consequence of sounds...
for saffdragon
This isn't really here, I just forgot the password to my writing lj for now 8D;;
fandom; Saint Seiya
characters; Camus and Milo :|
notes; IT'S KIND OF WEIRD. I'M NOT SURE IT MAKES SENSE. & well this should teach you not to ask me for fic :|
There was a book that didn’t belong to him on his bookshelf. It didn’t stand out at first amidst the other French titles but La Folle de Chaillot had discreetly replaced La Nuit du décret. After Camus found that one he began to notice the others. At the bottom of the shelf in the left hand corner someone had tucked in a copy A Severed Head and Exit to Eden. Milo, apparently, had diverse taste in literature.
The next time he returned two more books of his were missing, replaced again by titles he didn’t recognize. It was a long time before he returned again, Cloth heavy and weighing down against his shoulders. The air was warm and wet, as if the clouds above were seeking to suffocate him. The long walk to Aquarius from Aries seemed endless even if he knew that the sentiment was illogical. It was more than Camus wanted to deal with and it only seemed fair.
Camus dozed off against a pillar, knees pulled up, with his Cloth shining next to him because for once he didn’t want to be wearing it.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He woke up slowly to the sound of the rain falling and then to Milo’s voice, Milo hovered a foot away from him, his hair dripping water. Rainwater slid down his torso, tracing the intricate patterns of his cloth. And he looked at Camus as if he didn’t make himself at home in the Aquarius Temple whenever he felt like it. Camus knew even if he had never bothered to confront Milo about it. Nor had he ever returned the books or sought to reclaim his own. He assumed they’d be back eventually when Milo was done with them.
Milo was as wet as Camus had been, as if he’d walked halfway up the twelve temples. His skin was still faintly damp, without doors the temple did little to ward off the humidity but mostly his hair had dripped dried, however long he’d been asleep.
Camus ran a hand through his hair, an action that seemed to imply he was too exasperated to reply verbally, or perhaps too tired even if he wouldn’t admit it. Saints never admitted to being tired. Doubt, weariness, fear, regret, they were forbidden emotions to all saints, while others claimed them to be completely foreign.
Liars and idiots in denial.
Milo sat down next to Camus, too close but Camus said nothing because it was Milo’s temple. “You don’t like rain,” Milo said slowly, stating rather than asking. Milo only said things when he was convinced he was right, it was perhaps why he was quieter around Camus than when he was in the company of others.
He tilted his head back, head falling against the pillar he’d been leaning back on. “Yes,” the word was heavier than the air, sinking like a deadweight. Still, the rain was preferable. The silence that followed was long, comfortable even, the rainfall receding until it was nothing.
“You should read.” He didn’t realize he’d dozed off again until he woke up.
“It gets your mind off things.” Camus didn’t look at Milo, he could feel Milo’s gaze well enough without looking to confirm. He always thought that looking into Milo’s eyes while he focussed all his attention on one thing was dangerous, akin to suicide or surrender. Camus didn’t know how much Milo knew, if he met his gaze now that would no longer matter. Milo would know everything, somehow, even without asking.
Camus’ voice was thick, quiet, “Maybe.”
The width of Milo’s shoulder armour kept a tolerable distance between them. It was when a puddle had formed around him and the water began to seep into the fabric of Camus’ pants that it became uncomfortable.
“Then take your pants off.”
“No.”
This isn't really here, I just forgot the password to my writing lj for now 8D;;
fandom; Saint Seiya
characters; Camus and Milo :|
notes; IT'S KIND OF WEIRD. I'M NOT SURE IT MAKES SENSE. & well this should teach you not to ask me for fic :|
There was a book that didn’t belong to him on his bookshelf. It didn’t stand out at first amidst the other French titles but La Folle de Chaillot had discreetly replaced La Nuit du décret. After Camus found that one he began to notice the others. At the bottom of the shelf in the left hand corner someone had tucked in a copy A Severed Head and Exit to Eden. Milo, apparently, had diverse taste in literature.
The next time he returned two more books of his were missing, replaced again by titles he didn’t recognize. It was a long time before he returned again, Cloth heavy and weighing down against his shoulders. The air was warm and wet, as if the clouds above were seeking to suffocate him. The long walk to Aquarius from Aries seemed endless even if he knew that the sentiment was illogical. It was more than Camus wanted to deal with and it only seemed fair.
Camus dozed off against a pillar, knees pulled up, with his Cloth shining next to him because for once he didn’t want to be wearing it.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He woke up slowly to the sound of the rain falling and then to Milo’s voice, Milo hovered a foot away from him, his hair dripping water. Rainwater slid down his torso, tracing the intricate patterns of his cloth. And he looked at Camus as if he didn’t make himself at home in the Aquarius Temple whenever he felt like it. Camus knew even if he had never bothered to confront Milo about it. Nor had he ever returned the books or sought to reclaim his own. He assumed they’d be back eventually when Milo was done with them.
Milo was as wet as Camus had been, as if he’d walked halfway up the twelve temples. His skin was still faintly damp, without doors the temple did little to ward off the humidity but mostly his hair had dripped dried, however long he’d been asleep.
Camus ran a hand through his hair, an action that seemed to imply he was too exasperated to reply verbally, or perhaps too tired even if he wouldn’t admit it. Saints never admitted to being tired. Doubt, weariness, fear, regret, they were forbidden emotions to all saints, while others claimed them to be completely foreign.
Liars and idiots in denial.
Milo sat down next to Camus, too close but Camus said nothing because it was Milo’s temple. “You don’t like rain,” Milo said slowly, stating rather than asking. Milo only said things when he was convinced he was right, it was perhaps why he was quieter around Camus than when he was in the company of others.
He tilted his head back, head falling against the pillar he’d been leaning back on. “Yes,” the word was heavier than the air, sinking like a deadweight. Still, the rain was preferable. The silence that followed was long, comfortable even, the rainfall receding until it was nothing.
“You should read.” He didn’t realize he’d dozed off again until he woke up.
“It gets your mind off things.” Camus didn’t look at Milo, he could feel Milo’s gaze well enough without looking to confirm. He always thought that looking into Milo’s eyes while he focussed all his attention on one thing was dangerous, akin to suicide or surrender. Camus didn’t know how much Milo knew, if he met his gaze now that would no longer matter. Milo would know everything, somehow, even without asking.
Camus’ voice was thick, quiet, “Maybe.”
The width of Milo’s shoulder armour kept a tolerable distance between them. It was when a puddle had formed around him and the water began to seep into the fabric of Camus’ pants that it became uncomfortable.
“Then take your pants off.”
“No.”