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Cold.
Crimson hair and desperate jade eyes.
Scarred, bruised, bloodied. A normal sight, but for some reason, this sight made him sick to his stomach.
Arrows piercing shoulders, thighs, backs.
Snow. Numb.
He could see it, feel it.
The numb feeling as he laid in the white snow, deep red staining the pure ground in a color not unlike the rust crawling up his neck. Breathing, but no air in his lungs.
Barely registering the way his face was wet as he laid in front of his dearest friend, the horrifying, sinking, lingering memory of what he’d done.
Shouting; no doubt from that very friend, but consciousness fading making it hard to understand the words, but he knew he’d heard his own name multiple times.
He knew there were tears falling above him, warm enough to melt the snow that had numbed his face.
He had wished to see his friend’s face, if only to tease him about crying - a rare emotion that his partner rarely ever showed.
Alas, he only caught the drips that fell into the white powder of the land, maybe the distant choked sob; that, too - he wished he could tease his companion about.
He had thought back to the vow he had made to his companion when he had insisted he go on this journey - how he didn’t care if he’d lost his limbs, his head, so long as he could save those he loved.
What a wash, he bitterly joked to himself.
He cared now.
He cared now because of his precious companion.
A rare selfish thought. His partner could easily find a replacement somewhere in the distant cities of the land, but he was the Mushroom Keeper’s companion, no one else.
It would have surprised him - had he thought to be surprised - by how usually selfish the feeling was.
Cold - unbearably so.
He’d always gotten cold quickly - his thin frame made cool breezes blow right through him.
But it was a different kind of cold than he’d ever felt.
He could feel his own body losing feeling, feel the cold creeping through his clothes, freezing the blood that soaked him.
A flash of his sister, and what little feeling in his chest, sank.
He had worked so hard to keep her alive. He hoped she’d forgive him.
She’d no doubt chew his companion out, but ultimately, he’d like to think they’d bond.
Maybe they’d even find something in each other. Maybe she could replace him.
The idea, despite making him so bitter before, eased him, if only slightly.
The pink-haired merchant. He’d assured her they’d meet again.
A promise broken.
He quietly apologized. She had seemed so happy to befriend him and his partner.
He hoped his partner would be kinder to her, that they’d go back to squabbling like they always did.
He wished that his companion would hold him, that his final moments could be in the arms of the person most important to him.
Of course, he knew his partner’s legs and left shoulder were incapcitated, partly his own doing.
Still, if he could feel that fiery warmth that his partner always seemed to emit, maybe he would feel less sad.
“Live.”
Maybe that, too, a selfish wish for his friend.
Even now, all he could hope was for his partner to live.
Eyes closed.
Dark, numb.
Cold.
Milo awoke with a pain in his chest, so agonizing that sitting up made him reel, almost falling back.
He huddled into himself, clutching his chest, not hearing his own ragged breathing.
Every sensation was amplified - the tight pain in his chest, the hot dryness of his throat, the cold sweat sliding over his spine, the cold night air prickling his skin, the tears involuntarily spilling from his stinging eyes.
He must have been rasping, maybe even heaving; Bisco stirred somewhere to his right, and then just like that, his partner was by his side, hand on his back, frantically urging him to breathe.
Still dazed, Milo almost brushed Bisco away, breath still stuck in his throat.
Only when Bisco pulled Milo’s hand and placed it over his own heart, voice less panicked, more firm, ordering him to feel his heartbeat, did Milo’s senses come back to him and he became aware of his surroundings.
A dark cave, lit by a small fire pit.
Milo’s vision was blurry, but he was able to make out the stone walls.
His coughs echoed through the hallowed walls, ringing in his own ears.
Just as he began to feel faint, he took a deep breath - an intense gasp, clutching the cloth of Bisco’s shirt, focusing on the rhythmic thump thump of his heart.
He blinked, and the feeling instantly brought on more tears; he didn’t think he had blinked at all during his attack, his own tears keeping his eyes from drying.
The sensation bubbled in his nose as well, air finally passing through, causing him to sniffle in an attempt to keep the mucus from dripping from his nose.
His coughing had melted into sobs, the lingering feelings and emotions finally breaking through the numb panic attack and weighing his chest.
