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Scorpio Milo’s routine for visiting and staying in the Aquarius temple during the busy summer months was always the same. He’d walk up the temple in his cloth, visibly sweating — or dripping with water; on days he had a bath to fight against the heat — and turn towards the exact direction the guardian of the temple was resting at. Milo’s sensitivity towards the cold had increased over the years he stood by Camus’s, an impressive feat, as not many who utilised cosmos by burning and vibrating would’ve feasibly noticed the dip in temperature before it was in the extremes.
Once, Camus had managed to even fool a Titan through the subtlety of his cosmos.
Milo found him in his quarters, seated on the long couch and with a dozen of scrolls laid out on the table, finishing the last paragraph of the report he was entrusted to read before he looked up.
“You don’t bother to greet me and inquire why I’m here anymore.” Milo wasn’t pouting, but it was close.
“Do I have to?” Camus asked. “I know you haven’t been summoned, and I know who you are here for.”
“You can pretend for old time’s sake,” Milo said with a sigh, visibly relaxing after he realised he had Camus’s full attention. “Are those classified?”
He gestured at the pile of paperwork, and Camus shook his head, fully accepting that Milo was going to be there for the rest of the day. Rearranging the scrolls so the Scorpio had a place to sit was easy, a bit of cosmos here and there and the papers were neatly stacked on the table. Milo took his place immediately, choosing to sit right beside him.
The air grew a bit warmer once he did, disrupting the perfectly controlled flow of manufactured cold air; a type of heat that comforted and reminded instead of intruding and overbearing upon those unfortunate enough to be around it. Camus allowed it, because it was Milo after all.
“They sent all the Gold Saints these. Records on the past Holy Wars, what’s left of it anyway.” Milo looked at him like it was the first time he’d heard of it. “Haven’t you read them yet?”
Milo smiled sheepishly, leaning forward to grab one of the scrolls on the table. “Better late than never, right?”
There was a reprimand on the tip of his tongue, but he was reminded again of two facts; one, Scorpio Milo was his colleague and two, he knew reading and ruminating wasn’t how Milo worked, either. He was willing to read with him, it was enough for Camus.
The minutes stretched into an hour. Camus finished three scrolls before he needed to reach out for more, but a weight was slumped over his arm, heavy enough to disrupt his movements and warm enough to remind him that Milo hadn’t said anything in the last twenty minutes. A quick glance revealed the culprit resting his head against the curve of Camus’s shoulder, his long hair draped over most of Camus’s arm with eyes tightly shut closed. Milo was asleep. It was rare to see the Scorpio exhausted enough to pass out the moment he found somewhere comfortable, and as far as Camus was aware he didn’t do it around others, but Camus had seen it happen a few times.
A compliment in itself, if he wasn’t so embarrassed every time he woke up after it.
It either meant Milo pushed himself to the limits and didn’t take the time to rest or he simply wasn’t able to sleep well. Some other day and he would’ve woken him up to get him to a more comfortable place, but Milo was needlessly stubborn sometimes, and Camus didn’t want to argue with a man who clearly needed some rest. A few… minutes… hours… wouldn’t hurt, would it? He could still reach for the rest of the scrolls, and if he had to, he could use his cosmos again.
Just as Camus was ready to settle in his position, the scroll in Milo’s hand caught his eye. Especially the wording of it. Traitors. Curiosity got the better of him. A mistake he usually didn’t make, but it was Milo, and he hadn’t anticipated a fight when he tried to yank it out of his grasp. A tug of war where you have to carefully monitor your strength and not wake up a sleeping beauty was not something Camus anticipated. It ended as well as it could’ve. With a misstep, some vague mutterings that sounded like Milo was going to wake up, and Camus freezing at the wrong time. Milo came sprawling down against his chest, his weight fully pressing against him — Cloth and all.
“Milo,” Camus called out softly at first, and got nothing. “Milo.”
Nothing.
Camus did, however, notice how hot Milo was — temperature wise. Naturally, everyone was warmer than the Aquarius Gold Saint, and Milo ran hot usually, but his heat felt worse than average, and a simple touch over his Cloth confirmed the reality. The traces of a foreign cosmos, something even a Gold Cloth wasn’t able to fully repel, protested against the cold lingering in his fingertips. Camus remembered Milo talking about a fight in one of the neighbouring villages, yet he had not elaborated, so Camus thought it was resolved relatively easily since Milo liked bragging about his victories when he had nothing to do. He didn’t look hurt, exhausted, yes, but if he needed medical attention, he would’ve gone to a doctor before coming to him, right?
