Chapter Text
Faye’s bed smells different from Miles’. Which is a stupid thing to think, probably, because duh it smells different, Faye and Miles are two very, very different people (a big part of the reason Faye and Cheryl didn’t work out, she supposes) who overlap in certain areas (a big part of the reason Faye and Cheryl happened in the first place, she supposes, etc), but their beds certainly isn’t one of those. For starters, Faye doesn’t leave the same bedsheets on for months, so there’s none of that sweat-musk baked into them; not that Faye’s ever smelled as strongly as Miles does on his worst days, anyway.
(It’s a close thing, though; Faye after hours of football training does smell strongly. But Miles doesn’t do sports, so Faye’s probably still winning, isn’t she?)
It’s probably a stupid thing to think, but it’s still the very first thing Cheryl notices when she drops face first into Faye’s pillow, heaving out a long-suffering sigh. It smells different than Miles’ bed, it feels different than Miles’ bed, and she misses, misses, misses him. Badly.
“You good over there?”
At the sound of her best friend’s voice, Cheryl jerks up straight, turning so she can dangle her legs off the edge of the bed. There’s a weird sort of giddiness dancing around in her chest that she thinks she’d usually feel embarrassed by — ironic, cynic thing she is — but right now, she can’t bring herself to. Damn, she’s already dating her brother, what does shame have a place in her life for anymore?
“Yup,” she sing-songs, and Faye arches a brow, likely at the pendulum way Cheryl’s mood keeps flip-flopping. Is it really her fault, though? She misses her brother, but he’s also her boyfriend now. Everything is going to shift soon, she’ll have to move out, but Miles is working considerably hard for who he is right now, too. Wah, wah, wah. And — “Do you notice anything different about me? Do you?”
Faye, for her part, continues looking at Cheryl distinctly unimpressed. Perched in her spinning desk chair, one of her knees lifted to her chest, her chin leaned into it, her eyes sweeping up and down Cheryl’s body once, twice.
“Can’t say I do.” There must be something on Cheryl’s face, because Faye huffs out a sigh, rolling her eyes. “What’s different about you today, Cherry?”
Sounding like she’s talking to a kid, damn. Cheryl puffs her cheek in a pout, twirling a strand of pink-fried hair around her finger, leaving Faye to squirm for a moment. Though really, the only one who’s squirming is Cheryl, excitement and impatience wriggling in her gut, while Faye just continues to look at her with vague disinterest. Annoyance, too, but really, that one’s not new.
Finally, Cheryl taps her hairclips with a small, giddy laugh. “These are new!”
Faye raises both brows. “And…?”
“Miles bought them for me, you idiot! When we were all out shopping! That’s why he snuck away back then… ah, he really can be cute when he tries.”
Then Cheryl squeals and drops face-first into the pillow again, just in time to hear the end of Faye’s groan. “Seriously? I don’t want to know about any of that.”
Turning onto her side to frown at her, Cheryl asks, “Because he’s a guy or because he’s my brother?”
Faye seems to consider that for a moment. “Both…?”
Fair, probably. And still, Cheryl pouts, pouts, pouts, fingertip tracing the shape of her hairclips over and over again; the smooth texture of them under her skin, cool to the touch, steadily warming with her body temperature. If she were a sappier person, she’d say it was her love warming them up, but she’s not, so.
“You’re so mean,” she frowns. “You’re the only person I can talk to about things like that, y’know? No one else is allowed to know. That’s really annoying.”
“Hah,” Faye says. “Like me and you back when we were dating and we couldn’t tell anyone about it.”
“Sure, because incest is sooo gay.”
Now, Faye is actually laughing. Quite loudly so, doubling over in her chair, clutching her stomach, and really, Cheryl doesn’t think it was that funny, but whatever. There’s still a grin tugging at the side of her mouth; pulled and pulled and pulled by Faye’s infectious laughter, until she huffs out a small laugh through her nose, shaking her head.
So, maybe she is a little bit sappy. Whatever.
“Alright, sure, whatever, I’ll listen, I guess.”
Yippee. She sits up again, a new surge of electricity rushing through her veins, kneading her hands in her lap. Faye’s expression is still bored, but well, Cheryl can’t honestly say she doesn’t look at her the exact same way whenever Faye’s talking about any of her girls, so.
