Milo
Author’s Note:
TW: Grief.
Ray: I don’t think it’s weird at all to cry during sex, especially not given everything you have going on right now. Sex releases endorphins, and I think it can also shake loose a lot of feelings. As long as you and Rowan are okay with it, you’re totally fine.
Ray: I am glad you emailed that counselor, though.
They couldn’t take credit for that—at least, not entirely.
They’d woken up that morning with a sore ass and a head so full of fog, they couldn’t tell which way was up.
In a fit of desperation, their pony had spurred them to grab their phone and email the grief counselor to see if there was any way she could fit them in that week.
Mission accomplished, their pony proceeded to gallop in frightened circles in Milo’s mind, making Milo fidget and squirm on the bed until Rowan finally woke up.
He’d been incredibly gentle with Milo all morning, coaxing them into the shower, where he peppered them with sweet words and check-in questions, before making them pancakes, and attempting to check in again.
The problem was that Milo didn’t know what to say when he asked if they were feeling any better.
How could they explain that they had felt so lost, the only way they could think to come back to themself was to have Rowan’s grounding presence at their back, with his dildo and knot deep inside them?
What was the most tactful way to tell their lover that the tears they’d shed during sex had felt like taking a gasping breath of fresh air after nearly drowning?
Because Milo felt like they were drowning, every moment up until they first had sex, and then again until they did it in the early hours of the morning, and once more after breakfast. It was as if they had finally found a cure for everything that ailed them, but it lasted only as long as Rowan kept their mind and body occupied.
Then they would sink down once more, each time deeper than before.
Milo was terribly afraid they were being selfish. Rowan had wanted to come to the cabin to shift and care for his hawk during his molt. He hadn’t signed up for a never-ending tearful fuckfest.
Milo’s pony whinnied sharply, and Milo buried their face in the blanket.
They were waiting, somewhat impatiently, for Rowan to come outside and shift. Obviously, they’d seen each other fully naked multiple times at this point, but Rowan had requested some time to himself after their last romp in the sheets and before he shifted for a flight around the mountain.
Milo had decided to wait outside, in the hopes that the fresh air would convince their pony to shift as well.
Aside from the flirtatious moment in the bathroom the day before, their pony didn’t seem at all interested in shifting.
When they weren’t lost in the fog, they were pacing back and forth, clearly waiting for something, but Milo had no idea what.
They’d tried listening to music, walking around the yard barefoot, and even climbing up the small oak tree out front, but when none of their usual tricks worked, they gave up and curled up in the small hammock on the porch.
Maybe their pony had just been waiting to see their hawk again, because the moment the upstairs window opened, and a gorgeous hawk flew out, the fog retreated, and their pony stopped pacing.
Rowan didn’t hang around for long. He swooped down to hover in front of the front porch, flapping his long, brown and red wings a few times before letting out a piercing cry and shooting up into the sky.
Milo wished, not for the first time, that their pony had wings and they could fly away from all the grief and loss that awaited them here on the ground.
All they could do was watch their fated mate as he climbed higher and higher and then disappeared into the trees.
Time seemed to ooze around Milo as the fog crept back in and the sun rose high into the sky.
They were far enough in the shade that they didn’t have to worry about going back inside to apply more sunblock.
They just laid in the hammock and thought back on all the hikes and the few backpacking trips they’d gone on with Anabelle.
Like Rowan, she wouldn’t have been able to lie with Milo in the hammock, but she would probably have pulled her camping chair right up next to them and weaved tales of adventurers and explorers until Milo drifted off to sleep.
Of course, she wasn’t actually there with them, but there was something about this mountain, or maybe the upcoming anniversary, that made her feel closer than before.
It was almost as if, amidst the fog rising from the chasm, there was also a warmth, and a presence Milo could feel dancing across their skin.
As the sun passed the highest point in the sky, Milo became aware of another presence. If they closed their eyes and listened really hard, they could hear the flap of wings and a staccato heartbeat.
They felt more than saw Rowan emerge from the trees.
He flew onto the front porch, landing with a nearly imperceptible thud, before walking into the house.
