He’s so tall.
Miles stares unabashedly at the form of the man standing alone in one corner with a half-empty beer glass in one hand, dressed half-formal, a dress shirt and slacks but unbuttoned, sans tie, like he came here straight from work. Which seems weird—it’s a Saturday afternoon. The man doesn’t seem to notice him among the masses, which is a relief, Miles supposes—he’d rather die than be caught staring—but it’s also expected. Miles is easy to miss, even on his birthday.
The man gets approached a few times, greeted, but the other person never sticks around long, either just acting on courtesy or quickly losing interest. Miles is interested, though, and he tries to find an excuse—an opportunity, really, to go over and talk to this strange man he’s never seen before.
“Mami?” Miles asks quietly, nudging her free from her conversation with one of her friends. “Who’s that man over there?” He tips his head meaningfully in the direction of the man, and Mami hums curiously, eyes going wide for a second as if surprised at what she sees.
“That’s Mr O’Hara,” she explains quickly, patting Miles’ shoulder. “He’s nice—Mexican, I think. Why don’t you go over and say hi? I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” She mumbles something like ‘didn’t expect him to show up’, but she doesn’t sound displeased, so Miles figures she means it. He nods, slipping away to let her get back to her conversation, carefully weaving his way through the crowds to make his way to the snack table.
He grabs an empanada as a peace offering of sorts and a big glass of multifruit juice for himself, taking the few steps needed before he’s standing in front of the big form of Mr O’Hara, whose eyes have found his own this time, staring impassively down at him.
He’s… really large. Wide and tall, and it’s good that the sun is behind Miles because if he’d been in Mr O’Hara’s shadow he probably would have pissed himself and ran.
This way, however, he can see the man’s eyes clearly. They’re warm, and brown, with a gentle tone of red-tinged honey where the light hits them straight on, framed by pretty black eyelashes.
“...Hey,” Miles says before he can get lost in cataloguing Mr O’Hara’s face. “I’m Miles. D’you like empanadas?” He offers up the box with an awkward, lopsided grin, trying really hard to not get distracted looking at the man’s brows and the fine frown lines between them. They’re so interesting, and while it’s a bit awkward craning his neck up so high, it’s definitely worth it.
“Yeah, sure,” Mr O’Hara says, voice as honey-smooth as the rest of him. It suits him to a T, and Miles’ smile turns entirely genuine.
“Good, ‘cus that’s all I brought,” he chirps, pressing the box into the man’s hands, channelling his mother a bit to break the ice. She’s liked by everyone except for Mrs Katie from the corner block, so surely that can’t go wrong. “You’re Mr O’Hara, right?” he asks, watching with curious eyes as the man perches his beer carefully on a stone ledge in the wall before opening the box and having a look at the contents inside.
“Miguel O’Hara,” he confirms, apparently liking what he sees and closing the box gently again to aim a calm look at Miles. “You’re Rio’s kid, right? The birthday boy?”
Miles nods, sipping at his juice. “Yeah. Miles.”
“Nice to meet you, Miles. Not interested in mingling?” Mr O’Hara sounds genuinely curious, but his expressions are reserved. “Not that I’m complaining, but I’d imagine you’d be more keen on people your age.”
That earns him a shrug. Miles isn’t trying to be rude, he’s just… “They’re all playing this card game thing, I never got the hype. I’d rather stay here.” He turns, leaning his back against the wall, so they’re almost shoulder to… elbow, really, since Mr O’Hara is so tall.
Everyone here’s a cousin anyway, since his school friends have lost contact with him ever since he started attending Brooklyn Visions a few months back, and he hasn’t really clicked with anyone new. Nobody Miles would kill to be around.
“I can imagine,” Mr O’Hara hums, looking out at the party. “How’s school? Good grades?”
“Yeah,” Miles says, casting his eyes down. “Spanish is kicking my ass, though.” Or, to be more specific, Spanglish is. It’s a different standard of speech in rich-white-kid school, and it trips him up sometimes, especially in the orals.
Mr O’Hara nods, eyes on the party. “It’s different, learning at home to learning at school, right? All that formal stuff.”
Miles nods. “I’m getting better.” He’s losing the slang, little by little. Part of him mourns it—the other part just wants to be good for his parents and not cause trouble. The faster he gets an A+ the better. They’ve got more to worry about.
As if on cue, he hears Billie cry out in her fussy-toddler way through the music, and he sees Mami excuse herself to hurry over to her side, in Dad’s arms. Gonzalo has situated himself underneath the water tower, glaring over his leather jacket’s collar at anyone who meets his eye while he scribbles at the metal structure in black marker.
“Toddlers can be a handful,” Mr O’Hara says, a neutral statement, all things considered. He doesn’t look disapproving of children—instead just like someone who has experience, and he turns to grab his beer from the ledge again, empanada still in the other hand.
“A little,” Miles says. “She’s not…” he struggles for words. “She’s not badly behaved. She’s just got… needs.” Mr O’Hara nods at that, and Miles shifts on his feet, leaning back further against the wall. “She’s too young to be friends with, too, so I try to stay out of the way.”
“You could come stay over at my place, some time,” Mr O’Hara offers, sipping absently at his drink. Miles blinks at him, unsure. Mr O’Hara smiles. It’s a new look—one Miles hasn’t seen before. “I imagine two siblings and working parents makes it all become a little too much sometimes. You should stop by. I’ve got enough space for the both of us that’s going to waste when it’s just me, so…” he shrugs. “When you need to get out of the house for a bit, come to me.”
It’s phrased awkwardly—like a command, though Miles can tell it’s not. They’re just both standing in a quiet corner at his Mami’s party for a reason, and it’s not because they’re especially socially adept. It feels mean to think that about a man Miles has known for maybe twenty minutes, but… it’s more kindred spirit than anything.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Miles says, and he means it. “You live close by?”
“A few blocks over. 82, in the big old flat building in the distance. Your little brother spray-painted a rather impressive four-foot…” Mr O’Hara visibly struggles to censor himself before he gives up. “...Penis on the side wall, right over the community art.”
“Oh, yeah.” Miles shifts awkwardly. “He got in a lot of trouble for that.”
Mr O’Hara raises his eyebrows for a moment, turning his eyes away with a sort of half-grimace. “Don’t tell your parents, but I thought it was pretty funny. Old art had been there for what, half a decade? It gets tiresome looking at the same face for years on end.”
Miles hums, raising his glass to his lips to avoid responding. They lapse back into slightly uncomfortable silence, right up until Mami dances up to him with a wide grin and curious eyes, greeting Mr O’Hara with a short, polite hello and a ‘como has estado?’ before she’s excusing the both of them and dragging Miles back into the thick of the party, leaving the man standing there with his drink as Miles gets pulled over to another gaggle of tías to get introduced and reintroduced to.
It’s a good thing Mr O’Hara is so damn tall, Miles thinks, keeping curious eyes on the man even as he’s paraded around, praised left and right about how much he’s grown, how good his grades are, how polite he is. Miles just smiles and nods, already a little overwhelmed at the attention. He catches some tidbits as he’s passed between groups, just from the gossip alone. Apparently this appearance is a once in a lifetime kind of thing, so people can’t help but tell each other about it.
Mr O’Hara is very well-off, very tall, very handsome, and very reclusive, is the gist of it. Miles kind of gathered that just by looking at him, but the confirmation is nice to have, even if it’s all second-hand. He’s well-known; not personally, but by his achievements, though he’s not really rich or famous enough to gather a following. He’s lived in the area for well over a decade, and hasn’t done anything to stand out as a particularly noteworthy person; good nor bad. He’s just there. Has been for a long time.
Miles doesn’t really get the opportunity to talk to Mr O’Hara again until the party winds down. He only manages to peel himself away from his overly affectionate aunt with an apologetic smile when he sees the man readying himself to leave, though, and hurries after him. Mr O’Hara is already halfway down the stairs before Miles catches up to him, courtesy of Miles struggling to push open the heavy rooftop door.
“Wait!” He calls just before Mr O’Hara can turn down another flight of stairs, leaning over the railing. The man pauses, dark eyes flicking up to meet his. Miles’ heart stutters in his chest, a sudden shyness overtaking him. He stammers for a bit. “Uh, um…”
Mr O’Hara turns to face him fully, a calm sort of openness on his face as he waits for Miles to catch his bearings. “What’s going on?”
