i appear missing.

miles coates. 32. tennis athlete. penned by sash. exclusive for boroughshq.

[cmilesfm]

if you go down to hammond, you'll never come back.

[ josh o'connor, cis-male, he / him ]  — whoa! MILES COATES just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for 6 YEARS, working as a TENNIS ATHLETE. that can’t be easy, especially at only 32 YEARS OLD. some people say they can be a little bit DISTRACTED and BITTER, but i know them to be UNINHIBITED and RESOURCEFUL. whatever. i guess i’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to BROOKLYN!

in my opinion, you're on the wrong track.

pinterest. playlist. google doc.

basics

full name: miles coates. age: thirty-two. occupation: professional tennis player (struggling) with rare moonlighting as a coach for adolescents, he's not fond of broadcasting his situation at all. borough: brooklyn. sexuality: bisexual. gender: cis male. pronouns: he/him. birthplace: new canaan, connecticut. zodiac: gemini. positive traits: persuasive. eager. competitive. negative traits: stubborn. shameful. directionless.

biography

miles lives in a cramped apartment in brooklyn he affords by scrounging around for tournament money. it's mostly old furniture, old trophies absent-mindedly left in random places and hordes of beaten rackets, unopened wilson ball canisters and ruined sneakers. he barely fits his bed, which is another feeling beyond embarrassing, so he ops for the couch instead. a tiny place.

he grew up in the suburbs of connecticut to a regular, middle-class family. his home life was consistent, with a brother and sister, mother and father. to this day, they're still together and remain a rooting anchor for miles despite his worst qualities.

he moved out pretty young given his new found career, his second semester into college.

after graduating, he followed where ever tennis took him, but only recently did he settle down in new york. a little over an hour away from new canaan.

his career has always streamlined a climate of, "just enough." just enough to float around circuits with buzz that might propel you into a better tournament which might finally get your stats high enough to qualify for an actual pro tour.

miles has always been an edgy, loose at the seams kind of guy. aimless in a way that left his family worried, but unable to reel in. if he were more self aware, he might attribute this attitude to his lackluster tennis career and personal life.

the last time he had legitimate success was in his mid twenties. he had breached the ranks with numbers that put him in hopeful, local tennis talk, with an agent and coach who prodded his ear with, " hey, maybe with a few more seasons like this, the US open could happen? " it never did.

now, besides lingering in matches with guys far younger than him, he offers coaching to bleary eyed kids who don't know if they actually want to pursue tennis beyond their parent's pushing. too much of his time is spent loitering in empty tennis club courts with lazy kids with equally lazy forehands, the sound of the ball bouncing into the racket only to land out.

he's embarrassed by what he does to make ends meet. he's too prideful to admit his run is over and he knows he wouldn't be able to bear the looks promising 20 year olds would give him if they knew he resorted to what is essentially a high school tennis coach.

ultimately, he's always been an introverted sort of guy and intertwined any charisma he has into tennis. so for his game to recede and his disposition to look more and more pathetic, he's become dissatisfied. not only with himself, but his life as well, making him unmoored and rather malignant.

inspirations

big little lies: the general atmosphere of seeing the interior lives of characters, simple details and minor disasters. their private relationships, the language of each character's romantic relationships. trust for trust's sake. the blue hues. moments of introspection in the car rider line. when needing to fall back on somebody suddenly occurs and you realize you need to learn how to clean up after yourself.

the bear, richie jerimovich: when you're at a point in your life when you know there's nothing else to do other than hit the wall, or at least that's how it feels. a tiny apartment to be alone in. a cigarette habit. stubbornly understanding that, yes, you do need the support of others. asking a relative to help you out despite your less than responsible history. the character who feels stuck in a lack of purpose. being the relative who awkwardly relates to the younger table of the family and not on account of some kind of "hip," younger taste.

potential connections

coaching clientele. drifting friendships that always go to catch up over a quick bite, but never seem to remediate their time spent apart. childhood friends. ex-agents. past tennis opponents. ex's and they hate each other, hate. a persistent, familiar friendship he's had since his boston college days. a disgruntled, older mentor (not strictly tennis). current or previous neighbors. his siblings. the inane deck of people you meet during your time in new york. ex-flings. annoying acquaintances. someone who genuinely ruins his day. people he knows from the gym he frequents. the missed connection of someone who could've been the good steady in his life. his physician who knows him well enough to give him life advice while recommending him a physical therapist due to tennis. (off the top of my head, i'm interested to see other potential plot ideas!)