Guided purely by instinct, Milo was able to follow him into the house despite the nearly impenetrable fog that had settled over them and their pony again.
Rowan’s hawk trilled, as if showing them the way, and hopped up onto the couch.
This time, Milo knew exactly what to do.
They scrambled over the back of the couch, careful not to touch the glorious bird of prey, and settled into the middle seat, their blanket now arranged into a makeshift nest on their lap.
With zero hesitation, the hawk walked across the couch and stepped into the nest. Unlike the last time, though, he didn’t settle into it.
There were feathers sticking out at odd angles from his wings and back, and he began to groom himself, nudging loose the feathers with his beak and plucking at some of the more stubborn patches.
There was a large section on the bottom center of each wing that he didn’t seem able to reach, and as if drawn by an invisible force, Milo found themself reaching for one of the loose feathers.
Their pony was quiet, observing as best they could through the fog.
“You missed a spot,” Milo murmured, closing their fingers around one of the loose feathers.
Rowan’s hawk jerked his wing, and several feathers fell out onto Milo’s lap.
Slowly, the hawk turned his head, one beady eye staring pointedly at Milo’s hand before raising to Milo’s face.
Milo could swear that, below the yellow, there was just a hint of brown, like a fish swimming right below the surface of the river out back.
The hawk let out a short, concise cry, and then bowed forward, spreading his wings as his belly came to rest on Milo’s knees. Milo stared in awe at their beautiful fated mate, spread out across the couch, asking for Milo’s love and assistance.
Well, perhaps the hawk wasn’t actually asking for Milo’s love, but that was just too dang bad. Right now, the only thing keeping Milo from disappearing into the fog forever was the grounding love they had for Rowan and his hawk.
With more care than Milo had ever shown in their life, they started picking the molted feathers out of Rowan’s wings. It was an arduously slow process, and while it kept Milo’s hands busy, their mind began to wander.
They waded into the fog, coming right up to the edge of the chasm, but where there was usually a blank nothingness below, this time they were able to make out stairs along the edge.
Their fingers paused halfway through pulling out the next feather.
This was it, wasn’t it? This was the moment they could decide to finally face the fact that Anabelle…
Anabelle was…
…
She was gone.
Even if Milo walked down those steps, all they would find at the bottom was memories because…
Anabelle, their beloved great-aunt, the only family they’d ever truly known, their confidant, thrifting partner, hiking buddy, ally, advocate, and best friend…
She was never coming back.
She wasn’t waiting for them in the city, in the warm, wackily decorated room she shared with Ethel. She wasn’t on the other end of the telephone or on one of the trips she liked to take to flea markets out of state.
Milo had lost the most important person in their life, and Andrew, their boyfriend, who should have helped them through it, had brushed their grief aside and kept them from Ethel, the one other person on the planet who could have helped them through their grief.
The room shook, and the rich reds and browns of Rowan’s hawk blurred and distorted, and yet somehow, Milo found themself walking down that staircase in their mind.
They gingerly removed feather after feather, matching the movements of their hands with the steps they took down, down, down into the chasm. They couldn’t see or hear their pony, and they couldn’t feel their hands or the sofa beneath them, but they kept going until finally…
They were alone.
There was nothing and no one here with them, just a never-ending expanse of white.
In here, nothing seemed to matter. Not the progress they’d made on not just discovering but accepting and loving their gender.
Not how far they’d come at work, even after losing their job and apartment and starting over from scratch.
Not the lifelong friendships they’d forged with not just Ray but Ethel as well.
Not their 4G, Triple S fated mate, or the family they were going to meet next week and hopefully become a part of…
Because Milo didn’t have any family left.
Anabelle.
Was gone.
And it fucking sucked.
It sucked so hard and for so long, and Milo was so, so tired of everything sucking and of the thick, cloying, suffocating fog. They were just…
So...
Tired…
All they wanted to do was lie down at the bottom of this chasm and sleep. They wanted to dream of Anabelle and wake up with a mind that didn’t bare the scars of her loss—
But then, as if speaking to them through the fog, they heard the grief counselor’s voice.