SOUR BREATH.

still got nowhere to be, i don't do too well when nobody's worried — nobody's worried about me.

[mileshargrove]

tonydelia‌:

“Guess she does look good for her age,” Tony said with the smile that always seemed to linger on his lips when Miles was around. There was no mistaking how much Miles cared about the truck, and he’d taken good care of it over the years. Tony respected that about him; it was far more than what most of the citizens of Sallybrook could say for themselves. It felt good to finally get under a car again; he had worked on maybe four or five that week and knew that when the Haunt actually came around, he’d probably have to shut down the shop for a week or so. It was just the way the town operated, and a reason he was itching to get out. “Thanks,” he mumbled before slipping the cigarette between his lips. He was fully aware that this was what had taken his aunt from him far too soon, but the scent wouldn’t stop reminding him of her. Maybe he should quit; maybe that would come with the new year. “Exorcisms? You’re havin’ a hell of a lot of fun without me,” he said as he slid back out from under the truck, the sound of his laughter ringing throughout the garage eliciting a chuckle from him. “Gotta repent before the ghosts come out to play, right? Even if everyone’s equally fucked,” he said, emotion removed from his voice. Maybe it was a fear that only came with a childhood spent in this town, or maybe he was just foolish. He wasn’t scared. “At least you’re busy with somethin’,” he said with a vague hand gesture to the empty garage. “I dunno what I’m gonna do when you leave.”

Miles slipped the zippo back into his pocket, glancing down with a little smile — almost bashful. He wasn’t entirely sure why he got like this when he was with Tony, but he had a sneaking suspicion — one he tamped down viciously, stomping on with his workboots, driving it into the ground with a steel-toed fury. “I swear, I give away more cigs than I smoke,” he said, shaking his head. Pulling in a deep drag, he let a beat pass between them. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, entirely dissimilar from the kind Miles usually found himself shrouded in. No, it was familiar, agreeable. Probably spoke to how comfortable Miles was with Tony in general, though he chose not to think about it to deeply. “Oh yeah, it’s great. Nothin’ like floatin’ six feet in the air and screamin’ in fuckin’ Infernal. You should come by sometime. See if that new priest we got can cleanse your soul.” He shrugged, offering Tony an almost mischievous smirk. “If it doesn’t work out, we can smoke some salvation out behind the shed.” It was interesting speaking to Tony — Miles would hardly consider him a newcomer, but little things like this reminded him he didn’t grow up with them. He’d never seen his classmates go missing, never felt the ache of a disappeared sibling or friend. “I guess.” Dropping down to a squat, he peered at Tony under his truck, cig dangling from his lips. “Bet it quiets down ‘round this time. Stupid of ‘em, though; isn’t it winter tire time? If you’re lookin’ for company, though, I can stick around for a while.” He took a drag off his smoke and choked a bit, realizing how forward that was. Glad his cough was cover for his red face, he whacked his chest. “If that’s cool with you, or whatever. Don’t wanna impose.”

[mileshargrove]

a conduit || miles + zo.

ATTN: @zoreyes LOCATION: crooked eye pub DATE: december 8th, 2018

Miles had a kind of weekend routine. He kept it fairly consistently, though there was no real commitment attached to it — it was purely out of his own tendency towards habit. Friday was getting stoned with a friend; usually Peter, Rhys or... well, there weren’t many more options. He got ridiculously baked, and greened out, sometimes on the beach (when weather allowed). Saturday found him deep-cleaning the church, preparing for Sunday services, until dusk fell, which was when he headed to the pub to get shitfaced. On occasion, Nate would join him, but that was new, and infrequent — no, his regular Saturday companion was one Zo Reyes, the bartender/manager of the Crooked Eye.

He didn’t mind the company, though. In fact, it was the opposite; Zo was one of the few people in town Miles genuinely liked. They seemed to get each other on another level; he once said that they were tuned into the same frequency, and he still felt that was true. They were both different, both outcasts by nature of assumptions — and, of course, she was one of the only gay people in Sallybrook that Miles got along with. It was a limited pool for solidarity, so Miles was glad he had them.

He took his normal seat at the bar and waved them over with a hint of a smile. “A glass of your finest — and by finest, I mean cheapest — bourbon, please ‘nd thank you. Straight. Of course.” Digging into his pocket, he pulled a handful of bills and a baggie out of his pocket, dropping the required amount on the bar, jamming a healthy tip in the tip jar (wrapped around an eighth of MK Ultra). “How’s your night goin’?”

[mileshargrove]

nathanieldanforth‌:

@mileshargrove

There were days when Nathaniel sought the comfort of close friends, like Sophie and Elliot. There were days when Nathaniel sought the comfort of acquaintances like Logan, who were soon to become friends. And then, there were days like today. Days when Nate didn’t know who else to turn to except for Miles - the man that many had warned him to stay away from.

Perhaps it was because of the rumors that Miles was possibly a serial killer that led his friends to be wary. Maybe it was the fact that nobody seemed to know him very well. Despite all of that, Nate had created a friendship of sorts with the older man, and every once in a while they’d meet at the bar to drink heavily and talk about life.

Not once did Nate think about all of the rumors that were about to be spread about the two of them. Not once did Nate think about how scared his friends would be if they saw the two of them together. Not once did Nate think that someone might try to fight Miles and tell him to ‘back off’ and to ‘keep his hands off of Nate’. No, that would come later, and that wouldn’t be something Nate thought about at all.

And yet, here Nate was, sitting at the bar and waiting for his unlikely friend to arrive. He was already two drinks in, the buzz starting to form in his temples. Then, someone sat down next to him, and without looking he knew that it was the man he was waiting for. “It’s been a long-ass week, Miles.”

