the credits are rolling on whatever movie they'd picked for the night -- miles hadn't been paying that much attention, grounding himself instead in sensation. the crackle of the television; the warmth of leon's thigh where it pressed into his. it allows him to feel at ease -- comfortable, which is the first mistake. miles isn't sure how leon had gone from occasional no-strings-attached hook-up to whatever this is, but after murkoff, after miles knew it was time to disappear, allow everyone else to believe that he'd died in the asylum or the fire that followed, well. he'd pussied out. hadn't gone through with cutting that one last tie.
the swarm never leaves. he feels the walrider like a phantom limb, in the faint buzzing of the building electricity and the bullets that still click quietly against each other beneath mostly-healed skin. appearing normal -- holding in the smoke that wants to leak from his orifices and wounds and the general uncanny pallor that comes with being the host; forcing his lungs to take in air, forcing his heart to remember to beat -- takes some effort. especially when it's for a long period of time. it feels like tensing a muscle, holding out until it starts to ache. this is worth it, though. stupid, how much comfort he's still able to find in the sound of leon's voice, this shoddily manufactured domesticity of theirs. but worth it.
"hm?" he'd lost focus while leon had been talking, let the ever-present hiss of static drown him out. "sorry, what?"
plotted with @fightfected, for maximum pain.