“They were supposed to be for Christmas,” she says, tilting her head, “but I caught Miles buying them, so I really didn’t want to wait. It took a while of begging and bullying and telling him giving them to me now doesn’t mean he’ll have to get a new present, but here we are!”
Faye purses her lips. “That’s actually pretty sweet. You’re so bratty, though, I really don’t know how he deals with that. I guess he has the experience, he’s been doing it for eighteen years, after all…”
Makes Cheryl wrinkle her nose. Whatever. “It was sweet,” she continues, ignoring Faye’s dig, which makes Faye grin, but that’s just what the two of them are like, isn’t it? “It’s been very nice. I’ve really been looking forward to the break, so I can spend more time with him now that we’re, like, actually together; though he’s been working more…”
“Working? Like that coding stuff, or an actual job?”
Cheryl kicks at Faye’s shin, making her curse under her breath. “Don’t be mean about him.”
“Come on, that’s not what I meant. Freelance is freelance and a full-time job is a full-time job. Time wise, that is.”
And she guesses that’s true. Cheryl sighs, leaning back into her arms; it was her who told Miles to get a full-time job — though she was talking about later, later, later, that future that seems so impossibly far away that it doesn’t feel real, even when her stomach does a flip every time she realizes just how close to graduation she actually is; once she’s going to college, once they’ve moved to the next bigger city, like she’s thought about so many times in such minute detail, and he’d gotten a little pale when she rattled all of it off, but whatever — but she’s not actually sure if she could take it. Sure, she’d be studying as well, but… getting home and Miles is still at work…? Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh.
No, she doesn’t want to think about all of that right now, actually.
“Whatever. I know he’s, like, saving up money for when I drag him with me to university — though I’m the only one going, of course — and I know I told him he should, but it still pisses me off. I just want to see him!”
Faye deadpans. “You guys live together.”
And Cheryl thinks about Faye and Mila — not that they’re dating or anything, Faye’s not that far yet, though she guesses it’s looking good, and Mila hasn’t really mentioned Miles anymore, so — and finds she probably doesn’t actually have much right to complain.
She’s still gonna, though.
.
The first thing she sees when stepping into the cafeteria — eyes wandering to their table, obviously; which isn’t actually their table, it doesn’t have their names on it or anything, but no one else would ever dare sit there, anyway — is Cheok-Jin sitting in Bernard’s lap, his tongue down her throat.
Which. Pleasant. Very pleasant, indeed.
Faye’s making a face when Cheryl glances at her, so she makes a face, too; Mila is the only one who’s sort of polite in the way she only slightly wrinkles her nose. Still, it ignites a spark of something in the pit of Cheryl’s stomach, glittering in her veins like the gel pen she busted in the past lesson by chewing on the end of it in boredom: perfect, ever-kind Mila displaying mild distaste. Who knows, maybe she’s as human as the rest of them, in the end.
When she glances at Faye again, however, she looks all too endeared — most likely by the same thing Cheryl noticed, as well — so, ugh. God, maybe all of this was a bad idea; now she’s the one third wheeling. Fifth wheeling, actually, she thinks, just a little bitterly, glancing at Cheok-Jin and Bernard, who are now unfurling as they’re apparently realizing they have incoming company. How thoughtful.
Faye elbows her before they reach the table, ducking to be able to whisper into Cheryl’s ear: “You alright?”
Which, duh. Makes her roll her eyes; when has she ever given anyone even an indication she might care about Bernard in any capacity? Even now, that hindsight has made her a little… fonder, maybe, the whole thing was just a bunch of nothing. And sex. And more nothing.
She shrugs. “I’m happy for them, I guess.”
And really, she only realizes how insane a sentence that is coming from her when she catches sight of her best friend’s face again; twisted in something that almost resembles incredulity.
“Wow,” she says, still a little hushed, though they’re already sitting down by now, “you really have softened up a bunch, have you?”
Cheryl doesn’t know what to say to that.
.
Miles only opens his eyes a crack when Cheryl puts her head on his chest, the way he’s raising his brows betraying how hard it is for him to keep his eyes open right now. It’s almost funny; certainly endearing. Though she always thinks he’s endearing, so there’s that.
“Tired, are you…?”