Miles was well aware that his drinking habits were unhealthy, bordering on alcoholism. He knew being close friends with the manager, through proximity across the bar alone, was a sign things weren’t great for him, mental health-wise. He knew that he had no place to judge anyone, no right to think that maybe, hey, that’s a little much.

It didn’t stop him from worrying about Nathaniel.

He was just a kid. Miles knew that Nate didn’t see himself as ‘just a kid’, knew from the time they’d spent together that the guy was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, knew that he was far too burdened for his years, knew that he did have real pain that merited drinking away — but he was too young (they were both too young) to be a barfly. This role was supposed to be reserved for sad, old men, with nothing better to do.

But Miles wouldn’t say anything. He had no right. All he could do, really, was try and see to it that Nate wasn’t drinking alone.

He dropped onto the stool beside his friend and motioned to Zo to pour him a pint. He was already baked, but he was always baked, so he was really just getting started. “There are always gonna be... a hundred and sixty-eight hours in a week. Never gets any longer. Just gets worse.” He snorted at his friend, taking a long sip of his beer, draining a third of the glass in one go. Miles had a feeling he’d need to be drunker than he was to have whatever conversation was coming. “Sounds like you wanna talk about what made it so shitty, though. What’s up?”

[mileshargrove]

gettin’ ready (for the day you’re born again) || miles + rowan.

[mileshargrove]

isnotgold‌:

Rowan burst out laughing at Miles’ impression, mostly because of how unexpected it was. Who was this guy?

“Well you gave me a laugh, so that’s gotta count for something,” he said. “Just do that and you’ll keep the kids entertained, at least. I mean, how much charisma do you really need? As long as you’re like, one with nature or whatever. I’m sure they’d be impressed.”

Rowan stepped forward to shake Miles’ hand, giving him a once-over. For all his awkwardness, Rowan couldn’t help but wonder what strange knowledge bounced around between those ears of his. He seemed like a guy who had seen things—but then again, that could be said of half the town. Rowan had simply heard variations on getting “trapped” or “sucked in” too many times from too many different people. It was enough to set a guy on edge, and Rowan probably would be, were this place not so much better than the life he’d left behind. There may have been monsters lurking in the town, if common hearsay was to be believed, but at least here he wasn’t one of them.

“Oh, it’s too late for me. I’m already hooked.” He grinned, but there was something brittle about it, the swirling doubts within him deflating the jest. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve been inside the church, but not the graveyard. You, uh, do a lot of graveyard hangouts or what?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I did manage to get out on the water already, through a… strange chain of events, to say the least. It was mind-blowing out there. Shame I didn’t bring my camera, but maybe it’s better that way. I could immerse myself in being there instead of stepping back and looking at it through a lens.”

Miles wasn’t sure if he should be offended by Rowan’s laughter or pleased; one difficulty that came with his limited exposure to — people, he supposed — was that he didn’t know how he was supposed to interact with them, and he didn’t know how he wanted to interact with them. He knew how he was perceived, generally speaking, but he didn’t know how he wanted to be viewed. If Miles had it his way, he wouldn’t be seen at all, really. But Rowan was — smiling, wasn’t he? And that was good? He didn’t get smiles often, and he kind of liked it, even if he was being laughed at. He’d take anything over downcast eyes, suspicious and wary frowns.

“I think the kind of, uh, ‘one with nature’ I am makes a better hermit than a boy scout leader. If I’d been born in, like, Oregon or summat, I’d be one of those crazy Ruby Ridge types. Without all the zealot religiosity. Or, uh. Racism, obviously.”

He shrugged, swallowing a snort at Rowan’s naivety. This guy didn’t know the half of it, did he? The Haunt was coming upon them soon, though — then he’d see. Surely, he hadn’t been there long enough to plant roots to have them ripped away, but you didn’t have to be in the thick of it to bear witness to the grief, the suffering. “Like a fish, huh.” Miles pulled a cig from behind his ear and lit it, his nervous habit taking hold; he needed to do something with his hands. “You ever heard the story about the Gudgeon? It’s one of Aesop’s fables. A young trout was gettin’ ready to eat a fly, but before she could go for it, her mother stopped her. She told her to wait, to watch. A gudgeon swam by and bit, and he got caught. Hooked through the mouth, drawn up, eaten for supper.” He took a long drag, staring out towards the lake. “Gotta be careful.”

“Oh, I’m the groundskeeper for the church. Didn’t realize you wouldn’t know. Living in a small town like this... everyone knows everyone, by name or reputation. I’ve got a helluva reputation attached to mine, and it tends to precede me.” Miles kicked at a pebble on the ground, voice dropping low — almost a mumble. He was saying too much, but it just came pouring out. He couldn’t draw his eyes away from the lake, almost entranced by the stillness, the ice reflecting the sun back into his vision. “Don’t know about that. I think Sallybrook might best be enjoyed through a postcard — sent far, far away.”

[mileshargrove]

alicesolak‌:

There were good days and bad days. There were days where she would forget, where she would go about her day, walk past Sam’s room without looking in, make herself breakfast without accidentally making some extra, and go to work without looking for him on the playground to make sure kids weren’t bullying him. She sat through lunch only mildly missing his presence, and then would go home and think about how it seemed to be getting easier. Today was not one of those days. She felt weighed down by it, exhausted, like everything was a puzzle she wasn’t smart enough to put together, though it took all of her energy. 

It was on days like that day that she would stray as far from the church as she could, angered at it and at God, for taking away the one joy she had found in her life. For taking her boy, her light, her heart from her before she could nurture him and show him what it meant to know love. But she had been told by her father that it was when you were most angered with God that you had to go to him and accept what He had to offer. It was in your darkest days, when it felt like His light had left your life entirely, that you had to go looking for it. His love is unconditional, love only a parent could have for their children. She wondered if it was hard for him to say goodbye to everyone he sent down to Earth. If it was even harder watching them stray from the light, watching them disappear until they no longer knew or recognized His unconditional love. She wondered if Sam would have strayed from her in this way. 