“Did… did you mean it?” Miles asks, a little breathless. His eyes are wide as saucers, he just knows, and his face feels hot. “That I could come over some day.”
“Yeah,” Mr O’Hara says, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “I’m a man of my word.”
Miles swallows. He nods. “Okay,” he says. “Have a good evening, Mr O’Hara.”
“You too.”
Anxiety, mainly. That’s what Miles feels as he stands in front of Mr O’Hara’s door, waiting for the man to open, the ringing of the doorbell from where he’d pressed it a brief, appropriate amount—God he hopes it was appropriate. Was it too short? Should he press again? What if it was too long? He doesn’t want to be annoying—still echoing in his mind.
The door opens before he can turn on his heel and run, revealing Mr O’Hara in a half unbuttoned button-up and slacks, looking just like he had at Miles’ birthday.
“Miles,” the man says, eyes widening a little, surprised. “I wasn’t expecting…” he cuts himself off. “Well, nevermind that. How are you? Wanna come in?” He steps aside, corners of his mouth quirking up awkwardly for a minute.
Miles nods mutely, embarrassed. Mr O’Hara wasn’t expecting him. Of course he wasn’t—Miles just showed up unannounced, hoping he was home. The cacophony of Miles’ home still rings in his ears, exhaustion framing his eyes. He steps inside the house, halting awkwardly next to the doorway from the hallway to the living room. Mr O’Hara closes the front door again and turns to look at him, halting for a visible moment.
“You want something to drink? I’ve got…” Mr O’Hara’s nose twitches with a hint of frustration, just the slightest glimpse of a grimace. “Beer and water. But you can’t have beer. I’ve got water.”
“Water’s good,” Miles says, trying to sound grateful, and he is. It’s the best cure for the lingering headache behind his eyes, anyway, aside from the quiet stillness of his new environment.
“Okay,” Mr O’Hara says. “Uh, sit down if you want. I wasn’t doing anything, but you wanna watch TV?”
So long as it’s something quiet. “Okay,” Miles answers, looking cluelessly at the living room. There’s a big, plush couch in the middle of it, a gentle beige colour, in front of a large TV. Tracing with a thumb over his phone in his pant pocket he makes his way over and settles into a corner. Mr O’Hara moves past him, into the open kitchen just beyond.
The fridge opens, and there’s a quiet sound of frustration before it closes again. Miles looks over to see Mr O’Hara grab a glass from the wood and glass cabinet above the counter, then fill it up with tap water; running the tap a moment before holding the glass under.
“Sorry,” the man says when he notices Miles looking. “I’m… not exactly on top of things right now. I meant to head to the store yesterday but…” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he comes back, holding out the glass. Miles takes it with a soft ‘thanks’. “Right. You wanna pick something to watch?” He grabs the remote from the coffee table and holds it out to Miles.
Miles accepts it with a nod. “Do you have a preference?” he asks, unsure.
Mr O’Hara hesitates for a long moment, then shakes his head, sitting down in the middle of the couch, a little away from Miles. “No. Pick whatever you want.”
Miles turns on the TV—it’s not so different to what they have at home, thankfully, though admittedly he fumbles with the controls a bit, unused to watching TV at all—and browses through until he lands on a telenovela. He’s not sure what’s going on; there are three women standing around yelling at each other, all in elegant dresses, while a shirtless man with a panicked look on his face stands aside, hands half-up as if to interfere, going completely ignored.
It takes Miles about five minutes to figure out a semblance of a plot; the mother and the daughter both have their eyes on the shirtless man, and the third woman is the man’s sister, who wants to live off his money and therefore doesn’t want him to marry at all. Miles jerks in surprise when the sister pulls a gun out of nowhere—he’s fairly sure her dress doesn’t have pockets—and shoots the mother point blank in the chest.
“Classic,” Mr O’Hara mumbles, the first thing either of them have said in twenty minutes.
“You watch a lot of this?” Miles asks, watching with morbid curiosity as the daughter promptly forgets she was just threatening to kill her mother and instead cradles her dramatically splayed body, crying to the skies as police rush onto the scene. The sister has run off, and the shirtless man has stayed behind to comfort the woman and put half-hearted pressure on the wound.
“Used to,” Mr O’Hara says, and doesn’t elaborate any more. “Just watch, they’re going to accuse Juan of murder and completely ignore Alexandra’s testimony.” The corner of his mouth quirks up, eyes tracing the screen with interest. “And then, at the end, the twist will be that Juan set his sister up to kill Alexandra’s mother because he did want her out of the picture so he could marry his beloved without issue, and in the same way also get his clingy sister behind bars and away from him.”
“No,” Miles says, laughing. “I refuse to believe that. And then who will show up for her? Alexandra?”
Mr O’Hara stares at him for a long moment, expression inscrutable, before he smiles and answers. “The childhood friend who was always there for her but conveniently went on a business trip for a few days and has been hiding that he’s the CEO of the company Juan works at as a manager, of course.”
“You’ve watched this one before,” Miles accuses lightly. He takes a sip of his water.
“Maybe,” Mr O’Hara says, leaning back with a self-satisfied look. “See?”
Miles turns back to the screen. Indeed: Juan is being thrown into cuffs and carried off by two burly officers, while Alexandra clutches her dying mother with makeup streaking down her face.
“It’s a re-run,” Mr O’Hara explains then, looking with kind eyes back at Miles. “This one’s one of the classics. Produced in… 2002?”
Miles wrinkles his nose. “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” Mr O’Hara says with a wry smile. “Keep watching, it gets good here.”
“But you just spoiled the entire plot for me,” Miles says, turning to look anyway.
His headache fades somewhere into the second episode they watch, and before long the lack of sleep from yesterday catches up to Miles, his eyes falling slowly shut, glass of water still half-full on the coffee table in front of them.
“Hey,” is a whisper he wakes to, disoriented when the room is a lot darker when he peels his eyes open, even though he’s sure he only nodded off for a second. “Miles?”
“Hmm?” he hums, sitting up with a deep intake of breath, trying to kickstart his brain. There’s a form imprinted against his cheek like memory foam, and he pushes his hand up to it, trying to figure out what he’d been lying against. Loosely he registers a shoulder next to him, attached to the big, relaxed form of Mr O’Hara staring calmly at him.
“Good evening,” he says, shifting to face Miles a little more. “You were out for a few hours. Bad night?”
“Yeah,” Miles nods, rubbing at his eyes and the corner of his mouth, relieved to find no residue there. God, imagine if he’d drooled all over Mr O’Hara. “Sorry.” Gonzalo had run away after a big fight between him and Mami, and Miles couldn’t sleep because Mami and Dad had spent the entire night up, frantically calling everyone they could think of. Miles' gut had churned the entire time, anxiety seeping in, wondering if he should have interfered. If he should have gone after Gonzalo. Would that have helped?
“Don’t worry about it," Mr O'Hara says, interrupting the unwelcome thoughts with his gentle voice. "I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to get some rest. I’d offer you dinner but the fridge is empty, and I think your parents might want you home soon.” The smile the man offers is apologetic. “I’ll walk you.”
“It’s… It’s fine,” Miles murmurs, blinking slowly a few times, trying to ignore the crick in his neck. “‘Time is it?”
“Almost seven,” Mr O’Hara replies. “I’d feel bad making you walk back alone this late.”
Miles wants to say he’ll be alright, but truly, he doesn’t mind the company. Part of him doesn’t want to leave at all, anyway. “Okay.”
They head out in silence and walk the couple blocks over in silence. Mr O’Hara has thrown on a light coat which reaches down to his knees; one of those fashionable suede ones. He keeps his stride slow, keeping up with Miles rather than the other way around. Miles is just wearing his shirt and no jacket, which is usually fine but not that great against the Northern wind which whips around corners of buildings. He’d forgotten Mami telling him about it. He tries not to shiver; he’ll be home soon anyway.
“Sorry,” he says when they turn the corner onto his street. Mr O’Hara makes a curious sound, dark eyes finding Miles’ face. “For falling asleep on you. That’s probably not what you meant when you told me I could come by. I’m not great company.”
