MILO
Stitches? The question is held mentally, but physically seen in the way he pinches his brows, the way he moves slightly as he focuses on the boxes she suggests they work on picking up. His hands stop glowing and he acquiesces for it, quiet as he works and tries to keep himself from getting too frustrated too quickly. He’s been bad since she’s been gone, growing more and more into his little shell, coming out rarely when invited out which is becoming less so these days with his sour, bitter moods.
Either way, he snaps at Jones, he notices Aurelia’s flinch, and there’s that deeper, rougher part of him shaped by Torchline and the things that have happened in recent years that make him simply not care. The tinge of regret is felt in the back of his mind but its not something he acts on, not as he focuses on the task at hand.
He glances to the soaked tobacco, rolling a shoulder in a shrug as he moves another box, stacking it on top with the rolling papers that are half wet, stacked and stuck together that he likely doesn’t care about either. And to stack it on top? A crate full of liquor, but for where he’s not sure.
And he has to ask her.
So he listens, busying himself with his hands and everything else, focusing intensely on the task and avoiding looking at her as she avoids looking at him. “I see.” He says, that small part of him regretting having not gone to look for her – but he wasn’t sure it had mattered in the end anyway given that she hadn’t left him a note when she’d left. That he had to hear it from Maeve, which felt more like a bullet to the chest.
“Why’d y’tell Maeve t’tell me what y’wanted to say 'fore y'left?” He asks quieter, dropping another box down and hearing the slight shatter of a glass bottle muffled within. And yet again, Milo simply just doesn’t care.
Either way, he snaps at Jones, he notices Aurelia’s flinch, and there’s that deeper, rougher part of him shaped by Torchline and the things that have happened in recent years that make him simply not care. The tinge of regret is felt in the back of his mind but its not something he acts on, not as he focuses on the task at hand.
He glances to the soaked tobacco, rolling a shoulder in a shrug as he moves another box, stacking it on top with the rolling papers that are half wet, stacked and stuck together that he likely doesn’t care about either. And to stack it on top? A crate full of liquor, but for where he’s not sure.
And he has to ask her.
So he listens, busying himself with his hands and everything else, focusing intensely on the task and avoiding looking at her as she avoids looking at him. “I see.” He says, that small part of him regretting having not gone to look for her – but he wasn’t sure it had mattered in the end anyway given that she hadn’t left him a note when she’d left. That he had to hear it from Maeve, which felt more like a bullet to the chest.
“Why’d y’tell Maeve t’tell me what y’wanted to say 'fore y'left?” He asks quieter, dropping another box down and hearing the slight shatter of a glass bottle muffled within. And yet again, Milo simply just doesn’t care.
there's something tragic, but almost pure
think i could love you, but i'm not sure
think i could love you, but i'm not sure
