Chapter Text
There’s a cashier at the supermarket Miles frequents.
Well, naturally. It’s a supermarket, there’s going to be cashiers. No, this is not the part that snags onto Miles’ brain like a barbed seed would; that, to be clear, would be how looking at said cashier feels kind of like looking into a mirror, except not really. Except that it’d have to be a mirror that shows you the past, or something asinine like that: there’s a cashier at the supermarket Miles frequents—it’s conveniently close to the small apartment he shares with his sister, and it’s right at the bus station he gets off when he gets home from work, too—and he has shaggy, greasy black hair and dead eyes, his skin deathly pale. It doesn’t feel particularly nice, really, to have it staring into his face like this.
And Miles won’t pretend like he’s all above it: he’s probably still a loser, all things considered. He’s probably still a loser, but god, he used to be a much, much bigger loser, and like this, it’s like the ground is opening underneath him, threatening to drag him back, back, back. Sits heavy and sharp-edged in the pit of his stomach.
Okay, alright, perhaps he is being a tad dramatic. But still, it’s terrible, isn’t it? Miles wouldn’t call himself a particularly empathetic person, not at all—he’s probably quite an asshole, all things considered; barely cares about people outside of his immediate circles at all, and even then not so much—but still, however selfishly, he finds himself wishing this guy well every time he sees him. In his own head. Which is not helpful whatsoever, so.
“Your total is thirty-seven euros and fifteen cents,” says the guy with the flattest voice Miles has ever heard, and it feels heavy like lead in the pit of his stomach while he pays. At least until he gets outside; that’s when it flies away and becomes irrelevant once more. Jesus, Miles doesn’t even know the fucking guy. Who even cares?
As his luck wills it, he just so managed to miss the bus; but that’s okay, the next one is coming in five minutes, anyway. He still wrestles with his grocery bag to get his phone out of his pocket to text Cheryl that he’s almost home, slipping it back into his pocket without waiting for a reply.
It’s getting warmer. Almost too warm for the light jacket he’s wearing these days, so he pulls the zipper down, still wrestling with the bag. The bus arrives when he’s still fumbling, which is kind of embarrassing, but nobody is paying attention to him, anyway.
The bus ride isn’t far; it’s just three stations. The bus isn’t super crowded, either, which is a relief, because it still makes Miles prickle in revulsion all over, even after all this time, and it’s pleasant enough outside, and back home—what a concept; the city was so intimidating at first and now it’s just another place—his sister is waiting for him.
It’s okay, isn’t it? It’s good.
.
Cheryl is lounging on the couch when Miles slips into the apartment, pink hair—shorter and darker than it used to be, sharp where she’s recently gotten it cut—fluffed out around her head like a halo. They’re lucky, Miles supposes, to have found an apartment with a bedroom and a living room for a reasonable price (even when it is still rather cramped), but he does wish she’d be sitting at her desk instead right now. Her acrylic nails keep click-click-clicking over her phone screen.
“Cheryl,” he says, toeing out of his shoes. “What did we say?”
He can’t see her face like this, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes. It’s like a sixth sense, he supposes, honed by years and years and years of having to be around her.
“You’re not my mom.”
And isn’t she delightful! The world’s best girlfriend, right there. (World’s best sister? World’s best sister-girlfriend? Actually, he doesn’t want to think about that too hard; he tends to put the two things in two very different categories, even when she’s one and the same person. It’s just easier that way.)
“C’mon, help me put away the groceries at least.”
And she groans and grumbles under her breath, but she discards her phone onto the couch and peels herself from it, anyway. Incredible. Together, once in the small kitchen, they make quick work of the groceries—though Miles is faster, because he’s the one who decides where goes what because Cheryl cannot be bothered, can she—and she leans her forehead against his shoulder with a small huff once they’re done. Wraps her arms around his middle once he’s shut the fridge. There’s a twinge in his ribcage that almost has him inclined to forget all about her lazing around. Almost.
“You should quit your job, Miles,” she huffs. Miles rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, our bills will love that.”
She does lift her face now. Despite her pout—or perhaps because of it—she’s cute, she’s so cute. Her roots are showing again, peeking out black from between cherry-pink (dyed darker than she usually does, as well, and it had been an adjustment; fresh for the fresh city, she’d said when asked, even though they’ve been here for quite the while already) and like this, she has to look up at him, so her eyes are big and round and dark, dark, dark, mascara a little smudged. God, he does love her, doesn’t he?
