Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Phoenix and Miles were nine years old, it cost approximately thirty-eight dollars and a false accusation for them to become friends. It was unconventional, but the two of them were rather unconventional boys themselves in their own special ways, so it didn’t bother them that their friendship began the way it did. Once it began, it grew quickly and stubbornly, like dandelions. 

Almost immediately following their friendship’s birth, Phoenix and Miles claimed the old apple tree behind the school as their very own. All best friends need a place, after all, and the apple tree suited them perfectly. It was an old tree; it had been there for as long as anyone could remember, its branches gnarled, old, and sturdy. It had just enough shade for Miles, who liked to read with his back against the trunk, and just enough low-hanging branches for Phoenix, who decided he would become a champion tree-climber by the time he was ten. They marked the tree as theirs and theirs alone by carving their initials into the bark (along with Larry, which seemed only fair since his loose morals essentially caused their friendship anyway) and proceeded to spend all of their recesses there. It became a kind of tradition, really: Miles would sit and read his mystery books under the tree and Phoenix would climb the tree.

Or attempt to climb the tree. He’d never been particularly successful, not that it surprised Miles, or anyone that had ever met Phoenix. 

In short, Phoenix was notoriously clumsy. More often that not he’d scrape his knees from tripping over his shoelaces on the way to school, and he had a scar hidden under his hair from the time he cracked his skull falling off the monkey bars in second grade. He’d gotten two bloody noses specifically from getting hit in the face with a dodgeball, and only recently did he knock out a loose tooth by flying off the swings. 

These things seemed to happen to Phoenix wherever he went; shallow cuts and bruises, skinned knees and elbows, that one time in kindergarten with a dare and a stapler. His continuing clumsiness got to such a point that Miles began to carry around an emergency stash in his backpack of Neosporin, Kleenex and bandaids (of which he had an assortment: superheroes, Steel Samurai and dogs. Phoenix usually chose the dogs). Though some people would say Phoenix had a bad luck streak a mile wide, the truth was quite the opposite.

In fact, Miles’s dad liked to joke that Phoenix’s bones must be made of steel, since he never seemed to suffer anything worse than a bloody nose or scraped knee no matter how bad the accident should’ve been. Miles believed that Phoenix could get hit by a car and walk away with a sprained ankle. 

He wasn’t invincible, however, as the events of one day in late September proved, when Phoenix fell from that old apple tree behind the school and broke his arm. Only a couple of months after, things would change, and they would change drastically, in a way so earth-shattering and horrible that neither of the two would be able to comprehend it for a long, long time. 

But that’s a different story, for a different time. 

This is simply a story of two boys.

Phoenix’s choice to climb the tree that day was strategic. Over the past weeks, the leaves had slowly shifted from green to reds and oranges and bright, glittering golds, breaking free of their branches and drifting to the ground. The falling leaves left the branches bare, and Phoenix’s climbing path perfectly clear.

“Miles,” he said, the same way he did every time he tried to climb the tree, every day. “I’m gonna reach the top today.”

“Okay, Phoenix.”

“Do you think I’ll get better grip if I take off my shoes?”

“Probably not.”

“It’s too late. I already took them off.”

A pair of light-up sneakers, streaked with dirt, thumped to the ground beside Miles, their lights flickering weakly at the impact. Miles glanced up at Phoenix over the top of his book; he was halfway through a murder mystery that his father had given him, one involving a twist ending, and Miles was sufficiently irritated that he hadn’t figured the twist out yet. 

“You’re going to cut your feet,” Miles said flatly, setting his book in his lap. 

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Phoenix stuck out his tongue. Somehow, he already had a leaf lodged firmly behind his ear, brilliant red against the dark of his hair. His summer freckles had been slowly fading away as autumn crept in, the constellations disappearing from his cheeks, his arms, his legs. 

“I’m not,” Phoenix said firmly, that stubborn look that Miles knew all too well on his face. “I still have my socks on.”

“I don’t think that’s going to help.”

“They will! They’re my lucky Bigfoot socks!”

Miles raised a brow. “Your socks aren’t thick enough, Phoenix. It doesn’t matter how…lucky they are. If you don’t want to cut your feet, you should put your shoes back on. The socks are just going to get caught in the bark, and you’ll probably get holes in them.”

