#wickedmilo

“Milo.” Virgil laid his palm on the window in Milo’s bedroom, and it shattered from the god’s desire to get inside. Shards bit as his palm, but he felt no pain. 

He climbed inside, mindful of the enormous antlers, longer than his armspan and glowing a divine white. Magic dripped from his skin, sizzling as it met the carpet. The ritual marks over his eyelids were the one injury the god would not heal, wishing to keep them as they were. There was a faint golden light where the god’s skin was visible through the marks. 

Milo hurts badly. I wish for it to worship before we consume it. 

“It will worship,” Virgil promised, then turned his attention back to Milo’s apartment. It wasn’t in this room, but he could find it easily. Inky, unnatural darkness settled throughout the apartment. Yet, where the shadows usually wrapped around Virgil, or followed at his feet, they avoided him now. The light he was giving off kept them from touching him. Let them keep their distance. The god did not deserve to be stuck in the dark.  

“Milo,” Virgil called, stepping further into its bedroom. Glass crunched under his bare feet, and once more, Hekakleidi protected him from the pain. “I’m back!” 

He paused, listening. The eyes of the god swung to and fro atop his antlers, searching. “Where are you hiding, Milo? Virgil came home to you. Don’t you want to come see me? I want to see you. Come and see what your sainted Virgil has brought you.” 

It sounded like two voices were speaking at the same time, one booming and feminine and the other low and masculine; his normal voice, but better utilized. He did not bother to be quiet. He wanted the vampire to find him and worship. He bared his new teeth in anticipation, grinning. Hekakleidi whispered in his ears, too faint for him to make out, but she sounded excited. He was excited too. 

For all the times he complained about vampiric sleep not being as comforting, or as relaxing as human sleep, Milo had taken to spending his days, and his nights curled up in bed. It was easier to avoid his issues that way, easier to forget the conversation he had shared with Silas, the fact that Teagan was dead, and his sire had caused him to question the very foundations of the life he had built for himself. There were remnants of his habits littering the room. Empty beer cans, and cigarette cartons were haphazardly piled on every available surface. Metzli would probably ask him to clean up soon, but at least temporarily, they seemed to be giving him a pass. It made sense after everything he had been through. The vices worked for a while, but the nothingness that came with rest was what he had started to truly crave. The empty, dark void that allowed time to pass him by, that allowed him to escape everything he was, and everything he had ever been. He hadn’t moved in days, only making the occasional trip to the bathroom, or the kitchen, and he was content to stay under his comforter for another week. Maybe two. Maybe even three. It was tempting, he couldn’t deny it. And with his mind so blissfully clear he couldn’t see any reason not to indulge. But as always, White Crest had other ideas. On a brief trip to heat some blood from the fridge, his quiet numbness was interrupted by the sharp, unexpected sound of shattering glass. 

He jumped, letting the fridge door fall shut as he spun to search for what had caused the disruption, but the apartment looked as it always did. Nothing, aside from his clutter, could be considered out of place. It was only when he heard a voice that he realised he wasn’t alone. The window hadn’t broken in some freak accident, it had been broken intentionally. With the sole purpose of allowing someone through it. Whoever… or whatever had broken into his home was in his bedroom, their location became apparent as he inched closer to the hall, listening for footsteps, inhaling deeply in the hope of catching a familiar scent. And he did, but something about it was different. Something about it no longer felt like his friend. Swallowing his building concern, he stopped short, watching his bedroom door with horror, and a morbid sense of curiosity. Even if he wanted to leave, he couldn’t. The sun was shining, hot and bright, due to set within the hour.  He was essentially trapped behind UV filter glass. “Virgil?” His voice was quiet, his nerves obvious in the way that it shook. Not only had there been a shift in Virgil’s scent, his voice was layered now, equal parts feminine and masculine in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable. The Virgil he knew wouldn’t break his window, he would turn into smoke, or find it in him to knock on the door. The Virgil he knew certainly didn’t refer to himself in third person. “I-” He broke off, listening for movement, but Virgil remained still. Hidden behind a thin sheet of wood. He almost wanted him to stay that way. He couldn’t repress the growing surety that something was terribly wrong. “You don’t sound like Virgil…” He said finally, cursing himself for not thinking of something that had more authority. Something that might give him an edge, or earn him a degree of respect. As always he was pitiful, as always he didn’t know how to carry himself in the face of potential danger. “Come out- if you’re really Virgil… did you- did you break my bedroom window?”

“Of course it’s Virgil. Who else would it be?” Virgil asked from behind the door, the cutting smile audible. He listened as Milo’s footsteps crept closer and closer, thrilled by the hesitation which was obvious within them. His vampire was afraid, and Hekakleidi was thrilled by the prospect of a hunt. 

Virgil waited until the footsteps halted in front of the door. Milo had stopped in place. With another twist of that oily magic, Hekakleidi wrenched the door open, forcing it off its hinges and off to the side, so that no kind of barrier could exist between them. 

There was his Milo, after so long. Blonde hair, looking ruffled, as if dragged from sleep. Virgil supposed it was time for it to sleep; it was the daytime, after all. 

That extra sense the god granted him, the one that let him sense pain which needed numbing, was telling him that Milo was in a lot of pain. Virgil reached out towards Milo, intent on holding it still so the god could creep into its mind and replace everything broken with love. But Hekakleidi stopped him. 

“I wish for this one to be a sacrifice.” The god’s voice buzzed out of him. 

For a moment, the order felt so alien that it startled him out of the haze of joy. Hekakleidi wanted Milo dead? As a sacrifice? No, that couldn’t be right. Virgil was meant to protect Milo, and therefore had thought that Milo might join him in his new life with the god consuming his pain. But Hekakleidi didn’t care about that. She wanted it dead. 

Virgil met Milo’s eyes, sorrowful. 

Hekakleidi was still laughing with his mouth. “Come here, Milo. Let me see you up close.” 

“I- I don’t know.” Milo admitted. He could smell Virgil, hear the undertones of Virgil’s voice, but that didn’t make him any more certain that his friend was standing behind his bedroom door. “Virgil wouldn’t break my window.” He stated, doing what he could to feign confidence. If he wasn’t confident in himself, he could at least be confident in that. “He doesn’t even knock…” His hands closing into fists as though they offered him any protection against the potential threat, maybe he should have been prepared for what came next. After the sound of breaking glass, he should have realised Virgil… or whatever was in the apartment, had no qualms about using violence to gain entry. Any possibility of the damage being a mistake disappeared as his bedroom door was thrown from its hinges. He let out a shout of surprise, throwing himself out of the way to narrowly avoid its path. It slammed into the wall behind him, causing wood to splinter and litter the floor. Hurrying to right himself, he stared up at his doorway, terror rooting him to the spot. He was getting better at not panicking when he was in danger, at analysing a situation, and forcing himself to move. But there was no play here. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. 

The thing standing in the body of his friend looked so… wrong. He watched Virgil’s face, the face he had come to know so well, and his stomach lurched. His antlers were protruding from his head, resembling hands in a way that didn’t come naturally. In a way that made him deeply, deeply uncomfortable. Something slick, and heavy, seemed to be dripping from his form, sizzling as it hit the hardwood flooring, but he couldn’t recognise it. He had never seen anything like it before. Beginning to back away, he knew from experience that it was dangerous to look at Virgil’s eyes, and he made an effort to avoid his gaze in spite of the sunglasses blocking them from view. If he didn’t make eye contact then at least one threat had been neutralised. Eilidh would probably be proud of him for observing that. And it would be easier than to ignore how upset Virgil looked. As quickly as he praised himself for his instincts, he was distracted by the voice. The strange voice that seemed to echo in his ears as it threatened him. It felt feminine, and masculine, and overwhelmingly ominous, even after its malicious laughter had ceased. “A- a sacrifice?” He breathed, his voice barely louder than a whisper. This was definitely not Virgil. Regardless of it trying to convince him otherwise. It just couldn’t be. “No…” His eyes widened, and he continued to back away, desperately trying to remember where in the apartment Metzli had hidden their weapons. “No- whatever you are, you’re not welcome here- you’re not my friend-” 

Hekakleidi only laughed harder at the pleas spilling from Milo’s mouth. She drank in the beautiful display of terror mixed with dread, the way it flinched at every word, and the way its eyes searched Virgil’s face, as if searching for anything that might be left. 