So, she sat in the front row, looking up at Christ on the cross, watching as the colors that filtered through the window shifted with the day, and had a conversation with God. One that was long overdue, one that she hoped He was listening to. Christ had sacrificed himself to rid the world of sin, God gave his only true son for the better of other people. She wondered if Sam’s disappearance would better anyone. Surely the world would be brighter if he were still around. It was when she was lost in these thoughts that she heard a voice, not even realizing there were tears streaming down her cheeks until she felt herself come back to her body. She was tired, and hazy, her mind fogged up with something similar to the numbness she felt when she first found out he had gone missing. 

It had almost been a year. And what had she done with it? How did she spend an entire year wallowing, and not trying to find him? 

She wiped the tears from her cheek, smiling warmly at Miles. She had known him for years, seen him taking care of the church. And anyone who is a server of the Lord was a friend to her, so she immediately let him into her heart, happy that they finally had a chance to speak. “Have I?” She asked, looking down at her watch and wondering where the time had gone. Could it have really been three hours? Right then, she felt her stomach beg for food, and she put her hand over it as though to silence it. “I could do with some shortbread and tea,” she said with the same smile, hoping he wouldn’t ask about what was bothering her. “I don’t believe we’ve met officially. I’m Alice.”

Though it probably wasn’t fair, Miles had an inherent distrust towards the church-going type in Sallybrook. It was unavoidable; his father was an ex-Catholic, spent the Christmas season railing against religion. Miles had been brought up to see the Bible as a fairy tale as much as Hansel and Gretel was — and, when he read it, he had to say: it was as gruesome as Grimm’s, if not worse. Churches offered a sense of alienation far more than they did comfort for him, and he didn’t understand the viewpoint of those who sought solace in these hallowed halls; if they were in such pain, why would they look to the thing that wrought it for comfort?

His father refused to believe in God because he felt that no God could be as cruel as He’d have to be, to do what He did to him. Miles didn’t believe in God because it didn’t fit into the framework of his worldview; he’d been raised without one, and didn’t possess the capacity to adopt that kind of belief. But — it was probably nice. Miles thought it must’ve been nice, to have a big guy up in the sky, watching out for you. The comfort of knowing that when someone was gone they were gone to a better place seemed like a nice kind of net, and Miles understood the instinct to move towards that safety.

Miles didn’t have that kind of belief. When people died, they died. Their bodies decomposed, and they were gone. There was no big end-game waiting in the sky, nothing to look forward to after; some would describe him as a nihilist for thinking that way, but he wasn’t: Miles was a humanist. He didn’t think there was anything to wait on after, so all he could do was make today better for whoever he could. He tried to operate within this framework whenever he could, and this was a chance to offer the kind of empathy and kindness to others that he’d so badly craved for himself. So he would try. It was frightening, trying to try, trying to navigate a conversation with someone so starkly different from himself, but he had to.

“Uh, I —” he stuttered, not knowing quite what to say. His nerves were soothed, however slightly, when she offered a smile in response. He was worried that he’d offended her, and was glad when he realized that wasn’t the case. “Yeah. It’s nice for days like this.” He didn’t specify any further; she could take it in any number of ways, but Miles had meant either days that were sadder than normal, harder to drag one’s heart through, or dreary, blustery December days. For Alice, it seemed to be both. “Nice t’meet ya,” he mumbled, sticking out a hand for her to shake. “Miles. You can, uh, follow me to the office if you’d like? I don’t think we should eat out here, I just vacuumed, but...” He shrugged, turning to lead her. “Funny, how it’s taken so long fer us to cross paths proper. I think I’ve seen you nearly every day for the past... God knows how many years.”

[mileshargrove]

water gorged the wood || miles + isaiah.

ATTN: @theisaiahmiller LOCATION: church basement, a town two hours away from sallybrook DATE: december 1st, 2018

Miles remembered sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair, clutching a styrofoam cup of bad coffee, staring at a room full of vaguely familiar faces in a circle around him. He remembered doing it years and years ago, when he was sixteen and angrier than any child should be. But he was a month away from thirty-five, now, and he wasn’t angry anymore. He was tired. A bone-deep, whole-body kind of exhaustion. He was tired of being so tired.

“Anyone want to share?” the group leader said, an older man with kind eyes and a soft voice, who lost his wife a decade ago. Miles had been to three of these meetings — a grief support group, that met monthly — and had yet to speak. This time, though, maybe he had the courage to do so. Hesitantly, he raised his hand, looking up from his coffee cup. The man nodded at him, and Miles gulped.

“My name is Miles.” Hiiiii, Miles, the room drawled back at him. “I, uh. Christmas this year is gonna be the eighteenth anniversary of my dad’s death. He killed himself. I — I found his body.” He cleared his throat, coughing into the crook of his elbow, trying to catch his words and wrangle them into a sentence. “I haven’t really talked about it since I was a teenager. I haven’t really talked about it at all. I also lost my older brother. He died when he was a little kid. It was before I was born.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t talk about what happened in real terms — not if he wanted to maintain some degree of anonymity, but this was the closest he’d gotten in a long time; maybe this was the most honest he’d ever been, in a room full of strangers. “I think. I, uh, I don’t know what to say. I guess I’m here because... I’ve been seeing my brother. In my dreams. I see him older, though. Like he would be, if he were alive now. We talk. It’s nice. But — I don’t know. It’s kind of... scary. ‘Cause it’s the most meaningful interaction I have, the talks we have when I sleep. But if the most important part of my day is me going crazy, then... what? Then what, you know? I don’t know. I just. I don’t know.” He sniffed, and buried his head in his arm again, trying to cover the sob bubbling up as a cough. The leader nodded at him sympathetically, and offered some kind words Miles didn’t really hear.