associations

a pile of crumpled, used tennis shoes. a fridge with lazy health foods because he can't be bothered to stay on regimen. the too small feeling he gets when visiting his parents and subsequently the nausea when he stays at his childhood home. the atlantic coast. the oily paper wrapping from his morning breakfast. when his uber drops his request at the worst moment possible. the vague BPM of house music at some club he should really forget about. compulsively checking tournament calendars. forgetting to hold his racket loose. windbreakers. the way he should make sense at a country club, but he visibly looks odd in the setting. an incredibly threadbare and worn wallet he refuses to ditch.

misc

at 27, he had to move back home with his parents. he has since internalized this and it always circles in his thoughts when he's self-loathing.

there's a nearby balkan food joint that he frequents that believes he's a legitimate figure in tennis. he doesn't have the heart to let them know he hasn't qualified for anything serious in years and they have a picture of him on the wall that they took themselves. he's pictured awkwardly giving a thumbs up by the counter.

there was a point in his college career that he debated taking leave to focus on tennis, but his parents were the one's to keep him in school. he graduated from BU with a degree in economics he's never had to use.

admin notes

hello all, it's sash! i just wanna leave this off on an excited note. i cannot wait to plot with everyone until my heart shrivels up!

[letterfuls]

mia needed to escape the bar for a moment, seeking a brief respite from the noise and warmth that felt too stifling. as she stepped outside, she leaned against the brick wall, her breath visible in the cold air. she had been dying for a cigarette or something to help her relax, but instead, she found herself watching some random guy struggle with his lighter.

“need a hand with that?” her voice cutting through the stillness as she kept her place against the wall watching him finally light his cigarette. “nah, you’ve got it.”

the biting cold was a sharp contrast to the bar’s stifling warmth, and mia relished the way it seemed to clear her head. “the cold air helps, doesn’t it? clears your mind.” she glanced at him, curiosity piqued. “what about you? decided to escape too?” mia said gesturing towards the entrance door.

[cmilesfm]

" yeah, " miles trailed, casting a spare glance inside, " it's too small a place to be that loud. at least for tonight. " the patrons had divided themselves into groups, hardly distinguishable as it still appeared like a homogeneous crowd. everyone gripping sticky, glass bottle necks and talking with an effort that made you lean close into someone, the music indifferent to it all. despite the interior beating, you could make out the faint sizzle of his cigarette, burning away. unconsciously, he had taken to methodically running his nail on the seam opening of his cigarette carton. a mindless habit. " i came with friends, but they're in their third pitcher or something right now. " he let out an affectionate laugh. if he focused hard enough he could hear them barking. " you want one? " he abruptly asked, remembering that to keep polite conversation, it's manners to offer your acquaintance a cigarette outside of the cheap, sweaty bar you two both escaped from. in between them, he held up the somewhat flattened carton he dug out of his back pocket, the corners softened from use.

[lassenisms]

he  should  not  be  eyeing  the  polite,  unassuming  smile  with  such  great  interest.  tobias  himself,  as  a  concept,  never  eyed  much  of  anything  with  interest  unless  it  was  artwork.  and  could  it  be  said  that  miles  is  art?  something  about  this  should  be  captured  in  a  snapshot:  ghastly  hair,  sweat  clinging  to  the  walls  of  the  corner  store,  a  kind  of  primordial  and  bustling  neon  -  drenched  darkness  beyond.  new  york  city,  in  this  moment,  becomes  a  myth.  and  they,  the  figures.  tobias  doesn't  romanticise  these  things.  as  though  his  eyes  added  the  dimmed  light,  to  make  it  more  comfortable.  (  and  yet,  the  discomfort.  it  lingered  on  the  back  of  his  tongue.  what  a  place  for  it  to  choose  to  be.  )  “and  if  i  said  they  did?  what  would  you  think  of  me  then?  getting  all  these  calls,  at  all  times  of  the  night?”  odd,  asking  for  truth  of  opinion  whilst  in  the  cloak  of  returning  the  jest.  tobias  can't  say  his  moves  are  calculated.  but  he  is  —  mindful.