“I don’t like it when you use your fancy lawyer logic, Miles,” Phoenix grumbled. “I bet Larry would believe in my lucky socks.”

“Larry also thinks that bats are naked birds,” Miles said pointedly. 

Phoenix snorted. “Well, we’re not all perfect and smart like you.”

“I’m not-“

“If I put my shoes back on, I won’t have as much grip, but if I take my lucky socks off, I’m gonna fall,” Phoenix interrupted, furrowing his brow in thought. “It’s a lose-lose situation.”

“They’re socks, Phoenix. They can’t be lucky.”

“Psh. You’re socks.”

“What does that even-“

“SOCKS!” Phoenix shouted, yanking off one of his Bigfoot socks and launching it at Miles. In the process, he lost his balance and tumbled over backwards. “Did I hit you? I fell over.”

“Yeah, I saw that. And no. I ducked.” Miles chucked the sock back at Phoenix. 

Phoenix giggled. “Your aim sucks.”

“Are you going to climb the tree or what?”

Phoenix shot back up. “I’m gonna climb the tree! And I’m gonna take my socks off because I don’t want to rip them. But if I fall it’s your fault.”

“It is not my fault.”

“It super is.”

“It’s super not.”

Phoenix hoisted himself onto the lowest branch, feet scrabbling frantically at the trunk to maintain his balance. “Don’t let Larry steal my shoes.”

“Larry doesn’t care about your shoes,” Miles said, returning to his book. He knew for a fact that Larry was far too busy trying to flirt with the pretty older students by the water fountain. 

Approximately seven minutes later, Phoenix fell out of the tree. To his credit, he’d managed to get farther than he had before, and he’d leaned out to shout at Miles, to show him how far he’d gotten, when he slipped. 

Phoenix slipped, and when he hit the ground, Miles heard the crack. His arm bent at a funny angle beneath him and he let out a sharp, pained gasp before promptly passing out. 

Miles dropped his book and screamed.

He never did find out what that twist ending was.

Miles thought it extremely unfair that he had to sit through a geography lesson while Phoenix might be dying in the hospital. The second half of the school day felt like it lasted a hundred years, and he sat through it, panicked and worried, without digesting a single thing (which all the teachers found extremely unusual, but understood immediately once they learned of the circumstances). 

He only learned the true nature of Phoenix’s injury when his father picked him up. They lived within walking distance of the school, but his father had insisted on picking him up after the chaos of the day.

“He broke his arm?” Miles repeated. He looked down at Phoenix’s shoes in his lap. He’d grabbed them once an unconscious Phoenix got carted off to the hospital, along with only one of his lucky Bigfoot socks. He couldn’t find the other one. 

“I called his mother earlier and she said that he fractured a bone in his forearm,” his father said, slowing to a stop at a light. “But most importantly, he’s going to be fine. Since the fracture wasn’t too serious, he should already be home, if you’d like to go see him.”

“I do,” Miles said immediately, then flushed. “I mean. I need to bring his shoes back.”

His father smiled. “Of course.”

They reached the Wright house in a few minutes. The Wrights and the Edgeworths lived on the same street, so Miles’s father dropped him off with a promise to see him at home for dinner later. 

Miles knocked lightly on the door, and in a moment, Mrs. Wright opened it, wiping her hands on a dirty towel. 

Miles had only met Phoenix’s mother a few times, but he liked her. She had long hair, dark, like Phoenix’s, which she wore in a messy bun atop her head. Her eyes were warm and brown, and she smelled like cinnamon. When she laughed, she laughed from her stomach, loud and easy. 

“Hey, Mr. Miles,” Mrs. Wright said, leaning against the doorframe. “You here to see Phoenix?”

Miles nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Um, I also brought his shoes back. And a sock.” He held up Phoenix’s shoes by the laces. “I couldn’t find the other one.”

Mrs. Wright smiled even wider, the same smile as her son’s. “That’s sweet of you, hon. You can set ‘em by the door.”

Miles did as told, then looked expectantly up at Mrs. Wright, who cocked a thumb down the hallway. 

“He’s in the garden. He’s supposed to be taking it easy, but you know how he is.” Mrs. Wright shrugged. “Feel free to tell him off for me, okay?”

“Okay. I will, Mrs. Wright.”