He can’t help it; he leans in to press a kiss to her lip-gloss sticky lips. Cheryl hums a petulant little noise but kisses him back, anyway, weaving her arms around his neck. Tugging him down until his nape hurts, but it’s alright. She smells really good. She smells so good, she always does. What kind of perfume is that, anyway? Cherry? Bubblegum…?
“Miles,” she breathes, mouthing a line from his lips to his jaw to his throat. God, she knows exactly what this does to him; every touch lingers on his skin together with her lip-gloss. Drives him crazy. “Let’s relax a little, then?”
Tempting. But, alas, he’s older than her and less inclined to childish laziness. Has to be, to deal with her. Has always had to be.
“I still need to do a little work,” he murmurs, tilting his head to press a placating kiss to her cheekbone, but Cheryl twists her head out of the way. Bitch. “And you should study.”
Cheryl huffs out a noise, but relents, anyway. “Yeah, you’re right,” she says, and there’s a spark of something like pride in Miles’ chest. She swats at him when he leans down to press another kiss to her temple.
They go their separate ways, then: Cheryl’s desk is in the bedroom (it just so managed to fit), whereas Miles’ is in the living room (he sometimes pulls all-nighters with his coding work and doesn’t want to keep her up; it just so managed to fit, as well), which is probably for the better, anyhow, because if they’re in the same room they’re really rather prone to getting distracted all the time. Well, mostly it’s Cheryl distracting Miles, he supposes—but he still feels responsible for it, always has. He does give in more often than he should, after all.
She’s groaning in the doorway to the bedroom, leaving the door halfway open, and Miles stares after her for one, two beats, her scent still clinging to the air all around him. Then he wipes at the stubborn lip-gloss on his face before dropping himself into his chair.
To Cheryl’s credit, it takes quite a while for her to bother him again (though of course, he has no real way of checking how long she actually studied for and whether she went back to scrolling on her phone somewhere along the way or not). He notices her presence immediately, however: it prickles at the back of his mind, itches in his palms. The lines of code blur on the screen as his mind strays, nudges, tugs, desperate to slip into her direction.
Okay, yeah, maybe he’s got it bad, too. But at least he’s trying to be responsible about it!
“Milesss,” Cheryl whines, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind. Her perfume wafts into his face immediately, and there goes all his focus.
It’s fine. This project is only due at the end of the month, and he’s been making good progress—because at least one of them has to be disciplined, he supposes, and he knows it’ll be a cold day in hell before it’ll be her—so it’s fine, really, but he did actually plan on having it done by the end of the week so he could relax some for the rest of the month. Well, as much as someone who also works in customer service at a cafe can relax, that is.
He sighs. Chews on the slight annoyance in his system until he can swallow it back down, before slumping back, letting his head fall back against Cheryl’s shoulder.
“Yeah?”
She’s pouting; he can’t see her, but he can tell. Sixth sense, and all that. But, hey, she’ll have to try a lot harder for him to give her what she wants, he’s not that easy. Especially not about slacking off.
But, ah, his sister has never been an easy opponent, either. She brushes her hand over his chest with just the slightest amount of pressure, making his breath hitch. Tilts her head so her breath fans over his ear, making his cock twitch in his pants, stirring awake when Miles thinks he’d rather it sleep for a little while longer. His work…!
“Do you really not wanna play?” she purrs, and there’s a smug tone in her voice that rushes through him hotly and pisses him off at the same time. Like she already knows she always gets whatever it is she wants.
And she does tend to. But, alas, not today.
“You’re annoying,” he says. “Are you ever going to grow up?”
She huffs. Years ago, Miles thinks she’d have hit him for this, but right now, she doesn’t. “God, I hope not.”
Which does make him laugh, despite the annoyance. God, she’s clingy and irresponsible and lazy and mean, but he loves her so much. Maybe because of it. She presses a few open-mouthed kisses to his cheek before he swats at her. Just in her general direction. He misses, too.
“Hm, hot,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun, Miles.”
“Good. Go back to studying.”
He glances at her just in time to watch the way she throws her hair, which really, is much less effective ever since she cut it. “Fine!”