I’m here, Virgil tried to say, but found that he couldn’t quite reach the part of himself that knew how to speak. He didn’t want this. He wanted for Milo’s pain to be taken away. Like him, Milo had gone through hardship despite its youth. It’d died, suffered from alienation and lack of effort from its parents, and felt the need to turn to drugs and alcohol to numb itself. Virgil could sense a deep well within. The god was hungry for it. Virgil had thought the god would do what it’d done with Solomon, and consume the pain without a fight. 

Why did she want Milo dead? It wasn’t his place to question the god, but Milo should not be killed. It wasn’t right for a sacrifice. Hekakleidi wanted human blood in exchange for prayer marks. And more than that, Milo was his friend. His first friend outside the Mirror. He was supposed to look out for it, not let a god kill it again just because it meant something to Virgil.  

She must not kill Milo. 

“Your friend is gone now. He has become my Saint. You should not mourn for him; this is an honorable fate.” Hekakleidi stepped into the hallway, the set of eyes on her antlers fixed on Milo, appraising it. “You would do well to submit. If you worship me, I can make your death painless.” 

There was nothing in the god now except predatory hunger, and the compulsive need to make Milo suffer so he’d taste sweeter. The body stalked forward, light on its feet now that it wasn’t plagued by unsteadiness. One foot went in front of the other. The antlers began to crack and twitch in anticipation, clawing hungrily at the air. 

Virgil could not look away from Milo. The god lowered Virgil’s head and charged, laughing as she did. 

It took Milo a moment too long to fully register what was being said. After hearing his friend was gone, his world fell temporarily silent. His fear left him to be replaced by a sudden rush of grief. Maybe he didn’t understand how, but if it was true, then he could add Virgil to the ever growing list of people he had lost. People who died far too young, in ways that weren’t natural. In ways that were probably painful, and terrifying. Much like his own death had been for him. “No…” He breathed, willing himself to reject the sentiment. If he didn’t believe it, then it wouldn’t feel true. He could ignore his loss for a little while long, at least long enough to escape this attack. “Virgil didn’t want to be gone.” He countered, his voice surprising him in its strength. He felt the need to defend him, to do something, anything in his name. “So if he is… I’m going to mourn him. You won’t be able to stop me.” Taking a shallow breath, he did what he could to prepare himself for the consequence of his defiance. But it didn’t come when he was expecting it to. Instead he was asked to submit. 

A bitter sound escaping him, he made his incredulity clear. How could anything, even a god, expect somebody to submit, and worship when they were being told they were going to die? When they were being told one of their close friends already had? As easy as it would be to give in, to let this being kill him and take away everything in his life that was making him regret ever being born, there was good among the bad. He had friends, and family, people who would feel the same way about him as he did about Virgil. Who would feel the same devastation at the news of his passing. And he couldn’t do that to them, he couldn’t do that to himself. Not after how far he had come. “I don’t want to die… not again.” He admitted, shaking his head as he continued to back away. And then the consequence made itself known, delayed, and terrifying. He watched in horror as Virgil’s antlers sparked with something powerful, shifting, and cracking in a way so horrific, he couldn’t avert his gaze. It was too grotesque, too distracting. It meant when the god finally charged at him, he wasn’t as prepared as he should have been. He tumbled to the ground, splinters of wood piercing his palm as he scrambled on all fours to get away. 

Crawling to the living room, the coffee table caught his eye, and he immediately recognised the stash of weapons that were fastened beneath it. The hiding place returning to his memory, Metzli listing the available weapons should anything happen while they were out. He threw himself towards it, feeling frantically for a knife. He felt a sharp burn in his hand that alerted him to the location of their crosses, the stakes were beside them. So simple, yet so deadly. And then he found it, a small silver dagger. He wasn’t sure what effectiveness it would have against Virgil’s new form, but it felt like the most obvious choice. Hurrying to get to his feet, he brandished it at the creature with a shaking hand. Weapons felt so wrong to hold, he hated violence, even when it was necessary. “Don’t come any closer to me- I mean it. I don’t want to hurt you, and you don’t want to hurt me. I’m worthless, there’s nothing special about me. I wouldn’t mean anything as a sacrifice- you should just- you should leave. Just leave…” 

Hekakleidi followed the vampire’s retreat at a reasonable walking pace, letting him know that she was an inevitability. No matter where he ran, she would be behind him. She was admittedly enjoying the chase. It took some self restraint not to bolt after Milo and bite him in half right then and there. But she managed.

“You are worthless, and ugly.” She agreed, voice bellowing through the hallway. “But to die for me would make you beautiful.” 

The vampire took a trembling stand, a knife in his hand. His determination would’ve been endearing if not for the fact that he’d obviously never been in a fight like this. At least Emilio had known what he was doing when he fought back. The god had enjoyed the fight with him. It was almost insulting that this child was challenging her like this. 

“Could you harm your friend, I wonder?” Hekakleidi asked, and pushed Virgil’s body closer. She kept coming until they were well within striking range, mouth open, antlers twisting together in hungry anticipation. The chest of her saint was pressed to the tip of the knife, arms spread out wide, portraying a false helplessness. 

Leave Milo alone. Grief gave way to something like rage. For the first time, Virgil was angry at the god. His Milo didn’t deserve to be put into this situation. Still, he met Milo’s eyes with his own. He couldn’t talk, or move, but perhaps he could hold the body still. Lock it in place. He braced. Aim for my heart so I don’t have to watch how this ends. 

Milo didn’t like the way Virgil padded across the apartment, following him at a pace that told him he was in the presence of a predator. This thing was actively stalking him now, finding amusement in his attempt to get away from it. “I didn’t say anything about ugly…” He muttered, the words escaping him before he could be reminded of his situation. He definitely shouldn’t be antagonising whatever was inside his friend, not if there was any chance of helping Virgil. Glancing around the room, desperate for something more formidable than a knife, he noticed the shadows had grown longer, and not in an unnatural way. Daylight was fading, which meant he only needed to distract Virgil until it was safe for him to leave. By his estimation he had ten minutes to wait. Five if he could find somewhere outside to take shelter from the lingering rays. “I don’t care about being beautiful.” He countered, forced to come to a halt by the sofa pressing against the back of his legs. “Why-” He broke off, thinking of how he might be able to keep Virgil talking. “Why do you want to make me beautiful?” He tried desperately to appeal to Virgil’s ego. Clearly he had one… clearly it had one. 