Miles slipped past her into the house. He’d been there plenty of times, so he knew the path well. He wandered through to the back screen door. He found Phoenix there, in the garden, just as Mrs. Wright had said, kneeling in the grass. He had that specific look of determination on his face, the one where he furrowed his brow and just tongue jutted out through his teeth. 

Miles cleared his throat awkwardly, and Phoenix whipped around so fast he fell over. 

“Miles!” Phoenix near-shouted, scrambling to his feet. A bundle of dandelions, yellow and bright, tumbled from his lap to the ground and scattered all over the grass. He darted across the garden in a few steps and practically tackled Miles, wrangling him into a one-armed hug that made Miles flush. “I broke my arm!”

“I know you-“ Miles blinked, then pulled away. “Why are you excited about that?”

Phoenix grinned. “I’ve never broken a bone before! And I got a cast and everything. And a sling, but I took it off.” He raised his arm, which was wrapped in a bulky, awkward-looking cast. Clearly, Larry had already gotten to it; he’d signed his name over fifty times in his messy scrawl, in all different sizes and colors. “Isn’t it cool?”

Miles frowned. “It doesn’t…it doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“Nah. I mean, it probably hurt a lot at the hospital but they put me on a bunch of drugs so I didn’t feel anything while they did their doctor magic on me. It’s just kind of sore now. And a little itchy.” Phoenix’s face fell slightly, and he shot a glare at his arm. “I was kinda hoping I messed it up so bad that they’d have to cut it off, and then I could get a cool robot arm. But I just fractured my ulna. Whatever that is.”

Miles blinked. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“Uh, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because I think your brain is messed up.”

“Miles!” Phoenix poked him in the cheek. “You’re not allowed to be mean to me. It’s your fault that I fell, after all.”

“My fault?” Miles sputtered, his voice hitching a little too high for his liking. “How is it my fault?”

“Because you made me take off my lucky socks! If I kept them on, I bet I would’ve made it to the top of the tree.” 

“Oh my god. I’m leaving.”

Phoenix gasped, clutching at Miles’s arm with his free hand. “No! You can’t leave! Who will distract me from the pain?”

“I thought you said it doesn’t hurt?” Miles asked suspiciously. 

“Well…it doesn’t hurt now, but it could hurt.” Phoenix glanced at his cast. “Very soon. If that’s required.”

“You’re such an idiot.”

“I’m a cool idiot,” Phoenix retorted, “with a sexy arm cast. Now come hang out with me!”

Phoenix tugged on Miles’s hand, pulling him into the garden. All the late-fall flowers were in full bloom, chrysanthemums and asters, coneflowers and the little sunflower patch that Phoenix’s mother planted when he was born. Phoenix flopped back onto the grass with an oof!, wincing when his arm hit the ground. 

Miles followed suit, albeit much more carefully, sitting cross-legged next to Phoenix beside the fallen dandelions. 

He picked one up, running a thumb over its yellow lion’s mane. “What were you doing with all these?”

“Oh, I was trying to make a dandelion chain. I thought since my left hand is fine I’d be able to do it, but I guess I underestimated how important my right hand is.” Phoenix sighed. The, a smile flickered across his face. “My Wright hand. Like my last-“

“Shut up,” Miles said, flicking Phoenix on the leg. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re mean.”

“At least I didn’t fall out of a tree.”

“At least I didn’t make someone take off their lucky socks to sabotage them into falling out of a tree.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe the first thing you decided to do after breaking your arm was to make a dandelion chain.”

Phoenix sat up, his shoulder bumping into Miles’s. “Actually, the first thing I did was make a quesadilla. Then I made a dandelion chain. Or tried to.”

“I sure hope it was a good quesadilla,” Miles said sarcastically. 

“It was a great quesadilla,” Phoenix replied, in perfect seriousness. 

Miles shifted. Their shoulders bumped together again. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay, Other than the broken arm, I mean. I’m glad the rest of you is okay.”

“Yeah, me too. It would’ve sucked if I died.” Phoenix grinned, leaning into Miles a little more heavily. He toyed with the fraying edges of his cast, running his thumb over his wrist. His hair tickled at Miles’s neck, and he exhaled slowly, turning something over in his mind. “Hey, Miles?”

“What?”

“Do you…do you want to sign my cast?”