And, like she’s sixteen instead of twenty, she stomps her way back into the bedroom, and he can see the way she throws herself onto the bed instead of sitting down at her desk quite clearly through the open door. Miles clicks his tongue, but bites back his comment. He shouldn’t be overbearing. But, ah, if she just behaved…!
Well, tough luck with that. Cheryl is Cheryl is Cheryl, and she’ll never ever grow up.
Miles doesn’t really end up getting much work done, anyway, in the end, either. But, hey, better than whatever the fuck Cheryl is doing!
There’s a thunk when Miles lets his forehead fall to the desk. It smarts, fizzing for a moment, pulling a sibilant noise from his lips, then it’s gone again. It’s better than nothing, he tells himself. It’s better than nothing, but it still takes him a handful minutes before he can peel himself from his chair again.
Cheryl is still in bed when he enters the bedroom. It’s a nice bed: as big as the room allows so that they both fit (though usually, she clings to him, anyway, and he’s long since grown used to it), and cozy with several blankets and pillows and some of her plushies. The rest of the room is similarly bright: there’s really only space for her desk (cluttered, but not overly so; her laptop is still on, too) and a potted plant in the corner (did he water it in the morning or did he forget?), but they have a nice rug and the room is well-lit, too. Lucky.
She looks up when Miles sits down on the edge of the bed. Purses her lips, but scoots closer, anyway, like they’re magnets. It tugs at Miles’ insides.
“What are we cooking for dinner?”
“We,” echoes Miles. “You’re funny. Also, we prepped, so one of those.”
Ah, there he goes using the we, too. There’s not really a we: Cheryl is a disaster in the kitchen. For a long time, Miles hasn’t been much better, but with how much their mother worked—she works less now, from what he knows—he had to learn. He’d like to think he’s pretty decent by now.
He’s not mad about it, really, because she does always sit with him in their cramped kitchen while he’s cooking, chatting about this or that thing, exchanging stories, teasing him. It’s always been fun to be with her. He’s gotten better at admitting it, these days.
Cheryl grins. Then puffs her cheek. “I don’t want any of those.”
Oh, she’s such an ungrateful brat. He flicks her forehead. “You know that meal-prepping is so you don’t have to cook every day, right?”
“You’re such a loser,” she grumbles, sticking out her tongue. “I’m not feeling any of them! Can’t you cook something else? Just for today?”
Miles sighs. “What do you want?”
“Hmm. What do we have?”
“Potatoes, I guess. Those need to go.”
“With pan-fried sausage?” Cheryl asks, eager, tilting her head. It makes her hair slip off her shoulder, and Miles’ ribcage entirely too soft.
“Whatever. Sure. And spinach, too.”
She pouts, but doesn’t complain. Good. He might throttle her if she did.
.
It’s entirely too late, the water prattling onto Miles’ head almost icy, but somehow it still doesn’t manage to wake him up any, to dispel the dizzy haze pulsing inside of it. He didn’t check the time before getting up from his desk in sheer frustration, but he’d put it at somewhere around three—the kind of time where he really shouldn’t be showering anymore, because there’s no more hot water (Cheryl’s used that up already), and because he’s going to wake her maybe and she has classes in the morning. Well, later in the morning.
Those are the kinds of things he’s thinking about in some vague, hazy place far, far away from where his corporeal form is currently standing—which is the cramped shower with cold tile underneath his feet, the glass door strangely see-through and showing the rest of the bathroom in near-alien clarity with the absence of steam—when the door of the bathroom, for some incomprehensible reason, opens.
Naturally, he jumps. Shrieks a rather manly sound, and Cheryl, because of course it is Cheryl, laughs. This echoes in the bathroom.
“What the hell are you doing awake?” he snaps. Cheryl sticks out her tongue.
“Can’t a girl wake up without it being her fault? Damn.”
Which, well, yeah, okay, fair. Then, however, instead of pissing or whatever it is she came into the bathroom for, she starts stripping out of her fuzzy pink pajamas, which almost makes Miles choke on the water. “What are you—”
“Scoot over, loser. Let me join.”