He groans, eyes fluttering shut again, hands falling back into his mattress where she didn’t even realize he had lifted them. He’s pale, but he’s always pale; and the dark circles are nothing new either, not really, but they do seem to be a little deeper these days. Sheesh, what is she doing to him?
“Little bit,” he admits, and Cheryl snorts. “Sorry.”
With a huff, she traces nonsensical curlicues into the front of his shirt. It’s the first time he’s ever said no to sex, and she’s trying to be cool about it, because duh, of course that’ll happen sometimes. Cheryl Murphy, apparently not yet arrived in reality completely, despite having lived eighteen years already. Christ.
“It’s okay.”
And of course it is okay, but it still unearths something small and ugly inside of her, bubbling away in the pit of her stomach where all of her insecurities lie dormant. It’s stupid, she knows Miles is tired, can frankly see it very clearly on his face — and it’s not like he’s had much time being tired back when he was doing fuck-all with his time, so duh, he didn’t say no yet — but there’s still something poking at her, something faintly making her worry that he doesn’t find her attractive anymore. That he’s going to change his mind. That he’s thought about it further, and that he’s decided that being in a relationship with his sister really is too much hassle for what he gets out of it.
And what does he get out of it, anyway? Sex, sure, but what else? Endless needling and selfish whining? Her abrasive exterior that catches on his fumbling nature all too often?
What was it that Faye said? You’re so bratty, though, I really don’t know how he deals with that.
Whatever.
“It’s okay,” she repeats, more steadily this time, tilting her head to press a lingering kiss to his throat. He groans again, the noise vibrating into her lips, rattling around her teeth, and she’s hungry, hungry, hungry, she’s always been hungry. One of these days, she’s going to have to learn to pace herself. She has him now, after all. She has him now.
“You’re really giving me a hard time over here,” Miles mutters, laying one of his forearms over his eyes, and it lights up Cheryl’s entire being, until she’s near vibrating, until all doubts have been chased out of her head.
Her brother’s face is flushed. He’s cute, cute, cute. She presses another kiss to his skin, this time to the bit of collarbone peeking out from his shirt that makes her feel like some Victorian guy seeing an ankle. Brushes her hand down, down, down his shirt, squeezing the front of his soft sweatpants, where he’s already sporting a bit of a chub. Gotcha.
“Hard, huh?”
Even though his eyes are covered, she knows he’s rolling his eyes. “Ha-ha.”
It’s nice, to rub over his sweatpants, to feel his cock growing firm under her touch, slowly but surely. She can feel his heartbeat too, she thinks, petting his dick like this, but maybe that’s her own, echoing in her fingertips. Doesn’t matter; the way he throbs is definitely all him, and even though he hasn’t touched her at all yet, Cheryl feels herself clenching down around nothing.
God, she has it bad, doesn’t she? God, god, god, he smells good; she nuzzles into his chest, into his shirt further, breathing him in.
“Ch-Cheryl,” he gasps, voice hoarse from exhaustion, and she wants, wants, wants him. “Seriously, I’m too tired.”
“It’s okay,” she purrs, tilting her head up again to brush her lips over his jaw, absorbing how he sucks in a sharp breath like a sponge, greedy, greedy, greedy. “You don’t have to do anything. Is that okay?”
He’s chewing on his bottom lip, she can tell, even when he’s a bit blurry from just how close they are. His breath sends a few of the hairs framing her face flying with every exhale, and there’s something thrumming, thrumming, thrumming under her skin.
“You want it, right?” she asks, weirdly breathless. Miles shrugs. Nods. He’s beautiful.
“Yeah,” he admits, eyes still obscured, and Cheryl feels the biting urge to claw his arm away from his face, to kiss him until they’re all fused together. They’re siblings already, after all. How far away is that really from being the same being? “But I’d feel bad about not reciprocating.”
She smiles into the fabric of his shirt. Idiot.
“You’re stupid,” she murmurs. “I don’t care about that.”
The whine that rolls out of his throat — and with how she’s lying on his chest, vibrating into her, rattling around in her bones until she has to bite down on her own bottom lip to keep herself from moaning — is cute, so, so cute she wants to eat him. But, well, this will have to be enough; Miles nods again, and though she didn’t ask him a question, it’s very clear what he means.
