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nightswatchdisbandmentera · 1 year

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Rhaegar, Aegon, and the prophecy of TPTWP

I’m working on some meta about Rhaegar x Lyanna but I’ve hit a bit of a snag because something is bothering me about Rhaegar and his relationship with prophecy. Specifically, the prince that was promised prophecy. So we’re told that Rhaegar believed he would be tPtWP but at some point decided that his son, Prince Aegon, would be the prophesied messiah instead. It might just be me but isn’t it kind of weird just how abrupt this decision is?

It’s believed that the red comet seen on the day of Aegon’s conception might have convinced Rhaegar, but I feel like this is a bit unsatisfactory. So Rhaegar believes for years that it is his destiny to be the hero, but then he sees a comet and changes his mind just like that? And doesn’t the prophecy state that the prince would be born beneath a bleeding star? Born, not conceived. What would prompt Rhaegar to suddenly pivot so hard based on some circumstantial evidence?

Rhaegar doesn’t strike me as a wind vane sort of man. A man who moves anywhere the wind blows, such that he would hop from one contrivance to another just so he could fulfill some vague prophecy. Instead, judging by how bookish and well learned he was, I see him as someone who was probably moved by evidence.

The fandom likes to dismiss him as a prophecy obsessed weirdo but I disagree and think it simplifies and maligns him quite unfairly. Rhaegar was clouded by prophecy because his entire existence is due to prophecy. He was presumably conceived just so he could be a prophesied prince. And let’s look at his birth too. Is it really so surprising that Rhaegar (and Aemon) thought he was tPtWP? He does after all fulfill the Azor Ahai requirements (but rather metaphorically). A dragon was awaken at Summerhall beneath a red star and amidst salt and smoke. That dragon was Rhaegar. So Rhaegar had a multitude of evidence to back up the belief that he would be Azor Ahai.

I’m talking about book cannon so I hate to bring up the adaptations, but we learn in HoTD that Aegon I had a dream about the Long Night that convinced him to unite Westeros. We’re told that the secret of Aegon’s dream is passed down from king to heir - so we see Viserys give Rhaenyra the rundown. This is apparently something that GRRM has confirmed himself so I guess I have to consider it a part of book semi-cannon as well. So it’s really possible that in keeping with tradition, Aerys told Rhaegar about Aegon’s dream and given what Rhaegar already knew about the circumstances of his own birth, he might have been even more convinced about his role in the upcoming war for the dawn.

But then something changed along the way and Rhaegar came to believe that he wasn’t the hero, his son was. We’ve established that Rhaegar is someone who is surrounded by hard evidence, so it’s safe to assume that something happened to give him irrefutable proof that his son would be the promised prince. The comet seen during Prince Aegon’s conception doesn’t seem like much of a pivoting point. Rather, I think of it as an anchoring.

Is it possible, then, that he had prior knowledge of his son (specifically) being tPtWP instead of him? And so the appearance of the comet during Prince Aegon’s conception only confirmed what he already knew at the time. I’m trying to think of something that would convince Rhaegar to pivot and I’m wondering if a different prophecy sealed the deal.

It’s hard to think of who could give Rhaegar such an important prophecy. At first, I thought maybe it could be that he somehow met the Ghost of High Heart and she gave it to him. After all, she is the one who gave the original prophecy that led to his parents’ marriage. She is believed to have died at the tragedy of Summerhall, where Rhaegar was born, but that’s not really true because Arya meets her decades later. She is quite shaken by Jenny of Oldstone’s death and she keeps asking to hear Jenny’s song; Lady Jenny died at Summerhall. We also know that Rhaegar visited Summerhall quite a bit so it’s possible that they might have crossed paths as they both had connections to this place where they lost people important to them. There are fan theories that Rhaegar wrote Jenny’s song, which he could’ve written for the GoHH. When Arya meets the witch, she requests a song in exchange of a prophecy and this song is (presumably) Jenny’s song. So perhaps Rhaegar wrote it for her in exchange for a prophecy where he asked her about the Prince. And then the GoHH told him that it wasn’t him but his son. Given the very vague nature of prophecy that we’ve seen so far, she might have even said something like “your prince” or “the little prince” idk. So by the time Rhaegar starts having children with Elia, he knows full well that he must have a son who will eventually take up the mantle of the prophesied hero. Though he isn’t the messiah, this is still another prophetic burden for him to bear for he is destined to be the messiah’s father (almost like it’s a duty…).

But this doesn’t explain the matter of “the dragon must have three heads”. Dany sees the vision of Rhaegar, Elia, and Aegon, where Rhaegar says “there must be one more”. No one ever mentions the matter of three heads in relation to Azor Ahai/tPtWP. No one, except maester Aemon and Rhaegar. If my memory serves me correct, much of Aemon’s speculations are to do with Rhaegar and he never mentions hearing about three heads of the dragon in the Azor Ahai prophecy elsewhere. He thinks Dany is the Prince(ss) and he could aid her by being one of the heads, but that’s really it. I think Aemon got the three heads thing from his correspondence with Rhaegar; and Rhaegar heard about it elsewhere.