and  to  think,  all  over  a  supposed  bite  to  eat.  there  it  was.  as  though  their  thoughts  traipsed  down  the  road  after  one  another,  always  slinking  within  that  shadow.  “oh,  yeah.  there's  good  shit  open  this  late.  you  just  have  to  know  where  to  look.  and  of  course,  i  know  where  to  look.”  it  wasn't  embellishment  to  say  that  tobias  often  was  out  during  the  later  hours.  if  he  wasn't,  he  would  not  have  continued  to  be  drawn  into  miles'  orbit,  wherever  the  other  manifested,  half  -  grin  slinking.  feeling  that  competitive  edge  rise  to  the  top,  cream  separating  from  the  rest  of  the  milk.  do  you  think  you're  going  to  impress  him?  “if  you  get  upcharged,  might  as  well  make  it  worth  it,  yeah?  and  sometimes,  the  best  kind  of  place  is  the  kind  you  don't  have  to  pay  for.”  i'll  treat  you.  he  was  dangling  it  now.  he  was  sinking  somewhere.

the  ramen  cup  found  itself  between  them,  the  object  of  miles'  affection.  plucked  from  tobias's  hand,  and  his  gaze  dropped  to  follow  those  hands,  skirting  towards  the  other  shelf  to  return  it.  there  shouldn't  be  an  odd  lump  in  their  throat.  how  eerie,  seeing  miles  here.  in  somewhere  with  absurd  lighting  and  nothing  now  between  them  but  —  what  could  be  called  ease  in  unease.  he  could  name  a  painting  after  this  feeling.

“you  up  to  try  a  skewerhouse?  rootfop  locale,  only  open  late,  reservation  only?”  he  went  for  the  big  choice.  the  riskier  one  first.  what  were  you  trying  to  do  here,  tobias?  “or  the  riverside  with  anything  from  steak  and  lobster  to  matzah  ball  soup?  has  little  white  tableclothes  and  everything?”  there  was  one  familiar  element  to  this:  indeed,  it  was  the  banter.  everything  else  felt  new,  polished  to  chrome.  a  reflection  staring  back,  with  the  picture  within  it  unclear.

[cmilesfm]

the smile hadn't yet left miles' mouth, patiently awaiting every hook, line and sinker tobias casted out. he liked being baited, it was the one thing he was good at. at the remark, he shrugged, shoulders rising and dropping limply as he brushed by them. " i would think lots of things, tobias. and, " he added knowingly, " when we bump into each other again, you know, at one of your little galleries, i would be thinking about how many of those assholes call you late at night. " his voice carried in a flat, condensed way as he trailed down the isle trying to emerge from the belly of the bodega, the effect no doubt from the tower of 4-pack paper towel packages that surrounded them. he casted a look at tobias over his shoulder, " god, i can't imagine what dull bullshit your, what? — colleagues, would use. " he laughed out, picturing vague sentences art directors and endowed clients would come up with, his grin couldn't falter. certainly none were as interesting as himself? briefly, he caught eyes with the cashier who busied himself with a single dry smile before focusing back into the screen. it was the moment tobias reiterated who the check would be going to that miles watched the line cast back out. the prickly, stubborn excitement coiling back into his stomach like bile. 'do you usually pay for people's meals you meet at the convenience store?' miles thought, somewhat bitterly despite no good reason. he liked the spear headed flirting, he loved it even, but it was tobias that made it feel like pressing your hand into the stove's eye. and it was miles who couldn't decide if he preferred it that way. his smile still biting and innocuous, waiting. " ooo, you're paying? " he pressed his palm flat into the glass of the door, a brute, and swung it open. " little white tablecloths? " he piqued as he held the thing open, directing his attention at the thin, anonymous traffic that populated the street. the bleached lighting traded for a saccharine, neon buzz. miles sucked on his teeth, weighing the thought of eating dinner with tobias, across from him. it made him sour. he wanted to laugh at them, cruelly, expose the bone. it felt like some morbid idea of a shakedown, 'taking me out to eat.' no more was it the open bars, the cat and mouse they played while weaving around people, walls of art. " the first one. " he finally said, impassively, still watching the cars darting by. he wanted to see just how quick they could turn a table for tobias northcott and his plus one. miles needed to make things difficult, he relished in the squirm and it was the offensive resilience that tobias possessed that in turn made miles all that more game. turning his head back towards them, a grin already across his lips. " but really, do you let those people seduce you? " he said 'seduce' speculatively, his nose crinkled, but left the question to earnesty. miles would call it teasing, but really he wanted to inflict the same wound back, wrestle for the upper hand. 'of course you're paying.' it was that added touch of humiliation, judgment, the exposure. it was a sport for miles.