“Better company than myself,” Mr O’Hara says easily, shrugging those big shoulders of his. He tilts his head a little while doing so. It looks strangely casual on such a large, withheld man. From what Miles has seen so far, anyway. He thinks it suits Mr O’Hara, though. The quiet softness. “You’ve got soft cheeks, too. Barely noticed a thing.”
Miles sputters a little, hands clapping over his cheeks, feeling them warm beneath his fingers. “I do not.”
“You do,” Mr O’Hara teases, a smirk pulling at his lips. “I’m gonna miss them when you grow out of them, y’know.”
The words make Miles’ heart skip a beat. “Yeah?” he says, narrowing his eyes even as the implication of Mr O'Hara sticking around, wanting Miles around, blooms in his chest. “Watch me, I’m gonna have cheeks bonier than Uncle Aaron’s. You’ll never feel comfortable when I fall asleep on you again.”
Mr O’Hara’s brows furrow, and he pauses for a moment, standing there. “I don’t know an Aaron Morales.”
“Davis,” Miles corrects absently. “Dad took Mom’s last name.” He pulls out his phone, swiping it open. “Hold on, I’ve got a picture. You’ll see.”
“No password?” Mr O’Hara asks.
Miles shakes his head. “Can’t be bothered. Dunno what I’d put as the code, either.” He scrolls through his photos, before finally finding one of Uncle Aaron and pulling it up. It’s an old one—Miles is twelve or so in the picture, and much more round-cheeked than he is now, despite what Mr O’Hara says. It makes the contrast between him and Uncle Aaron all the more visible. “See, here.”
He holds the phone out to Mr O’Hara, who stares at it with curious eyes, bent over to see properly. “Oh, yeah, wow.” The man chuckles. “I think I’d have to start using a pillow for protection in that case. You’d cut me.”
Miles’ chest puffs up, and a smile blooms on his face. “Yeah,” he says. “Just you watch.”
They reach Miles’ front door, and he turns to Mr O’Hara, stuffing his phone back into his butt pocket.
“Uh,” Miles says, hopping up two steps and then turning back, a little peeved to find he’s still shorter than Mr O’Hara’s full height. “Thanks. For today.”
“Any time,” Mr O’Hara says, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets. The sunlight reflected on the window across the street haloes him from the back, turning his hair gold and silver at the edges, though his face isn’t entirely shadowed so Miles can see the small smile lines on either side of his mouth as he stands there. “I had fun, too. Hadn’t rewatched that telenovela in at least ten years. It gave me a good excuse to.”
“Yeah, with my snoring,” Miles jokes, and shrugs to release the tension in his shoulders.
“You were very quiet, actually. A deep sleeper.” Mr O'Hara’s smile widens, and small lines appear at the corner of his eyes, too. “Next time I’ll have food and drink ready for you. What do you like?”
“Uhh… tacos,” Miles says, his usual answer when he draws a blank on food. “And iced tea.”
“Noted. You should go in before you shiver out of your skin. The wind’s cold. Take a jacket next time, just in case,” Mr O’Hara says, reaching out to pat Miles on the shoulder. “I’ve got a coat rack for a reason.”
Mr O’Hara’s hand is warm and big, and Miles’ shoulder feels cold when it drops away. He nods. It’s strange to say goodbye like this for the first time.
“See you,” Miles says quietly, turning to ring the bell.
“See you,” Mr O’Hara echoes.
He stands there until Mami comes down the stairs to let Miles in, and doesn’t move until the door’s closed.
Miles races upstairs to lean out his window, watching him leave down the street, looking both ways before crossing over somewhere that most certainly isn’t a legal crossing. Miles snorts, folding his arms and dropping his head onto them as he watches Mr O’Hara disappear.
“I got your text,” Mami says, leaning against his doorframe. “Was he nice?”
“Yeah,” Miles says, still staring at the street corner where Mr O’Hara was last. “He told me I can come over whenever.”
“That’s nice of him. Do you want me to make you something to take with you next time? To share?”
Miles thinks on it, then shakes his head. “Maybe some other time.” Mami’s busy a lot of the time anyway.
“Okay, mijo. Just let me know.” She’s quiet for a bit, before she speaks again, softer. “I’m sorry for last night, Miles. I love you.”
Miles says nothing for a long moment. Then he swallows. “I know. I love you too.”
“Okay. Dinner’ll be ready in a bit. I’ll call you.”
“Okay.”
Miles says nothing more when she leaves to focus on cooking again, instead keeping his eyes on the street, trying to commit today to memory.
“Miles,” Mr O’Hara says, eyes wide when he opens the door, a towel around his shoulders and hair still dripping into his face. He’s dressed in a threadbare white tee that stretches over his chest and dark navy shorts, clearly just out of the shower. “Sorry, I thought you weren’t coming today.” He rubs one end of the towel over his face and hair, soaking up the water that hasn’t dripped onto his t-shirt yet.
Miles bites his lip, foot tapping nervously. It’s later than usual, but… “I couldn’t focus. At home. And my project’s due tomorrow, so…”
“So you come to me,” Mr O’Hara fills in, kindly. “I’m not upset, just surprised. Come in. I’ll pour you some iced tea. Kitchen table’s clear, if you wanna set up there.”
It’s hotter than ever outside; the kicking in of a heatwave after the relative cold of last week. Mr O’Hara’s apartment has an airco, however, so Miles doesn’t have to sit in the sweltering heat of his room with the door closed just to avoid some noise. He pulls off his backpack, wincing at the slight redness from where the strap rubbed against bare, sweaty skin. Ninety degrees is no joke.
He zips open his bag and pulls out the stuff he needs to get done; it’s an art history thing. Miles signed up for the summer assignment somewhere in spring, hoping… Miles doesn’t even know anymore. Given the workload, however, he’s starting to regret it. The textbook he needs to reference is huge and heavy when he pulls it out, and it falls on the table with a loud thud.
“Shock, is that a book or a brick?” Mr O’Hara jokes, turning to look at Miles. Ice cubes clink in the glass as he pours iced tea over them, and Miles’ mouth feels drier than the Sahara desert all of a sudden. “Your back must be killing you.”
Miles shrugs. “It’s fine.” His shoulders feel kinda tender, but that’s it. His binder top prevented the worst of the damage. He doesn’t usually wear one, but with the heat everything swells, just a little. The compression is an okay trade-off for the sweating. He accepts the glass of iced tea gratefully and gulps half of it down before he can feel the sting of the cold on his palate. Then he grimaces, pressing his tongue tenderly to the area and squeezing his eyes shut. “Ahh fuck, cold.”
Mr O’Hara stares at him, one eyebrow raised. “Should I be chiding you for your language?”
“Uh…” Miles thinks about it. “Not if I don’t swear in Spanish. I think.” It feels more weighty in Spanish, somehow. Not that Miles would say anything of the sort to Mami in either language—he knows far better than that.
He’s shocked out of his thoughts by a soft chuckle. “Sure,” Mr O’Hara says, laugh lines framing his face handsomely. “I’m not the greatest at keeping my tongue clean, either.”
“I don’t think that’s an expression,” Miles says, just to be a little contrary.
Mr O’Hara smirks, taking a seat across from him. “Let an old man say strange things, Miles.”
Miles smiles back before pushing open his textbook with an embarrassing amount of effort. “Whatever you say, tío.”
A sudden silence falls over them, only filled by the quiet whoosh of the airconditioning. Miles goes still, biting his cheek. Crap, was that too presumptive? In Mami’s family it’s kind of the norm, but Miles didn’t think about what it could mean outside of family and family friends. Besides, Mr O’Hara isn’t Puerto Rican, maybe it’s different for him—
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t…”
“No, it’s okay,” Mr O’Hara says, reaching across the table toward Miles’ hand but then thinking better of it. He smiles instead. “You wanna call me tío?”
“I don’t… need to,” Miles manages, averting his eyes, hands curling into unsure fists on the table. “It just slipped out.”
“Miles,” Mr O’Hara says gently. “Look at me.” With a humongous effort, Miles does. “I’d like you to call me tío, if you’re comfortable with that.”
Oh. Miles’ heart unclenches at that, and so do his hands. “Okay,” he says, face warm. He overreacted for nothing. “Tío.”
The smile that greets the word is almost blinding, and Miles can’t help but be infected by it, grinning back at him before kicking his legs underneath his chair with renewed vigour and grabbing a pen, eyeing the thick texts.