His eyes widening as Virgil continued to approach him, he swallowed, the point of the knife pushing up against the sternum of his friend. He wasn’t sure whether Virgil’s regular body would be affected if his glamour came to harm, but he didn’t want to find out. Not in this way, at least. The answer was no, he couldn’t hurt him. Not in the way he was being asked, not in the way Virgil was encouraging him to. There was something so terrifying about his face. His mouth was slack, the marks against his eyelids were gruesome up close. Everything about his aura felt threatening, and twisted. Virgil made mistakes, he did things most humans, and no doubt many supernaturals, would find abhorrent. But he had seen his gentle demeanour, witnessed his kind heart, and passion for life, and it hurt to see all of that stripped away. Replaced by a cold cruelty so unlike his usual warmth. Forcing his hand to remain steady, scared to pierce Virgil’s flesh with the blade, he shook his head. He knew he could be dead within seconds if this thing grew bored, it was inches away from him, ready to strike. He had to keep trying, he only had one chance to get this right. “Why do you want me to hurt Virgil?” He asked. “Isn’t he- is he important to you?” 

Virgil only had the briefest moment to despair before Hekakleidi was back in control of the body. She shrugged off the seconds-long lockup  

Behave, she snapped, forcing him away from consciousness once more. Virgil could only watch dully from far away as the god hunted his Milo like it was an animal. 

“Why wouldn’t I want to make you beautiful? You are in pain, and I am hungry.” The god peered down at Milo through the eyes on her antlers, pushing Virgil’s mouth into a half deranged expression of concern. “So much pain you cannot face, so you try to drown it out. I can make it stop. I am better than that chemical high you’re always chasing.” 

As she spoke, she stepped into the knife, letting Virgil’s shadowy skin press into the tip. The Saint’s body was holding together poorly with her inside, getting less and less solid by the day. The blade of the knife pressed through his shadowy chest as if it wasn’t there, and instead clinked against her metallic skin. 

“I only seek to sweeten your pain a little. Entice myself before I strike. So tell me, are you going to strike? Drive me out of your friend? Or are you going to sit there and keep your hands clean while Virgil cooks in my divinity?” The unspoken as if you could hurt me was evident in the god’s voice. 

Keeping Milo’s eyes focused on the blade, and the words she was throwing at him, she silently unwound her antlers. The bony hands stretched silently over Milo’s head, elongating, the sharp fingers descending over his skull. If he noticed, he might still run. Otherwise, he was going to become devoted. Time was nearly up for the Saint’s friend. 

Milo cringed as Virgil’s strange antlers loomed over him, longing to be as far away from them as possible. The answer to his question wasn’t what he had been expecting, it was too vague for him to build on, and if anything, it only made the situation more confusing. But he did what he could to continue. “You eat… pain?” He asked, hoping to buy himself a little more time, along with an explanation he might actually understand. He was caught off guard, though, by the mention of his substance abuse. He glared at the monster, feeling a sudden flash of irritation. He was at least used to receiving comments from his friends, and his family. But he had been entirely unprepared to feel judged in a way that hurt him, in a way that cut through the walls protecting him from the creature’s words. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-” He snapped, cutting himself off before he could say something that might break the quiet tension. Virgil could lunge at any moment, he didn’t want to be responsible for triggering that kind of shift. “I-” Swallowing, he wasn’t given the opportunity to rectify his attitude. He watched in shock as Virgil stepped closer to him, the knife sliding through his form as though it was made entirely of smoke. It couldn’t be, or his window, and his bedroom door would still be intact. But it made him wonder whether the knife was going to be of any use. 

All thoughts of fighting him left his mind at the mention of driving the monster away. A spark of hope ignited unexpectedly, not for his own safety, but for Virgil’s. Hearing the creature admit there was a way to drive it out of the body of his friend only made him more determined to survive. Virgil would protect him, perhaps in questionable ways, but the sentiment remained strong, and sincere. He owed Virgil the same protection. The same level of care, and concern. “I… can do that? Virgil isn’t gone?” Without looking up, he became aware of the antlers above him extending, warping in a way that would give him nightmares if he was capable of having them. He deliberately feigned obliviousness, still trying to plan his best chance of escape. The sun was almost gone, he was confident he would survive the last few minutes of light if he managed to make it outside. “Virgil-” He started, intentionally looking into Virgil’s glasses, ignoring the many eyes of the god. “If you can hear me, I don’t want to hurt you.” Reaching down, utilising his unnatural reflexes, he jammed the knife into Virgil’s thigh, hoping the lack of warning would mean it was solid. The knife made impact, burying deep into the glamour, or Virgil’s body, or the body of whatever was controlling him. He didn’t know which, or how much damage had been sustained, but he didn’t have time to find out. 

He immediately let go of the weapon, knowing speed was quite possibly his only advantage, and shoved the creature to force it away from him. It flew backwards across the living room, but he didn’t watch to see where it landed. He had seen Metzli jump from the balcony before, he understood he had no hope of mimicking their perfect landing, especially not while he was seven stories high. If he was going to jump, he was going to sustain injuries, but the injuries would be far less severe than any he might sustain if he stayed inside the apartment. He could be sure of that, at least. Taking one last look at the creature, at his friend who wasn’t his friend, he bolted to the balcony door, opening it in one smooth motion, so that he could climb over the modern railing. He didn’t jump, didn’t propel himself forward. Instead he unceremoniously let go of his perch.

He hoped by doing so, the balconies below him might break his fall. But the descent was fast, far too fast for him to feel any semblance of control, and though he did catch the edge of the first floor balcony, the pain that shot through him at the impact was a distraction rather than an aid. It slowed his momentum enough for him to roll when he hit the ground, and he did what he could to remember how Eilidh had taught him to land, but he still hit it hard enough for his vision to falter. He definitely hadn’t nailed his landing, and his instinct was to take some time, to lay on his back and assess the damage he might have done to his body. But there was no time. The sun was still in the process of setting, and there was something in his apartment that wanted to kill him, or eat him, or take over his body. 

Milo was annoyed, but resigned enough to let go of his anger. He couldn’t go back to drinking animal blood, not after human blood. And certainly not after Mina’s blood. The last thing he ever wanted to do was turn to Murphy, the person who had taken away his safe, and ethical source of sustenance. But he didn’t have much of a choice. It was difficult to find inexpensive and reliable ways of drinking human, at least without resorting to drinking live, drinking from victims. Murphy swore she had the answer, swore she understood what it meant to find the balance between humanity, and the animalistic instinct to kill. So he was standing on her doorstep, too stubborn to knock, and too prideful to wait for her to let him in. Swallowing his resentment, he pushed open her front door, letting out a huff of breath as he did so. He didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to be doing this, regardless of his hesitant friendship with the wolf. But Metzli knew about Mina now, he couldn’t help feeling like a schoolchild who had been called into the principal's office. He was in trouble, and he was also under strict orders to stop drinking from his friend. If Mina wasn’t involved, maybe he wouldn’t be so ready to listen. But Mina didn’t deserve to be dragged into his mess. None of this was her fault, so it was time to let go of their arrangement. “Murphy?” He called, letting the door swing shut behind him, a bitter taste in his mouth as he walked further into her home. “Are you here?”

 The hum of sleep slowly began to dissipate from within her skull as the sounds of an intruder pulsed into her subconscious. Murphy’s body shifted from human to lupine while she was still half asleep and a loud growl rumbled through her chest and into the empty spaces of her home. It took mere moments for the she-wolf to careen down the stairs, mouth bared as she knocked the person off course. She did not realize who it was until her paws rested upon his chest with his back flat on the ground. As recognition seeped into green hues she allowed herself to shift back. “Sorry.” Her apology was gruff but sincere. “I have not been sleeping well.” Murphy knew it was most likely a result of her lack of contact with Metzli. She missed the other vampire dearly and having gone so long without any kind of physical contact from them was beginning to play tricks on her mind. Their absence continually brought back the feelings of when she thought they had perished. Dead. Gone. It made for a disturbing sleep. A robe was grabbed off the back of a couch and as she wrapped it around her nude form she shot Milo a small smile. “I take it this visit isn’t merely social?”