We have even less to go on with Rhaegar’s reasoning for why he believed that there must be two others in addition to the Prince. It kind of comes out of nowhere by the time we read Dany’s HoTU vision. So is it safe to assume that the prophecy that could have told him about his son’s role in the upcoming ‘song’ also told him about three heads of the dragon?

I’ve gone through this wall of text only to just now arrive at the point; specifically, who told Rhaegar about his son being the messiah and about the three headed dragon?

The timeline is a bit hard to pin down with the GoHH because we can’t even be sure if and when they met. And if they did meet, to what capacity? But we do have another seer in the story whose whereabouts we can confirm in in relation to Rhaegar. I’m talking about Maggy the Frog.

In 276 AC, a tourney is held to honor Viserys III’s birth in Lannisport. Rhaegar was 17 at this time and not yet married. Tywin Lannister, this time, wanted to take advantage of this and wished to wed his daughter Cersei to the crown prince. Cersei is told of the potential betrothal by her aunt and, now already infatuated with the prince, visits Maggy the Frog in order to confirm her future. We’re told that many people visited Maggy so Cersei was certainly not her first nor her last customer (though I’m not sure when Maggy died, the wiki just says 276).

So I wonder if Rhaegar also heard of the popular Maggy and deigned to visit her as well to ask a few questions. And then he got there and after giving a prick of blood, asked his questions and got a series of rather vague and confusing answers (just based on what Maggy told Cersei and Melara). It’s hard to tell what sort of questions he asked but they might have pertained to the upcoming war. I can imagine some of his potential questions being:

“How must the darkness be defeated?” - and Maggy says “three there shall be who must sally forth into the darkness” or some nonsense

Then Rhaegar goes, “three? But the prophecy talks about a prince that was promised (singular) not princes that were promised (plural). Who are the others?” - not entirely sure what Maggy could say for this but probably something vague like “one for the mind, one of the heart, one of the body” idk (someone help me out here)

Then maybe for Rhaegar’s last question he asks, “am I the promised prince?” - to which Maggy replies, “no, not you. But the son will be” or some nonsense. I think it was probably not specific that it was Rhaegar’s son or even if it was, which one.

So Rhaegar leaves that meeting having to make quite a number of assumptions about three heroes and the promised messiah and his role in relation to them. But at the very least, he now knows that he isn’t the messiah, “the son” who is presumably his will fulfill that role. Note: it would actually be so hilarious if Rhaegar, like Cersei, got a Valonqar prophecy. Maybe that was Maggy’s whole bit, it was for the *vibes*.

So that means that by the time he is betrothed to Elia by 279 and gets Princess Rhaenys by 280, Rhaegar expects a little son. But it’s not a son who is born to him, it’s a daughter instead. I don’t know if Rhaegar was thinking about recreating the Aegon-Visenya-Rhaenys triumvirate at this time, but he decided to name his daughter after one of Aegon’s wives. But he might have also been trying to honor his mother whose name also starts with the Rhae- prefix. After all if he was trying to recreate the three headed triumvirate, shouldn’t he have started with Visenya? She was the eldest of the three. Except he already had a brother named Viserys! I guess we can say that he didn’t mind his daughter sharing a name with his brother; he could even argue that his daughter is named after his brother as some sort of homage. But then it would just be that: homage and not purposefully trying to recreate the conquering trio. See this is why the fandom shouldn’t be so single minded with the headcannon that Rhaegar “most def wanted a Visenya, trust me bro”. I don’t believe that we have enough to go on to come to this conclusion and there’s even less to suggest that Rhaegar absolutely had to recreate Aegon and his sisters. Though the prophecy was Aegon I’s, there’s not much to suggest that the others would need to be Visenya and Rhaenys. A lot of the evidence is circumstantial and not at all definitive, in my opinion.

Anyway, Rhaegar would have Aegon a year or so later (not sure about the timeline). Now, he has the son who may be the promised prince. And better yet, he was heralded by a bleeding star! It’s not a perfect 1:1 ratio, but this is an instance of a prophecy coming true (as far as he knows)! So Rhaegar’s thought process here is: I have been told that my son will one day be the promised prince -> I see a comet one day as I’m laying with my wife -> a son is born to me nine months later -> based on everything I know, this son will be tPtWP.

According to Dany’s vision, Rhaegar chose the name Aegon because that is a king’s name. He then adds that little Aegon is the prince that was promised and his is the song of ice and fire. It’s assumed that Rhaegar gave his son this name so as to recreate the three headed dragon, which may very well be true. But, like, everyone had a son named Aegon at some point in Targ history. By now, there have already been five kings named Aegon, and even more princes bearing that name. So it’s a similar situation with Princess Rhaenys. It connects to the legendary conqueror, but it’s also a name that has a lot of meaning to the Targaryens regardless of prophecy. Rhaegar is now perfectly fine with fulfilling his duty as the father to the prince who was promised, if what we know of his correspondence with Maester Aemon is anything to go by.