[ava-deb]

You keep saying you came here because Art needed matches… I think you came for something else. You think I came here for you? You think I came here to throw it all away for you? Maybe you just wanted to see me. I have seen you, you look like shit. 

ZENDAYA & JOSH O'CONNOR as TASHI DUNCAN & PATRICK ZWEIG in CHALLENGERS (2024) dir. Luca Guadagnino

[luvlaced]

since getting to new york, ricky could hardly sleep. he had never been to the 'big city' before and his nerves buzzed with anticipation of seeing cece. finding work had been easier than he thought, but having somewhere to be in the morning still didn't help him rest.

running normally helped. the cardio would exhaust his body enough that it didn't matter if his mind was racing. but ricky felt dragged down by the weight of everything, so he decided to just walk. wander around. the sound of song pulling him in so he was now in front of a tired-looking man.

never one to miss the opportunity to make a friend, ricky smiled at him. "hey man. how you doing?" he asked, unable to tell if they were alright or just appreciating their break from the party happening on the other side of the green door.

[cmilesfm]

there's always something mildly embarrassing about forgetting yourself in public, blurting out an expletive because you burnt your fingers on a bic lighter. so, when a stranger asked about his well being, miles bore the expression of confusion. his eyebrows raised, a searching look in his eyes with the cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. then it hit him, timely enough he hoped. " oh! shit, yeah. i'm good! thank you, thank you. " he quickly spoke, doing that reassuring nod you do when trying to be prompt. there was a momentary pause, miles taking a second to familiarize himself with the stranger without the effects of being caught off guard. " you jogging? " he asked, gesturing a finger towards his acquaintance with one eye squinted in inquiry. " i would offer you a cigarette, but i'm not sure that's what you're after. plus, my lighter is shit. " which he illustrated by holding his cigarette out, the end ashy and breathing a steady line of smoke, as if it explained anything. " i'm miles by the way. "

[rowanelodie]

Smoking silently, sat in the corner of the smoking patio Rowan had been minding her own business, trying to shake off the three vodka sodas she’d drunk over the last couple of hours, the night air certainly helping that. She’d been there with a friend from work but they’d left about half an hour earlier, leaving the thirty year old to finish up her drink while chain smoking outside. Working up the energy to go hunting for a cab out the front of The Green Door. 

The sound of someone nearby letting out the expletive made her jump, head snapping in the direction it had come from, wide eyes just that. “You okay there?” Her British accent rang out clearly through the night, something she’d deliberately not shaken in her year of living in New York because Rowan found it actually did her a lot of favours, apparently Americans loved an English accent. Not to mention her dad would be livid if she came home speaking with an American accent (okay maybe livid was a bit dramatic, but he certainly wouldn’t be pleased and she would be mocked until the end of times.)

“Here.” Taking a final drag of her cigarette she dropped it onto the ground, pressing her shoe into it to make sure nothing caught alight, and heading towards the man holding her now empty glass bar from a couple of cubes of ice. Had they not been in such a public place she might have been more hesitant to approach him, but the door to the club was no more than three paces to their left with a bouncer stationed right there. “Hold this on it for a second, it’ll take the burn out of it.” Hand dipping into her empty glass to grab an ice cube, holding it out to him. @cmilesfm

[cmilesfm]

before the apprehension consumed him, miles accepted the ice cube, smooth from sitting out for a while. the sensation numbing and cold all at once, pinching the thing between his fingers. in it's translucent, wet surface the bar's lights caught, loosing the image of his hand somewhere inside. it was an unexpected kindness. knowing himself, if he were in the her shoes he would've plainly ignored the situation. when a tree falls in a forest or however it goes. " thank you. " he spoke, remembering his manners and stirring to bring his attention to the woman in front of him. if he had any sense, he might've properly addressed his sudden despondence, but instead said, " sorry, still working it off. " a nod towards the bar and a guilty, short laugh to fill the conversation. the ice club slipped into his palm, growing thin from body heat and he awkwardly fixed it back upon the red flesh of his thumb. he ignored the melting ice that lacquered the back of his hand, dripping silently onto the grungy sidewalk. inside, a crowd broke into a cheer and dissolved into quieter bubbles of laughter, overwhelming the music for a brief second. " accent? where from? " he questioned and flicked the butt of his cigarette, ashes dashing out like tiny flies, before pulling in another breath. miles eyed her like he was trying to answer his own question before she could, brows pinched and all, like he could pinpoint the nuances of an english accent. exhale. it wasn't entirely rare to hear the accent in new york and it certainly wasn't like he hadn't heard it before, but miles wouldn't be miles if he didn't force it into a point of conversation. against his fingers, the pea sized ice club slid out from his grasp, dropping to the concrete. he tapped the thing with his shoe, sending it skidding a few inches. " i appreciate that, anyone else would've let me die. "