“I don’t want to distract you,” Mr O’Hara says, “but I am curious about your project.”
It’s more of an assignment, and Miles says so a little sheepishly. “It’s about… you have to pick a certain art movement and take three points inside the time that that movement was popular and explain how it evolved from point to point. So I’m doing…” Miles leafs through, until he finds a familiar, highly saturated rough-stroked portrait. “I was thinking of art nouveau at first but it’s so similar to itself all the way through that I didn’t really wanna do it after a week of searching. And I was looking for something with more colour, so I found Fauvism.”
He taps the neatly printed painting by André Derain, Woman in a Chemise, which depicts the subject gazing playfully, almost, at the viewer, bathed in warm light and outlined in deep royal blue.
“This is from 1906, which is the height of the movement, but also one of the last parts of it before many of the artists involved turned to other, similar movements.” It feels exciting, to get to explain what he’s learned to someone who seems genuinely interested. Miles glances up to check—and sure enough, Mr O’Hara is looking at him too, reflected sunlight from the floor highlighting hints of reddish gold in his irises. “Cubism originates partly from Fauvism, just like how Fauvism originates partly from impressionism and expressionism.”
Miles taps the back of his pen on his noteblock, which is where he’s written up notes for the essay.
“Early works used a lot of pointillism and parallel strokes, just like impressionism, but later the trend used more free-flowing strokes like the ones in expressionism, though I guess you could argue impressionism and expressionism go hand in hand…”
Miles goes through everything he’s found this way, occasionally taking a moment to jot down a new thought, and can’t help smiling to himself when Mr O’Hara hums, interested. It’s strangely effective at getting him through his conclusion, too; the part he’d strugged with earlier.
The sun’s starting to set when Miles is done with his essay, and he quickly texts Mami to let her know he’ll be home soon, but not to wait up for him with dinner. He gets a heart emoji in return.
“Excuse me,” Mr O’Hara says, then gets up and walks into the hall. Miles figures he’s going to the bathroom, and his glass is empty, ice completely melted, so he thinks he might as well grab a refill for himself. He’s allowed to; last time he visited Mr O’Hara told him so, even though he didn’t have a chance to actually take him up on it.
Miles grabs his glass and carries it over to the counter next to the fridge, setting it down gently. He grabs the iced tea from inside and pours some before putting it back. As he’s closing the fridge again something grabs his attention; a faded sheet of paper, A5, maybe, clearly having been folded up small at some point and fraying at the corners. It’s fastened in place by a generic black magnet, somewhat obscuring a childish drawing in pencil of two stick figures—one in a purple dress and the other in black and red, a football between the two. Green strokes outline grass and Miles thinks he sees the remnants of what was once a bright yellow sun.
Gabi for Papa, is the only thing not yellowed and faded, written neatly in marker at the bottom right. The work of a teacher, or some other adult, probably on request. Miles looks at it for a moment longer, a peculiar quiet settling over his thoughts.
He’s back at the table, sipping at his iced tea when Mr O’Hara returns.
“Thinking of heading back soon?” Mr O’Hara asks, curious.
“I’m not in a rush,” Miles answers honestly. “I already told Mom I’ll be a bit later: usually we eat ‘round this time.”
“Alright,” Mr O’Hara says. “Just let me know when you wanna go back home.” He’s walked Miles without fail every time so far, and to be honest, Miles appreciates it.
He stays for another half-hour or so, then makes his way back home with Mr O’Hara by his side, embarrassed when the man insists on carrying his backpack for him. It looks comically small on Mr O’Hara’s back, even though it’s on the large end for Miles, currently. He hopes he’ll grow into it some time soon.
“Hey, actually,” Mr O’Hara says before they can say their goodbyes at Miles’ front door, “You should… I’ll give you my number. I’ve got some stuff coming up next week and I don’t want you standing in front of a closed door, so just shoot me a text if you’re thinking of coming over. I’ll let you know.”
“Oh, okay,” Miles says, pulling out his phone and opening his contacts. He passes his phone to Mr O’Hara to let him punch his number in and grabs his bag while the man’s doing so, grunting slightly at the weight. Miles smiles up at Mr O’Hara when the man’s done, accepting his phone back and stuffing it into his back pocket. “See you soon.”
“See you, chiquito.”
Miles fights his smile and puts on a performative scowl. “Not a kid,” he chirps, turning to ring the doorbell.
“Of course, of course,” Mr O’Hara chuckles behind him. “My bad. Sleep well, Miles.”
He’s gone when Gonzalo opens the door, dark green eyes narrowed suspiciously at Miles.
“Don’t recognise me?” Miles asks. Gonzalo rolls his eyes and steps aside, and Miles makes his way up the steps. “What was dinner?”
“Arroz con pollo.” Gonzalo stares at Miles, unmoving while Miles makes his way up.
“Oh, nice,” Miles says. He shrugs off his bag as soon as he gets through the still-open door to their home, sighing in relief at the weight off his shoulders, even if it was only for a little bit. Gonzalo trails after him, kicking the door closed behind him with the side of his shoe, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his cargo pants and shoulders drawn up high. “Is it still warm?”
“Dunno,” Gonzalo says, shrugging.
Miles sighs, making his way toward the kitchen. The dish is still on the counter, and he places a delicate finger against the side of the dish, holding it there for a moment. Lukewarm… a minute in the microwave, then. Miles grabs a plate and puts some chicken and rice on it.
“Where’d you run off to?” Gonzalo demands then, out of the blue. Miles turns to look at him and sees that his little brother has his arms crossed, brows furrowed deeply.
“I’d hardly call it running off,” Miles mumbles, turning back to his food. He pushes the plate into the microwave and punches in the strength and time, then starts it. The slow whirr of it fills the kitchen.
“Yeah? What is it then?”
“None of your business,” Miles says, grabbing a glass and opening the fridge to grab the filtered water.
“You were with some old geezer,” Gonzalo accuses. “I saw him when the both of you walked this way.”
“So?”
“So, is he a pedo or what? Why you spending all this time with him?”
Miles whirls around, anger rushing hot to the surface, buried frustration rising fast. “Don’t you dare call him that.”
“Am I wrong?” Gonzalo taunts.
“You don’t even know what you’re saying, idiot,” Miles hisses. “Mr O’Hara’s nice to me, and he doesn’t run away when things don’t go his way and keep me awake all night because he can’t admit when he’s wrong!”
Gonzalo’s face darkens, blood rushing to his cheeks. “Fuck you,” he spits, eyes like slits. “One day something’ll happen to me and you’ll be sorry.”
“Stop running off all the time and nothing will happen to you,” Miles scoffs. The microwave beeps and he turns back to his food. Gonzalo makes a sound of frustration and storms off, slamming the door to his bedroom closed behind him.
Miles winces at the sound; the photograph of his abuela rattles on its cabinet. He opens the microwave door and the smell of delicious food wafts out, but Miles doesn’t feel hungry anymore.
Miles: hi
Miles: this is miles
Miles hesitates, then sends a cowboy emoji right after, just to show he’s not mad. Why Mr O’Hara would think he’s mad, Miles doesn’t know—but before he can delete the message or do anything else impulsive, two blue checks appear next to it. A nervous fluttering fills Miles’ stomach.
Miguel: Hello Miles. Did you manage to turn in your assignment okay?
Miles: yeah! thanks again for letting me finish it there
Miguel: You’re always welcome, chiquito.
Miguel: If you ever need any help you can send me a text, too.
Miles: i’ll remember that :)
Chewing on his lip, Miles wracks his brain for anything else to say, figuring it’d be awkward to end the conversation there. Half a conversation, really.
Miguel: Sleep well, Miles.
Miles stares at the text, then looks at the clock. Eleven thirty. Yeah, it’s late. He probably should go to bed. He rolls over onto his back, holding his phone over his head.
Miles: you too tio
It feels embarrassing to write it down, but… Mr O’Hara had said it was okay. Actually—Miles looks at the contact name again. Miguel. Mr O’Hara had put himself down with his first name, like a friend would.
Miles can’t help but smile, feeling like he’s lighter than air. He opens the contact and double taps on the name to edit it. He kinda mourns the loss, it’s not quite the same as when Mr O’Hara writes it down himself, but…
Tío: See you soon.
