23 - Paint Pen

Thank you so much for 20K :)

I never thought so many people would read my story when I started it, I don't think I can express how much it means to me to read your kind comments and messages, to see your votes on each chapter. From everything I can give, thank you.

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I decide to be his friend as I push my fingers in his hair, decide to be on his team when I softly pat his back. His skin does't burn mine this time, I think that maybe for once I'm the warmer one when I curl to hug him, hand reaching to bury his face in my neck, his body under me. I hope he feels affection and not pity. Hope he doesn't feel shame. I don't pity him because I shouldn't, empathize because I can.

When his wheezes quiet down to small and silent breaths that I barely feel on my skin, I first think that he might have fallen asleep. He rises to his knees with his head low, wipes runaway tears with the back of his strong hands. He refuses to look at me, so I wipe the leftovers of my own tears. Milo moves his hands to undo my shoes, thick fingers around the laces. I remember my brother's old movies, the ones with monsters simply born so. I look at Milo, born too tall, too strong, too heavy.

I think of the skin under his, the one that moves like swirls of darkness, that seems to break out when he changes. He gently removes my shoes and moves them under the bed. The skin that feels too smooth to the touch, talons too thick and fangs too sharp. I wonder why he was born, what could have created him. How could a wolf not be pack yet stay among them? Milo stays on the floor bellow as he removes his own shoes, sheds his jacket.

I still hear a few sniffles from him when he moves to the closet, so I follow him. Scarf in one hand and my own jacket in the other. His shoulders are slumped over, it doesn't take away from his intimidating frame. He pushes a hand behind him, as if he knew I was right behind, so I hand him my clothes. When his hand comes back, I wonder what item for. So I decide to be on his side and put my empty hand on his.

All that crying must have made him dizzy because he firsts pulls my hand to him, as if to put another item back before he flinches. One of his sniffles turns to a cough then to a strangle when he turns his face to our joined hands and finally to me. Lips slightly ajar and blown eyelids. His eyes are still reddish but Milo's cheeks light up like fire and he turns his face back to our hands. I feel his thumb softly tapping the back of my hand, his index gently stroking the inside of wrist.

I try to let him, try to keep a cool face but I can't evade the warmth that creates in my stomach, can't escape the effects his skin has on my heartbeat. He turns our hands and traces the lines of my palm, sniffles when he softly squeezes each knuckle. I fight against the fear, decide to picture him leaning against a tree, breeze lifting his hair instead of him on his knees with drenched cheeks. I remember his soft smile, let myself smile too.

He must have turn his head when I was looking at our hands because when I look back up, his eyes are on me. His fingers gently tug my hand while his other hand slowly comes up to my face. It's slow and precise, as if he was afraid but there's something akin to curiousness in eyes, akin to awe on his face. His index gently traces my lower lip, just bellow and it moves with my lifted smile. I try not to move when he shows such seriousness.

I move my face away from his scorching fingertip that ignites something I don't want to face and Milo's hand stays in the air. His fingers press my wrist's skin just the lightest bit when he finally takes a look at me and not just my lips. He lets go and steps back with a strangled noise, like a child caught doing something bad. His cheeks redden once more and he looks away, at the window, at the ceiling and the closet while I stand there.

« Are you okay? » I mean to ask gently, about his pack more than the interaction we just had, but I'm curious anyhow. He jumps a bit at my voice, taking our shoes back to the right place. He refuses to meet my eyes again, opts for a few nods.

I don't mean to push him to talk, sit on the edge of the bed once more and take off a sweater now that the room has heated back to its normal warmth. I see his feet in front of me as I pat my hair down, he stands this time, back straight and strong neck, nods again as he reaches for the sweater. He leaves for the office, pushes the door behind him just enough to leave an inch open, my sweater still in hand.