Cheryl allows her hand to slip under the waistband of her brother’s sweatpants. It’s warm under it, warmed up from his body-heat, like she’s slipped a hand inside of him, and she sucks at her teeth at the thought, fumbling to slip her hands into his boxers, too, careful to not have her acrylics catch onto the elastic.
He’s hissing when she pulls his cock out of his boxers and pants, shimmying her hand to push the elastics down far enough so she has enough space to move. Mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath, and she doesn’t know whether she wants to sit up so she can stare at his face — watch for every little twitch, every little reaction, watch how it flushes further and further and further, make him take off his shirt so she can watch it bloom over his shoulders and collarbones and down his chest, pink blotches on porcelain skin — or stay right like this, cheek to his chest, shifting a little so she can hear his heartbeat.
In the end, she opts to just stay like she is, squeeze Miles’ cock in her hand, his chest twitching against her cheek, making her smile widen, stretch over her face until she feels like a half-melted marshmallow, sticky and stretchy and tacky, clinging to him and refusing to let go. She’s too tired to move much more, as well.
Not that he wants her to. Let go, that is. No, that much is very evident in the way he moans when Cheryl starts jerking him slowly, when she can feel how his head rolls back, when she can hear the moan rolling out of him, feel it against her skin, making her hiss. He doesn’t want her to let go, and her heart dances in her chest when his arm — warm, warm, warm — snakes underneath her and around her waist, to pull her even closer still.
It still seems unreal, sometimes: Miles loves her, and she loves him. It still seems unreal sometimes, but it’s the truth, it’s really the truth, it’s actually happening. He’s actually here, actually letting her touch him like this.
Almost makes her forget she wanted to be mean to him. She gives his cock a harder squeeze, until the groan he lets out sounds just a little pained, but there’s no real heat behind it; she can’t manage it, not really, not right now, even when she knows he’d enjoy it. Even when she enjoys it, too, usually.
And still…
“Working hard, are you,” Cheryl coos, overly nice in a way that almost sounds like condescension even to her own ears. He shivers underneath her. Bingo. “I’m so proud of you, big brother!”
“Oh, screw you…”
“You love me,” she huffs, squeezing his cock again, brushing her thumb along the tip, watching the drop of precum drip down, down, down. God, he’s so pretty. “And anyhow, I’m just imitating your little sis girlies from your porn games, so you should be happy.”
Miles groans again, and when she’s tipping up her head to peek at him, his eyes are visible again, squeezed shut, and he’s biting at his knuckles. Mumbling something she just barely manages to make out: “Rather have you, anyway.”
Makes every square inch of Cheryl’s body fizz and prickle, like she’s submerged in one of those soda cans she likes getting from the vending machine after school, click, click, clicking her acrylic nails against the metal. Makes something in her chest squeeze, swell in a warmth that has her flex her toes, squirm where she’s lying next to him, ignoring the irritated little click of his tongue.
Well, not ignoring it, actually. She squeezes his cock again for it, a little mean, until his hips are bucking clumsily into her touch with a hiss like a cat, back arching, and god, god, god, he really is the most beautiful thing in the entire universe. She’s supposed to be punishing him, but he’s really making all of that hard.
Maybe she has softened up, after all. For Miles, that is; jury’s still out on everyone else.
“Idiot,” she mumbles into his chest, anyway, the fabric of his shirt warm against her cheek; warmed up by his body heat and hers, theirs together. “You’re such an idiot.”
He hums, sounding like he’s going to say something — like he’s going to talk back, and Cheryl can’t have that, can she, so she picks up her pace, palm wet from the precum that keeps dripping down his cock, and part of her wants to get up and blow him; taste him on her tongue, salty and bitter and Miles, Miles, Miles, but it’s so warm and his heartbeat is so nice in her ear and she doesn’t want to move all that much, so this will have to be enough.
It’s not all that serene and comfortable with how he’s squirming underneath her, throwing his head back, gasping and groaning and moaning, but he’s cute, so that’s okay. Does piss her off a little after a while, however, and she clicks her tongue, digging her acrylics into his dick just a little, hisses, “Will you quit moving?” and apparently, that’s it.
Cheryl barely just so manages to use her hand to catch his cum, wrapping it around the tip of his cock, so it doesn’t go all over his shirt; so it doesn’t go all over her, perhaps. It’s hot and sticky in her grip, his cock throbbing, a throaty, ragged gasp dragging out of him, and the shiver that rolls over her whole body at it all feels near-orgasmic, anyway.