There, that’s more like it. There’s no picture on the profile, but almost none of Miles’ contacts have pictures anyway, so that doesn’t matter. Maybe he can ask to take a picture next time.
There’s a gentle knock on the door. “Hey, papa,” Mami says softly.
Miles lets out a sigh and lets his phone drop on his chest, making a noise to show he heard her. The door cracks open, and warm golden light from the hallway spills into Miles’ dark room.
“You’re still dressed?” Mami asks, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. She’s forgotten to change out of her work clothes, or maybe she’s not had time to do so yet.
“Yeah, got distracted,” Miles mumbles, rolling over onto his side to face her better, phone held loosely to his chest. “How was work?”
“Busy,” Mami says, smiling at him weakly in a way that makes her eyebags prevalent. “Some guy… we got a baby in with Men B. Newborn. Not three weeks old.” She shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose between her index finger and thumb, lips pursing in clear distress. “Why some people will refuse proven medicine that will ensure families aren’t ripped apart seconds after they’ve formed—” Mami sighs and rubs at her nose, sniffling a little. “Sorry, I shouldn’t upset you with this.”
Miles sits up, staring unsurely at his bare legs. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. “You should check on Gonzalo. He’s probably mad at me.”
“You fought again,” Mami says, tired and sympathetic. “I guess he’s just at that age, huh…”
“Yeah. It was stupid, anyway.” Miles shrugs. “He called Mr O’Hara names.”
“Not very nice of him,” Mami hums, crossing her arms and leaning against his doorway. “Maybe we can invite Mr O’Hara over for lunch? I know you’ve been spending time with him the last two weeks; I’m glad you get along with him.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Miles says softly.
“Gotta learn who’s come to steal my little boy away,” she jokes, shimmying her shoulders. Then she sighs, exhaustion painting her every move. “Sorry, Miles, I wanna talk more but… I’m really tired. I’m gonna check how Gonzalo’s doing and then I’m off to bed. Your dad’ll be home in a second, okay? He just had a really late call today.”
“Okay,” Miles echoes, flopping back down on the bed, staring mutely at the wall. He doesn’t react when Mami gently pads her way over to him on bare feet, dropping to her haunches to stroke his hair and kiss his forehead. In the next moment she’s gone again, closing the door quietly behind her.
Sighing into the empty air, Miles turns onto his back again, splaying his arms out. His elbow knocks his phone, lighting up the screen, and he turns to look at it with mild disinterest. He wonders how Mr O’Hara is doing. He imagines being in the man’s apartment instead, similarly quiet. He imagines lying on the couch, the TV on mute in the background, light spilling across the ceiling. Mr O’Hara is there, sitting next to Miles’ head, eyes on whatever’s playing on the screen, his hand resting gently on Miles’ head, fingers toying with stray curls.
“Piss off!” sounds through the walls, followed by a sound of impact against the wall between Miles and Gonzalo’s rooms.
“Gonzalo—” comes Mami’s voice, louder than usual, before everything falls silent again.
Miles turns onto his front with a grunt, his illusion broken. Annoyed, he drags a pillow on top of his head, hoping to muffle any other sounds.
He rubs his legs together, frustration seeping away as a warmth blooms in his stomach, sparks between his legs. He tugs half a sheet over himself, just in case, and turns the other way, shoving an arm down between his legs, positioning his palm just so, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shorts so that the friction against his clit is just shy of too rough.
The first roll of his hips is the most satisfying, and Miles lets out a silent, shaky breath, muscles tensing as he ruts himself against his clumsy fingers and palm, the effect somewhat muted because of his clothes but in other ways a lot sharper. It’s not hard to build up a silent rhythm, moving in a way that ensures his bed doesn’t creak much. Arching his back elevates the sensation; it makes him feel sexy, somehow, despite this being for no-one but himself—nothing but stress relief. Despite his skin crawling at the thought of anyone touching him like that.
In his head, he’s admired, warm skin against his own. Big hands on his hips, skirting up toward his ribs, a gentle kiss to the side of his neck.
His climax builds up suddenly, and Miles shudders a little, legs clenching tight as he tips over the edge, going still for the peak of it before rocking himself through the aftershocks.
His body relaxes, then, and he melts into his sheets, catching his breath. He kicks off the blanket, a little overheated, and lets his eyes fall closed, tugging his now cold pillow back over his head.
He wakes in the morning to the sound of his phone’s alarm, buzzing under his arm. Groggily he pushes the pillow off his head, squinting blearily at his surroundings. He was having a good dream—finally not too warm, like the last few nights.
Then he realises that his phone is underneath his arm, and not on the nightstand or his desk, where he would charge it. Grabbing it, he turns it on to squint at the battery percentage; thirteen percent.
“Fuck,” Miles mumbles to himself, rubbing at his eyes. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, a loose tee and some shorts, twin mosquito bites just above his right ankle. Just his luck.
Miles clambers out of bed and toward his desk, grabbing for the charger cable that’s usually in the wall. He plugs it in, then turns off his phone entirely for good measure, hoping it’ll charge faster in the forty-five minutes he has ‘til he has to leave for summer class. At least he didn’t forget to brush his teeth last night. He feels rancid enough without sacrificing his dental hygiene.
Today is the day they get their grades back on the assignment. It’s been almost four days since Miles handed it in (four days and a bit since he’d gotten Mr O’Hara’s number, the entire time of which he had spent agonising over what to actually send to the man), and Miles is confident he’ll have a good grade—but still, nervousness flutters in his stomach.
Kicking off his shorts and damp underwear—from last night, ew—Miles debates sending a text wishing Mr O’Hara good morning and letting him know that he’ll be graded today. He tosses his clothes in the hamper, grabbing a fresh pair of boxers and hobbling awkwardly to the bathroom to do his business.
Well… his phone’s still charging and powered down, and there’s a chance he could wake the man since it’s eight-something. Miles grimaces at himself in the mirror. He might as well just tell Mr O’Hara when he’s gotten his grade, after the class. That way he won’t be a bother, and he can just pack the information into one text. Right?
Miles quickly washes his face and his underarms with a washcloth at the sink, then brushes his teeth, opting to skip breakfast today. He’ll make up for it with a big lunch; Mami made too much dinner yesterday, so he can reheat leftovers.
“Oh, Miles!” Mami calls from the kitchen when she spots him dash back into his room. “Ask Mr O’Hara when he’s free, will you?”
“Okay!” Miles calls back, before closing the door. He hears the telltale grumble Gonzalo gives when he’s been woken up by noise and doesn’t want to be awake, and rolls his eyes. His fault for picking fights with their mother and staying up way too late anyway.
“Think it’s time to wash your hair again?” Mami asks when Miles walks into the kitchen, fully dressed and far-too-heavy backpack on his shoulder.
Miles thinks about it. He touches his hair; it’s been a bit since he last properly washed it, but it feels okay. It could last a day or two more, provided he goes easy with the products til then.
“Tomorrow?” he suggests. He doesn’t have any class obligations or anything tomorrow, and he was planning on dropping by Mr O’Hara’s this afternoon.
“Sure,” Mami says with a hum. “Do it in the afternoon; I’ll help you.”
Miles appreciates that; he’s pretty bad at getting the tangles out himself, but Mami has magic hands. “Thanks. See you at lunch?”
“I’ve got a shift, I’ll be eating at the hospital,” Mami says with an apologetic grimace. “I’ll be back home for dinner, though. Your dad’s cooking tonight.” She winks at him in a way that tells him they’ll probably be having barbecued anything-the-fridge-holds. He’s already looking forward to it.
School’s boring, kinda. The other people in the summer class don’t really pay attention to him, and he’s only half-heartedly listening to the speech his teacher gives shortly before handing out their feedback, staring out the window at the older part of the building instead, where the dorms are. Last year he wasn’t roomed with anybody since he joined late, and because of his… nebulous gender status, but maybe this year it’ll be different. Do people his age actually want to have sex with their roommates? Or maybe there’s some other reason they’re separated based on gender if not to prevent teen pregnancies.
“Well done, Miles,” the teacher says as she places his essay in front of him, shaking him from his reverie. He fights to keep his expression under control, embarrassed at his own train of thought. In a classroom, of all things.