We don’t know about much of what Rhaegar thought after Aegon. Presumably he thought he needed one more, based on Maggy’s prophecy, but where would the other come from? Perhaps Dany’s HoTU vision works as a two way mirror. Maybe Rhaegar dreamt of her too and thought she would be his daughter to complete the trio; maybe that could explain why he looks right at her. Elia was sickly after Aegon but do we really have much to suggest that Rhaegar thought Elia wouldn’t do the job and he must look for another wife? After all, he already had Aegon, his promised prince, so anyone else could fill a supporting role. We at the very least have very little to go on to suggest that he somehow believed that Lyanna Stark must be the one to carry the third child. I’m sure that he met many wonderful women in King’s Landing. Ashara Dayne, for instance, is right there. He could also get Cersei Lannister, who had already shown great interest in him (though I’m not sure that Tywin would agree). Still, Lyanna Stark (already betrothed to Robert Baratheon) was not a perfect choice. And if he already had his promised prince in Aegon, why would he hurry to chase after Lyanna? It’s not like he got a timetable about the Others’ coming in the next few months/years (unless Maggy gave that to him too). Maybe, just maybe, Rhaegar’s relationship with Lyanna was the one thing in his life that ironically had nothing to do with prophecy…

Rhaegar went to his grave thinking that Prince Aegon would be tPtWP. Who knows what he thought of Lyanna’s child. The fandom seems convinced that this child was his “there must be one more”, but he may have never really considered what the child’s role would be (if anything). We don’t know anything about what Rhaegar expected to come out of Lyanna and her child, so we should be careful about saying that Jon was for sure intended to complete the three headed dragon. I’d imagine that as long as Rhaegar had his Aegon, everything else was relative.

In any case, this is an instance in which, as Moqorro would put it, prophecy bites your prick off. Because Rhaegar died, and Prince Aegon died as well. Princess Rhaenys, who may or may not have played a secondary role, died with Aegon. Furthermore, Rhaegar did not have a third child to complete the foretold trio and even if he did, that child would have died as well. It seems like Maggy’s possible prophecy died with the fall of House Targaryen. Except it didn’t. The prophecy will come true, but in very unexpected ways.

Because Rhaegar does have a surviving son, Jon, who was quite unexpected. Unexpected in the sense that Rhaegar may never have considered where Lyanna’s child would fit into all of this. Instead of glittering Prince Aegon being the savior, it’s Jon the bastard who joins a brotherhood up North that is full of the scum of Westeros. An even bigger twist is that Jon is already doing the job (fighting against the Others) without knowing about his true family and how he might be connected to the prophecy; the prophecy wasn’t even about him to begin with. Jon is the savior not because of prophecy, but because he is a good person who cares very much about humanity. The prophecy still exist, but is actually quite unimportant when it comes down it.

Then there’s Daenerys, Rhaegar’s sister who wasn’t even conceived then. She goes even further than all of them and wakes dragons from stone; the first one to do so in some 200 years. So she also fulfills the Azor Ahai requirements rather unexpectedly. And the third head is a mystery. GRRM says that the third head need not be a Targaryen. Lots of theories have come up since then but the most popular contender is Tyrion Lannister; I personally tend to flip flop between Tyrion and Bran Stark. But whoever the third head is, it would still be a subversion. To the average Targaryen, Dany is a given because she woke dragons from stone and is decidedly the blood of the dragon; she’s also the last dragon alive. That’s all well and good but now we have to consider a northern bastard, who doesn’t even look the part, as a possibility. Sure he’s got magic powers, but they’re all wrong and not at all the expected kind. Then the last head isn’t even a Targ? Imagine it being the dwarf Tyrion Lannister. He’s no warrior and he’s got no power outside of his mind; I guess it’s nice that he reads a lot but how does that help anyone? Or if it turns out to be Bran and the third head is a crippled boy from the north who’s got magic powers but again, the wrong sort of magic. I’d imagine Rhaegar and all his predecessors going, “??!”.

Anyway, this started with me trying to understand why Rhaegar so suddenly decided that Aegon was tPtWP but has now veered off into something different. I was just thinking of the irony of Rhaegar’s son being a prophesied savior, but it’s not the son he worked for/expected. And even the three heads of the dragon aren’t who he thought they’d be either. I’m thinking, more generally, about how prophecies in ASOIAF come true, but they are fulfilled in ways that one would least expect. I need to look around and see what other people are saying in regards to Rhaegar, Aegon, and tPtWP. These same points might’ve already been made by someone else….