 Maybe Milo should have anticipated how Murphy was going to react to him letting himself into her home. Even as a familiar growl sounded out from upstairs, followed by incredibly quick, and unmistakable footsteps, he couldn’t bring himself to be surprised. With barely enough time to face the stairway he knew the wolf was bounding down, he was thrown backwards by the animal, hitting the floor with enough force to push the air from his lungs. Staring up at Murphy, taking a moment to draw in a new breath and process what was happening, it didn’t take her long to return to her human form. The shock of being pinned to the ground leaving him as quickly as it had come, he scrambled to get out from underneath her. “Urgh, gross, get off of me.” Sitting up, and straightening his glasses, he averted his gaze while she crossed the room to pull on a bathrobe. “Seriously, how would you like it if I kept walking around naked?” He insisted, with the air of somebody teasing a sibling. “You’re not sorry, Murphy. You live for the chance to prove you’re stronger than I am.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it more in his half hearted attempt to brush it down. The sudden shift in position had left his vision black at the edges, and he hesitated before clumsily getting to his feet. 

 “You’ve not been sleeping well?” He echoed. He was curious to know why, but not stupid enough to think she would ever confide in him if he asked her for elaboration. This was Murphy. Everything needed to be on her terms. “Is there anything I can do to help?” The words escaped him before they could stop them, and he was frustrated by the fact that he still held a degree of affection for her. Almost in spite of everything she had put him through. Without her deciding to cut him off from his blood supply, he never would have turned back to animal blood. And without turning back to animal blood he never would have discovered fae blood. Without discovering fae blood, he wouldn’t be sick, and weak, and hungry. It felt as though every problem he had could in some way be traced back to her. “No.” He replied, reminded of the reason for his visit. There was only one sentence he needed to utter, and no doubt it was something she wanted to hear. But it was so difficult to say, he felt as though it was lodged in his throat. Maybe he would choke on it before he could admit defeat. “Look… I’m still mad, okay? About the whole blood thing. But you told me you could help… that you knew how to find a balance between the monster and the person. And I’m hungry… I’m really fucking hungry, so help me.” He held her gaze, refusing to give into his instincts and submissively lower his head. “I want blood, Murphy. Human blood, and I need you to teach me how to control myself.” 

 Murphy’s eyes narrowed in a teasing manner, “If you looked as good as I do without clothes I certainly wouldn’t complain.” Though the sentiment was haughty she also knew it to be true. No one who saw her form, either of them, could claim she was not beautiful. His next comment caused her usual temper to flare. “Is that what you think?” Her words bit. “I leapt on you because I thought there was an intruder.” She tried to calm the edge of anger in her words. It would not do either of them any good to get into an argument. “And when I show you strength, it is to show you what you could be.” Eyes the color of tree leaves in the summer met his gaze. “I would be proud if you could ever out match me. It would mean I had taught you well.” Her head shook. “We are friends, Milo.” A small smirk tugged up the corner of her lips. “Plus, it can be amusing. I am low on wolves to play with so you’re the next best thing.” A friendly sincerity laced through the conversation. Milo may not be pack, family, but he was a friend. Someone that she would look out for if necessary. Though not to be doted and checked in on as though he was pack. It was a distinction that might not make sense to him as a vampire but her wolf understood completely. Between a member of her pack and a friend, Murphy would always choose pack.

 “Any chance you could get that roommate of yours to stop by?” She paused before continuing quietly, “I cannot even smell them in the house anymore.” It was a momentary lapse. The she-wolf wanted to tack on a ‘nevermind if they can’t be arsed to see me I certainly don’t need them’ but decided against it. An attempt to reconcile and dismiss what she had stated would only make her weakness, her need more obvious. Murphy felt as her brows quirked in surprise at the baby vampire’s question. “I do.” Though the reason for her control was something she knew that Milo would hate. She had the control to resist because she let herself give in when she needed. Embraced the monster. Were she to suppress her instincts, something she would never do, the results would be disastrous. She could picture the headline now, “Werewolves in White Crest”. Her head nodded. “I can teach you, yes. But only if you are willing to learn. It requires you listening to what I say, doing what I tell you to.” She snorts as she remembered how volatility he had acted the last time she had tried to teach him something. “Don’t worry, it is only in this matter you’re required to obey. You’re free to do what ever other stupid things you’d like without comment.” Murphy kept her gaze open and honest. To show Milo that she had truthfully extended the offer as a friend. Obedience was simply needed to avoid disaster. You could never be too careful when monsters came out to play. What remained to be seen was whether or not he could bring himself to actually agree.

 Milo rolled his eyes, not finding the display of confidence surprising in any way. But he was caught off guard by Murphy’s sudden attitude. “Did I say that?” He demanded. “I have no doubt if you genuinely thought I was an intruder I’d already be dead dead.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he glared at her pointedly. “It’s got nothing to do with how strong I could be, you would hate it if I somehow ended up your equal.” Murphy enjoyed being dominant, she lived to take control, and if that wasn’t about to work in his favour, maybe he would have added more venom to his tone. As it was, he needed that desire. She would only agree to help him if she knew it gave her power, so he leaned into it. His expression softening as she reminded him of the fact they were friends, he thought back to who she had been when she believed Metzli to be dead. He had seen a softer side to her, one that was gentle, and caring, and protective. That Murphy was still standing in front of him, just hiding behind the Murphy he had come to expect. “I’m really the next best thing? I’m flattered.” He deadpanned, unable to hide the fact that he genuinely was. It took a lot to win Murphy’s affection, and somehow he had managed to. 

 Faltering at the mention of Metzli, it took him a moment to process the unexpected question. As far as he knew Murphy and Metzli were still close, but maybe something had shifted in their dynamic. “You haven’t seen them?” He asked, realising as he spoke that he couldn’t smell his roommate either. “You know you can always visit the apartment, right? It isn’t like we’d turn you away or anything.” I do. Two simple words that were able to ignite a spark of hope within him, and push all other thoughts from his mind. He felt a smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t want to think Murphy was the answer, he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. But maybe she was. Maybe this was the way forward for him. Allowing a few beats of silence to pass, he hesitated before agreeing to her terms. Not only because he knew how much she would love to hear him submit, but because it went against his stubborn nature. This was the person who had stolen his autonomy. Who, without his consent, had taken away his ethical, and convenient source of blood. She was dangerous, and wilful, and if he said he would follow her orders he knew she would hold him to his word. But what other choice did he have? He wanted this. Jeez, he needed it. “Fine.” He muttered, a bitter taste filling his mouth. “I’m willing to learn, I’ll do what you say, but nobody gets hurt, okay? That’s my one condition.”

 “You aren’t a pile of ash right now because I have control.” Murphy snapped the words at him. The irritation was because his words stung. Though they did not always see eye to eye, she had at least thought he understood. It was now painfully obvious that he was in fact, oblivious. Milo did not see the care in her actions. Did not understand that her tough love was compassion. A way for her to look out for him. If he had any brains at all he would realize that her actions meant that she cared for him. “You don’t know me.” This time her voice was quiet and resentment budded in the tone. “A pack is only as strong as its weakest link. But it is more than that. We teach because we care. To know that if necessary we could survive without each other. And the weak want to learn because it means they can better protect their family. You know nothing! Nothing of the comfort it brings to be able to rely upon each other. To trust that you can close your eyes safely.” An unbidden growl bubbled in her chest. It was soft, just like her words. “Are you so arrogant that you think it is just to put your friends in danger because of your mistakes?” Green hues flashed. “Or perhaps you can’t be bothered to truly give a shit about someone other than yourself?” Cooly Murphy looked him up and down. “Don’t pretend that your weakness, your morality,” she laughed at the word, “Makes you better. It doesn’t.”