They moved on, because Miles’ story was sad, but he wasn’t the only person who had a sad story; everyone else in that room had felt a deep, heart-aching loss. It was only after a few other people had spoken did Miles return to the room fully. He came back, out from his own head, because he heard a voice — a voice he recognized. Not someone he knew intimately, but certainly someone he’d heard before. His eyes landed on the man across the room, tall and lithe, with a familiar face. He was from Sallybrook. He had to be.

Their eyes met, and Miles cocked his head, squinting, trying to recognize him. Miles only held his gaze for a beat before casting his eyes back downwards, back into his coffee cup. He came here for anonymity, and he supposed this man did too. He didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable (an echo of something someone had said to him, too many years ago), but if he chose to reach out, say something after, Miles was there.

[mileshargrove]

tonydelia‌:

There was something comforting about Miles’ presence, in the garage and elsewhere. He knew most of the people in this town, but their relationships were often born out of necessity and not many stuck around for long after their car was fixed. He liked the way Miles lingered even after a simple oil change. How he was seen as more than hands that could fix a car, a replacement for his aunt, whatever the townspeople thought about him. Miles was different, and he liked it. “Have you seen her?” Tony said with a laugh, shaking his head at the man as he hopped out. “C’mere,” he said, pulling the man into a hug as soon as their hands made contact. “Guess I can do that,” he said as he moved to get his tools. “As you can see, it’s packed,” he said, gesturing around to the empty shop. He sent the other worker home, figuring there didn’t need to be too many people crowding the shop when they maybe got one car every two hours. He wondered if it had something to do with the Haunt, if people just didn’t want to leave their houses anymore, but it had been a quiet week. “You can sit inside if you want. I know it’s kinda cold,” he said, nodding to the small waiting room. After a beat, realizing that Miles probably wasn’t going anywhere, he asked, “Anything exciting happening at church?”

It was a little bizarre, hanging with Tony — Miles wasn’t used to being treated with that kind of fondness, that kind of familiarity. He was, however slowly, getting used to it, but it was still a foreign feeling. He let himself get swept into it, though, wrapped into the hug, slapping his back in the typical ‘male friend’ way. “Yeah, and she’s gorgeous. Lookit her.” Miles banged a fist against the truck’s hood, smiling down at her fondly. In his defence, he did do his best to keep his truck in shape. Despite his labour-heavy job, he kept her clean, polishing the dirt off her religiously. It was dented up and old, but clearly, it was a well-loved vehicle. He watched Tony work, smiling softly, an appreciation in watching him work. His mastery was admirable — maybe it was just a small town auto shop, but the way he moved, it was like watching Michelango in his studio. “As always,” he snorted. Winter was always quiet in Sallybrook. Miles wasn’t sure if it was like that everywhere, the cold weather keeping people indoors in normal towns, but it was like that here. “All good. I’m gonna, uh,” he motioned with his hands as he pulled out his pack, shaking a smoke into his hand. He lit up, and offered Tony a cigarette, and held his zippo out, lighting it for him once it was safely between his teeth. “Oh, you know. People speaking in tongues, spiritual experiences. I got exorcised three times yesterday. The ushe.” He shook his head, laughing uncharacteristically loud. “Man, it’s weird. Nobody comes to church ‘til Decemeber. Always packed, this time of year. These fools thinkin’ God can save ‘em now, even if they’re agnostic as soon as the snow melts. Lots of vandalism, too. Gives me somethin’ to do, though, so it’s alright.”

[mileshargrove]

ordinary hysteria || miles + rosaline [flashback].

[mileshargrove]

rosalinverville‌:

The stifled air and repressed throat clearings reminded her of home. Rosaline sat with her hands folded on her lap, her expression rested somewhere between ease and melancholy, gaze lingering on whoever it’s turn it was to navigate the traumatic labyrinth of dead parents and missing siblings or what ever it was and break it down into bullet points of feigned indifference. Occasionally, one of them would break a little, revealing a detail too much, though finding that it was somehow relieving to let go a little, while others slurred through their story like they’ve had to tell it one too many times. She listened closely to all of them, of course. After all, she had come here mostly just to listen. Though she’d wince at the assuming glances of those who undoubtedly recognised her, and cringe at the restrained chuckles throughout, concerning her or not, it wasn’t too bad, for a first session here, she thought. It was better than being alone, better than marching in the same spot perpetrating disappointment. She had to remind herself that this was what she wanted, she wanted to be here, to prove that she’s changed.

Rosaline had grown a bit more comfortable now with her supposed indifference, more so than she would have imagined for herself six months ago anyway. Perhaps it was just the town, Sallybrook has always got an aura of sedateness about it. One so grim and distinctly spectral yet could settle so deeply into your bones that it becomes tranquillising, making the pain feel, well, normal. It might just be her that felt this way, or perhaps, this was just her actually healing, moving on. Rosaline felt that by coming here, listening to familiar stories from familiar mouths, she could make sense of it all. She learned from rehab that she wasn’t supposed to live life in anticipation of the next time she’ll inevitably fall, but if she’s not always ready for the next bad thing to happen, how could she be prepared for the landing?

When the boy with the dark rings under his eye spoke of his father’s suicide, in such a rehearsed manner no less — how terrible, even for this town — she felt like she was watching herself as she would have appeared, if she were to be here a merely four months ago. She felt like she knew him from school (though she could say the same for pretty much everyone else), but he didn’t know her. Watching him relay his words dismissively, she couldn’t help but want to know about him more. Did you feel guilty? Abandoned? Did you see him? The words, intrusive ones, pressed at her tongue but she swallowed it as the turn passed on to next person. Maybe it was his mention of weed that triggered just the right nerve that she felt a need to respond to him, or maybe she just wanted him to tell her how it’s supposed to feel when someone important to you offs themselves. She’s forgetting, becoming so numb to the pain that she once would kill herself not to feel that she wasn’t sure how she felt in general anymore. It felt wrong, because when she tries to think back to that day now, she could barely recall what it was that she saw.