He bites back his reflexive thank you and instead grabs his paper, a small smile tugging at his lips when he sees the circled ‘A+’ in red at the top. ‘Great essay, really insightful!’ is written next to it in the same pen, and down the margin there’s a load of tick marks, as well as two—no, three—crosses. Miles isn’t all that interested in those; an A+ is an A+. There’s probably more detailed feedback on the other side, underneath the conclusion, but Miles has more pressing concerns.
There are excited whispers behind him, increasing to murmurs as the entire group gets their results back. Miles pulls out his phone and snaps a quick picture of the front of the essay, checking it’s not blurry before sending it to Mr O’Hara with a party emoji. He stuffs his phone away when the teacher clears her throat the front, and tries to pay attention, just for the last little bit. He’s really pleased, though; this will look really good on his university applications.
After a few minutes however his phone buzzes, and Miles can’t help but check, completely forgetting his earlier commitment to paying attention.
Tío: I knew you could do it. Well done, Miles
Miles: thanks! can i come over in a minute to celebrate? my class ends at 11.45 and the iced tea tastes better at your place :P
Tío: I’ll do you one better. You like ice cream? I’ll pick you up.
Tío: Visions, right?
Miles’ smile widens with glee, and he kicks his feet giddily under his chair as he texts Mr O’Hara back with a big affirmative.
Tío: Great. I’ll see you at the front entrance.
Class is dismissed five minutes early, but Miles rushes packing all his stuff into his bag anyway. He practically runs down the halls toward the main entrance, narrowly avoiding a few other summer students, and spills out the front doors, greeted with the welcome sight of Mr O’Hara leaning against the side of his parked car, sunglasses perched low on his nose and a cigarette in his hands.
“Tío!” Miles chirps, uncaring of who hears or sees, jumping down the front steps two at a time and almost tripping over his own shoelaces, only catching himself a narrow inch from Mr O’Hara.
“Hey, chiquito,” Mr O’Hara says warmly, reaching out to pat Miles on the head with a gentle, broad palm. “That bag looks heavy. Want to put it on the backseat?”
Miles nods with a big smile and Mr O’Hara pulls open the car door, its black polish glinting in the summer sunlight with every movement, almost blinding. Miles drops his bag on the leather seats with a soft grunt, then stands, stretching his arms over his head.
“So,” Mr O’Hara says, closing the door before opening the passenger door for Miles and tilting his head. “Ice cream?”
“Yep,” Miles says, pleased. “Lemme text Mom first, though.” He pulls out his phone and turns it on—and as if on cue it buzzes sadly in his palm, the logo lighting up the screen before it goes dead. Miles stares at it, betrayed.
“Battery empty?” Mr O’Hara asks, getting into the driver’s seat. “Remember your seatbelt.”
“Yeah,” Miles says, frowning, and leans over to pull the door closed before he tugs on his seatbelt. “Forgot to charge it last night.”
“It happens,” Mr O’Hara says. “I don’t think I’ve got a cable here… You can use my phone when we’re not on the road. I know a really nice little shop that sells all sorts of ice cream, near the water.”
“Near the water which direction?” Miles asks.
Mr O’Hara smiles at him and pulls out of his parking space, into the pre-rush hour traffic. “The good direction.”
It’s what sits them on a ledge near the Brooklyn Bridge some thirty minutes later, Miles with a sorbet that’s far too sweet and Mr O’Hara with a dark chocolate Magnum, like the boring adult he is, both of them staring out at the Manhattan skyline, shielded from the summer afternoon heat by a thinning tree that has somehow sprouted from a tiny square break in the asphalt and their respective ice creams.
“You’re a bit of a genius, huh?” Mr O’Hara says with a smile.
“Just won a lottery,” Miles deflects, scooping another tiny spoonful of sorbet into his mouth and sucking absently at the plastic.
“A lottery won’t get you an A+,” Mr O’Hara counters, and Miles has to admit that it doesn’t. It’s strange, to be convinced of his own merit in this way.
“‘Gives you the tools you need to get one, though,” Miles says around the spoon, just to be a little contrary. He kicks his feet gently, heels scuffing against the concrete.
Mr O’Hara laughs softly at that. “You just don’t wanna admit you did good, huh?”
Miles smirks and shakes his head. “Nuh uh.” He looks back at the sunlit buildings across the water, leaves rustling in the wind above them.
“Alright, alright,” Mr O’Hara says, holding his hands up for a moment in defeat. “Guess I’ll just have to praise your character then, if your achievements are off-limits.”
“I’ll just disagree with you,” Miles teases, pulling the spoon from his mouth and sticking it into the now-melted sorbet slurry left in his bucket. Mr O’Hara’s finished his Magnum already. Fuck it, Miles thinks, and raises the bucket to his lips, tipping it back like a shot. The taste of red fruit overwhelms his senses and Miles swallows, then grimaces. “Blegh.” Fake sugar sticks to the back of his tongue like a bad pill.
“I’m surprised that little tent is still in business,” Mr O’Hara comments off-handedly. “Ten years ago they used to serve actual gelato, but I guess it’s changed hands now.”
“Did you go there often?” Miles asks.
“Every Saturday.” Mr O’Hara smiles at him, a bit strangely. “Guess I had a good reason to stop coming, if you’re reacting like that.” He lifts his hand in an aborted movement toward Miles, stopping halfway. “Got some on your lips.”
Miles sticks out his tongue, licking broadly around his upper lip. Fake sugar assaults his tastebuds. “Got it?”
“Not quite,” Mr O’Hara says. “Here, let me…” He reaches out and wipes it off with his thumb, a smidge higher on Miles’ cheek, then sticks his thumb in his mouth. He grimaces. “Oh, yeah, that’s bad.”
Miles laughs at him to mask how warm his face feels.
The tree they’re sheltering under is barely clinging to life, anyway. Must be the sun.
“I’m gonna get heatstroke if I sit here for twenty seconds more,” Miles announces dramatically, standing up on shaky feet from sitting down so long. “You promised me your phone, I gotta tell Mami when I’ll be home.”
“Yessir,” Mr O’Hara replies, fishing in his pocket and brandishing his phone at Miles, who takes it gratefully. He turns it on and is promptly greeted by a pincode.
“Password?” Miles asks.
“Zero-nine zero-one zero-one.”
Miles types it in and heads to the phone app, punching in his Mami’s number. He checks the clock—it’s the tail end of her lunch break right now. Hopefully she’ll pick up.
She does, on the third ring. “Rio Morales speaking.”
“Mami,” Miles greets. “It’s me, Miles.”
“Hey, mijo,” Mami replies, sounding surprised. “What are you doing with someone else’s phone?”
“It’s Mr O’Hara’s,” Miles explains. “Mine’s battery died.”
“I see,” Mami hums. Something crinkles on her end. “Did you ask him when he can come over yet?”
“Not yet.” In all honesty, he completely forgot, so he’s glad about the reminder. “We got ice cream though, because I did well on my assignment, and it was really bad ice cream.”
Mami laughs. “What’d you get, little man?”
“An A+,” Miles says proudly.
“That deserves a party!” Mami cheers quietly. “I’ll text your dad to get you some…” she pauses for a moment. “Gosh, I’m so sorry baby, I’ve forgotten the word. Gonzalo really likes those chipolata sausages, and you like… those…”
“Chicken skewers,” Miles offers softly. “Souvlaki.”
“Right, of course,” Mami sighs. “Sorry, been a hectic morning. I’ll let your dad know, sweetheart. When’ll I see you?”
“I’ll probably be home before you,” Miles says, kicking at the ground. “Like… five. Ish.” It’s one-forty right now, so that gives him time to get some peace and quiet at Mr O’Hara’s place.
“Gotcha.” Mami goes quiet for a second. “I’ve gotta go now, Miles, but I’m really proud of you. You did well. Thanks for letting me know. I love you.”
“Love you,” Miles echoes, and then the call ends. He pulls the phone from his ear and stares at it with a frown.
“Ready to head back?” Mr O’Hara asks, snapping Miles out of his thoughts. “I think we deserve to do absolutely nothing in front of my air conditioner for an hour or two.”
“Agreed,” Miles says, putting on a shaky smile. Mr O’Hara stands and accepts his phone back, and they head back to the car together.