 His words about being welcome at their apartment were tossed aside. Though he stated she was, Murphy was smart enough to know it was mere courtesy. Words that were expected to be said. She knew when she was not wanted, and she could sense that feeling now. “No ones going to die, if that’s what you mean.” Someone would be hurt the moment Milo’s fangs sank into their skin. Murphy would not make a promise she couldn’t keep. Her back was turned to him as she went into the kitchen and pulled down a reusable bag from some local business. Into it she stacked several bags of blood. More than was needed in the time frame she would give him. The she-wolf thrust the bag into his hand. “Drink all of these by Friday. You haven’t been feeding regularly, your body has weakened. You don't drink anything else other than this.” Before he could ask the question her answer was already spilled forth. “You’re doing this because if you don’t, I can’t promise you won’t kill anyone. That’s my advice. Follow it or don’t. But if you choose not to, those deaths won’t be on my head.”

  Milo could see Murphy had been affected by his words, and he almost, almost felt guilty. He knew she didn’t see herself in the same way he did, but he hadn’t expected her to be so reactive to what he considered the truth. He knew if he wanted her to help him, he needed her to care, so he decided to pull back. To speak less plainly, and do what he could to strengthen the tenuous connection they shared. “Then thank you for allowing me to live, I guess.” He countered, his voice far less sharp than it previously had been. “And thank you for implying I’m a weak link. I thought I wasn’t a part of your pack, anyway.” He added, resisting the urge to make air quotes around the word. It still wasn’t a concept he could fully understand, maybe because he wasn’t a wolf. But he should probably respect it to the best of his ability. Otherwise it wouldn’t be long before Murphy was shutting the front door in his face. Feeling a sudden rush of anger, he swallowed his resentment, his eyes flashing a brilliant red. It wasn’t fair of her to suggest he was selfish, it wasn’t fair of her to tell him his mistakes were putting his friends in danger. He had learned the basics of how to physically protect himself from both Eilidh, and Metzli. But he was still so new to the supernatural world. The threats it held were overwhelming, and terrifying beyond anything else he had ever experienced. It was easy for Murphy because she had been born into it. How did she not understand that? “I’ve been dead for less than a year.” He snapped. “I’m not going to apologise for being unnerved by violence. That’s bullshit.” 

 Setting his jaw, he didn’t fail to notice how Murphy carefully worded her sentence. He supposed it was fair. When a poorly timed promise could land you in danger, and there were creatures waiting to use an apology against you, navigating language was key. Another way he had yet to adapt. “That’s what I mean.” He agreed, with a grim sense of satisfaction. At least Murphy could assure him of that. No matter what happened, he trusted her to stay true. Watching quietly as his friend turned on her heel to fetch a large bag of blood from the kitchen, he knew what it contained before she could reach him. He took it when she pushed it into his arms, holding it against his chest as she spoke. He wondered briefly whether Metzli had told her about his brush with fae blood. But apparently she hadn’t spoken to Metzli. She was either making an assumption based on his lack of a decent food source, or he looked about as weak as he felt. Honestly, either would be believable. “Wait- anything other? Like no alcohol?” He asked, feeling his stomach drop. “I- I will- I’m not stupid, Murphy. I told you I’ll listen, I just… I can still drink alcohol, right? That’s not going to make a difference?” 

 “You’re not.” It was bland, the way she said it. The she-wolf did not care that Milo was not a part of her pack. Her time with Ada had begun to show her what it meant to be wolf and it did not involve begging those who were less than, uninterested, into joining her. She was wolf. She was better. “Were you and a member of my pack in danger I would gladly feed you to one of the roots to save them.” Murphy knew that she would defend Milo if necessary but not with her life and not at the expense of a packmate. “The human world is full of violence as well. Especially when drugs and alcohol are involved.” It would have been easy to continue to debate, but Murphy simply let the subject fall. To teach him was something she took seriously and getting into an argument that left them both in a high temper would be fruitless. 

 “Not stupid?” A laugh barked into the air. “That question was stupid.” Her head shook. “Injest whatever the fuck you want, as long as the only blood you take in is what I’ve supplied you. Be back at ten pm Friday and don’t be hammered.” Murphy moved to lie upon the couch and her arms rested behind her head of tangled hair in a gesture of clear dismissal.

  So, why do you care? Milo swallowed the comment, not wanting to be pulled deeper into their argument. That wasn’t the purpose of his visit, and he would have plenty of time to argue with Murphy in the future. It seemed to be what they were best at. Letting out a huff of breath that implied he was tired of the conversation, he wasn’t concerned to hear she would kill him to save someone she cared about more deeply. He had always known that. She didn’t work very hard to hide the fact. “Cool.” He muttered, matching her level of disinterest. “No shit, it’s full of violence, but when you’re an unassuming teenager you can avoid it pretty well.” He had definitely experienced the darker side of drug use. He had done questionable things when he was looking for a hit, and witnessed others doing far worse. But when things became violent, he was usually adept at making a quick exit. And for the most part, the circles he ran in tried to avoid confrontation where possible. That being said, his habit had undeniably resulted in his death, so maybe Murphy was right. If he shared her perspective, and her cutthroat attitude, then it was possible he might still be alive. 

Milo wasn’t sure what to think. Between Emilio’s disappearance, and Ariana’s somewhat aggressive optimism he so badly wanted to believe they could meet in the middle. Emilio could process whatever he was feeling, and while he was doing that, Ari could use her hope to hunt down Silas. To find him and bring him home. But the pendant was heavy in his pocket, a reminder of the spellcaster’s words. Bex’s tracking spell had been broken, and without another spellcaster to remove it, the only other possible explanation was death. A real death, the kind of death a person couldn’t come back from. Even Ari had been forced to accept that. His belief in her had dissipated as quickly as her own had. Now, he was moving on. His mind working non stop, thinking about ghosts, about necromancy, about a million possible situations that could explain his boyfriend’s absence, or even fix it. But as the days passed by, it was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid the truth. Or what all evidence was pointing towards. As far as he could tell, Ariana didn’t know much beyond what she had admitted to him after their regrettable visit to Eye of Newt. But there was somebody else, somebody who could offer more information. So the moment the sun had set, he forced himself out of the house. Ignoring the way his skin still itched, the way his throat was dry, the way his feet tried to follow familiar paths to bars, and clubs. Places he knew he would be able to score a hit. 

He felt fragile, both mentally and physically. His tremors still hadn’t lessened, his skin was pale, even considering the fact that he was dead, and he hadn’t attempted to sleep in over a week. It would be a lot for anybody to handle, and he didn’t have a great track record when it came to self-care. He needed something to focus on, something to help push back the grief that was beginning to press in on him. And for better or for worse, that something was Emilio. He could smell the alcohol even as he approached the door to his apartment, and listened for the tell tale sound of his heart. The slayer was evidently home, so he made no effort to be polite. He wasn’t going to give Emilio the opportunity to ignore him. “It’s Milo.” He called, so that his unexpected appearance wouldn’t result in a stake to the heart. He forced open the front door, letting himself into the apartment. Silas’ scent still permeated the air, mixed with whatever Emilio was using to drown his sorrows, and it hurt. It caused a physical jolt of pain. “Where is he?” He demanded, crossing the threshold, too impatient to pretend he wasn’t looking for Silas. “What the fuck do you know, Emilio?” 