Rosaline stood by the table of refreshments as everyone shuffled around, not so enthusiastically creating chatter if just to replace the current awkward tension with another. Stirring sugar into her coffee, she retreated slightly to the side, nodding and smiling at people she was caught in eye contact with. A few exchanged some words with her, while others just nodded, she was ready to decide that she can soon call it a day when the dark-eyed boy, Miles was his name (yes, she remembered now, she was just thinking about him), almost forced his way towards her and spoke, surprisingly confrontational.

Caught in a surprise, though curious she was, she swirled her mug thoughtfully. “Was I?” She raised her brow, and quickly surveyed him without much thinking about it, “well suppose that I did… in fact, stare, look intensely, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable,” she said, trying to sound light hearted but still regarding him seriously, “I wasn’t targeting you, like… please don’t feel that way.” She lowered her mug and leaned a little bit backwards, creating some space between them, pausing for a moment, reassessing her words.

“I’m sorry,” she added, and she genuinely felt apologetic at that moment, which for the most natural reason made her want to explain herself. “Um, being here doesn’t have to be all that bad you know, I mean it’s quite annoying if you were forced I suppose. I mean I was also— ” well damn, doesn’t he look pissed, “you know what, never mind.”

“Miles, right? If you don’t want to talk about anything, or keep coming here, I’m sure no one will force you to.” Gathering herself after having already said too much, what she said next was what she felt like she wanted to hear the most herself, and was something she remembered hearing once before too, somewhere. “But it can help when you feel ready for it.” Her tone receded, and she smiled what she hoped to be a genuine, empathetic smile, resisting the urge to pat him on the shoulder, knowing that the gesture was likely to be interpreted uncharitably, and in all likeliness, as an unwanted breach of his emotional defence.

People are not out to get you, really. Hard to accept it may be. She then wanted to say to him, but it sounded too fake for a half retired junkie, barely seventeen. “When you’re ready…” she paused, then slowly glanced at his eyes, meeting his overcast gaze. “If only to feel less… abandoned.” Those last words were her own.

In the brief moment they’d spoken, Miles decided he didn’t like this girl.

Maybe it was unfair for him to make that kind of snap judgement about her. After all, there was nothing he hated more than having assumptions levied against him, but he couldn’t help it — trusting his gut was the only was he could survive, and his gut told him he shouldn’t like her. He didn’t like her eyes, maybe not warm, but certainly honest. He didn’t like her soft voice, trying to sound wise, like she knew better than him. He didn’t like the feeling he got in the pit of his stomach that hold him hey, maybe she does.

Most of all, he didn’t like how he felt like he was supposed to trust her.

He’d caught a glimpse of his CPS file once; not a long one, only seeing a flash over a desk, but long enough to catch a phrase, bolded, highlighted and triple-underlined: HAS TRUST ISSUES. To which Miles said: duh. He’d be shocked if anyone who had been through what he had didn’t have some level of trust issues; beyond his family traumas, the number of times he’d been handed from (supposedly) charitable and loving family to another would screw anyone up. At sixteen, he was tired of ripping the same scars open over and over, and the tissue was building up too thick for him to be able to — despite being little more than a child, he was marred, toughened, impenetrable.

So anything that made him feel any inkling of safety triggered immediate sirens; her gentle words activated his fight-or-flight response, but he was too caught in the headlights to do either.

“If you don’t want people to feel targeted, maybe don’t gawk at them then?” he said, sputtering the words out, more desperate than his intended intimidation. “I’m not a friggin’ freakshow. Do you, like, come here for fun? To see all the fuckups? Feel better about yourself?”

His lip quivered, almost imperceptibly, at her tone. Miles felt.. bad about snapping at her, even if that shame was momentary — but he shook it off quickly. He wouldn’t allow himself to be duped so easily. “Oh, yeah. I’m really gonna make the most out of this. When that motherfucker,” he spat, jabbing a thumb towards a hulking teenage boy, stupid and hulking over the pastry plate, “jams me into a locker tomorrow morning, he’ll be so much nicer, knowing my dad killed himself, like he didn’t already know that.”

On some level, he wanted to pick a fight with her.

On another, he wanted her to ask. Ask what his deal was, ask why he was so angry, ask what happened to him, ask him how he felt. For the first time in a long time, Miles felt as though he was faced with someone who wanted to know, not for their own grim curiosity, but because they wanted to hear what he had to say. “... you had to come here? I don’t— I don’t believe that. You’re way too — you’re not angry enough.”

“Well, Rosie, right? I don’t know how you got it, but I’m sleepin’ in my truck until I show up for four of these things. Then, my case worker’ll consider placing me with another family. And it’s gettin’ cold, and I like havin’ toes, so if I wanna keep ‘em, I gotta show.” He bared his teeth in a mean sneer — he wasn’t sure how effective it was. He sometimes growled at himself like that mirror, testing out different faces, seeing which one was the scariest, the best one to throw on when kids at school were fucking with him or drunks were knocking on his window after the bars kicked them out. It was hard to pick a scariest face when all of them made him look like a particularly cross bulldog puppy — except for his eyes. His eyes were as mean as he was trying to be. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Miles’ eyes opened wide, dismayed by her words — they were far too close, hit too deep, sent his shaky stability rocking. “You don’t know shit about abandonment,” he spat through gritted teeth, knuckles white as he crushed the styrofoam in his hands.