Milo…
“You should’ve told me,” Camus murmured, raising a hand to push some of his hair away from his face. The barest touch with his skin revealed that the heat was persisting in his body too, either a fever or a heatstroke. “Putting up a brave front even when you’re hurt…”
Nothing, still.
Camus forced the temperature in his quarters to drop, compressing and releasing icy winds from his fingers, allowing enough to circle over and under his armour. He didn’t need to freeze the Scorpio Cloth enough to make it a comfortably cool temperature.
“What am I going to do with you?” Camus sighed.
As it turned out, the answer was simply letting him sleep. The cold eased the tension from his body, making his breathing sound more stable, less strained, and at some point, Camus figured it was easier to rest his back properly against the arm rest of the couch, propping enough pillows to make Milo slumped over him comfortable. He continued what he’d intended to do for the rest of the afternoon, reading and evaluating, while a human-sized blanket was draped over him, breathing steadily as the hours ticked by. Camus periodically checked Milo’s temperature, noting with satisfaction that he wasn’t burning up anymore. There was something calming about it, the presence of another person fulfilling an ache he refused to name — his warmth and heartbeat filling the silence of a previously solitary temple.
It became easy for Camus to close his eyes and rest, too, and he probably would’ve fallen asleep right then and there if Milo’s breath didn’t suddenly hitch, and he didn’t flinch against him.
Camus’s hand was resting on his head, fingers carded between soft, wavy hair, and it appeared that Milo noticed, freezing at the realisation of where and who he was with.
“What are you doing?” Camus asked, opening his eyes slowly.
Milo’s face — bright, red and burning greeted him. Camus pressed his hand against his cheek, half in fascination and half in worry; Milo was heating up, but the rest of his body was still cool enough to discount his worries.
“Camus, I…” Milo struggled for words, his eyes flickering to the side — on Camus’s hand — and back at him. “I hadn’t —”
“You’re blushing,” Camus stated, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at his face. Milo’s blush deepened a shade, a dark burgundy, warming up his fingertips by the second; it was an observation, and nothing more, but Milo’s lips downturned into a very familiar, defiant pout.
“No, I’m not.” Milo shook his head a little, trying to shake Camus’s hand off and failing — though, he could, if he really wanted to — before burying more of his face on his chest, his hair covering most of his face. Hiding his expression. “I haven’t been able to sleep because of the stupid heat.”
His excuse sounded more like an apology, but Camus never minded in the first place. He hummed in acknowledgement and allowed his sleep-tinged brain some indulgence, gentle in the way he carded his fingers through his hair, releasing a soft but cool silver of air over the Scorpio again.
Milo remained silent, but he visibly relaxed, melting against him.
“You can stay, I don’t have anything else planned for the day.”
Camus wasn’t going to admit that he preferred it, he didn’t need to.
Milo should know by now.
“You should’ve come to me the moment you knew something was wrong,” Camus said.
“I didn’t, until the heat started rising with the sun. I thought it was just the climate, but…” Milo grumbled. “Goddamn Apollo.”
His blasphemy was spoken so carelessly.
But they were only Athena’s saints. No one else’s.
Camus suppressed the small laugh threatening to spill out, opting to smile when Milo’s gaze was out of sight instead. “Wouldn’t it be more Helios than Apollo? He is the Sun, while Apollo is the God of the Sun.”
“Whatever.”
“Is there any other injury you’re hiding from me?”
Milo bristled, shaking his head but still refusing to look at him. “I’m not that dumb. They checked, didn’t find anything worth keeping me in the infirmary. I would’ve been here sooner otherwise.”
“Good.”
At least he knew what he needed to do if he needed help.
“Is this really…” Milo whispered, trailing off before turning his head upwards. Finally looking at him. His dark gaze was fixated on Camus's face as he continued in a softer, more curious voice. “You don’t mind?”
“No.” For you, it’s fine, Camus thought, closing his arms around Milo and entangling his fingers within his fluffy hair, getting more comfortable in their impromptu position — definitive in both his actions and his words. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”
Milo made a noise that was a mix between a sigh of relief and a soft hum, agreeing without much commentary. A simple indication that he liked it that way, as well.
The day ended more pleasantly than it began; peaceful, accompanied and at complete ease, for once.