“Welcome!” Mami gushes at the door, a big smile on her face as she grabs Mr O’Hara’s hand before he can even hold it out. “So glad to finally officially be introduced; I know we met before at Miles’ birthday party, but we didn’t really get to talk then…”
Miles watches nervously from behind the couch in the living room, hands clenched on the backrest as Mami chatters Mr O’Hara’s ear off. The man looks a little shellshocked; maybe he was expecting a more toned-down welcome? Mami likes her long-winded introductions, and Miles loves that about her, but… well, maybe Mr O’Hara wasn’t expecting anything specific at all. He’s considered a recluse by everyone Miles knows.
Mr O’Hara spots Miles, then, and his expression changes entirely into something much more warm, a smile stealing across his face.
“Miles!” Mami says, looking at him as well. “Can you check the table is set properly?” She turns back to Mr O’Hara, pride on full display. “I’ve already got everything for lunch ready; I hope you like it. It’s the least we can do for giving our little boy a place to feel comfortable away from home.”
Miles bristles at being called a ‘little boy’, but then Dad enters from the master bedroom, dressed in a smart-looking polo and his fancier beige trousers, clearly dressed to impress. “Mr O’Hara,” he says, holding out a hand.
Mr O’Hara takes it, shaking briefly. “Call me Miguel.”
“Miguel,” Dad repeats, smiling. “Welcome to our home.”
“Lovely place,” Mr O’Hara compliments. “Compared to this, mine feels like a white box. I envy you.” His demeanor is a stark difference from minutes ago, some artificial comfort sprinkled in there. It’s not the calm tranquil that settles over him with Miles, but it’s close. A little rusted round the edges.
“Don’t,” Dad says, clearly enjoying the praise. “The kids make a mess of it all the time; we try to keep the finery safe, but you know how it goes.”
“I can imagine,” Mr O’Hara says, tone inexplicably a little stiffer. Dad doesn’t seem to notice it, and Miles turns his attention away as his parents chat with Mr O’Hara to do as Mami asked. He tries not to be annoyed that Mr O’Hara’s occupied with making small talk with Mami and Dad, because that’s literally the reason he’s here.
“Want a drink?” he asks instead when he’s done, pressing himself into their small circle, between Mr O’Hara and Dad.
“Turning the tables, are we?” Mr O’Hara says, and Miles grins, the familiar tone setting him at ease.
“Yeah, now tell me, old man,” Miles retorts without thinking, and he sucks in a breath when he hears Mami gasp softly. Before he can take it back or either of his parents can say anything, though, Mr O’Hara laughs, patting Miles’ shoulder.
“Something cold, I think,” he says. “The weather’s not going easy on us any time soon.”
“Got it,” Miles says, making his hasty escape. He opens the fridge, eyeing the selection. Mr O’Hara doesn’t like the taste of artificial sweetener, just like Miles, so diet-anything is out of the picture. He grabs a bottle of multifruit juice, checking the date just in case. Perfectly good still, and one of the nicer brands. Miles pours a glass, then opens the freezer to pop an ice cube into the glass for good measure.
“Thank you,” Mr O’Hara says, accepting the glass when Miles offers it to him.
“Can you get your Dad a beer?” Dad tries, and Miles squints at him theatrically.
“Hmm… I’m not allowed to serve alcohol, Dad. You know this.”
Dad squints back. “I haven’t seen anything.”
Miles squints harder. “You’ve heard it though.”
Mami sighs, though it’s an amused one. “I’ll go get it. Go sit down, you three.” She turns and faces the hallway to the bedrooms. “Gonzalo? We’ve got company, be nice and come join us for lunch!” Then she glances at Mr O’Hara, slightly apologetic. “I’m going to grab Billie; she’s just had her nap.”
“Take your time,” Mr O’Hara says easily. “I don’t have anywhere else I need to be.”
“Oh gosh, don’t let me,” Mami laughs as she turns and walks into the hallway toward the bedrooms. “Gonzalo, come on…”
Gonzalo does not reply, door firmly shut and showing no signs of opening. Miles sighs and tries not to be too bothered by it. Gonzalo’s twelve, he can do whatever he wants. Whatever. Then he doesn’t get to eat with them; not Miles’ problem.
“Um, take a seat wherever,” Miles says, gesturing at the set table. “I usually sit here, but…” He pats the back of the chair he usually sits, a little awkwardly.
“I’ll sit here then,” Mr O’Hara murmurs, indicating the chair next to him. Miles smiles before he can help it, warmth blooming in his chest and on his cheeks. “Want a drink?”
Miles opens his mouth to answer out of habit, then takes a second before narrowing his eyes. “Nuh-uh.”
“I raised him well,” Mami says, coming back in with Billie tucked against her shoulder. “You won’t get away with that in this house, mister.”
Mr O’Hara chuckles softly, taking his seat. “Worth a try. I do want to be helpful, you know. You’re very generous.”
“Nonsense,” Mami says, and coos at Billie as she puts her into her toddler chair. “This is the absolute least we can do considering how good you are to Miles.”
“I’ve not been around much the past few weeks, job’s got me stretched hair-thin, but he’s been less restless lately,” Dad says, taking his seat across from Mr O’Hara. “Might not seem like much to you, but we are grateful. He deserves some peace and calm every once in a while, and I’m glad you can give that to him.”
Miles doesn’t say anything. It’s a little embarrassing to get it put out there, sure, but it’s not like they’re lying. Anyone with a brain would understand why Miles visits so often.
“It’s my pleasure,” Mr O’Hara demurs. “If anything, Miles is the one helping me. I’ve been meaning to get out of the house more, but it hasn’t been easy coming the past few years. My routine’s been sleeping, eating and working for far too long now.” Mr O’Hara smiles at Miles, warm eyes outlined by gentle crow’s feet. “I’m grateful Miles wants to hang around a boring old man like me.”
Mami laughs softly. “I’m sure you’re not boring; right Miles?”
“Only sometimes,” Miles says cheekily.
Mr O’Hara scoffs, mock affronted. “Only sometimes boring or only sometimes not boring?”
“I dunno,” Miles says, looking away innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“That means you are boring,” says a new voice from the doorway. It’s Gonzalo, standing there with his arms crossed, twin braids slung neatly over each shoulder.
“Gonzalo!” Mami sighs. “Come sit, baby. And be nice, please. He’s our guest.”
Gonzalo scoffs but stamps over to take a seat anyway, green eyes staring daggers into Miles’.
“What?” Miles demands, frowning.
“Nothing.” Gonzalo drawls the word like it’s poison, contempt dripping off his tongue. It’s clear he’s not happy; but about what, Miles has no clue.
Whatever. Gonzalo isn’t Miles’ problem. So long as he’s not rude to Mr O’Hara—
“How old are you, anyway?” Gonzalo asks, turning his venomous stare at Mr O’Hara. He leans back, stretching out his legs until his feet knock against Miles’. “Fifty?”
Mr O’Hara’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “Thirty seven, actually,” he answers, taking it in stride. “I turn thirty eight this year.”
“Bit weird hanging out with someone less than half your age, aint it?”
“Gonzalo!” Mami hisses, slapping her palm flat down on the table. The cutlery rattles before a heavy silence falls over the table.
“What, I’m just asking,” Gonzalo mutters, hitching his shoulders up to his ears and looking away.
“I swear on—if you do not want to behave yourself in company, just take some food and go back to your room.” Mami stares with wide, furious eyes at Gonzalo, who just tucks his chin further, resolutely staying seated. She turns and smiles apologetically at Mr O’Hara. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into him…”
“No, it’s alright,” Mr O’Hara says, scratching at his neck awkwardly. “He’s right to be cautious. I’m not upset.”
“Still, this is meant to be…” Mami sighs, rubbing at her face. “Sorry. Let’s eat, shall we?”
Miles nods with enthusiasm, a little mortified at his little brother’s behaviour and honestly eager to move on from the topic altogether.
“I didn’t know you were in your thirties,” Miles says after they’ve both had filling courses. “You look…” Older. More lived. Refined, maybe. All of it sounds kind of rude when Miles says them in his head. “I guess it makes sense now that I know it.”
“I look older, right?” Mr O’Hara teases. “Yeah, life’s gotten its claws into me. Left me with lines all over my face. I’m not bothered; I think it looks handsome. Don’t you?”
Miles’ face is starting to feel a little warm again so he just nods mutely, unsure of what to say.