#rhaegar targaryen #aegon targaryen #the prince that was promised #azor ahai #prophecies in asoiaf #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #three heads of the dragon #valyrianscrolls #to be honest I always thought Rhaegar just saw the comet #and was like #aight bet #time to make some babies #but that’s just so random…#really want to know what other people think #what prompted Rhaegar to switch to his song being tptwp #and how funny is it that his son is the promised prince #but it was a different one lol #welp this is really long #but yea I’m thinking about Jesus rn #I know #Jon = Jesus is the most low level ASOIAF take #but a promised prince who is thought to be one thing #and turns out to be something entirely different #and not as grand lmaoooo #the ghost of high heart #maggy the frog #hope the formatting isn’t godawful

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ieatangstforbreakfast · 7 months

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Pairing ೃ⁀➷ Earth 42! Miles Morales x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, eventual angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ Chapters are a bit rushed, sorry bout that 😭 hope u enjoy tho

Chapter 1: Behind the chain

Warning ೃ⁀➷ Profane language, underaged smoking, mention of death, horrible Spanish. Also, I don’t live in America so idrk how people talk there, so please bear with me.

FIC MASTERLIST

Next Chapter

“Hello? Yeah, I’m at practice.”

As your feet hit the ground, the chain link fence shutters from the release of your weight— a sigh escaping your lips as you pull your phone up closer to your ear. The sound of your aunt's nags echo from your phone, bellowing across the abandoned subway and overpowering even the sound of your boots hitting the damp ground. It was shrill, her voice. Like a fork being dragged down a piece of fine china. Activating the flashlight of your phone, you swiftly slip your head out of your hood, the new spot now staring back at you like an empty canvas— devoid of life and color. It’s tragic.

As you trudge down the narrow space, your senses begin to process the stench of the horror movie-like scenery. You could heard the pipes’ leaking going along with your aunt’s ongoing lecture about something you couldn’t recall— somehow distracting you from your search.

But what certainly made you uneasy was the chill.

You hated the cold. You hated the way it’d ice your feet, dry your skin, restrict your clothes, and clog your nose. Though ironically, autumn was the season you found most enjoyable. Most of the nostalgia you bore came from the sight of those scarlet leaves— the smell of pumpkin spice, your mother’s old scarves, and the earthly rich tones of orange and red. It’d been so long, though, since your last happy memory in the season.

Nowadays, the nights are just longer, and the days shorter.

Soon enough, you stop before a tall, white wall, making you gasp as though you’d just won the lottery. Only then you started bidding your farewells to your aunt, who was beyond exasperated with your hurried adieu. Shoving the gadget down your pocket, your backpack falls right off your shoulder with a small thump, eyes still glued onto the blank space.

You make your way towards one of the seats, settling down your stuff while slipping your vape out the crevices of your sleeve and taking a slow puff— the taste of peppermint flourishing through your lips and covering up the stench of whatever was rotting in the railways.

"You're early." A familiar, sarcastic growl emits from the shadows. You turn around as the light from your phone blinds him, making him wince.

“I missed you.” You playfully answered.

The familiar gleam of hazel blinks and stares right back at you, the same stoic stare narrowing from your comment.

“Sure you did.” He huffs.

In the back of your mind, the same phrase bellows.

Well, well, well. If it ain’t Miles Morales.

It was one night, two months ago, when the two of you first met. You were an utter mess, and so was he— and it just so happened that beneath all that rain, the two of you found each other at the right time, at the right place. Supposedly.

The two of you bonded in loneliness and art. It was almost poetic, especially knowing that the two of you were anything but good for each other.

But you believed that that’s what’s great about life— the reckless things, and betting whatever you have on the line, for a taste of something thrilling. Miles knew how to pull on your strings, and the idea of being understood was still new to you. Still, whenever you do find yourself in the comfort of Miles Morales, you can’t help but ask yourself:

Who will we be to each other?

How will we change each other’s lives after this?

You couldn’t quite tell if it was your gut warning you, or your anxiety just being a little shit, but you knew the time to hear the answers was drawing near. You had no idea whether the possibility mortified you or not.

One thing for certain though, was that you knew you wanted him, and you were willing to take the risk to see him over and over again.

Miles took a step closer, his height towering over you like a tree. With a single finger, he maneuvers your flashlight away from his face with a light push.

"Get that shit away from my face."

“Awe, but I wanna see that pretty face of yours.”

“Stop.”

Cat and mouse was your usual dynamic. Though you couldn’t quite pinpoint who the cat was.

He clicks his tongue, moving away from you to head over somewhere else. A few seconds later, the power suddenly lights up and brings the subway back to life. Miles stood by the power switch, staring right at you as if to examine your reaction.

You straightened your lips and raised your brows.

"Well, you should've done that sooner."

He lazily shrugged his shoulders, approaching you once more yet with more meticulous steps. "Wanted to scare ya." He cooly confessed, earning nothing but another chuckle.