Miles tilted his head, gently knocking his temple against Phoenix’s crown. He eyed Larry’s rainbow of signatures. “I…don’t think there’s room.”

“No, no! There is!” Phoenix pulled away, holding out his cast. He pointed to a blank spot at his wrist, right over his pulse. “There’s a spot right here. I…I saved it for you.”

Miles blinked, and his little nine-year-old heart might’ve thumped a little harder. “Oh. Um…well. I guess I can sign it, if you saved a spot. For me.” 

Phoenix’s starry eyes brightened, and he smiled wide, flashing his missing front tooth. “I have a sharpie!” He said, tugging it out of his back pocket, like he’d been planning to ask all along. He handed it to Miles; its cap was bright, bright blue. 

Miles snorted. “Of course it’s blue.”

“What’s wrong with blue?” Phoenix asked defensively. “It’s my favorite color! I didn’t even let Larry write in blue ‘cause…um…” He trailed off, looking down at his cast. “Just…take it, okay?”

“I’ve never signed a cast before,” Miles said slowly, taking the proffered pen.

Phoenix grinned, wide and easy and happy. 

“I feel super special then.”

Miles exhaled a laugh and shifted closer, so their shoulders bumped together. He tugged Phoenix’s cast into his lap, twisting his body so he could get a better angle on it. He ducked his head; he could feel Phoenix’s breath on the side of his neck and it was unusually unsteady. He uncapped the pen and very carefully and deliberately wrote his name in small letters across Phoenix’s wrist, as neatly as he could. 

“There. Is that okay?”

Phoenix peered at his wrist, and smiled. “You didn’t have to write your last name, too. I know it’s you.”

Miles felt his face flush. “Shut up.” He leaned back over, and quickly crossed his last name out. “Is that better?” 

Phoenix giggled. “You’re such a dork.”

“I am not!”

“That sounds like something a dork would say,” Phoenix said, laughter bubbling up in his throat. 

They sat there in the quiet for a while; it was fall, after all, and the trees all red and yellow and gold. It was a pretty sight, the leaves littering the ground along with the dandelions. There was another leaf lodged in Phoenix’s hair, dirt smeared on his cheek. He always had dirt somewhere, Miles thought; he was almost incapable of keeping himself clean. 

“My arm kind of hurts,” Phoenix muttered, breaking the silence. 

Miles frowned. “I’m sorry. Can I…do anything to help?”

“Um…well, you know,” Phoenix said, his voice forcefully conversational, even to Miles’s ears, “whenever I got hurt when I was young-“

“We are nine, Phoenix-“

“Younger. When I was younger. She’d always…” He paused. “She’d always kiss it to make it better.”

Miles blinked, and when the heat came, it came hard, racing up the back of his neck and his cheeks. 

“It was a joke! I was joking. Joking. Haha.” Phoenix turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just a joke.”

Miles didn’t say anything. He glanced at Phoenix out of the corner of his eye, toying with the dandelion in his hand. He watched as Phoenix glanced down at his lap, ran his thumb over Miles’s name on his wrist. He watched that leaf, stuck stubbornly in his hair. 

Miles sighed, reaching over to tug the leaf free. Phoenix jumped at the sudden movement. “It’s fine,” Miles said, avoiding eye contact. “I just don’t think it’ll do anything.” 

Phoenix blinked. “W-what do you mean?” 

“The cast is in the way.” 

Phoenix’s glanced at his cast, then back at Miles. “O-oh. You’re probably right.”

With the force of Miles’s stare, he could probably drill a hole into the ground. His heart was racing; he worried, for a moment, that he’d developed a heart problem at the ripe age of nine. “Maybe if I…did it on your cheek. It could work. The same way.” 

Phoenix sucked in a breath. “Okay.” It was barely more than a whisper. 

“Okay,” Miles repeated. 

They were staring at each other with wide eyes, blue-brown and gray. 

Then, quick as a heartbeat, Miles leaned in, pressing a barely-there kiss to Phoenix’s freckled cheek. When he pulled back, his face felt hot. 

“Like that?” He asked, his voice quiet. 

If Miles had bothered to look up at Phoenix, he would’ve seen the flush staining Phoenix’s cheeks and the tips of his ears a dark red, but he didn’t: he looked straight down at his hands. 

“Yeah,” Phoenix said, flopping back on the grass with a sigh. “Just like that.”