Milo - Post Chapter One (Patreon)

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Milo arched in pain as the needle stuck through him and a black thread was laced within his skin. “That’s what I’ve been told,” he said through a grimace.

“Stop fighting goblins, dipshit.”

Milo lay back on the rickety bench, looking at the individual with the jet black hair and piercing eyes. Rooke had certainly never been one to sugar coat words. They were also one of the best back alley medics he knew.  Which was unfortunate since they were fucking hard to find at times.  Up until a few months ago, he had assumed Rooke to be dead. Turned out they had just gone deeper underground and had taken on some of the less pleasant contracts within the market underbelly.

“What would you like me to do? Let them attack me?” he asked. It wasn’t as if Milo sought out the goblins.

Rooke snorted. “Yes.” When they placed a pad of iodine on his side, he caught his groan of pain behind his teeth. “Now, while I love that I get to inflict a little bit of pain on you, and while I’m even happy to see you, you need to stop avoiding Hazel and go talk to her.”

Milo rolled his head up to look at the ceiling, breathing through his nose. “No.”

“Wow. It wasn’t a question. Statements and questions are two different things.” Taking a roll of tape, they began bandaging the gauze to his side and his shoulders. The goblins had actually done a number on him this time. He was getting sloppy. That, and he was tired. “I can only keep infections from you for so long. There’s going to come a day when I’m not going to be able to help you. Hazel is a witch. And a damn good one. Go ask for her tonics.”

“If it gets too bad I will. But don’t underestimate yourself.” The needle stabbed through him again, the pull of skin scraping against the nylon of the thread.

“I don’t underestimate myself. I rightly estimate myself and think you’re a no good stubborn mule that needs to suck up your abandonment issues and say the words I’m wrong. I’ll never do it again.”

His eyes rolled to theirs. “I’m wrong. I’ll never do it again.” When Rooke jabbed her thumb into one of his wounds he flinched. “Ow! Fuck is wrong with you!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” they shot back. “Stop being a petty little bitch boy, Milo. And…”

Milo doubled over, vomit expelling from his stomach in a violent jolt. The sweat on his back began to gather while his skin felt as if it was being ripped from him in thin shreds. Somewhere he could hear Rooke calling to him but it was as if their voice was from behind a brick wall. Inch by inch he was being flayed.

“No no no no no,” he gritted out, holding onto his stomach. “Stop,” he begged. “Stop doing this.”

The burnt end of a knife shot through him, twisting against his spine and pulling at his insides. Milo felt the scream ripping from his lips as his body arched and contorted, the recent stitches popping at the seams.

And then there was nothing. He was slumped over to his side, eyes half lidded and looking off into the distance, unseeing.  Blood pounded in his ears and fought to remind him that he was still alive. Death was not coming for him.

“Shit,” Rooke hissed. “Did another gate try to open?”

Milo nodded his head, eyes blank.

“Did you stop it?”

“Think so,” he rasped. He didn’t dare move. His stomach still shaky. That, and he was almost certain his inside would pool out of him if he dared to flinch.

It had been getting worse. When he had done the ritual he had assumed that would be it. Not that the Night Market would violently rebel against him and try to open gates to new worlds anyway. He now just had the power to stop it. Didn’t mean the market was going to be happy about it. And they certainly weren’t an entity to listen.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he murmured, turning his face to the wooden seat. “You got to understand. I never wanted to fight you.”

“Milo?” Rooke took him by the shoulder. “Hey, Milo. You with me or you somewhere else?”

He wanted to be somewhere else. He wanted to be back in the distillery on a cold night. Curled up on a mattress with a warm body next to him and his lover safe in his arms.  But instead he was here. Ready to lose what little lunch he had managed to stuff down today.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

“Help me sit up?” he asked.

Rooke slowly helped right him, looking him up and down. “That didn’t look like it felt great.”

“It was fine,” he said. “Super enjoyable, actually.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to go over your head and contact Mal on this one.”

Milo’s hand shot out, wrapping around their wrist. “Don’t.”

“Milo, you’re death warmed over and while it's your choice if you die or not, given that you’re the Gatekeeper, we should maybe talk a bit about who needs to be around when you do kick the bucket because I don’t really want a goblin controllin’ the damn gates.”

“I’m not going to die,” he said through gritted teeth. “Leave Mal out of this. He’s got enough he’s got to do.”

“Like what? He’s literally been looking for you!”

Milo couldn’t really explain it. He didn’t know why or how but he just knew that the market wasn’t going to stay buried for long. Malcolm’s Lamplight would come home and while that meant that Milo may have somehow failed in his ritual, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Every fuck he had went out the window a while ago.  But if they did return home and managed to beat the odds, they were going to need someone. And Malcolm couldn’t be tasked to look after two lost souls.  It was better if Milo just stayed out of the picture.

“Just, let me handle this, alright? I’ll get him if things get really bad.”

Rooke looked non too convinced. But there wasn’t much they could really say. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if you die I’m going to break your damn grave clock myself. Make sure you never return.”

“I’ll actually hold you to that,” Milo said with a bitter smile. Oblivion was sounding good right about now.