The Younger Years (Patreon)

A/N: This is a story about Milo, Malcolm and Hazel. All very early on in their adult life.  

“Be nice.”  A steaming pot of stew was clutched between Hazel’s small hands as she walked down the alley, turning left three times until she found the right area.  It was an old distillery, just outside of town.  Out of the Velvet Guard's eyesight.

“I’m always nice.”

She looked at her brother out of the corner of her eye. “You’re not. Not to him at least.  Can you at least try this time? He’s really been through it lately.”

Malcolm snorted. “It’s not my fault Milo’s an idiot and lost his balance on the rafters.”

“That. See? It’s that kind of attitude that I worry about. He’s trying, Malcolm. He doesn’t want to have to work for Feebus forever.”

“If he knew what was good for him, he would.  Milo is a decent thief, but he is terrible at responsibility.”

Hazel’s frown deepened. “I think he can learn.”

“I think he can fool you into believing he can.”

The whiskey distillery loomed before them. A large, rusted building that was hidden predominantly in shadows.  It was as if the building itself was hiding, holding secrets never meant for the world.  They hadn’t seen Milo in weeks. Not since he had moved out of Feebus’s and tried to make it on his own.  When Hazel got word that he was sick, she had immediately set about brewing him a soup that would, as she claimed, cure all ills.  Malcolm noticed the tonics she poured into it.  He had tasted it but didn’t have the heart to tell her it was foul.  Luckily though, he wasn’t the one eating it.

“Kindness, Malcolm,” Hazel reminded. “I know he isn’t your favorite but just try.”

When she stepped forward, she didn’t see the smug look that crossed Malcolm’s face.  “I’ll try,” he told her, hands in pockets and a retort ready on his lips in case Milo was going to be extra Milo today.

But it seemed as if sickness was the one thing that could get Milo down. When he opened the large metal door, it creaked loudly, echoing through the alleyway. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks bright with fever.  Hazel gasped.

“Milo, why didn’t you tell us to come sooner?” she admonished.

He looked between both her and Malcolm. “Technically, I didn’t tell you two to come at all.  How’d you know I was here?”  He was looked specifically at Malcolm.

Hazel was barreling past him though. “You shouldn’t have kept this from us, Milo. If you’re sick we’re supposed to help you.”

Milo had been on a job. One of his first. Spying on an upper class marketer that was apparently importing raw chunks of fossilized amber.  He had been up in the rafters of an abandoned building during the meeting and had fallen from them when trying to sneak away. He had landed in a pile of old watery sludge and had to stay hidden in there for the rest of the night, lest he be found out.

The result was technically a success, but he had caught a cold.

“I brought you soup,” Hazel was continuing, marching into his home. Milo still stood at the door, opening it wider for Malcolm, who smirked at him as he walked in. “Oh,” Hazel breathed. “This is… nice.”

Malcolm looked around. “It’s a shithole.”

Milo pushed the door shut with a loud clang as it latched.

“It’s not that bad,” Hazel was saying. “It just needs a little bit of cleaning. And some pillows.”

Milo ran a hand through his sweaty hair and shuffled close to her.  “Thanks, Hazel.”

Malcolm, on the other hand, was looking around with a discerning look, giving a low whistle. “Really, button. How do you expect to ever bring anyone home? All your partners will be too afraid of catching a disease to even think about getting naked.”

The glare Milo shot him was one that amused Malcolm greatly. Milo had this full on pout that happened when he glared. It never ceased to bring Malcolm a small bit of joy. That is, until Hazel’s own glare was upon him.  ‘Be nice’ she mouthed.

Malcolm rolled his eyes.  “How’d you even settle on this place anyway?” he asked.

Milo coughed a bit. “No one lived here. And it’s big. Lots of room for expansion.” As if on cue, something clanged in the distance, falling to the ground with a bang.  “And renovations will be fun,” he added.  The cough turned into something deeper though, rattling his chest.

“Oh,” Hazel fussed. “Let’s get you to sit down.  I want you to eat. It’s homemade, and it will make you feel a lot better. I promise.”  She gave him no choice and looped an arm through his, practically dragging him down a series of rickety metal stairs.  He looked once over his shoulder at Malcolm who only raised a brow at him, as if in challenge.

The bottom floor consisted of rusted out vats that used to house the grain. They were old copper, far past their shine, with broken tubes leading up to catwalks that looked questionable to stand on.  An old beat up couch was pushed up against one of these, a few blankets tossed upon it. In front of that, was a series of pallets that looked as if they were being used as some sort of table. Along with a couple scattered shirts, a pair of shoes, and an old worn book.

“Sit,” Hazel demanded.  Milo did, too tired and far too sick to protest.  When she handed him the soup, he even took, humoring her with a small bite.  Malcolm turned as Milo’s face twisted into disgust, hiding his own laughter.

“Oh, is it too hot?” she asked.

“No,” he coughed. “No. It’s just uh– wasn’t expecting the flavor profile.”