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I don't mean to fall asleep but the crying and gathering the strength- the courage to face him has drained me more than I thought. I when I wake up the sun has started to come down, painting the room in shades of orange. It feels like I wasted the day, maybe it doesn't matter. I take off the cover I don't remember putting on, wipe away a yawn too loud. I sit to revisit the memories of earlier, the awe and gentle stroke.

I shake my head when I feel my cheek heat, try to wipe that away too. I feel groggy like I sleep to long. I'm definitely not going to be able to sleep tonight. I stretch lazily, on the bed and then out. Milo must still be in the office, because can I hear his typing, I still don't know what he does somehow. There's not much I can do now, so I head to him, pushing the door open.

Milo sits behind his desk, focused on his task, pen in hand and papers neatly stacked on each side of him. He looks serene, basked in the dusk's sun like a halo around his darkened figure. He always seems calmer when nature touches him, at ease. Just like the sun on his exposed skin seems to give him the strength to gather fuller breaths, the power to stand taller. I feel like maybe it has an effect on me too.

I let out another yawn that I don't bother to hide, one at which he looks up, brows lifting from his screen with his face. Glasses would suit him. He may look as unfazed as usual, but I've gotten better at reading him. The way his hands stopped, the slight clench of his jaw and his wandering eyes. He's still thinking about earlier, what part I'm not sure of.

I see him lick his teeth behind his lips, but he goes back to his work with a final glance aimed at my hands. I can't help but to read into every of his actions somehow. Yet, it's not out of fear this days. I love to grab the red cover that I've been carrying around more lately. But I'm too curious and the mood seems perfect, so instead of walking to the sofa I move to his desk and grab the chair just in front.

With the colors turning darker, less orange and more purple, I see him better, can't help but to pinch my lips at the sweater he's wearing- my sweater. I try to stifle my laugh, but can't help the shake of my chest and shoulder. Still just a kid. He gives a glare over his screen, but has moved into the large desk just a bit more, his hand closer to the edge than before. I push the book higher to hide my face, opened to a random page because I have no intention to study.

I hear a sharp inhale, feel him move behind the hard cover. I look up to find him slightly crouched over the wooden desk, slightly annoyed, inquisitive. One of his eyebrow raises with a question that I decide to ignore. I slouch in the chair, further away from him.

« What? » it's spoken in the way he always does, short and simple, clear and finite. I almost laugh at his tone, but he slaps the laptop closed, hand coming to grab the edge of the desk while the other still hangs on the pen. Like maybe he forgot about it. I ponder wether or not to answer truthfully, because maybe it's too soon to push his buttons. But the mood feels right and somehow in the dying sun's shade he seems collected.

« Nice sweater. » I use the book to hide my smirk but the cover does nothing to mask my tone. His face first turns to ignorance like maybe he did it unknowingly, like maybe it's nothing important. Just a piece of clothing.

His body freezes and his face heats with recognition, like it doesn't wether it was intentional or not, because he did it anyway. Because the pen slits in half in his hand, the desk creaking under the pressure of his palm and he looks like a child taken doing something bad again. He doesn't move for a while and I watch the ink that splattered on his papers, on the desk and on his cheek.

I think he might collapse on the desk to hide his red face, might hide his clenched up hands under the desk. But Milo moves silently when he rises, lets parts of the broken pen fall with the rest. He leans over the desk, face still red but with a bright smile on his face that turns predatory with his body towering over mine.

And I don't know wether I'm glad there's a desk between us or that we wear the same size, because he leans in enough to push the book down with a finger. He pushes it down until I see ink paint the paper, until it lays on my knees and his eyes go over it. Only then do I notice the sun is out, but the moon already outlines his silhouette in the dark and I squint my eyes to see amusement in his, to see playfulness in his smile.

« Nice studying. »

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As usual, I'm open for corrections and questions :) step into my message if you want to chat !

To anyone reading this, I wish you the best in 2024. I hope you achieve every dream, I hope you heal from the things you don't talk about. Much love.