Chapter 2
But he opens his mouth and all that comes out is a bark of laughter.It's actually kind of embarrassing.
"That's not funny," the mystery caller tells him, pout audible through the phone.
"Sorry," Miles rasps, and just keeps laughing.
He falls sideways to his side, phone squished between his ear and the sofa, eyes closed as the laughter spills out of him.
It feels far too nice.
Meanwhile, disaster baker is suspiciously quiet.
'I-just-found-out-I-ranted-to-a-total-stranger-about-my-life' kind of quiet.
You're.
Not Owen."
Calmed down enough that he can speak again, Miles takes a deep breath, his smile settling on his face easily and wide.
"Not as far as I know, no."
"Yeah, that.
. yeah.
Wow.
This is not awkward at all."
Miles chuckles again.
So.
You know the name of my cats.
And that my oven is possessed.
But not even my name.
And all I know is that yours is not Owen.
God, I'm really very sorry about -"
Now this is the rant Miles has no problem with interrupting.
"You can call me Miles.
My oven is fairly agreeable and I don't have a cat, even though my best friend thinks I should adopt one."
"You should.
Cats are really amazing."
"Not for plants, apparently."
The not-so-stranger laughs, and it's warm and wonderful and makes Miles's smile widen.
"Not for plants, no. I'm Elliot.
I have a family consisting of Duchess, Mischief the problem child, no more plants, and a possessed oven.
We are a mess, but a very lovable one."
"I don't doubt that."
Miles inhales sharply as he realises that he just voiced that thought, and rolls onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling.
"Why, thank you," Elliot tells him, voice a bit more playful than strictly necessary.
It's quiet for a moment, but the silence is comfortable.
"And you really don't have a cat?"
"You would so get along with Zara Hill.
She tells me my existence is a sad one."
"Well, she's not wrong."
Not at all.
But Miles pushes that thought aside – actually, it's not even hard to forget about all of this with Elliot's (now) calm, pleasant voice on the other end.
"Why is everyone even so fixated on cats?
Dogs seem much more loyal."
"One time when I was sick Duchess stayed at my side the entire time.
I mean, she nearly choked me lying down next to my face and snuggling up, but.
She sure tried.
So, no, cats are loyal.
Don't you dare say anything else, I will fight you."
"With that ankle of yours?" Miles bites his lip, wondering if that one was too far.
"... that was low, Miles."
Elliot's voice is still playful, and Miles has never loved the sound of his own name more.
"You told me my existence was sad."
"I said your best friend was not wrong."
"That's pretty rude.
I thought you were one of the good ones?"
"Only when I'm adequately supplied with sugar.
Anyone discovers their dark side in times of need."
"Cookie need?"
"Cookie need," Elliot confirms with a grave voice, and Miles laughs again.
"Jeez, at this rate I would go out and get you cookies myself."
"And I would love you forever.
Alas, your existence is not the only sad one.
Just a little worse, because at least I have cats."
There's a small tug in his stomach, something that whispers that maybe, Miles wouldn't have minded to toss common sense to the wind and buy some cookies and go meet this guy and his strange family of cats and possessed household appliances.
"Well, I have a plant." Miles sits up a little, staring at the silhouette of it against the warm glow of the street lamps from the window, wondering how much it wilted by now and if he can still call it a plant when it's only about 12% alive.
"That counts.
And no cat killed it yet.
I sort of did, but -" And he smiles when he repeats that sentence back at Elliot.
"That's not the point."
No, no, no. Miles, are you telling me that you have the opportunity to grow plants in your flat and you just let them die?
Get up.
Water this plant, now.
It pains me that you would not appreciate this opportunity."
Miles actually does, in mild disbelief over it.
Phone in one hand, he gets a glass with the other, fills it with water and hears Elliot's satisfied hum on the other end of the line as the rushing filters through.
"You're actually doing it," Elliot tells him, grinning, a hint of mischief in his voice.
Miles wonders if there would be a twinkle in his eyes.
"I don't want you to come beat me up with your crutches."
He pours some water over the dried up earth and the windowsill (whoops) and leaves the glass, still half full with water, next to the plant.
Maybe next time he will remember watering it.
(Probably not.)
"Aw, that's harsh.
I swear, I'm a pleasant person to be around."
Miles licks his lips, not doubting Elliot's words for a second.
But he feels like teasing him anyway.
"Unless you don't get your cookies."
He plops back down on the sofa, reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, suddenly annoyed by the background noise of it.
The apartment is as empty as it was before, yet it does not feel like it – simply with Elliot's voice there.
Maybe he should turn the light on, though ...
"I deserve cookies, Miles.
Besides, usually they're one quick trip to the store away.
It's all fault of this damn weather.
Blame the snow and the ice and the cold, not me."
"Oh, surely it's all out of your control."
"I'm glad you – Mischief, for the last time -"
Miles chuckles to himself as he hears the muffled sounds at the other end of the line.
Elliot keeps talking and talking, not to him, but to his cat.
"Listen, I told you – paws off the table.
Jeez, look at that.
That mug was so pretty.
Don't give me that look, you're guilty, you have to stand up to your mistakes.
I will not pity you.
Now off you go, I don't want you to get splinters into your paws, c'mon, time to skedaddle.
Duchess, stay where you are!
The kitchen is closed until further notice!"
Elliot takes a deep breath, and hesitates for a moment in which he clearly notices that Miles is still laughing about his monologue.
"It's been a long four days," Elliot tells him, a little flustered, but mostly defiant.
Miles can almost imagine him folding his arms in front of his chest.
(Except he has no idea what Elliot looks like.) (But if he looks anywhere near as beautiful as his voice sounds, damn.)
He really, really likes listening to Elliot's voice.
And weird antics.
This phone call should have probably ended about 30 seconds into having the wrong number.
At least Miles had never started a conversation with a random stranger, in all his 26 years of life.
But for Elliot, he'll make an exception.
Elliot does not feel as much of a stranger as he is supposed to feel like.
"Honestly, being injured is the worst.
I'm a barista, I'm used to talking to people non-stop and being in motion.
Now I can't work, I can't go outside in this horrible snow, I can't go to training.
It's driving me insane.
But I probably shouldn't complain that much to a stranger, huh?
Sorry for that."
Miles blinks, his attention zeroing in on that one part that caught his attention.
"Training?"
"Ah, yeah.
I still play volleyball in my free time.
I mean, unless I sprain my ankle."
Two brightly coloured exclamation marks flash up in Miles's mind without him wanting them to.
Volleyball.
There's a volleyball team here?
It has been so long since he last played ...
He had not realised how much he missed it until he ended up on his sofa, listening to a stranger mention it in passing, and got hit with sudden nostalgia like a bag of volleyballs swung at him.
Hard.
"Which position do you play?", he asks, not able to stop himself.
"I'm a playmaker!
Do you play too?
Miles finds himself sitting up, leaning back against the sofa properly.
He cranes his neck so he can see a stripe of the world outside through the window.
The snow keeps falling still, and from there on out, they keep talking and talking.
It's the easiest thing in the world, a little like breathing.