Once Miles goes limp next to her, still panting, she grudgingly gets up, and seeing that she’s in her brother’s room and not her own — where she has tissues and makeup wipes and the like, whereas he has… well, fucking nothing — she just grabs one of his old, gross shirts from the floor and wipes her hand there.
“Sorry,” he offers next to her, and when she glances at him, he’s tucking his cock back into his boxers and sweatpants. Glancing at her almost nervously, gaze lingering. “And, um, thanks.”
Idiot, idiot, idiot. There’s something in the way he’s looking at her right now: tired, dark eyes drooping, something sparkling in them, something affectionate, his face flushed, his hair falling into it.
He does really like her, doesn’t he?
(Not just like. God, this is making her so stupid, god, god, god, she really hopes she’ll grow her teeth back soon because this is ridiculous.)
“Hmph,” she huffs, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “Whatever, loser. Let’s watch a movie. You can sleep, you do that every time, anyway.”
Miles groans — he hates her movie choices, doesn’t he, but well, in that case he shouldn’t have gotten a TV in his room; his own fault, really, her room doesn’t have one, after all — but he won’t escape her that easily. Even when she likes him a whole damn lot, she’s still got a reputation to uphold, after all.
.
Obviously, the first time in ages where Cheryl is trying to cook — their mother is still at work and Miles has been working the entire day, so she wanted to do something nice for him, even when it is quite apparent why he’s the one who usually cooks: it’s a bit of a disaster — she gets interrupted. By her phone ringing, actually, and these days, it does that so little — the only one who used to really call her out of nowhere was Bernard, and well, that’s over, isn’t it; she does talk on the phone with Faye quite frequently, but they always announce that via texting beforehand, and who just calls people anymore, anyway — that she jumps when the ringtone suddenly cuts through the quiet of the kitchen.
Even Wortels jumps and bolts away. Jeez.
It takes a bit of fumbling — her hands are wet — before Cheryl manages to get the phone securely in her hand, nevermind accepting the call.
“Yes?” she asks into it, quite harshly, realizing only now that she didn’t even bother to look who’s calling her. Though she does have a nagging feeling at the back of her skull that…
“Cherry!” Mila’s breathless voice crackles through the phone, bright as a headache. Yeah. Yep. Yeah. “Sorry for calling out of the blue, I was just, umm…”
Huh. She sounds a bit nervous, actually, doesn’t she? Cheryl doesn’t think she’s ever heard Mila sound nervous before. Ever-cheerful Mila. Ever-bright Mila. And maybe she’s mean, because she does have to admit that it’s thanks to Mila that she’s kept a relatively good mood on many, many, many occasions.
“You okay?”
“Oh!” Mila says, giggling, still breathy. “Yeah, I’m okay. I hope you’re okay, too! I just… well, I wanted to ask you something, actually.”
Something in the pit of Cheryl’s stomach drops.
It’s stupid, anyway; Mila hasn’t mentioned Miles in a long while, ever since their stupid sleepover, actually. It’s stupid, because Mila hasn’t mentioned Miles at all ever since, and Miles is already dating Cheryl, anyway, and it’s not like he’d just ditch her because another girl shows an iota of interest, and still there’s worry nagging at her, and still she’s afraid Mila is going to ask about her brother.
Why wouldn’t she? Like, yes, Faye and Mila have been hanging out more, but with girls, that’s always… well, Faye is flirting, obviously, but Cheryl has no idea if Mila is even noticing that, and she did say Miles was cute, and she doesn’t usually talk much about her crushes or anything like that, anyway.
“…Yeah?” Cheryl asks, anyway, because it’s not like she can run away. Graduation still hasn’t happened, and she’d actually like to stay friends beyond that, too, if possible. Huh, she does. That’s somewhat of a surprise.
Part of her wishes she could just… tell people. Yeah, I’m dating my brother. Yeah, the one you thought was cute. Yeah, the one where your comment made even me wonder if your taste in men isn’t a bit questionable, and I’m in love with the guy, but damnit, I’m the only one who should be. Yeah, so, you still want to be friends, right?
Fat fucking chance.