When Etla fell, Emilio was alone. He ran from the massacre and spent weeks afterwards sure that someone was chasing him. He never let himself stay in one place for long. He followed every lead he found in hopes of either killing every undead thing that had been involved in the tragedy or making a new tragedy out of himself. He’d never had much of a preference between the two. There had been a clear target back then, a group of people to hate, someone to get vengeance on. And it had made things easier. It had made things so much easier. Grief was a hard thing to swallow. It was too heavy to hold up for long, and it ached too much to ever put down for more than a minute. Anger had always suited Emilio much better. Anger was easier.

But there was no one to be angry at now.

Silas was gone. Ari’s stubbornness didn’t change it. Neither did the alcohol he’d been pouring into the open wound, or the corner of the room full of Silas’s things. Silas was gone, and it wasn’t like Etla because there was no one but Emilio to blame. He didn’t know how to cope with that. He didn’t know if coping was possible. 

Ari was… somewhere, which meant Emilio was out of the bedroom, at least, even if he’d only moved from drinking with his back against the mattress to doing it with his back against the couch. Hearing movement in the hall outside the door, he prepared to move back to the bedroom before Ari could come in, but something twinged in the back of his mind. It was duller, with the alcohol thrumming through him, but it was undeniable all the same. Undead. 

For a moment, some stupid flutter of hope rose up in his chest, but it quickly fell when Milo’s voice came through the door. Dread quickly pooled in that bottomless pit that had taken up residence in his stomach, and he found himself hoping against hope that the vampire would be a little less stubborn than Ariana, that he’d leave when no one answered the door. But Emilio had never been particularly lucky, and Milo had never given up any easier than any of the other people in White Crest who seemed determined to see the slayer as something that he wasn’t. The door was forced open, and Emilio wondered why he ever bothered locking the damn thing in the first place.

The question hit him like a physical thing, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, brought the bottle to his lips. “He’s gone,” he said hoarsely, setting it back down again with a dull thud. “He’s gone, and you shouldn’t be here. That’s what I know.”

Milo clenched his jaw, standing in the entryway as he struggled to process the slayer’s words. Silas was potentially dead, and Emilio didn’t plan on telling him he was missing, or even how they had managed to become separated. If he hadn’t forced entry he was relatively certain he would have pretended to be absent from his home. Ignored him until he gave up and simply walked away from the issue. “He’s gone?” He echoed, his voice dripping with anger. “That’s all you’re going to give me? Really?” He stared at Emilio in utter disbelief, offended by the fact that he seemed to care so little about how he was feeling. He watched as his friend closed his eyes against the onslaught, blocking out his hurt, the rage that seemed to be rolling off of him in waves. “My boyfriend goes missing on your watch, and I have to hear about it from Ari? After days of trying to get through to you both? Fuck that, Emilio- that’s fucking bullshit!” He snapped, making his way further into the room. He moved to stand in front of him, coming to realise he looked to be in a far worse state than anticipated. Clearly he knew something, clearly he had suspicions he wasn’t willing to share. 

He leaned forward, snatching the bottle of alcohol out of his grasp. It was nearly empty, but he felt a degree of satisfaction in taking something Emilio would obviously miss. Clenching his fist around the neck of it, he took a moment to contemplate just how easy it would be to drink the remaining contents. and join Emilo where he was sprawled on the floor. But that wasn’t why he was here, and he had been doing so well in avoiding temptation. So instead of raising the bottle to his lips, he set it down roughly on the nearest surface, pointedly out of reach. “I shouldn’t be here? I shouldn’t be talking to the one fucking person who might be able to tell me how this happened? I shouldn’t be talking to the one fucking person who could have told me- who could have told me Silas was missing, I-” He broke off, choking back tears. “Ari told me about the fights, you asshole. I take it you weren’t going to share that information with me either? Look at me, Emilio. I have a right to know what you do.” 

Milo was angry. It struck him all at once, through the haze of alcohol and misery. Milo was angry, and this was exactly the kind of reaction Emilio had wanted from Ariana that first day, when she’d opened his door with a key he didn’t know she had and planted herself on his couch like she owned the damn thing. It was the reaction he knew he’d earned, the one he deserved that no one would give to him. 

And it didn’t feel nearly as good as he’d hoped it would. 

He stepped to the side as Milo shoved his way into the apartment, watching it all unfold like he was watching it on television, like he was separate, somehow, from the thing itself. It wasn’t until the kid yanked the bottle out of his hand that Emilio seemed to zone back in enough to catch up to the situation, anger flashing across his face as the crutch he’d been leaning on ever since he came to on his couch smelling of smoke and knowing he’d fucked everything up again was suddenly absent. 

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” He snapped, letting his own anger surge forward to meet the vampire’s, letting the two tempers color the room red. It was so much easier than the grief that had curled around the space when Ari first came by after it happened, so much better. Emilio had never known what to do with grief, but he knew exactly what to do with anger. Sometimes, it was the only thing he knew what to do with.

And Milo was right. He knew Milo was right. He knew he’d disappeared into himself instead of cluing anyone else in on what happened, and he knew that was shitty of him. He knew Ari shouldn’t have found out because he flung it at her like a projectile designed to make her leave him alone, and he knew Milo shouldn’t have found out secondhand from someone who’d probably tried to soften the blow by taking some of the blame off Emilio’s shoulders where it belonged. He knew Silas would have done things differently, had the roles been reversed. He knew he really, really wished the roles were reversed. 

“I thought you knew about the fights.” It was a stupid detail to cling to, because it wasn’t the point. He had assumed that Silas had told Milo about the underground fights where the two of them spent a lot of their time after the shit in New Orleans, but that wasn’t what Milo was angry about. Not really. The fights were a minor detail in a larger story, and it was a story only Emilio could tell. But he didn’t want to tell it. Relaying it to Ari had been a last-ditch effort that failed, an attempt to make her hate him that only succeeded in planting her on his sofa no matter the cost to her own safety. And it was pretty clear that he didn’t need to make Milo hate him; the ship had already sailed. “If Ari told you, you already know.”

Emilio’s anger only served to exacerbate Milo’s, and he responded without hesitation. “I want you to tell me everything I should know- everything you and Ari have been keeping from me.” His eyes flashed a deep, dangerous red as his friend tried to insist he thought he had been aware of the fighting. He scoffed, the sound harsh, and cold. He didn’t recognise himself, but he didn’t care to. Emilio didn’t deserve the Milo who gave a shit, the Milo who made an effort to be sympathetic, and understanding. “Don’t lie to me, Emilio. Do you really think I would sit by and let my boyfriend go to- to some kind of fucking fight club? I want you tell me about it- tell me everything.” He took another step closer to the slayer, doing everything he could to appear as a threat. He had never once in his life carried authority, or an aura of strength. Violence didn’t come naturally to him, when he was angry, emotion usually manifested in the form of cutting words. Sarcastic comments, and resentment were what he felt confident in. Not this. He needed to be taken seriously, he needed Emilio to be unnerved, and see just how much damage had been caused. Just how far he was willing to go to discover who to blame for Silas’ death. “Ari didn’t tell me shit.” He spat. “Aside from the fact that he was taking part in these fights. And I know you were there. I know you were there when he went missing.” He choked back a sob, still unable to think of Silas as dead. He was missing until they found a body, missing until he was able to say goodbye.