[mileshargrove]

the world needs more spinach || miles + peter.

[mileshargrove]

peterxfrancis‌:

“Fair,” he replied casually. If there was anything he loved about Miles, it was how inside his head he could get. It was unlike anyone he had ever met before, and everyone knows how much people liked talking to people that were unlike others. It kept things interesting. And one thing was for sure, Miles always knew how to keep things interesting. He nodded at the question, taking a cigarette from him, lighting it, and feeling the release of the nicotine hit his system. Peter stopped smoking regularly years ago, but he still did it when one was offered to him. Though these days, it seemed to only be Miles doing this. He got in the car, and lifted his feet up on the seat, wrapping his arms around his knees as he looked out the window. He looked at Miles with an amused grin. “I’m always baked, dude. You taking me to get more baked or what?” 

One of the reasons he tolerated (put up with? Indulged? Liked?) Peter was his ability to just roll with Miles’ bullshit. Miles didn’t have any handle, really, on the things he said — sure, he’d roll the words around in his mouth, take his sweet time getting them out, but that didn’t automatically make for any kind of filter. Peter seemed amused by it, though, and Miles appreciated it. Filter? a little voice nattered from inside his head. Why would you need a filter? Everything you say is fucking gold. Peter’s just lucky enough to hear it. He blinked, for a second, hands still on the wheel. It wasn’t like him to think things like that, feel that way about himself — but he almost didn’t feel like it was unusual; something had disconnected in his brain, thoughts floating away from him. There was little he could do but shrug it off.

He glanced over at Peter appraisingly, eyes lingering on his lips wrapped around the cig — pulling his eyes back out the windshield abruptly, slamming the truck into reverse, hitting the play button on the stereo as he ripped out of the parking lot. That was bizarre enough for him to take stock. He didn’t see Peter like that — did he? No. (Peter would be lucky if he did, though.) No! He shook his head, taking a deep drag of his smoke, before turning to Peter. “Maybe if you ask nicely,” he said, words falling out of his mouth before he could think about them, “or beg.”

[mileshargrove]

tonydelia‌:

@mileshargrove

There was no mistaking Miles’ old truck as it rattled into the empty lot in front of the shop. At least he could relax, knowing a friendly face was going to walk through the door any moment now. Even if he had been the only one working on the man’s car for years, Tony was surprised he had been able to keep it running for this long. By now, it had to just be held together by hope. If he was being honest, he was about as attached to the old thing as Miles was. They had to have taken hundreds of rides around town and beyond in the beat up vehicle, but he had to admit she held up well. Leaning against the counter as his friend entered, he couldn’t help but smile as Miles came into view. “What’s wrong with her now?” he asked with a smirk. Of course, he was hoping it was just an oil change or something easy. 

Miles really did appreciate Tony. He liked familiarity, he liked routine, and even if he refused to really accept his presence as something to get used to, pulling into his garage was almost as familiar as rolling up the gravel road to his own home. Tony knew his truck better than he did, and Miles couldn’t appreciate that more — his truck was one of his last connections to his father, and he couldn’t imagine how he’d feel if a mechanic he trusted told him to junk it; he knew Tony wouldn’t give up on it, at least not without a fight. Luckily, it wasn’t a fight he was coming to the garage for — she was purring happily when he started her up, and only threatened to sputter when he hit 80 miles an hour. "Don’t appreciate the insinuation that she’s anything less than perfect, man.” Still, his eyes, the corners of his mouth betrayed a smile, and he hopped out of the truck, offering Tony a loose handshake in greeting. “Just an oil change. Every three thousand miles, like clockwork. Keeps her happy.” Maybe Miles did a little more than appreciate Tony — or maybe he appreciated more than his car skills, but that was between him, a lonely six-pack of PBR, and, on the infrequent occasion he got black-out drunk in public, Zoe. Tony’s company was really enough. Really. “Busy day?”

[mileshargrove]

curandcra‌:

“Oh, you,“ she hardly missed a beat as she mocked his tone of voice, “Out of all the waitresses in the world, you had to get the worst one.”

There was a ghost of a smile on her face, but she dared not let it spread beyond the slightly crooked corner of her upper lip. For all that he probably wished it wasn’t, this– all of it, from him slinking into a booth in the diner uninvited and grumbling out an order to her feigned reluctance at getting him his order– had become routine. At times, she couldn’t help but feel a rush of fondness for the grumpy bastard.

And yet– all it ever took was one glance at Miles’ sullen face to remind Elodie that she was still on eggshells with him. 

It was a bitter taste in her mouth– one that she didn’t really care to define. She took out her notepad to write down Miles’ order, but paused mid-scribble to raise an eyebrow at him, “You know– normally, you wait to be seated.”

His lips twisted into a scowl — usually, Miles was dismissive of Elodie. They had a little dance they did, a two-step of snark, spinning around the unspoken. Each move was a careful avoidance of confrontation, a willful ignorance of everything unresolved between them. There was a time when he thought of her as an adoptive sister, but she was little more than a stranger now, and he didn’t have it in him to do anything about that. Even if he did, he wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted — an apology? An acknowledgement? Was there anything that could really fix what had happened? Miles wasn’t sure.

But he didn’t feel passive. He didn’t feel like brushing her off. Instead, something bubbled up in him, a kind of fire he’d thought had long been extinguished; he was pissed. Indignant. Who was she to speak to him like that, treat him like that? “Not me, honey. Especially not — I ain’t waiting for shit from you.”

