MILO
the hope and the hurt has lived inside of me
but there's gold in the dirt
but there's gold in the dirt
Isn’t it his fault? To some degree? To move into a space that was for him and someone else and to expect her to not question why the other had disappeared? Not die, but leave? As for her being sorry, he wants to shake his head, to take all the blame on his shoulders, and he’s ready to – ready until she steps back and his hand rests at the back of his neck, honeyed eyes focusing on her as she goes to explain.
And he’s silent, still, statuesque in the way he watches her f ace, the way she describes what it was like. And she had told him bits and pieces, of how her father had died in a fire. She had conveniently left out the fact that magic was forbidden, that it was something to be fearful of, and here he was galivanting it without asking--
But it gets worse, it gets so much worse as she continues. All Milo can do is work his jaw, to let his gaze narrow, selfishly wanting to both hide away and take this face on. His lips part, half of him prepared to ask her if she was a killer too, but then she elaborates further and it stills him. The hand at the back of his neck drops, their eyes meeting, confusion and sorrow looming in the dark hues of his gaze when she tells him people like you.
And perhaps it shouldn’t hurt so bad, but Milo is inexperienced in Outlander’s lives. He doesn’t know the circumstances of people’s lives elsewhere. He only knows his.
And she apologizes, but all Milo can do is try to process it, to take a step back that has his hip bumping into the countertop, hands falling to rest against the slab of stone used atop it. He flounders internally, mentally, unable to try and word what he wants to say, completely unsure of what he wants to say as well. Eventually, he settles on something, swallowing against the burn and anxiety in his throat.
“I nev’r asked t’be like this.” He says quietly at first, his gaze drifting away from her to stare at the floor. He works his jaw again and again. “I nev’r wanted magic. I’m th’only one, y’know? Th’only Kydd with magic.” It’s selfish, he knows this, to be explaining it this way. But his head tilts and he exhales a sharp sigh. “We’re Abandoned fer a reason. Th’gods don’ even like us.” His brows pinch, his eyes squint a bit as he tries to fight through the range of emotions he wishes would hide away from his face.
It doesn’t really work. “Do… Do y’still feel that way?” It comes out as a whisper, his grip tight on the stone counter, his knuckles white. “’n I showed ya m’magic ‘n ya panicked… I…” He shakes his head, loosening his grip to lift his hand to rub at his jaw. He wants to understand, to rationalize it, but there’s some deeper fear of his – one where perhaps she wouldn’t realize at some point that she wasn’t back home, that she’d mistake him for a ghost her past.
“D’ya wanna hurt me, ‘relia?”
And he’s silent, still, statuesque in the way he watches her f ace, the way she describes what it was like. And she had told him bits and pieces, of how her father had died in a fire. She had conveniently left out the fact that magic was forbidden, that it was something to be fearful of, and here he was galivanting it without asking--
But it gets worse, it gets so much worse as she continues. All Milo can do is work his jaw, to let his gaze narrow, selfishly wanting to both hide away and take this face on. His lips part, half of him prepared to ask her if she was a killer too, but then she elaborates further and it stills him. The hand at the back of his neck drops, their eyes meeting, confusion and sorrow looming in the dark hues of his gaze when she tells him people like you.
And perhaps it shouldn’t hurt so bad, but Milo is inexperienced in Outlander’s lives. He doesn’t know the circumstances of people’s lives elsewhere. He only knows his.
And she apologizes, but all Milo can do is try to process it, to take a step back that has his hip bumping into the countertop, hands falling to rest against the slab of stone used atop it. He flounders internally, mentally, unable to try and word what he wants to say, completely unsure of what he wants to say as well. Eventually, he settles on something, swallowing against the burn and anxiety in his throat.
“I nev’r asked t’be like this.” He says quietly at first, his gaze drifting away from her to stare at the floor. He works his jaw again and again. “I nev’r wanted magic. I’m th’only one, y’know? Th’only Kydd with magic.” It’s selfish, he knows this, to be explaining it this way. But his head tilts and he exhales a sharp sigh. “We’re Abandoned fer a reason. Th’gods don’ even like us.” His brows pinch, his eyes squint a bit as he tries to fight through the range of emotions he wishes would hide away from his face.
It doesn’t really work. “Do… Do y’still feel that way?” It comes out as a whisper, his grip tight on the stone counter, his knuckles white. “’n I showed ya m’magic ‘n ya panicked… I…” He shakes his head, loosening his grip to lift his hand to rub at his jaw. He wants to understand, to rationalize it, but there’s some deeper fear of his – one where perhaps she wouldn’t realize at some point that she wasn’t back home, that she’d mistake him for a ghost her past.
“D’ya wanna hurt me, ‘relia?”
i never took the time to see
but i knew of its worth
but i knew of its worth