Miles blinks. “Cheryl—” he starts, because there’s a lot of problems with that: namely the fact that he’s insisted on separate showers so far (showering together only saves hot water if she’d stop fooling around, after all) because the shower cabin at their apartment is way too small to accommodate them both to even a semblance of comfort, or that the water is quite icy right now, or the fact that she should definitely be going back to sleep, because she’ll need it. Because he has to work tomorrow, but his shift only starts at three while she has to be up early.
Cheryl, obviously, doesn’t much care about things like that. God, she’ll be complaining later in the morning when she has to get up.
For now, however, all she does is slip out of her underwear, too, and slip into the shower with him. And then shrieking. Because of the icy water, that is.
“—the water is too cold. Goddamnit, woman.”
Shivering, she crowds even closer to him, as if that’ll help. Well, not like there’s any escaping the spray of the water what with how cramped they are together, so it’s not so stupid an idea, but if she just got out of the damn shower…
Her teeth chatter in a way that is nearly comical. “Milesss,” she yelp-whines, “why is the water so cold!”
Because you were showering for two full hours earlier, he thinks through grit teeth, but really, her front flush to his backside like this mollifies him slowly but surely. Her breasts press against him, and she’s a lot warmer than the water, even when he for his part has gotten used to that. She wraps her arms around him and squeezes herself closer, closer, closer, and she’s plush and soft and warm everywhere. It’s hard to be mad at that, really.
“Why are you showering in icy water, anyway? You didn’t even smell.”
“To wake up,” he says into the water. “I still have work to do. You should get out if it’s too cold.”
She doesn’t, of course. Instead, she squeezes impossibly closer against Miles, doesn’t let up any. She’s actually quite strong these days; has tried (fruitlessly, so far) dragging him to the gym, too. Her grip is so tight it makes him wheeze a little. “Wake up,” she says, dryly, shivering against him. “You should go to sleep instead. It’s way too late.”
“Glass houses…”
“I only woke up because you weren’t in bed, anyway! So it’s your fault!”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Everything is always his fault, isn’t it?
Miles is just about to wriggle out of her grasp to turn around and pull her to his chest—leaning his chin into the top of her head like she always complains about him doing—when her hand brushes lower, lower, lower still. “Cheryl—”
Too late. Cheryl’s hand, only recently sharpened by new acrylic nails, closes around his very much soft—the water is incredibly cold, even when he’s mostly gotten used to it—cock. Miles winces, hips twitching involuntarily. Leans back into her touch, anyway; he can’t help it. He’s much more disciplined than she is and has ever been, yes, but right now, he’s sleep-deprived and cold and she’s so warm and so soft and so close.
“I have an idea how to get you sleepy, too,” she purrs somewhere into his shoulder, mouth hot and wet there. Disoriented, Miles wonders if she’s on her tiptoes or not. He can think of more comfortable places to do this, too, for starters.
His insides liquefy hotly, anyway, of course. It takes longer than usual because of all the cold water, but her warm hand contrasts against it sharply, and sooner rather than later, he’s panting, his cock hardening in her grip. Cheryl coos, presses even closer, her tits heavy and soft against him. His knees wobble a little underneath him, but she’s right there behind him, and the shower walls surround them close, close, close, too, so he doesn’t think he could fall even if he tried. All serried together, the both of them. It’s probably the most right he ever feels, he thinks; not that he’s going to tell her that.
Actually, why not? She is his girlfriend. And she’s—
“Good boy,” Cheryl murmurs, faster than him. Even though he thinks she ought to be just as sleep-dizzy as he is, even when she’s had more sleep than him these past few days and also always. “My good boy. Didn’t go outside for a walk because you didn’t want to wake me, did you? Such a nice boy you are.”
Their front door, it—Miles gasps, his cock finally twitching to full hardness, which makes Cheryl coo once more, going from petting him to stroking him in earnest—it doesn’t close right; one has to hammer it shut so it does. Of course he didn’t leave because she’d definitely wake up from him closing the door and wrenching it open again, too. Of course he didn’t leave. Why would he?
“Think you deserve a reward, don’t you?”
“Don’t be condescending,” Miles bites, and Cheryl snickers. Squeezes around the base of his cock. Slips her other hand down, too, to cup his balls.
“Oh, but you like that, big brother.”