He snorted, leaning back in the booth with the kind of comfort in his presence he never possessed; even if he was dirt, he’d always be better than people who didn’t realize they were dirt, who thought they were better than what they were. And that was her, wasn’t it? “Listen, I know you think you’re hot shit ‘cause you got outta here for a while, but you’re back, and worse for it. At least I have an excuse for being trapped in this shithole. You had an out, and you didn’t make it, and now you’re a waitress in a shitty, small-town diner, so go get me my coffee, why don’t you? You know you’re here forever, but damn, I don’t want to wait that long.”

[mileshargrove]

you are currently being possessed by PRIDE. haunting period ends: 12.7.18 at 12am est.

[mileshargrove]

gettin’ ready (for the day you’re born again) || miles + rowan.

[mileshargrove]

isnotgold‌:

Rowan’s eyebrows raised a bit as the guy spoke—no wonder the guy knew where the best photo spots were. He probably knew every acre of this place. Rowan envied that, to an extent; he’d had that kind of knowledge once, too, though he was far better versed in concrete jungle than forested oasis. But did he really want to know Sallybrook that well? Some part of him feared that if he really knew the town, he’d lose interest.

He looked over the lake, smiling faintly as he listened to the man’s tale. “Sounds nice,” he said, a bit misty-eyed. He imagined his eight-year-old self hanging over the edge of a rowboat, dangling a sprig of pine needles into the water, watching the patterns they made. Someone was fishing at the bow—but when the little boy turned to look, the face was black with scribbles. There was no one in Rowan’s life to fit such an idyllic memory, not then and not now. As he watched, the boy dropped his twig into the water and sulked.

Rowan blinked the vision away, turning back to the man—Miles, as he soon learned. The name fit somehow.

“Outdoorsman. Excuse me. It does sound a lot more official, like you should be leading a hiking tour or something.” He regarded Miles with a cool gaze, wondering if he should give his name as well. A Rowan of years past would have considered this a single-serving conversation, thus rendering names forgettable, but if there was anything he’d learned since his arrival in Sallybrook, it was that people stuck around. Might as well be polite.

“I’m Rowan,” he said simply. A last name seemed unnecessary. “Kind of a stopover-turned-sleepover, I guess. I got a room here and then, uh, didn’t leave. For weeks. I don’t know, something about this place really drew me in. It’s photogenic, for one. I’d actually thought I discovered most of the best spots around here, but this place proved me wrong.” He quirked an eyebrow. “So, got any other hot spots in that head of yours? Humor a humble tourist.”

Miles’ eyes followed Rowan’s, towards the water. There was something about the lake that was a lot like Sallybrook as a town. His father used to take him out on the water when he was growing up, on their little rowboat to fish. They set up their rods, then sat, and waited. His father usually fell asleep, hat tilted over his face as he snoozed in the sun, but Miles never did. There was too much to see. He used to lean over the boat’s edge, staring down into the depths, looking at the fish swimming through seaweed, looking closer, trying to see deeper and deeper and deeper... until his father yanked him back into the boat by his collar, scolding him. He always said — you can look, Miles. You can look, you can even touch. But don’t fall in. It’s deeper than you know. If you fall, you drown. Grim, maybe, to say to a child, but Joe Hargrove was not a man to pull punches.

Besides, Miles never did end up falling in. So it worked.

Though he bit his tongue, he could hardly contain the instinct to give the kid before him the same warning about their little town. You can look, kid. You can even touch. But if you fall in, you won’t get out. Looking him up and down, Miles had a sinking feeling he was watching a man already entangled, drowning in the weeds. He wondered if Rowan knew it — probably not, based on his easygoing behaviour. Maybe in flashes, little moments of despairing suffocation, a near-animalistic need to run. Miles grew up here, lived here his whole life, and he still felt that way sometimes.

“My family used to do hunting tours of these woods. Not anymore, but I could do it. Don’t think I have the charisma for it, though.” He paused for a moment, before drawing up a breath, putting on his best Smokey the Bear-voice, and continued, “Remember, kids, leave no trace! Collect your shit so it doesn’t choke a squirrel, you little snotrags!” He held his stance for a moment before exhaling, his posture withering when he did, back to his normal, crumpled stance. “Sorry. That wasn’t as funny as I thought it would be.”

“Rowan, huh?” Miles stepped towards him and held out a hand for him to shake. “Good to meet you, man.” He twisted his lips into a slight frown, of concern more than anything else — “Hm. This place does that. Watch, or you’ll get sucked in, ha ha.” The laugh was one of the stiffest things that’d ever fallen out of Miles’ mouth. “This place is a black hole, but there are some hidden gems. Couple’a spots worth seein’ — graveyard at St. Peter’s can be pretty picturesque; not so much at this time of year, all the flowers are dead, but... kinda spooky that way, too. Uh, what else... The docks at night. If you can get one of the fishermen to let you into a boat — or sneak onto without gettin’ shot — the water’s just incredible from there.”

[mileshargrove]

MUSIC BINCH

RED LIPS / YOU’RE TEN A PENNY, CHEAP SHOT

SUCH A BIG GIRL / SUCH BIG NEWS / SUCH A BIG TALKYOUR NUMBER IS UP, IF YOU LIKE IT OR NOT / TAKE A SHOT

LITTLE BITCH / GROWING SO BORED OF YOUR FITS‘CAUSE SOONER OR LATER YOU’RE DONE / AND DOWN WITH THE WORMSAND NO ONE REMEMBERS YOUR NAME / TOO BADHMM, SUCH AN INCONSEQUENCE

SUCH A BIG GIRL / SUCH BIG NEWS / SUCH A BIG TALKYOUR NUMBER IS UP, IF YOU LIKE IT OR NOT / TAKE A WALK

🎶  RED LIPS / SKY FERREIRA

[mileshargrove]

loganncrowe‌:

Logan gave nothing but a smile to his taste of Nutella. Of course Miles would like it; who didn’t like Nutella? What was more important, to both of them it seemed, was puppies. He prattled on for a good while about the puppies, how he had cared for him and how they were ready for someone new. Maybe he had added that last part, but he was ready to meet them if no one else was. Honestly, he had never seen a genuine smile from Miles before he got out of the car, but at least the puppies had a good purpose. One he wasn’t sure he was willing to take from Miles just yet.