"If you wanted to scare me, don’t look so pretty."

Said pretty boy furrowed his brows, making you grin wider.

"Ay, díos. You're..." For a short moment, he thinks of how to complete the sentence.

You hum. "I'm what?"

".. so fucking unbearable."

"Awe, I missed you too." You smiled in a sickly sweet way while placing a hand over your heart. That certain sort of thrill began thumping inside you again, an unfamiliar excitement that got you staring right at him mindlessly with that stupid look on your pretty face. As Miles replied with silence, you shrugged and pulled the mod up your tinted lips— blowing the smoke away from his face. Only then, you gestured it towards him.

"Want a hit?"

"Nah." He dryly replies. "That's your first step to a rehab, y'know."

A low laugh exits your lips, taking another hit while slowly walking around. "With how fucked up I am, I'm bound to end up in either jail, a rehab, or a mental institution— so," You snap your fingers. "I'm just gonna enter all three of them."

Miles looks at you, horrified.

"M’just kidding. Don't you think I look hot while doing it, though?"

He peels the horrified stare away from you, instead choosing to kneel before your backpack, unzipping the damn thing as though it were his.

"What'chu got?" He asks, a certain twang in his voice that lightened you up. You head over in less than a second, grinning stupidly like a little kid in search of favor. You pull the plastic bag out of your backpack, waving it over his face.

"Only the best for you." You wink. "I just kindly borrowed these from my school's art club."

Receiving the bag from your grasps, Miles pulls out the newly bought spray paints. He furrows his brows at the sight of the bold fifteens printed on the bottom of each bottle, a tag left as if to brag. "Kindly borrowed, huh?" He skims over the bottle, evidently impressed. "Fifteen dollars per bottle? That’s a whole heist right there.”

“I literally just snatched it off the cabinet.”

“You must go to some rich kid’s school or sum. You even look the part.”

He gestures over your well-kept appearance. Your clean boots, pressed jeans, freshly done nails, and fragrant hoodie.

And yet you continued to look at him like he was the crazy one.

"... Miles, it’s called neatness. A basic trait." You stand up, stretching your arms above your head, the ache in your bones subtly easing. "If I did have the money, my art would be in an exhibition, not in an abandoned subway."

He pursed his lips, somewhat convinced. "Touché."

As he unpacks the paints, you stay beside him, watching as he goes through the colors and lines them up in order. You shove your hands down the pockets of your hoodie, humming.

"So what'll you be drawing tonight?"

"I ain’t really sure yet… The Subway logo, maybe." He shrugs, an exhausted groan rolling off his tongue as he stands up. "… I ain't got shit. I'm drained."

"Then why'd you come here?"

"Felt bad for ya."

You smirk. "So you did miss me."

He takes a step back, turning his head the other way. "I sure do find your delusional ass amusing." He mumbled, trying to hide the anxiety gnawing at his throat. You hardly notice it, as you were too busy staring at the empty wall, but Miles was uneasy. Uneasy in a way that he was desperate to hide it.

"At least I’ve got an ass." You airily snap back, silence following like an awkward stench. "Did you bring your sketchbook with you, by the way?"

He then proceeds to go through his jacket, eyes widening from the realization. "Ah, shit. I did... Not."

"Awe." You blandly answered, pulling out your own from the pocket of your bag. It was small, convenient, almost like a notepad. "Well, I've got mine here." You toss it over, which he successfully catches. "They're not exactly as good as yours, but you can skim through the pages to find some inspiration."

The pages spin from the flip of his fingers. Tens of concept art, a few unfinished sketches, and some dabbling in watercolor appeared before him in a flash. As he goes through the pages, you take the moment to have a momentary smoke, straying not so far away just so he wouldn't inhale any of it. The nicotine eased you as it normally did, though now that you were looking at this pretty boy before you, you couldn't help but ponder about quitting. Just for him. Just for the sake of him.

Though the feeling the nicotine often brought you was addicting, his presence hit you harder than any other drug, affecting your system in a way that made your stomach whirl. He was like your favorite cup of coffee— the strongest coffee to ever linger in your presence. Strong enough to appear on a drug test.

It was damning.

Dangerous even.

As the page flips again, Miles freezes at the sight. You take the gadget away from your lips, approaching him immediately as he huffs.

"... Huh."

Bursting in neons of magenta and violet was the sketch you made of a certain vigilante.

"Oh, don’t mind that." You mumble. "That's just some random sketch."

He brings the paper closer to his sights, marveling at your talent. The markers and the ink, mirroring the image of a cat on the run. His pretty lips part, mouth hanging agape as he asks. "You know this guy?"

A hero of the streets, some sort of final pillar carrying the weight of New York's safety on his broad shoulders.

"Well, I've seen him— Prowler, from the news. I thought he looked pretty cool."