Letting out a sharp huff of breath, he turned his attention away from Emilio, moving to drag a chair from the kitchen table. He set it down in front of where Emilio was still leaning heavily against the couch, pointedly taking a seat himself. If he made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere, then maybe Emilio would talk. Maybe he would be honest in his desperation to be alone again. “I have questions.” He stated, leaving no room for argument. He was going to listen, and then he was going to answer them. There was really nothing more to it than that. “Why was Silas going to fights?” He started. “Why were you taking him to them? And what happened on that night? The night you lost him? Ari said there was a fire.” He repressed the imagined scenarios in his mind, the ones that had plagued him during his visit to Eye of Newt. Not for the first time he was forced to remind himself that he didn’t know whether Silas was scared. He didn’t know whether he was lost, or confused, or looking for Emilio. He didn’t know because he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there because Silas, Ari, and Emilio had all decided to keep information from him. Important information, as far as he was concerned. Information he should have been able to voice his opinion on, regardless of whether they were worried he might be against it. “How long has this been happening? Has Ari known the entire time?”

“Nobody’s keeping anything from anybody,” Emilio snapped, but he knew it wasn’t true. He could have told Milo all of it the first night, when he got home from the warehouse and Silas wasn’t there. He could have told him before, when they were going to fights that were apparently being kept on a need to know basis. He could have told him before it was too late for telling him to mean anything, maybe. None of it would do any good now. 

He scoffed as Milo took a step closer to him, raising a brow in question. It was meant as a threat, he was pretty sure, but Emilio was a hard man to threaten. Not just because he’d taken out vampires a lot more experienced than Milo, not just because he didn’t believe Milo would hurt him even if he could, but because the part of Emilio that gave a shit what happened to him was very, very small. Threats wouldn’t do anything to inspire Emilio to tell a story he didn’t want to tell.

But… the look on the kid’s face might.

There was a circle of people who had loved Silas, and Milo was at the center of it. Emilio could sit in his dirty apartment and soak himself in grief and guilt and shame all he wanted, but he wasn’t the only one who’d lost Silas. He was just the only one to blame for that loss. Sighing, he scrubbed at his face. “Then ask them,” he said flatly. “Ask your questions.” 

And Milo did. One after another, rapid fire. Emilio went quiet for a moment, considering each of them in turn. “He wanted to… blow off steam. It started not long after — After New Orleans. He was stir crazy. Heard about the fights online, wanted to check them out. He would’ve gone with or without me. I figured I could either go with him, have him sneak out and go on his own, or hog tie him in the bathtub any time I needed to leave the apartment for more than two minutes. So I took him. I don’t know how long Ari knew. Maybe she didn’t know until after I told her when she showed up here on Monday. Maybe he told her before that. I don’t know.” 

He’d jumped over the hard questions. He knew it wouldn’t escape Milo’s attention. He hadn’t answered the questions the vampire really wanted to know about, the ones about the night it all went wrong. And Milo would ask them again, Emilio knew. Milo would demand those answers. And Milo deserved those answers. But Emilio’s stomach was in knots and his hands were shaking, and he didn’t think he could even attempt to make it through this story without — “Give me the goddamn bottle.”

“You are!” Milo raised his voice, unable to help himself, spurred on by Emilio’s audacity. They were having this conversation specifically because he had been withholding information. He was in his apartment specifically because he hadn’t been honest about losing Silas. He hadn’t made any effort to reach out, or share what he knew. Instead he was getting drunk on the floor of his living room, dodging calls, and avoiding friends. Setting his jaw as the slayer made a show of not being intimidated, he couldn’t exactly say he was surprised. Despite his best efforts, nothing was going to convince him he was somebody to be afraid of. He didn’t even believe it himself. He was always going to be just Milo, and on any other day that might warrant a spark of petulant frustration, but today it hurt. It hurt because Just Milo was incapable of protecting Silas. If he had been stronger, more aggressive, if he wasn’t so averse to violence then maybe he would have been invited to the fights. Maybe he would have been in a position to save his life. Falling silent, staring at Emilio with an unwavering gaze as a few of his questions were answered, it wasn’t lost on him that a few had also been carefully ignored. “Blow off steam?” He echoed. “Are you fucking kidding me? You couldn’t have given him a hit of something strong? Or taken him out for a walk? You went straight to fighting? What is it- like boxing, or something? Jeez- Emilio. Shit- this is so fucked up…” He trailed off, struggling to equate the gentle, soft-spoken Silas he knew, to the Silas who used consensual violence as a way to ease some of his stress. How could they be the same? How could he be expected to accept how much he didn’t know? 

Shifting in his seat, he leaned forward, filing away the mention of Ariana. He still wasn’t ready to talk to her, but he could message her at a later date. That particular detail wasn’t important right now. “What happened, Emilio?” He repeated himself. “On the night you lost Silas. I mean it… I want to know everything.” His voice was firm, entirely unforgiving. He couldn’t bring himself to care whether Emilio wanted to share the story. And he definitely couldn’t bring himself to care whether reliving it would be difficult. It was difficult for him, being kept in the dark, and that didn’t seem to bother Emilio in the slightest. So he buried the guilt he felt, pressing forward. “I’m not going to ask you again.” Glancing towards the bottle he had confiscated, he embraced a sudden surge of irritation. It wasn’t fair that Emilio could continue using his crutch, that he was able to numb his pain through alcohol when he was stuck raw, exposed, and uncomfortably sober. “No.” He bit out. “If I can have this conversation sober, you can go without a drink for ten fucking minutes. You get it back when I leave.” 

The irritation building up in Emilio’s chest wasn’t strong enough to fight off the guilt and the grief lurking beneath it. Part of him wanted to insist that it wasn’t his fault, that he was a friend and not a guardian, that Silas had chosen to go to those fights and Emilio had gone along to watch his back, but did any of it matter now? He couldn’t shrug responsibility off on a dead man. He couldn’t cling to the excuse that he’d only gone along to make sure Silas was okay when he hadn’t done that, when Silas had died and Emilio had done nothing to prevent it. Still, he found it hard to keep from snapping. “It wasn’t my idea. He wanted to go, and I don’t —” Emilio didn’t know how to offer healthy alternatives. Violence was how he’d learned to relieve his own stress, the only outlet he’d ever had for getting things out of his system. He didn’t know how to tell someone to try something different, didn’t know how to insist that Silas blow off steam with a long walk or a punching bag when the only way Emilio had ever known to do it was to bruise his knuckles against someone else’s skin. If Emilio had offered an alternative, it would have been hunting; the only reason that had never crossed the table was because he’d known Silas didn’t have the stomach for it, because he’d been worried it would make things worse. And he’d made things worse anyway, in the end. Milo’s expression was proof enough of that. 

Of course Milo wouldn’t let the omission slide. He’d come here to learn one thing, and he clearly wasn’t going to leave until he’d learned it. Emilio closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing. Milo’s attempts at intimidation were nowhere near as daunting as the task he was demanding the slayer complete. It wasn’t a story he wanted to tell. Not when he knew the ending. “I could just get up and take it,” he said, but his voice was empty and he made no move to get up and lunge for the bottle. The idea of moving at all felt like an impossible thing; most days, he woke up feeling like his limbs were encased in concrete and his head was full of sand. He was quiet for a moment in a way that stretched on long enough to suggest he might not be planning on breaking the silence at all. Then, with a quiet exhale, he said, “I can’t tell you everything. I don’t know everything.” Some of it was still jumbled in his head; it probably always would be. He couldn’t untangle the trauma at that warehouse from the trauma in Etla. “We were there. He was in the ring. There was a fire. I don’t know what happened next.” 