“So…” Mila says, and Cheryl can’t see her, but she’s still sure Mila is fumbling with her sleeves, like she usually is whenever she’s nervous, or excited, or both. “Faye’s your best friend, and, um, you know how she is with girls — I can’t even keep up sometimes, and I don’t mean that in a bad way or anything, it’s just the way it is, right? — so I just wanted to ask you. Um, if Faye’s, um… single. Right now. At the moment.”
At the end there, Mila’s talking so fast that Cheryl’s head is spinning. So fast that it takes a few moments — shuffling at the other end of the line, like Mila has started pacing — until Mila’s words actually arrive in Cheryl’s brain, until it manages to file through the information.
“Oh!”
Mila squeaks a little. “I mean, I’m just asking, she’s probably not, but —”
It makes Cheryl laugh before she realizes that that’s probably a little mean. Relief and a strange giddiness — huh, huh, huh, way to go, Faye! — rushes through her so heavily that it takes a moment before she can bite her giggles back behind her teeth, before she can swallow them back down. God, she’s almost tempted to do a stupid little dance. Mila isn’t into Miles!
Well, better for her, anyway. It’s not like Cheryl’s an easy opponent, especially at this point. Still, still, still.
“Sorry,” she says, quickly, still grinning. Oh, she’s going to have so much fun teasing Faye about this. “And you’re in luck! Faye is actually very single at the moment.”
She almost bursts out laughing again when she remembers how Mila put it — you know how she is with girls — but manages not to. Christ. Called her a damn playboy in the nicest way possible.
Which, well. Isn’t exactly a wrong assessment, Faye’s been known to play a little fast and loose with girls, even when her ex-girlfriends often greatly exaggerate it, but in this case, it’s probably most likely different. Cheryl’s never seen Faye look at anyone like this before, actually, and they’ve known each other for as long as she can fucking remember.
“Oh!” Mila exclaims, audibly relieved. It’s cute, kind of. Cheryl does understand Faye, even when her own type in women has always been more… well, Faye. “That’s good. I mean, that’s good to know. I mean, thanks! I’ll stop bothering you now, uh, have a good day!”
Then she hangs up, and Cheryl thinks she probably does like Mila the most like this. Not… stressed, or anxious or anything, just… well, human.
Huh, maybe she should work to get to know her peers better, or at least her friends. Well, the one friend. Cheok-Jin is…
Whatever.
Later, after she’s burnt the food and elected to just order pizza instead — which Miles was actually very happy about, so, score — later, later, later, there’s a string of incoherent messages from Faye on her phone, but Cheryl just so manages to parse out that Mila probably asked her out.
Well, that’s another good deed done. She hopes karma will leave her alone for the rest of her goddamn life now; she thinks she’s certainly earned it. Who would have thought playing cupid could be so stressful?
Fun, too, however. If only to see Faye stumble all over herself with a bright red face.
.
The air is cold, and the stars are bright. With the wind rushing in Cheryl’s ears like this, it sort of feels like she’s back at the north sea, like Miles took her there on a trip, just the two of them. The thought makes something nostalgic tingle down her spine; she thinks she had a dream about this once. Or maybe she didn’t.
It doesn’t matter, anyway, because the grass prickles nicely at her fingers, Miles’ hand warm in hers. The night picnic had been her idea, obviously — he’d rolled his eyes at first, but then insisted on preparing sandwiches instead of just going to the corner store to buy snacks, the asshole — and she kind of a little bit regrets it with how the wind keeps tugging at her arms over Miles’ hoodie he insisted they take along (he’s smart, probably, because instead of freezing his skinny ass off, he’s lying next to her in his own hoodie), with how the chill seeps into her bones, but that’s December for ya, and she’s a hot girl, anyway.
The sandwiches were nice, though. Everything Miles makes is nice, and she’s missed it, feels it aching in her chest. There’s the hairclips he got her clipped into her hair — his Christmas present — and he’s next to her, holding her hand, all alone under the expanse of the sky, and still some sort of melancholy bounces through her. This… anxiety, of things changing, even when it is for the better. Or whatever.
“What about mom?” she asks into the star-sky, and that’s not what she wanted to say at all. Actually, she didn’t want to say anything much at all; just wanted to roll onto her side and grab his chin and yank him around a little so he’ll kiss her, then bother him into getting her a coke, or something. Her heartbeat joins the rushing of the wind in her ears.