Prowler, a name all too familiar to you. How could you not know he was? A man hiding behind an iron mask, a digital purple hologram over the metals, making his silhouette mirror a panther’s. The man was all your father recently growled about, the memory of the heavy morning still engraved into your mind. You can almost sketch it out— The stench of his tobacco, the shrill of his angered voice, and the image of your poor housekeeper silently brushing some broken shards into the dustpan. You remember sitting by the dining table, solemnly choking on your breakfast as you forcibly shoved it down your throat.

Eyes downcast and hands shaking.

"You think he's cool?" Miles' voice tears you apart from the memory. He sounded almost elated, like a child in search of praise.

"Yeah, I'd always wanted to be a vigilante, fuck—" The vape rolls off your tongue unconsciously. "Like, my life is so damn boring, but at the same time, I've got too many responsibilities to handle so I can't do the things I like. But hey, that's life, I guess."

"If you've got too many responsibilities, then what the hell are you doing here? It's like midnight r'now, damn."

"I kinda told my aunt I had practice for band."

"You're in a band?"

"…. No." You deadpan. "That's the reason why I'm here, man."

He snapped the sketchbook shut, sighing as he plucked out the red and purple spray paints from the line. "God, you'd be one hell of a headache if I ever had a kid like you."

"Woah, slow down, sweetie, you're already talking about kids and you haven't even taken me out to dinner yet." You tease, teeth nibbling onto your lower lip as you watch him crumble. He straightens his lips, forcefully holding back a smile.

"… Shut that mouth for me, would ya?" He shot back. "Just shut up."

"Oo, make me."

He pops the lid off the red paint, the sound of a nickel ball being shaken up in a metal can soon following. Without even an ounce of hesitation, he curtly sprays the paint over your sleeve, earning a gasp from you. You quickly snatch the neon pink can and start spraying back, the chemical smell wafting over your nostrils as the sound of your giggles echoed down the halls. A minute later and the both of you began drawing your new piece while being drenched in paint.

"Hey, pretty boy.”

Miles instinctively turns to look at you, as though he prided himself in the nickname.

"I need to do the top part, can you boost me?" You ask, voice muffled from the towel pulled over your nose.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, but he agreed without making a sound.

He kneels, tapping on his thigh, gesturing you to take your step. Taking off your shoes, you cautiously climb over, feeling his hands brush against your calves, almost as if he was readying his stance to catch you just in case you fall. Initially, the pose seemed to be serving you well, but when your ankles started shivering, your hand latched onto his head, gripping gently in panic. Miles, who was, of course, caught off guard, began shaking. You finally took a step down.

"Fuck." You whispered. "Can you do it?"

"Hol' on."

"I think you just need to like, tiptoe a bit and—"

"Be patient."

And you did just that.

He stretches out his toes in an attempt to reach for the top, but he fails miserably. Miles then turned to you, bearing the pout of a frustrated child.

"... Ya already know what to do, right?"

"Mm, yeah."

An irrational thought crosses his mind, and it battles against his rationality like a civil war within the confines of his head. A second later, his lone finger signals you to come closer. You do so, and he looks up at the unfinished crown.

"I'm gonna carry you, a'ight?"

"What?" You blurt out. "Y-You don't have to—"

"Just balance yourself." He skips past your rant. "And you better do it well."

Before you could even intervene, he's down and offering you his shoulder. Hesitantly, you position yourself. Looking over at you, Miles skims over your face in search of approval. When your hand shakily makes its way over his other arm, Miles cautiously wraps his palm over the side of your knee, hoisting you up like a trophy he’d just won.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Y-yeah. Just— yeah." You stumble over your words, raising your hand over to start painting.

You could feel it tingling in your bones. Skin deep, rotting within the confines of your flesh, insecurity at its highest peak. And it shut you up. Miraculously, as Miles would say it. Your weight, your body, your own figure frightened you. It would be a lie for Miles to claim that he hasn’t noticed. But he stood tall, hardly showing an ounce of any struggle— which comforted somehow.

He was pretty strong, stronger than you first thought.

As you painted, Miles stood there in silence. Trying his best to focus on his breathing.

But the softness of your palm atop his shoulder, and the growing warmth of his own over your waist. Miles desperately tried to ignore growing warmth burning his cheeks. He resisted the urge to dig into the softness of your waist, and yet it remained like a taunt— allowing only his nails to grip over your shirt, the thin barrier over your skin. It seemed almost vulgar, how his hand was beneath your hoodie, gripping as though you were his favorite plush. How his wrist was pressed against the curve of your hip. Then and there, within the span of five minutes, the silhouette of your body was forever engraved into his senses, his mind, and his touch.

But no one spoke of it.

"... You done?" He groaned.

"In a bit, hol' on."

You thought he'd start complaining about your weight, but he didn't.

You were somewhat relieved, but at the same time, it flustered you.