[cmilesfm]

       miles coates, the  character   inspiration.

the various bits and pieces that went into the character creation and development behind miles coates. from songs to characters and the general atmosphere of pieces of media, here's what i mustered up.

queen of denmark, john grant ( song ) : the trials and tribulations of modern intimacy. selfishness. what happens when you look into someone else and see yourself and suddenly you can see right through them. the afterburn. crashing and burning, in or out of a relationship. how humiliating it is to be alive.

" i hope i didn't destroy your celebration. or your bat mitzvah, birthday party or your christmas. "

richie jerimovich, the bear ( show ) : offensive charisma. unsure of one's purpose. the punchline of every relative's joke. lack of personal regard.

" uh, the password is 'gofastboatsmojito,' all in one word. "

a little life, various characters ( lit ) : the city where you simultaneously started to make sense of yourself and go fuzzy at the edges. what catching up with college friends looks like at nine in the morning, the overpriced coffee you guys got sucked. old wounds. the painful, adult peer that is impersonal bureaucracy, birthday emails and coupons.

" friendship was witnessing another's slow drip of miseries. "

logan huntzberger, gilmore girls ( show ) : cocky. spawn of east coast upper crust. eyerolling casanova. the weight of parental expectations.

" oh, give me a break. you act like people making connections is something nefarious. "

kendall roy, succession ( show ) : terminal 'it's never going to be you' syndrome. falling asleep on an inflatable... in the pool. it's yourself you're trying to prove it all to. being pushed down at your own birthday party. mood swings. being the worst person you know. the feeling of the city breeze tunneling right through you. faking it. the blue tint of every glass pane in new york.

" i am like a cog built to fit only one machine. "

connell waldron, normal people ( lit. & show ) : where does it all go? immaturity. the double edged sword of habitual bad decisions. introspection.

" most of the time i don't have a clue. "

[heateron]

josh o'connor in challengers (2024) dir. luca guadagnino

[lassenisms]

funny  how  the  grocery  outlet  suddenly  shrunk  to  one  -  quarter  of  its  usual  size.  something  strained,  magnetic  and  colourful,  rotating  on  its  axis  between  them.  tobias  knows  what  abstract  art  is  meant  to  be  ;  here,  an  instance  of  it.  the  sort  of  canvas  that  a  man  cannot  help  but  gaze  at,  with  slightly  narrowed  gaze,  in  an  attempt  to  better  understand  the  slashes  and  swirls.  so  does  tobias  look  at  miles  with  a  similar  expression.  no  neon  here,  no  underwater  haze  to  bind  them.  just  the  simplicity  of  the  fucking  noodle  packages  and  frozen  dinners.  fatigue  clung  to  miles'  stocky  shadow,  and  tobias,  the  picture  of  awake  at  this  hour.  or  so  it  seemed,  at  first  glance.  closer  peering  might  reveal  the  dark  circles  that  match  the  tree  -  root  brown  of  his  hair.  the  slight  paleness  to  his  face,  indicating  that  he  tossed  and  turned.  but  he  disguised  it.  with  that  smirk,  and  that  pun.

the  score  flew  across  the  clerk's  television  screen  in  a  blitz  of  different  colours.  not  nearly  as  intense  to  tobias,  despite  the  roar  of  the  crowd.  “sounds  like  someone's  losing.”  he  never  professed  to  be  aware  of  sports,  nor  sportsmanship  ;  back  in  england,  he  watched  football  alongside  friends  but  never  became  invested  with  full  -  throttle  emotions  as  some  chose  to.  the  dogs  rotated  on  their  rollers  and  the  sharp  smoked,  the  fake  kind,  scent  permeated  through  the  store.  “at  this  time  of  night?  don't  kid  me.  if  someone's  calling  me  to  check  out  their  gallery,  it's  not  for  paintings.”  he  let  the  innuendo  drag  itself  across  the  floor,  kicking  and  screaming.  “damn.  it  is  a  shite  dinner.  i  wouldn't  settle  for  that.  and  neither  should  you.”  a  gesture  with  his  forefinger.  on  the  middle  of  the  same  hand,  the  northcott  signet  ring  flashed.  a  golden  thing,  inlaid  with  obsidian.  graduating  class  of  —  “ditch  the  boxes  and  let's  get  some  real  food.  i'll  treat  you.  as  penane  for  scaring  you  shitless.  your  choice  where.”