Miles doesn’t reply for a while, and Cheryl doesn’t really want to look at him right now. Maybe he didn’t even hear her; the wind is a little loud, after all, and she doesn’t really remember how loud her voice was.
“What about mom?”
Somehow, for some reason, she feels her face burn in something that almost feels like shame. It strangles her, fills her throat with glass shards, makes her eyes burn, but really, that last part might just be the wind. Sometimes she forgets how fucked up she is. These days, she forgets it a lot.
“I mean, about us. That we’re — that we’re together. I mean, I am pretty sure she wouldn’t like it, but I don’t know if we can keep it a secret forever, realistically. Maybe we should just tell her.”
Her brother tenses next to her, and she gets it, gets it, gets it.
Yesterday, their mother had been excited the whole day because she found out Miles has been looking for apartments — nothing serious yet, but hey, still, it still made Cheryl’s heart skip a beat, still made her kick him under the table — for the both of them for after Cheryl graduates. She’d been going on and on and on about how proud she is of him, of both of them, and that she’ll always be there to support them, of course.
Cheryl had felt strangely guilty at the glimmer in their mother’s dark eyes — much like hers and Miles’, and she’s always known Miles and her look alike, but still — at the way she’d been pouting for weeks now because Miles doesn’t have as much time for her as he used to. At the way she’s having sex with her brother, at the way she’s dating her brother. God, their father already died, what more does she want to do to her poor mother?
“I don’t think we should,” Miles says, finally, so quiet she barely hears him. She kind of really wants a coke right now, actually. Cherry coke. He doesn’t like sugary things much, but he’d probably try it if she asked, wouldn’t he? “If she finds out, she finds out, and we can deal with that then. And if she never does… well, good.”
He doesn’t say anything about how he’d think their mother would react, and Cheryl gets it. He doesn’t say anything more at all — and it’s not like she’d know what to say, she never knows what to say, she’s never been good at things like this; it’s so much easier to be prickly — but he doesn’t let go of her hand, so there’s that.
The air is cold and the stars are bright, and her throat is still a little tight, but she still thinks it will probably all be alright, as long as he’s with her. As long as he’s with her. As long as he’s with her.
.
The door bursts open and Cheryl flinches so hard she throws her phone, juggling with it for a few, heart-pounding seconds before giving up and letting it drop to the bed.
“You asshole,” she hisses in the direction of her brother, who simply continues to make a beeline for her desk, ignoring her completely. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Can’t you fucking knock?”
Miles rolls his eyes, lifts his hand, gesturing with something he’s holding. When she squints, she can see that it’s… hey, that’s her hairband, isn’t it? The black one with the plastic cherries on it. She’s actually been wondering where it went; but that’s right, he took it, didn’t he? To keep his stupid shaggy greasy hair out of his stupid face while he’s playing his stupid games instead of just getting a stupid haircut.
“I was in the middle of something,” she adds, just for the sake of it, lifting her nose, fishing for her phone. She wasn’t actually doing anything, of course — and by the way he rolls his eyes again, he probably knows that all too damn well — but he still doesn’t have to scare the crap out of her like that, doesn’t he? Fuck.
“I bought my own hairband,” he says, impatient, and it’s only now that Cheryl notices he’s right; his hair is pushed back, black plastic hairband disappearing in his just as black hair. And she’d been wondering why she’s able to see so much of his damn forehead, jeez. “So you can have yours back.”
“Oh, thank you for returning what you stole.”
Miles smirks, setting the hairband down on her desk — fingertips lingering on one of the bright-red cherries for longer than strictly necessary, she thinks — before flopping down into her spinning chair with a grunt. Part of her wants to tell him to fuck off, but she’s actually kind of very glad he seems to be staying for a while. It hasn’t even been that long since they’ve last hung out — that picnic was like, literally just now, only two days ago — but it still feels like this. There’s a yearning in Cheryl’s chest that she can’t quite decipher, but maybe she doesn’t need to.
She just knows she’s looking forward to living with him, whatever all of that will bring.
She’s looking forward to university, too, or whatever.