That was, of course, before he met them. They stumbled over each other to get to Miles, but he managed to get close to the man and two scampered over to him. Kneeling down, two tumbled into his lap. “Look at them,” he said softly, a hand on both puppy’s head. One licked his cheek, and he realized this is what he needed to end a long week. “I like her,” he mumbled after a few moments of silence (other than the soft yips of the puppies in his yard). He didn’t even wonder about what was further inside the man’s hut. All he cared about was the balls of fur in his front yard, or what could be considered as such. “So, which one’s yours?” he asked, still seemingly entangled in the mass of fur.

Miles’ smile widened into a full, unabashed grin when Logan laid eyes on his little buddies. He’d worked hard to make them friendly, make the dogs sweet, socialize them right, and it seemed like it was working — before he could blink, they were crowding around Logan, yipping up at him, running back and forth between the two of them as though they didn’t know where to direct the overflow of affection. “They’re sweet, huh? Just... small. Little.” He scooped one up carefully, cradling him against his chest, scratching his chin as the puppy snuggled closer into him. “This is the best kinda therapy, I think. Good fer the soul.”

Miles raised his brow at Logan, glancing down at the puppy he had taken to. She was a good one, affectionate and caring. Razor-sharp, too. A good dog for a good man, it seemed like the right kind of fit. He knew he couldn’t keep the puppies forever, but the least he could do was make sure they were going to a good home, and he knew Logan to be exactly that. “She’s a good’un. A good caretaker, she plays big sister to the rest of ‘em.” He scratched the chin of the one he was holding, and held him out for Logan to see. “This is Sweet Boy. He’s a little devil, dumber than a rock, and a loud motherfucker. I love him more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.” Sweet Boy licked Miles’ cheek, returning the affection.

“Gimme a sec,” he said, placing Sweet Boy on the ground and heading into his cabin. Sweet Boy followed, while the rest of the puppies continued to maul Logan, but Miles was only gone a second before emerging again, hands full of collars and leashes. “Seems like it’s time for a walk. Wanna come with?”

[mileshargrove]

imogenlewis‌:

Imogen never minded boldness. If not entirely outrageous, she appreciated it, even. Sometimes it even improved her opinion of a person. She didn’t know enough about Miles to have an opinion, knew an anecdote here and there, but had never paid enough attention to know anything else but the fact that he was a frequent visitor to the station. She also didn’t care. Had he killed anyone, she’d have heard about it.

“No problem,” she said. She glanced over at him, one second being enough to judge his posture and intend. He’d obviously been drinking, perhaps he’d even consumed drugs. Again, Imogen didn’t care — like several others inside the police station, otherwise she was certain Miles wouldn’t be sitting in a car with her. The department was morally ambiguous most times. A lot of officers turned the other way in small matters. Imogen was not unlike them.

His clipped speech gave Imogen an idea of how likely he was to talk about his night. She understood. She also wasn’t a very talkative person. If the roles were reversed, she’d not tell him much either. “It’s got nothing to do with the time of year,” she told him with a shrug of her shoulders. “People are always looking for trouble. You ought to pick your battles sometimes, though.” As a cop it was your job to fight every battle; at least that was what the academy taught you. The reality was very different though. Imogen’s reality anyway. 

Miles knew how to talk to cops. Direct, but polite. Know what you’re saying, but defer to their authority. Don’t make sudden movements, or too many jokes — that’s how he kept himself safe, kept himself in their good books as much as he could. He knew how to talk to cops. Miles didn’t know how to talk to her. She wasn’t like most cops, and not in a meaningless, ‘not like other girls’ kind of way; she didn’t scream false bravado, insecurity cloaked by abuse of authority. She seemed like an alpha type to Miles, from the brief conversation they’d had thus far, but not in the macho way most cops were. She didn’t demand power, she commanded it. He supposed the easiest way to understand how to talk to her... was to talk to her. Like a regular person.

It had worked out okay in the past.

“I, uh. I don’t think I got yer name, by the way. I’m Miles. Hargrove. Groundskeeper for St. Peter’s, though I do some maintenance stuff for the other church. I know most of the officers ‘round here, so, I, uh...” He was rambling. He had to stop rambling. She probably knew he was drunk, but still, he didn’t want to make this terrible first impression even worse. Clamming up, he offered an uneasy nod in acknowledgement, a substitute for a handshake while she was trying to drive.

“It’s, uh. Hm.” Miles paused in thought for a moment. He wasn’t expecting that response. For one, it was a real response — though he supposed she likely wasn’t the one saddled with all the disappearance cases. She looked a little young to have made detective already. “Folks are on edge this time of year. First the fear, then the mourning. But the fear, makes ‘em skittish. Makes ‘em mean.” He blinked, and leaned his head out the window for a breath of fresh air — he was sobering up, maybe too quick. “If I picked a fight every time someone deserved it, I’d be in your holding cell three times a week. Sometimes you gotta let things go. Wears you out too quick, otherwise.”

[mileshargrove]

MILES HARGROVE : STYLE // WORN-IN HAND-ME-DOWNS, FAMILIAR AND THREADBARE, FLANNELS, DENIM, HANES-BRAND WHITE T-SHIRTS, RINSE AND REPEAT. A FRAME TOO UNCOMFORTABLY GAUNT TO ROMANTICIZE. PAINT STAINS. BLEACH STAINS. GRUNGE, BUT, LIKE, REAL GRUNGE. COMFORT > EVERYTHING.