[cmilesfm]

he'll treat me, miles repeated in his head. my choice. it was this exact charm, this inscrutable kindness, that reeked of a clever jab. stunk of competition. it was what he had grown familiar to with tobias, accustomed to the inflections of voice and obvious glances. he knew good and well that if the two were accompanied by the usual set dressings of dim lighting and champagne flutes that he would dish it right back. he would scoff out a laugh before doing that thing he does where he can't decide if he's going to look at your lips or your eyes all while trying to pinch a nerve, any nerve. but that wasn't happening. no, they were in some sticky corner store holding microwavable dinners after shoulder checking each other and miles wasn't entirely sure tobias was being all that underhanded. maybe the lighting made him softer, but were they offering him a proper meal? of course not, right? miles smiled, the friendly one. the unassuming, polite one. " do people usually call you at this time of night? " he asked, playing casual with a raised, almost informed, brow. for the short second he let the playful jab linger in the air, his expression then quickly melted into the familiar miles half grin. smug, shameless. the one that emerged when tobias would do something like cooly mention the cologne miles wore by name, like it wasn't anything special. indifferently, he placed his late night choices back on the shelves, the frozen chicken parm respectively in the freezer section, before approaching tobias. " is there anything good open this late? " he asked, making a face as he glanced towards the windows, raking a hand through the back of his hair. " like a place that isn't up charging for shitty, frozen food? " he added, gesturing a thumb behind him. it was here he realized the complete lack of familiarity of the situation. sure, he recognized the banter, absolutely, but it felt odd. like some form of absurd intimacy to see tobias sandwiched between isles of household cleaning supplies and paper towels. he let the feeling sit for a moment, being privy to something he wasn't necessarily meant to see. it made him drop his eyes, spotting the cup ramen tobias still held. " but let me guess, you know a place? " he couldn't help but quip, eyes bright with arrogance and sleep, as he carefully plucked the package from their hand to set down.

[cmilesfm]

status : open ( @bhqextras ) where : some bar called green door. when : deep into the evening. song : slow one chord blues ( interior ) by dean hurley.

sometimes there is nothing more sobering than ducking out of a shoebox bar so warm from alcohol and feeling the whiplash cold, city air. miles needed it, boiling off a series of regrettable shots and some portland IPA he couldn't really taste anymore. he needed the bar's white noise to zero into a muffle and he needed his cigarette to light. it was already in his mouth by the time he slipped outside, a hand skewered in his pocket for the lighter, and now he stood there like some boozy door ornament trying to get a flame to catch. it was earlier when his phone buzzed alive with a text, cautioning the message, " i'm in the neighborhood with the guys. green door then bar crawl to fiore's tonight? " miles dumbly obliged and now here he was, scratching his thumb into a lighter while, inside, his friends drunkenly sung happy birthday with some other group. yes, you could hear it. yeah, nobody was making it to fiore's tonight. " shit! " he hissed out as he shook his hand rapidly, trying to nurse the burn out of his fingertips. was it the wind that was causing such frustration? he had been furiously cupping his hand over the cigarette for too long now, his head hunched over like some frenzied vampire. it wasn't like he wasn't enjoying himself, like he was mad at his friends or mad at himself for being here. in fact, he had been flirting moments earlier. the kind of flirting that's just for the sake of fun, no prolonged thoughts of marriage interfering. he had been laughing, trying his friend's drinks and doing that thing where you touch arms, touch shoulders. he had been enjoying himself, but the moment he stepped outside and felt the wind curl down his neck, the bubbly excitement seemed to dissipate. mostly, miles was getting tired. finally, the cigarette caught and he inhaled like some impatient teenager, the music happy to forget about him as it rattled on from inside. he exhaled.