“We’re probably gonna have to go with one bedroom,” he says to the hairband, still smiling. Makes something in her bones relax, makes something warm spread in her chest as she drops her head back into her pillow to look at the ceiling. “But I think we’ll manage. Unless you get mad at me; but then we’ll still have the couch, I guess.”
She rolls her eyes, and she wouldn’t even have to look at him to know he’s joking. Idiot. Annoying bastard. It’s not like she gets mad that often, and when she does, it’s his fault, anyway.
“That’s okay,” she replies to the ceiling when she’s flicked her gaze back to it, thinking about sleeping in the same bed as him every day. Jeez, she’ll have to be careful not to kick her legs or something. Embarrassing. “I think we’ll manage, too. As long as you cook.”
Miles snickers; their mom had been a bit angry at the burnt pan that came out of Cheryl’s last foray into cooking. She isn’t looking at him, but she sticks out her tongue, anyway.
“Yeah,” he says, voice so warm it rushes like syrup through her veins. God, he’s so fucking unfair. “Yeah, I think that’s for the best.”
It’s nice. It’s nice, and she thinks she’ll miss her room a little bit, and Miles’, and all the times they spent together here. Thinks she’ll miss her mother, too, of course, but it’s nice, and even though she’s afraid, she’s always wanted to live in a bigger city.
I love you, she wants to say, but he knows that already, anyway, so she sits up with a huff, unlocking her phone and shrugging. “At least put that hairband where it belongs if you’re already returning stolen goods.”
Surreptitiously, while pretending to be scrolling on Instagram or something — which is, in fact, what she was doing before Miles so rudely burst into her damn room, so there’s that — she opens her camera app, watches how he rolls his eyes again through it, how he raps his knuckles against her desk, all dark circles and sharp jaw and his dark, dark hair, by now just so brushing his shoulders.
“Also, I think getting a haircut would have been more convenient.”
“Whatever,” he grumbles, shooting her a glare, and she grins back innocently while she takes a blurry picture of him. Just something small, for the road. “Where the hell does it belong, anyway? Your room always looks like a pink glitter bomb exploded here, so I dunno if I believe there’s any sort of system to it.”
Cheryl sticks out her tongue again, this time directly at him and not the ceiling. “Just put it in the desk drawer, asshole, I don’t want it just lying around like that, it’s gonna get in my way.”
He hums in response, still frowning just a little, shaking his head, and she’s feeling so warm she thinks she could fall asleep. Or something. It’s nice, even when they’re bickering like this, especially when they’re bickering like this. It’s always nice.
“Fuck you,” he says, tugging the drawer open, anyway — so nice is her big brother, isn’t he, always doing as he’s told, like some dog, or something, hm — lips parted like he wants to say more, but he pauses. Furrows his brows.
Cheryl frowns. “What?”
“Huh,” Miles says, “I didn’t know you still had this.”
And for some reason, she knows exactly what he means before he produces it from inside the drawer, feels her body flush from head to toe. There’s a necklace dangling from his long, thin, pale hands, a necklace with a glass globe full of sea-sand and star-shaped sequins. Her stardust.
He’s staring at it, turning it this way and that, a small smile playing on his lips, and it’s so unfair how much she likes it, really. How exposed she feels, like he found some hidden treasure, her open, bleeding heart, and not just a necklace he bought for her when they were little.
“Of course I still have it,” she says, defensive. “You bought it for me.”
She’s jumping again when he throws it at her, catching it out of the air with weirdly sweaty hands. “Fuck, don’t do that! It could have broken.”
Miles rolls his eyes. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, anyway, getting up, the chair creaking under him, before making his way over to the bed to sit down on the edge of it, next to her. “It wouldn’t have broken, it would have landed on the bed. I should get you a new one, anyway; a prettier one.”
Makes her frown while she puts the necklace on — she’s already holding it, after all, so what’s a bit of stardust around her neck? — pulling her hair out from underneath it until it’s dangling in her cleavage. His gaze drops to it for a second, and he hisses when she pinches his thigh. Idiot.
“This one is pretty.”
He rolls his eyes again, scoots closer. “Whatever. I’m trying to be romantic, okay?”
Cheryl purses her lips petulantly but she still closes her eyes when he leans in to kiss her; closes her hand around the glass globe just as his comes up to cup her cheek. It’s cool to the touch where Miles’ lips are warm, warm, warm.