She beamed at him brightly.  “I was trying something new. It’s chicory root. Do you like it?”

“Love it,” he grimaced.

Hazel sat by his side, patiently waiting for him to finish the bowl. And Milo, being the man he was, did so without a single complaint.

“So,” Malcolm started. “Got yourself a job–”

“Which we are so proud of you for,” Hazel interrupted. Malcolm was not one to be deterred, however. Leaning against the vat, he raised a brow towards him.

“Heard you fucked it up pretty royally.”

“Malcolm.”

Milo narrowed his gaze. “Did it better than you,” he said. “Heard that you were turned down for this bid. Face it, Mal. They wanted someone they could trust. Not a con man.”

Malcolm snorted.  “Or, they wanted cheap labor. They knew hiring me meant they’d have to dip into reserves.  But, you know what they say, you get what you pay for.”

“Fuck you,” Milo shot out.

“Sorry, button,” he leaned forward, a false pout on his lips. “I like my men a bit less nasally sounding.”

Milo sneezed then, prompting Hazel to fuss over him while Malcolm continued wandering the distillery a bit.  When he came to Milo’s ‘room’, he grinned.

“Hey, button,” he called. “You already have someone come over?”

“What?”

Malcolm picked up a shirt. Black and thin cut. And tossed it to the man.  “Thought you were into women?” he asked him.

Milo blushed, hiding the shirt behind him.  “Taste can change,” he mumbled.

At this, Hazel looked around. “Oh. Oh, did you– did we interrupt something?”

“What? Hazel, no.”

“We can leave, Milo. If you had someone here taking care of you we can completely go. Oh, I knew we shouldn’t have come unannounced.”

“Hazel, it’s fine. Really. No one is here.” Milo was flapping his arms at her, trying to get her to sit back down. She looked ready to run out of the place to give Milo and his companion the space they needed.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s– it’s okay. The company is kind of nice, actually.”  The way he said it hit the two of them hard.  He had been lonely. Starting out all on his own, he had been sitting, sick, in this drafty old place, by himself for days.

“Hey, Hazel,” Malcolm said. “Why don’t you go to the market and get Milo a few things to make this place a bit more homey?  Blankets. Pillows. A candle, so it doesn’t smell like a bar.”

She gave her brother a suspicious look. One that clearly said she didn’t know if she should leave Malcolm here alone with Milo given how much the two hated each other.  But, in the end, they did all agree that whatever Malcolm picked out for Milo would be thoughtless and rough in texture.  And Hazel did want to make sure he had a nice quilt. Malcolm handed her some coin before she left, assuring her that she could spend whatever she wanted.

When the door closed behind her, Malcolm looked down at Milo.

“You look like shit.”

Milo threw the t-shirt at him. “And you are tempting fate. The fuck is wrong with you? She could have recognized your damn shirt, you bastard.”

Chuckling, Malcolm came walking over, sitting down on the couch next to him. He raked a hand through Milo’s unruly hair, pulling it from his face. His eyes were glassy, and his cheeks were still pink from fever.

“You look better than you did this morning.” Malcolm had found him, vomiting and groaning with stomach cramps. He had promptly gone home after he got him settled, to rat him out to Hazel. Telling her he heard a rumor that Milo was sick.

“Don’t feel better,” Milo muttered.

Smiling fondly at the younger man, Malcolm wrapped his arm around him. “Come here.” He laid back, pulling Milo with him, until he settled across Malcolm’s chest.

“She’s going to come back and see us,” he protested.

“You kidding? I just gave Hazel money and told her to outfit your place. She’s going to be gone for at least three hours.” He ran his fingers down Milo’s spine. “Get some sleep, alright? Hazel’s soup I know was foul, but it will help.”

Milo shivered a little, sticking close to Malcolm’s warmth. “You really think I fucked up my mission?” he asked, pathetically.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really do.  But, you know what else I think?”

“What?”

“I think given the lengths you go through to get your job done, you’re going to give me a run for my money here, real soon.  Gonna have to up my game because of you, button. It’ll be nice to have some actual competition.”

Milo grew heavy above him, a small smile on his lips as he began to drift off to sleep.  Malcolm curled an arm around him protectively, making sure he didn’t fall.

“Wake me when you hear her comin’,” he slurred.

“Don’t worry. Our secret relationship shall remain in the shadows a bit longer.”

“Not in a relationship,” Milo protested, snuggling close.

Malcolm laughed, snaking his free hand beneath Milo’s shirt to span against his back. Above him, Milo began to snore.

Eventually, they would have to tell Hazel, but at this point, they were both a bit curious how long it would take her to catch on.

Not that it mattered. She’d be happy for them no matter what. But watching Milo squirm was one of his favorite things, and Malcolm didn’t want to give that up. Not yet, anyway.  For a little while longer, he’d let Milo do his non-committal, hot and cold, bullshit act.  Malcolm Albright was a stubbornly patient man.  He could wait.