And when the little scene ended, you and Miles stood there, backs pressed against the wall as you stared at your new masterpiece. You looked over the chemical stains on your sleeves, glancing at him. "This jacket's pretty expensive, y'know. It cost me like fifteen grand."

His face twisted in disgust. "You'd buy a jacket like that? In this economy?”

"It's a capitalist world we live in."

"No shit."

The two of you share a small laugh, evidently exhausted from the whole art process. It wasn't all that much, but it was based on one of your many doodles during class. The cursive that spelled out Stay Out was painted in an intimidating shade of red, its borders tainted in white and black— a crown of thorns resting above the text. It seemed like a warning, an open threat. Crafted by frustration, but upon its finish, you were eased.

"Next time, we should do something that says 'Eat the rich' or 'Vive la revolución.'" Miles suddenly suggested, jazzing his fingers comedically. You click your tongue. "We might get shot, man.”

“With all that smoking you do, you’ll wither away before the bullet even manages to get you.”

You raised your brows. “Okay, and?”

Miles scoffs at your ridiculous reply, but for a moment he thinks about it— some sort of plan in his mind. Sooner or later, he soon gently raises his palm without a word. You stare at his hand confusingly, “What?” you then asked of him. The boy then gestured over his lips with his fingers shaped like a v, imitating the act of smoking. “Lemme try, at least once.”

“… You’re kidding.”

“I’m being for real, ma, just let me try it once.”

You think about rejecting his request, but the curiosity had you fishing out your e-cigarette in less than a second.

“Okay, but if you die, I’m not paying for your damn ambulance bill.”

“Just uber me to the damn hospital.”

Miles then looks at it, glaring holes into the pen-shaped gadget as though he were waiting for it to speak. After considerably taking his time, he plucks it out your palm and starts a slow sip, the collision of the nicotine and the flavor flooding his tongue as the smoke enters his system. When the heat creeps in, however, he bursts out into a coughing fit.

You snatch the gadget away from his grasp as he groans.

“Careful.”

"What the fUCK—, ain't that s'pposed to calm you down?—" He slams his hand against the center of chest in an attempt to ease his lungs.

"… Did you fucking swallow the smoke or what?" You sigh while taking a sip, the smoke smoothly exiting your lips.

"... You know what? You are definitely gonna die early."

"Oh, darling, don't threaten me with a good time."

“Pu—” He coughs a few more times. “Puta, I almost died there.”

You take your palm and began rubbing small circles behind his back. “You shouldn’t do the shit I do, even if I look hot doing it.”

“Ain’t nobody told you that.”

“… Why’d you wanna smoke anyway?”

“I just wanted to know why you keep doing that.” He groans, staring at the pen in your fingers. “I mean— it’s unhealthy as fuck, hardly tastes good, and it’ll kill you the ugliest way possible. So why do it?”

You lower the pen as though your long-lost conscience re-entered your body.. “… I don’t know really.” You mumbled half-heartedly. “I think it’s what calms me down the most…? I don’t know.”

“… You don’t have, like, normal hobbies?”

“The fuck— of course, I do.” You swiftly shot back. “I just don’t have the time to do them.”

“Then what do you do at home?”

You blink.

“What— What do I do at home?” You repeat, thinking of it to yourself. “That’s a good question, what do I do at home?… I do chores, I study a lot. I-I take care the house.” Take care of the house? Yeah, shit I ain’t Mirabel Madrigal. As your mind short circuits, from a mile away, you could already guess his reply.

“I do that too, dumbass.”

You click your tongue. “.. It’s complicated. The time I usually have for myself is when I’m outside, that’s why I lied that I took up band for extra credit.”

You smoothed out the details of your life, picking out a few small details that were definitely not all that important.

"Is that why you're here?"

"Yeah.”

The boy curved his lips into a slight frown.

“I mean,” You shift closer, sighing as you palm the back your neck. “Sometimes, places like these are better than my own home."

"Places like an abandoned subway?"

“You make it sound like I’m homeless.”

“That’s what it sounds to me.”

"... It’s just.." You run your fingers through your hair, eyes glued onto the ceiling above. "I feel more at home in an abandoned subway more than my own house.”

Miles hummed. "… I'd always thought home would be more of a person," He tilts his head. "Rather than a place."

The silence was deafening, but this time, nothing was urging you to fix it— because there was nothing in need of fixing. You were comfortable, weirdly enough, as you never really found comfort in utter silence.

“It’d be nice to be.. Someone’s home.” You couldn’t help but utter those cheesy words. “I think I’d make a great home.”

Miles fiddled with the hem of his hoodie, holding back the words that echoed in his mind.

Yeah, you’re doing great.

Instead, what slips out of his mouth was: “How the fuck are you gon’ be a home? You’re a whole haunted house.”

“Oh, fuck you.” You roll your eyes. “If I’m a haunted house, you’re a rental where all the drive-by shootings happen.”

“Okay, what the fuck.”

“When you go low, I go LOWER.”