He brought a hand up to his face, though unsure of what to do first - wipe his tears, his nose? Cover his mess of a face? Hold his mouth for fear of vomiting?
But Bisco was already there, running a thumb under Milo’s eyes, cupping his face with a warm hand.
Warm.
Yes, it was warm.
The fire that sizzled next to them, the cloak that Bisco had lended him at the start of their journey, the blanket that covered his legs, Bisco.
With a shaky hand, Milo held his own hand over Bisco’s, taking in the warmth.
Rust crawled along Bisco’s arm, stopping just short of his knuckles.
He knew, of course - rust was all along his own neck, even reaching just under his eyes.
“Hey,” Bisco interrupted Milo’s thoughts with a gentle voice, “You should drink something. Let me warm some water.”
Milo suddenly realized that his other hand was still entwined with Bisco’s, lingering over Bisco’s chest. He could still feel Bisco’s steady heartbeat.
“Medicine,” Milo managed to mumble through his hoarse throat.
“Later,” Bisco assured him with a small smile.
His breathing finally even, Milo let his hands drop to his sides, wiping an arm over his face to clear himself of leftover tears and snot, and took one more breath to reassure himself.
He was alive. And Bisco was right next to him.
Bisco himself quietly set to heat water over the fire pit, and Milo took a moment to check himself over.
His torso was wrapped in bandages underneath his clothes, still stained with blood, now dried.
For such a short amount of time that the rust had spread over him, he had expected it to hurt far more, but instead, it only made his neck feel a little stiff.
Despite how visually, it had seemed like the rust had overtaken his body quickly, it seemed its effects would slowly arrive; he had guessed as much, though. It was the same as his sister.
It eased his mind, though.
He’d be glad to make medicine for both of them, but it wasn’t nearly as grave an emergency as he had initially thought.
Milo looked to Bisco.
Though the rust wasn’t as apparent on Bisco’s body, Milo supposed that was because Bisco’s rust was over his chest and shoulder, hidden by his clothes.
Against the fire light, his partner seemed to glow.
Milo briefly wondered how Bisco had dragged him to the cave with how bad a shape his legs had been in. He noticed the bandages Bisco had wrapped around his own legs.
Milo had shown Bisco the basics of first aid long ago, after all.
He made a quick mental note to treat Bisco’s legs properly once he was stable enough.
He guessed he’d been staring too long, as Bisco glanced up at him.
“What is it?” he asked, but Milo quickly averted his eyes with a smile.
He looked toward the opening of the cave; it was nighttime, and the starry sky and the snow-coated hills could be seen.
Wherever Bisco had brought them, it seemed a fair distance away from the city.
The urge to look overtook Milo, and he stumbled to his feet, encouraged by the brisk breeze that wafted through the dark cave and cooled Milo’s sweat-drenched back.
Bisco realized Milo standing and protested a tad more roughly - a tad more his usual self - before Milo could start walking, “Just where the hell do you think you’re going? Sit down and rest, Milo.”
Milo shook his head and immediately regretted it, throwing himself off balance and leaning on the cool wall of the cave. “Just stepping out for air,” he managed to mumble before he continued on.
He hadn’t looked back to check for Bisco’s expression, but he could imagine it - after all, he’d made the exact same expression countless times in the face of Bisco’s reckless averisity to healing by resting.
“And you get onto me for not staying still and resting,” Bisco grumbled just out of earshot.
When Milo made it to the mouth of the cave and he looked out over the vast expanse, he took another breath.
Cold night air swept over him, sending a shiver down his spine, but even despite the cold, the view was beautiful.
Endless stars blanketed the deep blue sky, pure white covering the fields and hills in front of him, not a tree in sight.
Milo wondered if he should have been feeling pain, fear, regret.
But somehow, looking out over the quiet, frozen field, Milo couldn’t think of anything he regretted.
He thought about his life behind the city walls, far before he had ever met Bisco.
Unaware of the world outside.
He’d have nightmares, surely - of the day he should have died.
He knew that there’d be more nights like this one, waking up in a cold sweat, hazy from the memories of everything that had happened.
He was outside of the city walls, and he knew pain that he would have never have found behind those walls.
