly between two teeth. A quick swipe of a napkin and he'd be good as new.
Extra salty noodles were a whole different challenge. The noodle squirmed wet and hot between his lips, splattering hot broth across his face as he slurped. Ground pork in a fiery sauce that stained his gums orange, fish cakes that squeaked between his teeth. When Trucy laughed, her cheeks were filled with bits of noodles, and Phoenix laughed too, his mouth a messy mirror of hers, proud to match his spirited daughter.
Now, he's too conscious of every chew and swallow, every pulse of his temple when his teeth press together. He can hear every crunch and squelch in his mouth reverberating in his eardrum. He's sure the whole restaurant can hear him chewing, let alone Miles. Little bites, small chews, he tells himself. When he drinks, the iced tea slurps in his straw. The scallop slips from his fork and lands on the table with a cartoonish plop. Mortified, Phoenix shoves it into his mouth with his fingers. Great, now his hands are sticky. He licks at his fingers, and a tiny chewed morsel falls from his lips. He snaps his mouth shut so hard he bites his tongue.
Across the table, Miles slices each scallop perfectly in half, placing each fragment neatly in his mouth. He chews silently, and not a drop of cream sauce mars his perfect lips. He's distractingly lovely, and yet the sight makes Phoenix heavy with despair.
"Get that out of your mouth," Miles says, yanking the wine bottle away. Phoenix stares up in bleary bewilderment: the wine is tangy and uncomfortably thick, but the bitter aftertaste is familiar. It coats his soft palate and clings to his throat. No matter how many times he swallows, the acrid flavor remains.
The cool glass bottle reminds him of the last time he was laid so low. It's comforting.
They tussle, and in the confusion, the bottle shatters. Deep red liquid flows over the floor tiles, wine mixed with blood from Phoenix's hand. Without thinking, he lifts it to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch the jeweled droplets lining the jagged glass. He hears Miles gasp, and only then feel the gash on his freshly-sliced tongue. Blood spatters the floor and, in a dreamy stupor, Phoenix wonders from whence it springs.
"What did you just put in your mouth?" Phoenix demands.
Miles slams the medicine cabinet shut defensively and stands before it. "Nothing life-threatening, so mind your own business," he growls. As he leaves, he hears Phoenix counting the pills, and he knows that Phoenix will fret and tug at his hair, but ultimately contact no one.
In truth, it was a bit more than safe. Three Tylenols when the label recommended two, and a double-dosing of antidepressants. Enough to punish, but not enough to kill. Miles sneered at his own face in the mirror as each pill slipped down his throat, the shadows of his mentors hovering over his shoulder. Worthy, worthless, worthy—
"It's what you deserve," von Karma's voice told him. Worthless.
"Prove yourself by enduring," Gant's voice added. Worthy.
Who knew hope and resignation looked so much alike?
The smooth rim catches slightly on the raised scar on his lower lip. Phoenix rubs it back and forth: on each pass, the skin and the glass reprise their battle. His lip clings and folds sideways, deforming by millimeters until his mouth is stretched just barely taut, from the corner all the way to the scar.
Though he's long since swapped the wine for grape juice, the bottle is far from innocent. Hidden within the smooth glass are a thousand glinting edges, the vicious cutting edge only one small slip away. The bottle always wins, the glass hard and unyielding. Defeated, his lips lose their hold and settle back into place. Back and forth, back and forth, until the world narrows to the sensation of unmovable glass growing warm against his lips.
Phoenix focuses in on the sensation, meditatively, and for a moment, Kristoph and murder and rent fade away. He is calm.
Miles shakes a handful of loose tablets from a clear glass jar and regards them in his hand: each one no larger than a button, the lot of them a comforting weight in his hand. Pebbles by the sea, he thinks absently, tipping his head back and swallowing them all down. Each one passes smoothly down his throat, a gentle caress.
He jumps when he hears the scream. He spins around just in time to see Phoenix before the man collides into him, knocking them both to the ground. The jar shatters on the floor. Glass shards mix with chalky pellets and rainbow candy coating. His hands are bleeding.
Miles stares up into Phoenix's tear-stained eyes, his hands warm and trembling where they rest on Miles's face.
"It's okay, dear," Miles says, shakily, his hands raised like a suspect. Slowly, carefully, he picks up the scattered objects one by one. "Look," he says, turning each one over. "It's just candies and the occasionally vitamin. It's okay, Phoenix. Why are you crying?"
When Phoenix opens his mouth, all that comes out is a wordless sob. Instead, he swipes at his eyes and crushes their lips together, his tongue reaching out hesitantly, tasting the sugar on Miles's teeth for himself. For the first time in decades, Miles doesn't draw his lips closed, a window slamming shut. Doesn't take charge of the kiss and transform it into a closed-mouth peck. Instead, he waits, his lips parted in invitation. He closes his eyes, smells the putrid stench from his memories, feels the bile stir in his stomach, and hopes with all his might that it will stay there.
Phoenix's lips are warm and soft, a tantalizing mix of sweet chocolate and salty tears. He licks at Miles's teeth, tracing them one by one, then further back, sampling the flavors in his throat. Satisfied with his answer, he pulls Miles against him and crushes him to his chest, and cradles his head in one hand. His fingers tangle desperately in his hair, holding tightly to the precious jewel he'd captured and nearly lost.
Miles rests his head against Phoenix's shoulder, sighs deeply, and slumps into his arms.
"You've changed," Phoenix says one day. He's watching him intently, examining him as he would a crime scene. He's the Chief Prosecutor, with his grand office and his circle of loyal friends, and a dozen prosecutors reporting to him, and a city's safety in his care. He has bright, kind eyes, and his purpose that shines like a beacon. And even when he's simply sitting, his hair disheveled and case reports scattered around him, he's the most perfect person Phoenix has ever seen.
Slowly, firmly, Phoenix gathers up the papers and sets them aside, and sits down in their place. "Wright?" Miles says, his tone in implied question. Teasingly, Phoenix nips at Miles's ear with a gentle pressure, savoring the spring of it between his teeth. His tongue sneaks out, swirling around the shell of Miles's ear and pressing flat. It forms a faint suction when he pulls away, and Miles squirms. Mischievously, Phoenix pokes the tip of his tongue into the inner canal, earning himself a sharp rebuke.
"Wright!" Miles snaps, scowling. His face is a brilliant pink, and one finger jabs furiously at his ear with a tissue. He opens his mouth, no doubt to issue an objection, when Phoenix mouth on his drives all words from his mind.
Grinning, Phoenix wipes his mouth on his hand. He pulls himself up, onto the couch and next to Miles, and takes his face in both hands.
"We'll be okay," Phoenix says, eyes bright and earnest and finally, finally carefree.
Miles doesn't hesitate, doesn't need to think twice. "We'll be okay," he replies.