“Flattery,” Dad says, nodding. “Just go along with it, Miles, that’s all men want.”
Miles frowns for a second, annoyed at the phrasing, before he figures it could be construed that he’s a boy as opposed to a man, and not that he’s not a man. It still doesn’t rub him right even though he knows Dad doesn’t mean it that way, but he hopes Mr O’Hara didn’t notice. “Ah yes,” he says instead, careful to layer a hint of sarcasm into his voice. “Wrinkles. Very handsome. Everyone’s swooning.”
“I’m not,” Gonzalo says, but Miles ignores him.
“When’s your birthday?” he asks Mr O’Hara instead, genuinely curious.
“Thirteenth of October,” the man answers. “A little under two months from now.”
Miles thinks about the dates in his head. Is that on the weekend? “Maybe I should get you a gift.”
“I don’t want to ask you for anything,” Mr O’Hara says, holding up a hand as if to pause Miles’ train of thought. Miles opens his mouth to protest, but Mr O’Hara doesn’t let him. “Trust me,” he insists, sincere, “your company would be more than enough.”
Gonzalo mimes gagging across the table, thankfully out of Mr O’Hara’s line of sight. Miles ignores him, again.
They finish the lunch in relative peace, and Miles sits back when he’s done, stretching like a cat before hiding a big yawn behind his hand.
“Food coma?” Dad says, chuckling. “Your mother really outdid herself this time. I wasn’t even allowed in the kitchen!”
Mami slaps Dad’s shoulder weakly, though she’s clearly enjoying the praise. “That’s ‘cus you keep messing up my fridge, mister. I need peace and order when I’m doing the cooking.”
“Yes ma’am,” Dad agrees. “But at least let me put a drink in a cooling bag first next time.”
Mami rolls her eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind. Miguel, I hope you liked the food? I’ve got leftovers, so…”
“I absolutely loved it. If I could?” Mr O’Hara smiles blindingly at Mami. “You’re very good at cooking, Mrs Morales.”
“Please, call me Rio,” Mami says. “I insist.”
Dad glances at Mami for a second, then nods. “Call me Jeff, while you’re at it. I hope you can come by again soon; you’re great company.”
“I will,” Mr O’Hara says.
It takes about another half-hour before they properly wrap up lunch. Miles gets Mr O’Hara another drink of juice, and Mami puts some stuff in tupperware boxes for Mr O’Hara to take back home. Dad and Mr O’Hara are chatting about nothing Miles is interested about, so he takes the opportunity to take Gonzalo aside. He pulls him into the stairwell, ascending all the way to the rooftop. Miles checks real quick to see if anyone’s there, then turns to Gonzalo, crossing his arms and frowning at his little brother.
“Look, I dunno what your problem with Mr O’Hara is,” Miles says. “No—let me finish. I don’t actually care what you think of him, but keep it to yourself. Don’t act up around him.”
“I don’t like him,” Gonzalo says, scowling. “He’s not telling something.”
“Everyone’s got secrets,” Miles says, rolling his eyes. “Just be nicer to him. I’m serious. You’re allowed to not like somebody, just don’t make it everyone else’s problem.”
Gonzalo scoffs. “You’re not Mom.”
“Mami literally tells you the exact same thing,” Miles points out, frustration rising. “She raised us like that. And Dad thinks plenty of people are stupid, but he’s nice to everyone as much as he can, because everyone deserves kindness.”
“Loada shit,” Gonzalo mumbles. “Dad’s a cop, his opinion doesn’t matter.”
Miles groans. “You’re so frustrating!” he sighs, pressing at his eyes with an edge of hysteria. “Just stop being rude, that’s all I’m asking. You—you can be as mean as you want to his face if you find something real about him that’s actually bad. Hunches don’t count!”
“Fine, I will!” Gonzalo hisses, then turns around and storms off. Miles looks at him go, watching the heavy roof door fall shut with a slam. It’s been two and a half weeks now since Miles first showed up at Mr O’Hara’s door for this exact reason. Three weeks and a few days since Miles’ fourteenth birthday.
He regrets giving Gonzalo something to find on Mr O’Hara. But he hopes—he hopes that until then, Gonzalo will at least behave. And when he finds nothing to be worried about, or mad about, or whatever, that he’ll start relaxing a little.
Miles startles when the door opens again. It’s Mr O’Hara.
“You were up here for a bit,” he says, calm and warm, like always. The energy Mr O’Hara had exuded downstairs has gone, leaving a gentle laziness to his expression in his face. Exhaustion, maybe. Like talking with people was a muscle he hadn’t exercised in years.
“Yeah, sorry,” Miles says, crossing his arms self-consciously despite the heat. “Are you heading off?” It’s one of the few reasons he can think of why Mr O’Hara would seek him out.
“Not for a while,” Mr O’Hara says, coming to stand closer. “I’m jealous. You’ve got a great view here, on the roof. Clear skies for quite a bit.” He chuckles, barely more than a breath. “I’m always in the shade of those things they don’t call skyscrapers but are already much too tall to be acceptable. That, and they never leave the roof door unlocked. Nothing up there, too. Not like this, with plants and such.” He traces his fingers gently over the leaves of a nearby plant, occasionally glancing at Miles.
It occurs to Miles that Mr O’Hara came up here to check if he was doing okay. They probably heard Gonzalo stomping off, in his usual tween way. Miles is kind of afraid of when Gonzalo actually hits puberty, if he’s already like this. Will he grow taller than Miles? No doubt.
But right now, it matters more that Mr O’Hara came up here, just for Miles. Gonzalo will show up eventually, if he even ran off from home this time and didn’t just go to his room.
“Thanks for coming,” Miles says, letting his frustration and worry wash away for a bit. “I’m glad you took Mom up on her offer. You’re getting two bags of food home, so I think she really likes you.”
“I’m glad,” Mr O’Hara says, leaning against the railing. “Man, days like these make me kind of regret dropping smoking.”
“You could vape,” Miles suggests off-handedly. “Apparently it’s better for you.”
“Heavy metals and like four times as much nicotine as a regular cigarette could ever contain straight into my lungs with two-hundred degree steam?” Mr O’Hara scoffs. “Fat chance. If anything, I’d die faster.”
Miles raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know that,” he says. “Then again, I don’t like, vape or anything.” No drinks, no drugs, no cigarettes or anything like that. Maybe he’s boring, but Miles doesn’t want to get in trouble with his parents, or the law. The wildest he’s done is have a crush on Gwen Stacy, the girl who used to be the most popular in Visions. Then her friend died, and she changed into a more abrasive, withdrawn version of herself. Call Miles heartless, but he didn’t really want to date the girl version of his little brother, even if her reason for acting like it was completely justified and honestly understandable.
It wasn’t like they really talked, either. Miles didn’t have friends, and Gwen did, so they didn’t really interact. She was just pretty, that’s all.
“What are you thinking of?” Mr O’Hara murmurs, shocking Miles back to the present.
“Oh, uh,” Miles stammers, remembering where he is all of a sudden. “Just… things. From a while back. Nothing important.” And it isn’t. “Were you saying something?”
“Not really,” Mr O’Hara says, stretching one arm over his head. “Is this old man boring you, kiddo?”
Miles laughs, tipping his head forward and resting his cheek on his folded arms on the brick railing. “Don’t ever call me kiddo again. I’m fourteen.”
“Practically older than me,” Mr O’Hara agrees, eyeing Miles playfully. “Got any words of wisdom?”
“Yeah,” Miles says. “Uh, invest in juice. Apple juice.”
Mr O’Hara snorts, looking back out over the hazy smog-filled summer sky, yellow far before the sun even approaches the horizon. “How I survived before I met you… I don’t know.”
Miles swallows, something shifting deep in his chest, right underneath his lungs, throwing off his centre of gravity. It sounds like a joke, but also strangely not. He looks at Mr O’Hara again, hooding his eyes to try and conceal the curiosity he’s sure is painted across his face for all to see. Mr O’Hara just stares out into the distance, face oddly more stern than usual, the sharp angles of him highlighted by the slow-moving sun in the sky above them.
A quiet wind blows, sending stray locks of Mr O’Hara’s hair fluttering like threads of satin. Miles closes his eyes and lets the gentle wind cool him down, the heatwave of this August finally waning.