[haniparks]

open starter — outside of havana, late at night : @bhqextras .

if  there’s  one  thing  zoey  can  say  she  enjoys  the  most,  it  would  most  definitely  be  new  york’s  nightlife.  even  as  she  stands  outside  the  front  door  of  the  club,  enjoying  whatever  time  she  has  left  of  her  break,  the  bartender  can't  help  but  to  find  enjoyment  in  all  the  chaos  that  brims  outside.  harmless  chaos,  of  course.  

the  corners  of  her  lips  unable  to  stop  themselves  from  moving  upwards  as  her  eyes  catch  wind  of  another  lurking  not  too  far  from  her.  “ if  you  think  it’s  crazy  out  here,  just  wait  ‘til  you  get through  them  doors, ”  the  brunette  remarks,  head  tilting  as  green  eyes  remain  on  them.    “ you  got  any  plans  of  goin’  in  anytime  soon? ”

[cmilesfm]

miles hadn't even realized he wasn't alone until he heard her voice. the city has a habit of doing that to you, making you selfish and focusing solely on refreshing your email like you were supposed to get something important, his head hung and attention vague. each time his finger dragged the screen down for the inevitable release, the same spam ad littered at the top. a sale at authority sports, wasn't even that good. she reminded him he was meant to head inside, supposedly to catch up with a friend. " oh, " he looked up from his phone, sort of clueless, before he found just who exactly was talking, " yeah. thought i was meeting someone. " he limply confessed, clicking his phone off before slipping it in his back pocket. wait, did he sound like a loser for saying that? he could've just lied. miles gave her a smile before glancing inside, still trying to figure out if he was emanating an unbearable awkwardness. " what about you? you seem like you like it, actually. " he asked with a raised brow, his smile still persisting.

[k-wame]

JOSH O'CONNOR LA CHIMERA (2023) | dir. Alice Rohrwacher

[birdmans]

CHALLENGERS (2024) dir. Luca Guadagnino

[lassenisms]

one  of  those  last  minute  rushes  to  acquire  all  of  the  groceries  that  he  forgot  last  week.  when  asked,  tobias  had  no  clue  how  this  sort  of  thing  happened.  he  made  lists  of  what  he  wanted  to  purchase,  left  them  on  the  yellow  notepad  (  on  the  kitchen  countertop,  right  beneath  the  outlet  where  he  charged  his  phone  )  —  and  yet,  by  the  time  he  arrived  back  from  a  late  night  at  the  gallery,  the  list?  nowhere  to  be  found.  this  was  how  he  found  himself  at  a  bodega  around  the  corner  from  where  he  could  take  the  bus  back:  squinting  through  reading  contacts  at  the  sodium  labels  on  cup  ramen.

it  wasn't  that  the  sodium  levels  mattered  to  tobias.  it  was  simply:  more  of  it  tasted  good  when  it  came  to  these  particular  brands.  it  wasn't  something  he  had  eaten  all  that  much  of  during  his  stint  over  in  europe.  something  about  adding  sliced  american  cheese  and  egg?  it  had  to  be  this  brand. 

but  this  was  him  becoming  distracted.  still  frowning  at  the  cup  ramen,  and  his  ears  buzzing  from  the  static  of  the  television  set  where  the  cashier  zoned  out  themself,  tobias  turned  to  head  towards  the  other  aisle.  right,  mate,  remember:  get  the  milk,  the  milk,  tobias.  it  was  here  that  his  shoulder  hit  hard  against  someone  coming  in  the  opposite  direction.  the  two  cup  ramens  he  picked  up  splattered  onto  the  floor.  he  blinked  at  them.  they  joined  a  frozen  meal  —  oh,  shit,  that  one  looked  radical.  “whoa,  everything  alright?  you're  super  on  edge  for  …  miles?”  voice  pitched  a  little  higher  at  recognising  him.  “super  on  edge  for  miles.  guess  that's  also  true.”  a  chuckle  at  the  pun.  “shouldn't  you  be  floating  around  in  dreamland  by  now?”

[cmilesfm]

