Milo - Post Chapter Four (Patreon)

A/N: Post Chapter Four short with Milo, assuming the two of you have started a relationship.

The door to the apothecary had closed behind him and Milo had made his way down the burnt street with the intention of heading home.  Intent was a funny thing though.  It was a decision he consciously made. Continue forward, despite the odds.  Yet, intent always carried his feet to the exact places he wished to avoid.

There was a footbridge that stretched across a very shallow creek.  It sat in the midst of a boggy field and reached down towards a road that wound far off into the distance.  Milo stood beneath said footbridge, listening to the wet drip of the stones above, staring at an old, rusted door, blankly.

He had kissed them.

Not for the first time either.

It was laughable for Milo to even consider himself as someone playing the field or caught up in the moment, when he had kissed the same individual now what, two, three times?  The sunset soaked horizon along with the death of an old city stretching beneath their feet wasn’t romantic in the sense that Milo could claim he had gotten lost in the idealist fantasy of it all.  No, Milo knew what he was doing. Had from the very beginning.

So what the fuck was he attempting to accomplish here?

The door was stretched over with wet moss and algae.  It had been made up of wood but with a stone exterior to keep the water from rotting the hinges and surface of the door.  Milo hadn’t even helped Hazel clear it out. During those initial days neither of them had wanted to, really.  There was still the hope that they would wake from some horror ridden nightmare.  But when the time came and Hazel had gone in to at least get the things that were the most valuable, Milo had disappeared. He had gone on a binge somewhere for two weeks, barely knowing where he was and worrying Hazel nearly to death.  Because he was an asshole like that.  He still remembered seeing the gutted look on her face when he had returned.  Then the relief that quickly followed when he walked back through the door.

He stared at the door now.  For years, he had forced himself not to think of him.  Malcolm was gone.  The name was not even one that passed his lips.  But, the dead were often pulled back to the living, whether they wanted to be or not.  Today was the perfect example of that.

“Fuck,” Milo whispered.  He wiped at his cheeks furiously, the dew from the creek having hit his face. “Fuck you,” he said, kicking half-heartedly at the door.

The thing was, he liked them.  He liked this new person in his life. They had taken his hand and reminded him once more what it was like to feel again.  To not pretend to be filled with passion and life but to actually feel it. They had this desire to help, to ‘save’ the Night Market, and despite Milo’s assertion that it was a lost cause, they still gave a shit. Why? Because they were good.  It was a commodity that was hard to come by in this world.

And Milo Next was a fucking fool for falling for it.

He kicked out, his foot connecting hard with the door as his fist pounded against the slate exterior. Then, his head fell forward, and he breathed silently.

“Why’d you have to fuck me up so much?” he whispered to the empty space around him.

Malcolm was to blame.  Everything could be traced back to that fucker. He had up and left them all, leaving these damn gates to be dealt with.  This was supposed to be his job, his task to deal with. The fucking Gatekeeper was supposed to keep this shit under control. It wasn’t supposed to fall to the likes of the people just trying to live their lives the best they could.  The ones left behind in the grief.

And now, now he had kissed them.  He had kissed them, and they had kissed back, and Milo had walked back to Hazel’s with their hand in his. He should have been happy. He should have been over the moon. Love was not easy to come by. Not for him at least.

Yet, Milo only felt as if he were betraying his dead boyfriend. Continuing a life without them. One that they had planned to live together.

But they weren’t living.

Hazel was spiraling into an obsession to bring Malcolm home, whether she admitted it or not. And Milo? Well, no one gave a shit about what Milo was doing. As long as he kept smiling.

Just keep smiling.  Dance in the rain.  Wander the streets and breathe in life anew.

Feeling the wetness on his cheeks, he swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Malcolm had no grave.  Hazel had made sure of it.  For a time, Milo had tried to argue the point to her, that they should have some place to mourn. To lay him to rest.  But she had refused. To her, Malcolm was not dead.  Yet, if Hazel was right, that seemed like a fate far worse than the death he had chosen to have.

The door was all Milo really had to go to. He could have gone in. The key to it still hung from his hip.  It was rusted and faded from his thumb worrying across it when the world became too much.  When he felt like he couldn’t handle things, he had grabbed onto that key.  It was a paltry substitution to when he could run to the man and have him make the world a little less dark.

Sliding down the wall, Milo leaned his head back against the grubby surface.  Footsteps echoed above as people crossed the bridge to and fro.  An entire world up top that was unaware of the one below.

“I feel guilty,” Milo confessed.  “I know you’ll tell me not to. That I don’t owe you anything but this isn’t fucking about you. I just… I feel like what I’m doing isn’t okay.” He laughed, mirthlessly. “I know it's not okay.  I mean, what the fuck am I thinking here? That I can just start a relationship? With them?  It’s not right. I know it. You know it.  No one else knows it but…” Running his fingers through his hair he grabbed at the soft strands there. “It’s fucked up. I’m fucked up.  And everything that they are willing to do… You’re supposed to tell me what to do here. I always came to you when I couldn’t figure out my own head.  I haven’t been able to come to anyone for ten years because you’re a prick that decided to up and die because of what? Some lame sacrifice to protect me? Fuck you, Mal. Fuck you.  That wasn’t supposed to be your choice. It never should have been your choice. It…”

He stopped.

Malcolm had taken the choice from him. Had cleaned up his mess once again. And had paid for it.

“I want to live my life again,” Milo said slowly.  Though the words felt stunted at best, coated with a certain amount of failure that he couldn’t fathom.  “But I’m so afraid that by doing that, you’ll be forgotten.”

The wind blew through the tunnel, whistling softly and tumbling the few fallen leaves that had gathered there.  Milo stared at them. Hazel would see it as a sign. Milo saw it for what it was. The lanterns were going to go out soon. The festival to relight them was tomorrow.

Scrubbing at his face, he shook his head. “I’m gonna end it. I should have ended it a long time ago.  I’m gonna tell them that they just got here to the market. They don’t even know what they want yet. And with everything else going on, everything they think they have to do…”

He trailed off, realizing he was talking to the air and nothing more.

Straightening his shoulders, Milo shook his head and grabbed the cigarette from behind his ear.  Perching it between his lips, he placed his hands deep inside his pockets, refusing to look back at the door.

He needed to end whatever little love affair he had going before he couldn’t stop it. Before it spiraled into something far bigger than the two of them.

The thing about Milo, though?

He was a very weak man.