In the end, the two of you simply bursted into laughter, sinking down to the floor to take a seat. Another hour passed and so did a hundred topics. They flew by like the autumn leaves, leaving the both of you unconsciously huddling close for warmth beneath the large scarf you brought. Two birds of one feather, one nest. Easy conversations, light laughs, and genuine interest.

Even when the conversation grew darker, the two of you infinitely felt cosy enough to confide in one another. Especially when Miles spoke about his father.

You listened well, yet there was this ball stuck in your throat that you couldn’t quite swallow. A heaviness in your heart, a stiff feeling in your throat. However, your ears were welcoming. His tone was grieving, but his words resonated with acceptance.

"He used to drive me every morning to school... We'd fight over the pettiest things, and god, I hated it, but looking back, it was better then." He buried half his head into his arms. "I'd rather have him annoying me than have him not annoying me at all."

The words hit you like a truck, leaving you defenseless. In a moment, your walls crumble as these words crawl out your mouth. "... Sometimes, when we're with someone, you can't help but wish they'd leave you alone, but when they're gone, only then you'll realize how much you can't live without them."

Though your words were meant for Miles, you knew damn well that they were also for you.

"... There's some truth to that, I guess."

"Does that mean that you'd miss me when I'm gone?" You tease.

Your gentle gazes collide, and eventually, you see that Miles had softened entirely.

"... Maybe."

“.. Maybe?” You repeat his reply. “.. Should I annoy you more then?”

“You’re annoying enough as you are.” He huffs, pulling his knees to his chest. “I hate you so much.”

“Sure you do.”

You lean against his shoulder. “Hate me all you want. I’ll pretend to believe you.”

A light chuckle emits from his lips, but as it fades, he turns his head, burying his nose in the scent of your hair. You were fragrant, and it was addicting. Slowly, he shuts his eyes and basks in your scent.

Then he called out your name softly.

You hum, looking up at him— the inches between you closing in, cold breaths like white smoke intertwining. His cold fingers dance atop your own.

“What?” You whisper.

His lids were heavy, gaze switching between the pool of your eyes and the plush of your lips.

Then and there, you knew.

But something screamed at you in the back of your mind.

We can’t.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

And you pulled away before your lips could even meet.

"Shit." You cuss, clumsily pulling the phone out of your pockets. Your hands frantically scramble to answer the call, the look of Miles' defeated stare stinging the corner of your eye. "Hello?" You began, hearing the chauffeur's voice ask back. "Ma'am, where are you?"

Your fingers press the side of your phone, lowering the volume.

“We're currently clearing up the room right now. Can you please wait about thirty more minutes? Thanks."

As the call ends, you frantically head off to start cleaning up. Trying to evade whatever had just happened— at least, you try to. It invaded your mind and heart, left you breathless and unsteady.

You and Miles began picking up the bottles, shoving it inside the plastic. You then flung the strap of your backpack onto your shoulder, holding the plastic out to him. "You can have it."

Confusion was scribbled all over his face.

"Didn't you steal that from your school's art club?”

You look up, thinking about it for a moment before shrugging. "It’s their problem, not ours." You grin.

Miles shakes his head in feigned disapproval. "Tsk tsk tsk, eres una chica tan mala."

"Don't start, the only Spanish I know's from Dora."

"Que?"

"Queso."

You shove the plastic into his arms. "No hablo Español, lo siento." Was all you managed to form out of the past few weeks you started learning Spanish. You threw a hand in the air, waving him a fast farewell while pivoting your heel to leave.

“Can’t I walk you home?” A suggestion, and not a demand for the first time, Miles insists “It’s dark as fuck outside, and you might get.. Y’know.”

For a moment, you pause to laugh.

“Are you worried about me?”

He nods. “I am.”

“I— wait, what?”

He took a step further. “I am worried about you. It’s ten o’clock. I think I should take you home.”

Miles looked at you in a way you’ve never seen before. It was unfamiliar, or maybe you just weren’t good at paying attention, yet now that it was materializing before you— It overwhelmed you.

It was breaking you open.

You bite your lower lip, shoving your hands in your pockets.

“… I-I don’t know, I don’t think my dad would like that very much.”

“And I’m sure your dad wouldn’t like the idea of his lil’ girl getting hurt.”

There he goes again, towering over you, his cocky eyes never once leaving your face. Lil’ girl my ass, you can’t help but think. I’m tall, asshole. You just so happened to be taller.

“I’ll walk you home.” He reiterates. Now it’s an announcement, not a proposal. “You can tell me to leave when we’re near. I just need to make sure you’re okay.”

“… Miles,” The way his name rolls off your tongue had him weak, and you couldn’t even tell. “.. Okay, fine— But, only up until the Gristedes down the block. Until then, you go home, alright?”

Your voice was too soft, too mellow. It made his breath hitch, made his neck tense in this already cold weather.

“Aight.”

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