Milo - Post Chapter Ten (Patreon)

His palm came down upon the lantern, scattering the rain across the streets. Colored drops fell like gems across each cobblestone, bouncing along until they dissipated within the market's cracks. Milo looked upwards, squinting into the rain, hair sticking to his face and shirt plastered to his chest.  Opening his mouth, he stuck out his tongue to catch the drizzle before shaking his head vigorously, watching as the water dripped off of him in glittering buds of dew.

Ducking his head, he bent beneath the archway of the old stone walkway that led towards ‘home’.  The torches were dim as the eve had struck, but the whirring of the sewing machine brought a smile to his face. “Bastard,” he chuckled to himself.  Taking the steps two by two he jumped the last one, landing on his feet in an old stone room with a blazing hearth and a giant of a man slumped over a still running machine.

Milo approached Feebus, looking at his adoptive father figure, the man who had taken him in at such a young age. It was with intense fondness that Milo remembered his time here. Even if at the time he couldn’t wait to leave. Feebus was snoring, nearly louder than the machine itself and when Milo flipped it off to silence the room, the redheaded giant nearly jumped awake.

“Won’t your wives be lookin’ for you by now?” Milo asked with a raised brow.

Feebus blinked, the past and present colliding as he remembered a young boy with dirt streaked cheeks and a temper to boot. “What’d you do?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Milo flopped down on one of the chairs nearby, crossing one leg over the other and placing his hands on the arms.  He sat in repose, his body loose and unencumbered.  It wasn’t often anymore that he felt comfortable in his own skin.  Hazel’s used to bring that relief but in recent months even that succor had been whisked away. “You know, eventually you are going to need to understand that every time I show up here doesn’t mean that I fucked up in some way.”

“But did you?” Feebus asked, stretching. His back cracked loudly.  There was no reproach in his words. Just an understanding of the street kid he had cleaned up more times than he could count.

“Did I what?”

“Fuck up.”

Milo held up his fingers, a hair breadth apart, squinting one eye.   Feebus rolled his eyes and stood from the machine, groaning.  The cocky grin on Milo’s face was a defense mechanism he had seen through since the kid was eight.  He ignored it now.

“What are you working on?” Milo asked, dropping his own hand.  “I heard that the shipments weren’t getting through anymore. Why’s that?”

“Markets been a bit off,” Feebus said.  “Certain crafters are packing up shop and trying to go to safer ground.  Too many cracks are showing in the sky and people are worried the worlds about to cave in.  Slowed down what fabric I can get. And what help.”

“I’ll look into it,” Milo told him.

“What exactly do you plan to do about all that boy?” he asked with a raised brow. “You aren’t exactly a connoisseur of diplomacy.  Doubt they’re going to listen to your efforts to speed up shipments.”

Milo snorted. “No. Probably not. But I can find a problem like it's no one else's business. Maybe I can solve their location problem for them.”

Feebus walked over to a large ice box, pulling it open and pulling out two bottles of what looked like milk. He handed one to Milo who popped the top as if it were muscle memory. When Milo couldn't sleep as a child, he’d come to Feebus’s workshop.  The man always had a glass of cinnamon milk for him.  Some things never changed.

“Alright,” Feebus said, sitting on an oversized wooden chair. “Tell me what you did.”

Milo stared at the man for a long moment, the amusement gone from his face. A puddle was pooling beneath his feet as he stared at the man evenly.  “I don’t know yet,” he said in all seriousness.

“How do you not know?”

“It’s funny really,” he said with a shrug, kicking the dripping rain around the workshop floor.  “I should know but I don’t. Could be nothing in the end. Fates have yet to spin their tale.”

“Stop speaking in fucking riddles boy and just talk.”

Peeling the label off the bottle, Milo sat in the dim light of the room. The cold was starting to penetrate him but he wasn’t shivering. The market had grown cold lately. Far too cold.  It was a bitterness that Milo had gotten used to.

“You kill anyone?” Feebus asked.

“Not recently.”  There was for once, no blood on his hands. He had kept them pretty clean these last few months. Kept them clean for them.

“You thinking about killing anyone?”

Leaning forward, Milo set his milk aside. “I got a favor to ask you,” he said evenly.  The real reason he had shown up tonight.

“Figured.”

“There’s going to come a night that I’m going to need somewhere to hold up. Won’t be able to go home for a bit.  I haven’t quite figured out where I’m landing yet, but could I land here first? For a few days?”

At that, Feebus slowly narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t asking to come home with Feebus. He was asking to sleep in the loft of the shop. Where the thimbles and the discarded bits of fabric were kept. He was hiding. “Ava and Marie aren’t going to like whatever you’ve got goin’ on.”

“They don't have to know I’m here.”

Feebus looked at him, weighing the option of lying to his wives vs helping the son he never had.  When it came down to it though, Milo would always be housed in that soft spot of his heart. There was no getting around it.  Taking a slow sip of his milk, Feebus nodded. “Alright,” he said slowly.

“And,” Milo continued, “can you check on Ever?”

“Why you leavin’ that girl alone, Milo?”

“To hopefully keep her safe. Now will you check on her?”

Feebus nodded solemnly, drawing a small sigil in the air. A promise from the old culture. One Milo had never understood but it had always meant something to Feebus. “You know I will.”

“Thanks.” Milo leaned back in his chair contemplatively, still fiddling with the bottle.

“Boy, if you’re in trouble, you know there are people who love you. Who could help.”

“I don’t want help, Feebus,” Milo said, staring at his untouched drink.  “And for the first time, I actually do know what I’m doing.”

“You sure? Because you certainly don’t look like it.” Milo looked like a man dead on his feet. Surrounded by demons who were waiting to be cruel.

“I’m sure.”

They were words far too weighty for Feebus’s comfort but there was nothing he could say to the conviction. So instead, he leaned back in his chair. “Drink your milk, boy.”

Milo took a sip, nearly sputtering. He held the bottle up to the light, watching dim notes of amber and honey swim in a tornado within. “Is there whiskey in this?”

“Damn right there is.” The big man lumbered to his feet, downing the rest of his own drink. “Now, if you are going to be here asking me these things you can make yourself useful. Grab a needle and some buttons. I’m behind on work.”

Milo laughed. “Alright, old man. Whatever you say.”

When Feebus walked away, he muttered something that suspiciously sounded like ‘idiot’. Milo smiled at the old sentiment, feeling his heart ache at the same time.