He knew his future would only be wrought with fear and pain, and yet he smiled.
Wasn’t it kind of cool to be haunted by the day he should have died? Wasn’t it kind of cool to have escaped a situation at all where he definitely should have died?
He chuckled to himself at his own dark joke.
Yes, he thought to himself, there was no way he would trade any of this pain for the world.
A weight burdened Milo’s shoulders and he was wrapped in warmth suddenly. Just as he turned to see what it was, a steaming cup was forced into his face.
He took the cup, the warmth spreading over his fingers and instantly reminding him of how cold the winter air was.
His cloak was draping over his shoulders, held by Bisco’s hand.
Bisco’s hand lingered for a moment longer on Milo’s shoulder, squeezing it in a meaningful way before he let go and gave Milo space, walking out of the cave a bit farther, stamping shoe prints into the untouched snow.
Milo caught the way Bisco limped ever so slightly, but hid it well, sitting down on a flat rock beside the cave’s entrance.
Milo sipped at the hot water, cheeks red from the cold, clutching the cup for the heat.
A comfortable silence. They were always comfortable in each other’s presence, after all.
A break in the quiet by a low, rough voice.
“You doin’ okay?”
An emerald glance.
Milo smiled gently, set his cup down on a rock somewhere to his left.
“Yes.”
Green eyes lingered, as if checking, before averting, and then doubling back again to meet clear blue.
Unsaid words. A mutual acknowledgement.
Deep understanding.
A new feeling washed over Milo suddenly.
“Bisco,” Milo found himself speaking softly. “Can you come here?”
Distance crossed, no hesitation.
Milo often thought about how tall Bisco was next to him. About a full head taller, though Bisco’s spiked hair might account for some of that height.
Milo stepped forward, falling into Bisco, who instinctively caught him.
“Milo?! What’s wro-” Bisco began, but his words faded out as Milo rested his head on the former’s shoulder, wrapping arms loosely around his broad torso.
Milo closed his eyes and breathed in.
Fire, smoke. The earthy musk of mushrooms. Crab.
Comfort.
This close to Bisco, Milo felt a new kind of warmth. Something that encircled his body, warmed him up from his chest and spread all throughout him, melting the rigid itchiness of his rust.
Milo briefly wondered what he smelled like to Bisco.
Medicine, perhaps. Salty tears and antiseptic.
Crab.
A light feeling bubbled up from Milo’s chest and he found himself letting out an airy laugh against Bisco’s shoulder.
Bisco himself had gone stiff, unsure if assistance was needed or not, hands grasping Milo’s back firmly - less affectionate, rather support.
“I love you, Bisco,” Milo said earnestly, squeezing Bisco’s frame.
He meant it, too.
There was no one else Milo could ever see himself next to.
Milo was a selfless person by nature.
But Bisco made him want to be selfish.
He thought only of Bisco’s survival, even at the end of it all.
What else could it be, other than love?
Milo snuck a peek at Bisco’s face out of curiosity.
Maybe he secretly wanted Bisco to be flustered, to flail around, red-faced and shy.
But of course, that wasn’t his partner’s style.
Bisco averted his green eyes and answered, “Yeah, yeah. Seriously, it’s cold out here, Doc. You need to rest.”
Milo took note of the flash of red at the tips of Bisco’s ears and the burning at his neck, barely visible in the dark. Milo probably would have missed it, had he not been so close to Bisco’s face.
For all the terror and pain he had felt earlier, Milo found himself laughing again, feeling lighter than ever as he buried his face into Bisco’s shoulder.
“It’s warm enough here,” Milo said softly.
Quiet.
A gentle, cold breeze, but Milo didn’t feel particularly cold.
Arms wrapping around Milo’s waist, squeezing him back.
“...Me too.”
A fluttering feeling in Milo’s chest, laughter bubbling up once again, breaking the silence of the night once more.
“Hey, what are you laughing about?!”
Sharp emerald eyes met gentle sky blue.
“Can’t say properly? You really can’t be honest, huh?”
Smug, teasing blue.
Annoyed, confident green.
Lips crashing roughly, though locked together surprisingly smoothly.
Space closing. Chaste, though passionate despite short.
“That honest enough for you?”
Warmth.