Stupid bitch. She’s so—
His cock jumps, anyway. Throbs, so much so a rough groan rolls out of him, his head spinning when she’s hiding her smile in his shoulder. How the fuck is she in such a good mood, anyway? It’s so fucking late. Her mood’s going to crash before it’ll be time for her to leave for classes, and he’s going to be the one who’ll have to deal with her all grumpy, he always is.
Feels hard to be upset about any of that right now, though, with how she’s stroking him, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder. Nipping him there. Miles is flushed, febrile all over, the water gelid where it beats down on him. The contrast makes his head spin. Cheryl squeezes his balls, softly, and there’s a rush of water that rushes down his crack when his hips twitch, causing his butthole to clench against the cold. Everything is spinning, everywhere. He really is way too sleepy, isn’t he? Fuck, and she’s so…
She lets go of his balls, not faltering in her rhythm much at all. Drags the very tips of her acrylic nails up his stomach to his ribs, and then down again, and it pools inside him hot, hot, hotly, has him shivering everywhere.
He feels it in his balls, nearly violent—perhaps because of the cold water; it’s not like he’s ever jerked off under a cold shower, those are usually quite for the opposite of that—when he comes. It’s almost uncomfortable, really: swims in his head, tightens in his calf—for a second he thinks he’ll cramp, but he doesn’t—and in his stomach, pulses in his cock, but what it is, too, is rough. Wrings him out until he’s gasping and panting and twitching, and he doesn’t think he’s come this hard in a while. Fuck, does he have a thing for icy water now, or what?
(Much more likely, though, is that he’s just a masochist. He knows that much already. Could someone who’s not a masochist even date Cheryl?)
His cum splatters all over the glass shower wall in front of him, but it doesn’t stay there for longer than a blink of an eye, because the water immediately washes it all away. Cheryl’s hand around his cock doesn’t let up any, and she continues milking it for much longer than necessary, until he actually thinks he’s going to slide to the floor under it all. He’s not so sure she could hold his full weight up.
“Cheryl,” he hisses, but it’s all shaky and no venom. Finally, after a few more pumps, clear liquid dribbling from the head of his flushed cock and disappearing immediately, she lets up. Pets him a bit before brushing both of her hands up his happy trail and over his stomach. Nuzzling her face to his shoulder.
“That was nice, right? Can we get out now, the water is cold as hell.”
You could have gotten out the whole damn time, he thinks, but he’s too exhausted to say it out loud. Once he’s reached over her to shut the water off, they’re both left shivering for a few moments. She’s apparently unwilling to let go of him even now, and he’s too tired to argue. Anyhow, despite the cold, she does feel so very nice against him, of course, she always does. He’s been over this.
Finally, however, Cheryl does extricate herself from him. Slips out of the shower first—it’s a bit of maneuvering, because it certainly wasn’t built to accommodate two people, as he’s mentioned, as well, and especially mentioned to her countless times, but whatever, who cares, she’ll just do it anyway, because who cares, right—and Miles follows, dripping. Moves to grab her towel first, passing it over to her before grabbing his own.
They towel off in silence. His hair didn’t get wet since he lowered the shower head enough, but she’s not quite so lucky: she’s a whole bit shorter than him, and though her hair is shorter than it used to be, the tips of it have gotten quite wet. Her face scrunches up while she towels them off, and Miles almost laughs, but instead, a yawn works its way out of him.
Which makes her grin at him. “See? Sleepy time. Right? Right?”
It’s cute, almost. Would be cute, if he didn’t have a sleep-deprivation caused headache, the way she always wants to be around him. The way she’s always so enthusiastic about sleeping in the same bed as him. The way she’s so bristly and quite mean but it’s so very easy these days to see how much she likes him indeed. It is very cute, actually.
In the face of it all, Miles finds it quite hard to disagree. “Fine,” he says, and Cheryl squeals, throws her hands up in the air, sprays him with some of the water still clinging to her. Eugh.
He does insist she dry off properly. She’s shivering in her fluffy pajamas when she’s slipping back into bed, when he follows her; burrows into his chest the moment they’re both lying down. “You’re so stupid,” she murmurs there right into his shirt, apparently back to herself enough that she’s mean to him again. “Who the hell takes a cold shower at what, four in the morning?”