there was almost a gut feeling miles got during the few, material seconds he spent staring at the floor trying to figure out what belonged to who. wait, did i get that ramen? it manifested firstly at the quick glance he spared at the shoes, ' it can't be them, right? ' it grew more malignant when the voice chimed in, accented, ' you've gotta be fucking kidding me. ' and it rolled over him, flattening, when he met tobias' face, nearly on cue when his own name was said. the world's worst crescendo. there couldn't be a less desired person for miles to bump into on a soberingly desperate bite to eat, visibly weary from the lack of sleep and lifelong duress. if he had enough courage to check, miles swore he was wearing probably his oldest pair of sneakers. he just couldn't believe of all people, it had to be tobias. " hey, man. " he answered, trying to suffocate the embarrassed strain in his voice with his usual self-asserting, relaxed tone. an added friendly laugh. " yeah. shit dinner so... " he lingered off, awkwardly leaving his laugh in a stiff, polite smile. the buzz of shelf lighting and the clerk's damn sports game filling the stuffy air between the two. why now? abruptly, he nodded towards the ramen in tobias' hand, " what about you? no nyu tisch graduate needs you to check out their gallery? " miles taunted, trying to re-piece the splintered cadence of their relationship up off the linoleum floor. it was much easier to push and pull at some dimly lit bar where everyone wore statement eyewear, not so much under the fluorescent bleach of a place selling roller dogs. he switched his grasp on the frozen meal, the freezer burn essentially melted and leaving the packaging damp. miles already decided around two minutes ago he was going to leave it in some random spot. abandoned.

[ofgods]

   ❝  I WAS HOPING YOU'D GET SMITED before you got here, but it seems lady luck has abandoned me.  ❞   not that she's ever been with the florist, except once. a shrug rolls off sunkissed shoulders,   ❝  but your mug's still significantly uglier than mine, so the fact that you think you can come in here and insult me, even when i'm lacking this much sleep, is hilarious.  ❞   a curious glance, dropped down her nose to the sandwich he's presented. the thought that he's come all this way to play the role of delivery boy of his own accord is one that pleases her deeply, but she files away her teasing for a later date.   ❝  you couldn't judas cradle that phrase outta me, fuck off. plus, i'm not sure i believe you. i mean, i do about the biting thing, but why are you being so weird about trying to prove it to me when you know my eyes work?  ❞   her features slowly brighten when an idea forms, lips curling to reveal a toothy grin before a hand comes to her chest.   ❝  wait, is poison how i go out? right here, right now? oh, you do love me. somebody call the press, i gotta tell everyone!  ❞

[cmilesfm]

" i could just leave with the sandwich if that's what you want? " miles batted back with an impartially raised eyebrow, unphased. the two always had a relationship of playful contention with an insult toeing around the corner, waiting to be lobbed back and fourth until one gave up. admittedly, it was usually miles. " granted i was nearby, but i still considered you for a granular second. " he brought up his hand to eye level, gesturing a pinch miming that of sand before dropping it. " let me make sure aurea's sorry ass isn't starving to death. " he coyly mocked in alleged reenactment like the initial thought didn't simply cross his mind as he stared down at the remaining food, alone in a booth while some incessant music played softly, 'i could give this to audi.' miles blew a drawn in breath out as he leaned against the counter, twisting his torso to observe the simultaneously dense and small store he had wandered into on aurea's accord. " you know, wouldn't this inspire you some? like with writing and all. it's like plants and nature and... stuff? " he defeatedly trailed off as he returned his posture back towards the exhausted employee, his eyes inadvertently shifting towards the sandwich below. " ok, can i have one tomato slice? "

[chewbacca]

JOSH O'CONNOR as ARTHUR LA CHIMERA (2023) dir. Alice Rohrwacher

[cmilesfm]

status : open ( @bhqextras ) where : some bodega when : passed midnight

it was some ungodly hour after midnight. the kind of hour where the city is blanketed under a hollowness that lets you hear a faint whistle from the swaying skyscrapers nearby. that isn't to say it was empty, of course, with every other night owl out there was miles, deposited in a bodega trying to figure out what dinner would be. if you had the audacity to call it that. he tried to make some grilled salmon and seasoned asparagus shit someone had recommended, but he was never much of a cook. it resulted in a chewy fish with a burnt, bitter flavor at the crust and the asparagus in the trash. now, he stood in front of an electric wall of illuminated foods, staring at it like a moth to a flame. he had already grabbed a frozen meal that was something of a tried and true, the ice melting in between his fingers. at the counter he could hear the faint static of the cashier watching a soccer game, every time the audience cheered the audio would peak. finally, out of irritation of self and drowsiness, he grabbed a package of ramen and headed towards the front. he was too tired to make a decision.   but as he rounded the corner of the aisle, he collided into somebody, the impact sending the frozen meal falling to the floor and a slight stumble in his balance. " shit ! i'm sorry, i'm sorry ! " miles instantly sputtered out as he ducked to the floor to grab the scattered products. he didn't even give himself a second to look at who he just slammed into, only understanding that a shoulder rammed into his shoulder at the speed of someone trying to get in and out as quick as possible. he should've just ate at the balkan place under his apartment.