“Stop-” Milo couldn’t bear it, hearing Emilio confirm there was a side to Silas he had never met, never been allowed to become acquainted with. So he interrupted the explanation, forcing him to come to a halt. “I don’t need you to tell me how he wanted to go- how it was his idea, how you had nothing to do with it.” Swallowing his pain, a frown deepened his expression. He had a strong suspicion Emilio simply wasn’t capable of standing up to retrieve the alcohol, at the same time the childlike need to point out he probably could if he really wanted to made him feel powerless, entirely out of control. “You, and I both know I’d beat you to it.” He countered. Normally he wouldn’t feel confident in that fact, but he was clean, and sober. Emilio most definitely wasn’t. For the first time, he actually had the upper hand. Physically, at least. Even if Emilio managed to pick the bottle back up, how easy would it be for him to pull it back out of his grasp? “I wouldn’t hesitate to smash it either…” He added, watching him again as he fell silent. The atmosphere was heavy, making him feel claustrophobic, but he forced himself to stay quiet too. For a brief moment, he thought maybe Emilio was done, maybe he was going to ignore any further interactions out of spite, or sheer force of will. But eventually the slayer sighed, opening his mouth to continue. “You were there, Emilio. How do you not know more?” He couldn’t comprehend how vague the information was, how he could have been there to witness the chaos, and not taken in more detail. He slipped a hand into his pocket, wrapping it tightly around the pendant as though it might offer him some comfort. “So there was a ring? They were legitimate… organised fights?” His grip tightening at the mention of a fire, Vera’s voice echoed, unwelcome in his mind. He could still see her holding the necklace, still see the expression on her face as she told him that Silas was dead. 

Slowly withdrawing the piece of jewelry, he held it up for his friend to see, letting it swing innocently in the air between them. “Recognise this?” The question was rhetorical, he knew there was no way Emilio wouldn’t recognise it. After all, it had been responsible for helping him find Silas in New Orleans. He wasn’t sure how many hours the man had spent staring at the chain, but no doubt long enough for it to be permanently burned into his memory. “Ari, and I took it to a spellcaster… somebody who might be able to use the tracking charm Bex placed on it.” As each second passed he became less sure of himself, his throat began to constrict, and his chest became tight. The end of his own story matched the end of Emilio’s, and he hated that. Hated that he was only going to be stating something they both already knew to be true. “Do you know what she told us? She told us the spell wasn’t there, it had been broken… and there are only two ways for that to happen. The first way… a spellcaster has to remove the charm, take it back, or erase it. You and I both know that didn’t happen. It should still be there. It should still be in place.” Blinking tears of out of his eyes, he could feel his anger beginning to dissipate, only to be replaced by grief, by loss, by everything he was trying to suppress. “The second way… the person has to die, Emilio. She looked us in the eye, and told us Silas is dead.” Forcing the necklace back into his pocket, he used the action as an excuse to avoid Emilio’s gaze. “There’s no coming back for him this time, and I didn’t even know. You knew… you knew he was missing, you knew there was a possibility of this, and you didn’t fucking tell me. Ari was the one who told me he was gone, and a fucking stranger told me he was dead, Emilio. A stranger. And I will never, ever forgive you for that.”

Emilio wouldn’t tell Milo that he’d had nothing to do with it. For all his faults, he wasn’t much of a liar, and saying that would be telling a lie. He might not have been the one to suggest the fights, but he’d never done much to convince Silas that they were a bad idea. If anything, he’d done the opposite. He’d thought it was good that Silas was finding a way to get everything out of his system, thought it was better that he was doing it in a way that might just teach him a thing or two about how to defend himself. He’d thought the fights were a good thing, and he’d been wrong. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been more wrong about anything in his life. He shot Milo a dark glare as the kid pointed out that, in this state, he was far faster than Emilio was. If it came down to it, Milo would get to the bottle before him. He’d probably smash it on the ground, just as he promised to. And getting more wouldn’t be hard, but Emilio would still hate it. He’d still feel like shit. More than he already did. So he stayed where he was, breathing slowly and deliberately to keep himself from dissolving into something undignified. “I was there,” he confirmed. “And then all hell broke loose, and I was…” He trailed off, trying to think of how to say it. He didn’t have the language to explain the things that went on in his head. Silas tried to give him a word once — dissociation, he’d called it, though Emilio was never quite sure what it meant. He didn’t know if it was the right one for this, either. “I got lost,” he settled on, careful. “In my head. It was like… Everything got messed up. I was there. And then I wasn’t.” He was there, and then he was at home on his couch and he didn’t know how much time had passed. He was there and there was time and then he wasn’t and it was too late. He didn’t know how to explain that. “They were organized enough. Not… legitimate, but there was a system.” It’d probably never crop up again now. A fire with multiple deaths was more than enough to end an underground fighting ring. 

It took Emilio a moment to focus on the piece of jewelry in Milo’s hand, and the moment he recognized it he wanted to flinch away. Of course he knew what it was. He remembered clinging to it like a damn lifeline the whole time he drove to New Orleans, remembered thinking of it as proof that he wasn’t too late. And now, it served as proof to the opposite. It wasn’t a lifeline anymore. It was just a necklace. He swallowed, tearing his eyes away from it and focusing on Milo instead, listening to what he was saying with a pit in his stomach. He’d known from the beginning that Silas was dead, because there was no way in Hell the kid wouldn’t have come home if he weren’t. He knew Emilio well enough to know how much he’d panic, and he wouldn’t have let himself be the cause of that unless there was no way around it. Emilio knew Silas was dead, but the confirmation still hurt. It still brought the world down a little more around him, still tightened the vice on his throat. And Milo was angry, and he was right to be. Milo was angry, and Emilio had earned it. Silas was dead, and it was his fault. Silas was dead, and he hadn’t told anyone. Silas was dead, and everything was worse now. “So don’t,” he snapped, trying to keep that anger on the surface where it could drown out everything else. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’m not asking you to forgive me.” He didn’t deserve the forgiveness, and he wouldn’t beg for it. “You want to hate me? Good. You should. You want to take a swing at me? I’m right here. Nobody’s stopping you, kid. You do what you came here to do, and you get out. I told you who I was the first time I met you. You thought I was something better? That’s on you.” 

If Milo wasn’t feeling so overwhelmed, he might have taken time to break down Emilio’s admission. To view it through the lens of somebody raised by two doctors, people who valued the importance of mental health, and understood the way wires could sometimes become crossed. But he couldn’t find the distance he needed, instead he only heard Emilio telling him he was at fault. He had abandoned Silas. If he hadn’t gotten ‘lost’ and ‘messed up’ then Silas might still be alive. He might still have a boyfriend, somebody to love, and somebody who miraculously loved him right back. He missed him so much already, it felt as though there was a void in his chest. An emptiness that had once been reserved for the zombie, their shared affection, and support for each other. It wasn’t fair. That was what all of this came down to. It just wasn’t fair. The moment he learned there was a system, he realised he didn’t care. The knowledge he had been craving didn’t change anything. No matter how many times he tried to picture the environment, to build it up in his head and imagine he was there, he couldn’t. Silas didn’t belong in a place like that. And neither did he. Narrowing his eyes, observing Emilio’s reaction to his words, he was desperate to feel some sense of satisfaction in every suggestion of pain. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, because if he did, he wasn’t sure he would ever find the strength to endure this conversation again. “I’ve done what I came here to do.” He spat, standing up so roughly that the chair nearly toppled over. He walked back to where the alcohol was sitting, determinedly picking it up. Again, he was tempted by the contents of the bottle, but he ignored his desire to get wasted, raising his hand instead to bring it down hard against the edge of the table. The sound of wood cracking hit him first as the table bowed subtly beneath the force of the blow, and then the explosion of glass as the bottle shattered, the neck of it cutting into his palm. He dropped the remains of it to the floor, liquid now pooling at his feet, and wiped his own black blood on his sweater. It felt pointless, it didn’t bring him any joy, or lessen his grief, and even the physical pain didn’t distract from the emotional. And then another sound made itself known. A gentle tap against the kitchen window that had him spinning immediately to face it.