Miles doesn’t feel much inclined to check the time to make a point, so he nuzzles into her hair instead. It smells nice. Some sort of floral conditioner, he’s pretty sure. Peach, too, maybe. He’s the one who bought it, actually, so he should remember, but it’s been a while.
“Who jacks someone off under a cold shower at four in the morning?”
And though she grumbles something unintelligible under her breath, she doesn’t argue further. Holds on to him so tight the tips of her nails dig into his skin until it smarts even through his shirt.
He does manage to fall asleep like that.
.
Outside of the coffee shop, it’s a decently warm evening, enough so that Miles rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie to let his arms breathe a little. His vision is just a little fizzy around the edges—he didn’t sleep well yesterday, or well, today, after all of that; though to be fair, his project is due in a week, so it’s not like that was unjustified—when he yawns, and he almost wishes he’d grabbed a coffee before clocking out, but now it’s too late. Now he’s outside already, now he simply wants to go home.
Before all of that, however, he slips his phone out of his pocket to shoot a quick message to Cheryl: on my way home, and because Cheryl is obviously on her phone instead of studying as she should be, she replies immediately with a hurry up then, idiot. Charming as ever.
(She sends a heart emoji right after that, though, so perhaps it’s not too bad.)
With a small sigh, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment for good measure—hey, micro-dosing shut-eyes is better than no sleep at all, right?—Miles slips his phone back into his pocket, then he turns in the direction of the bus station. Not that he gets very far.
“Hey, man, Miles, is that you?”
Ah.
What?
Disoriented, Miles blinks; and he’s not so sleep-deprived he’d start hallucinating, but he doesn’t really recognize the voice, and, more importantly: who the fuck would recognize him, anyhow? Okay, he’s not as much of a shut-in as he was just a few years ago, he’s gotten loads better, but he’s still weird with people and doesn’t really do friends, keeps to himself, and—
It’s a guy (duh). It’s a rather tall guy, with blond hair and a smile that makes his eyes look like there’s absolutely nothing behind them, and Miles blinks, blinks again, but the guy is still very much standing there and still very much looking at him. When Miles glances behind him, there’s nobody else conveniently also called Miles there, either.
“Um.”
Huge and blond tilts his head, but his smile doesn’t dim any. “You don’t remember me?” And Miles thinks he does, actually, now that he thinks about it, isn’t that fucking Berend of whatever his name was, that’s—“Bernard,” Bernard—not Berend—says, helpfully. “I’m your sister’s ex-boyfriend from high school, man.”
So he is.
Immediately, Miles’ mood sours. He feels a little mean for it for a moment—because hey, it has been just a little over two years—but who the hell feels good about stumbling over their girlfriend’s ex, anyway?
Hang on. What the fuck is Bernard doing here? And isn’t that, like, really bad?
“Uh—”
“You look well,” Bernard continues, completely oblivious. “Is Cherry good, too? Haven’t heard from her in ages. So funny to stumble across you here, what are you doing here, anyway? You work here? I live around here now, you know?”
And of course this guy fucking saw Miles walk out of the damn coffee shop. It’s not like there’s any immediate danger—none of Miles’ coworkers he and Cheryl ever really chat about private stuff with are working right now—but what the fuck does he mean he lives around here?
There’s a small pit in Miles’ stomach, growing slowly but surely, threatening to swallow him, to swallow it all whole. God, fuck, this is exactly why they moved over here (well, that and Cheryl’s uni, whatever), so that there’d be no one who knows them around. So that they could be free, or something stupid like that. Why the fuck is it fucking Bernard of all people?
“Ah, shit, I need to go,” Bernard says, hand over his jeans pocket like his phone just vibrated, and all Miles can do is blink against the spots dancing in his vision. “It’s been nice talking to you, though; to see a familiar face, I guess. We’re a bit away from home, aren’t we? Well, see ya, man.”
It’s been nice talking to you, he says like Miles even said a single fucking word at all. Miles blinks, watches how Bernard waves—makes him look so fucking innocent, jeez, this guy really is an idiot, huh?—before turning around, and he’s whistling under his breath as he walks away. Not that Miles recognizes the song. Actually, the effect only gets stronger because he doesn’t.
Well, shit, maybe if Miles tries hard enough this’ll turn out to have been a sleep-deprivation induced hallucination, after all. Because this guy cannot be real, can he?