St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

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Seed, chapter 10: Milo
by Silverr

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Sanctuary was celebrating, for another Gold Saint had taken up residence: Aquarius Camus, newly returned after more than a decade at the Siberian training ground. He was a stranger to most of those who had grown up in the Temples, but those few that had known him as a child were not surprised that the silent, intense boy who nothing seemed to disturb had grown into a quiet, self-possessed man who radiated a sense of power and deeply-hidden emotion.

Milo observed him carefully. Besieged by admirers who seemed to ask for the same stories over and over, Camus was politely detached, as if he didn't care if there was anyone around him or not, as if he needed no one and nothing. This offhand arrogance was irritating in itself, but what annoyed Milo even more was how infatuated some people became with Camus, following him like seedlings bending to sunlight, shamelessly jockeying for chances to train with the Water-Bearer, sit next to him at meals, or follow him around like noisy puppies. Camus acted as if all this were completely ordinary, as if he were unaware of his effect on others.

Milo, suspicious by nature, quickly tagged Camus as dangerous. He didn't buy the newcomer's act for a second; it was clear that the apparent diffidence was a smokescreen to hide his real agenda – to assemble followers and build a position of power within Sanctuary. Milo knew he'd need more proof before he could go to the Pontifex, and so he continued to shadow Camus whenever possible, studying and analyzing his words and actions.

And then a truly unexpected thing began to happen.

Milo's suspicion toward Camus grudgingly began to fade because, despite his wish to believe otherwise, he began to feel that the Aquarius Saint was probably just what he seemed, an intensely private person without ambitions of any kind, as committed to Athena as any of them. This erosion occurred so gradually that Milo didn't realize until it was too late that other feelings had taken the place of mistrust. Unfamiliar feelings, so strong they were almost painful, that he couldn't put a name to and didn't know what to do with.

And that was not what he was used to. He had always been clear on which emotions and actions were appropriate for each person he came in contact with. For Athena and the Pontifex, absolute obedience driven by absolute reverence. Toward his enemies, an indifference that made wiping them away as easy as brushing away a fleck of dirt. For his fellow Saints, just enough knowledge of their personalities and fighting styles to allow him to work with them as an efficient team member. But Camus – Camus was somehow not like the other Saints. Any day Milo went without seeing him felt incomplete, yet whenever he did see him Milo was uneasy, on edge. He didn't understand why; all he knew was that he didn't like the feeling, and so avoided Camus as much as possible.

In the midst of this turmoil the Pontifex announced a welcome banquet for the recently returned Saint. As it was an official event, there was no question of not attending. When the day and hour arrived he forced himself to join the welcoming line. It moved slowly, as Camus and the Pontifex took their time with each person, so Milo had plenty of time to surreptitiously watch the Aquarius Saint. He was dressed in simple black clothes that contrasted with the colorful costumes of the other guests and made them look garish. His profile, the way he gestured with his hands, the faint smile as he listened patiently to whoever was fawning over him – Milo was tossed between anger and envy at the sight. Then he began to watch the way Camus' muscles stretched the fabric of his clothes as he moved, and the sight mesmerized him. He glanced up guiltily at the same instant that Camus turned his head to look down the line, and when their eyes meet Milo's heart leapt to his throat. After that he kept his eyes down, infuriated that he had become one of those he had such contempt for – a puppy eager to lick the the Water-Bearer's hand.

Too soon, "I'm sure you've met Scorpio Milo," the Pontifex was saying warmly. "He's the one you'll want to talk to if you ever want recommendations on exploring the many mountain wilderness areas of Greece."

Milo forced himself to look at Camus as he clasped his hand reluctantly. The Aquarius Saint returned the grip and raised one elegant eyebrow slightly, as if waiting for – what? After a moment he said "Milo," as if they had never met before, then looked off to the left as if he was blind, or bored, or as if Milo had become invisible. "I'll remember that. Perhaps we can climb together someday."

"An excellent idea!" the Pontifex chuckled. "Oh, to be young and vigorous again!"

Milo let go of Camus' hand and moved away with a vertiginous sense of disappointment.

They were seated by houses during the banquet. Milo concentrated on eating, trying to shut out the low murmur of Camus' conversation with Pisces on the other side of Shura. As soon as the main course plates had been cleared he excused himself and went outside for air.

Deathmask stood smoking at the cliff edge, looking out at the moonlit Aegean sparkling in the distance. He turned, studied Milo for a minute, then uncharacteristically offered a cigarette. Milo uncharacteristically accepted, and they smoked in companionable silence until Deathmask observed, "We're missing dessert."

"Probably."

As he turned to go back inside the Cancer Saint asked in his lazy drawl, "So, did the bug up your ass die quick, or slow?"

Milo exhaled a stream of smoke with a half-smile. "He died happy, fucked to death by the other bugs."

Deathmask snorted. "That's the way to go. Here, kill some more." He tossed the pack of smokes to Milo and walked away, his boots crunching on the gravel.

Milo smoked thoughtfully, eyes closed, mind blissfully blank until footsteps brought him back to himself. He opened his eyes. A pale face, disembodied by dark clothes, was swimming out of the night.

"Filthy habit." With a swirl of chilly air, Camus walked up to him, picked the cigarette from his mouth, and threw it away. "It will make your mouth taste like a pile of moldy leaves soaked in piss."

It was the first time that Milo had ever seen Camus without a trailing entourage, the first time that Camus had addressed him without others present. Milo was frozen between the urge to run and the urge to sting Camus with the Scarlet Needle until he fell to the ground senseless.

The Aquarius Saint turned and looked towards the cliff's edge. "Or so I've heard."

Milo was infuriated: what response did Camus expect to that? With a woman, Milo would have judged the line to be a provocative opening, and would of course have replied, "Kiss me and find out," but Camus wasn't a woman. Milo opened his mouth, and what came out was, "It was cold in Siberia?"

"Yes, very cold." Camus turned back to look at him, his eyes glittering like dark ice, his face completely unreadable, emotionless.

"I hate that." Milo was finally reaching an emotion he understood: anger.

"Most people don't like the cold," Camus said quietly.

"I didn't say I didn't like it. I said I hated it." Yes, this was good. Being angry was familiar, straightforward, comfortable.

"Yes, you did." Camus turned and began to walk back towards the Holy Father's Temple. "My mistake."

"Camus!" Milo, fuming, darted in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Why did you come out here? What do you want from me?"

"To clear my head," Camus said. "What do you want from me? Oh, yes – I know." He reached for Milo's zipper. "It's this, isn't it?"

"What are you doing?" Milo tried to step back, but Camus had a firm grip on the waistband of his pants. In the back of his mind he knew that this wasn't how it had happened, long ago: it wasn't even what he would have wished for, this bold hand sliding into his pants. This harsh, aggressive stranger was not the Camus he knew.

"I don't hear you denying it," this Camus said: then suddenly they were on the cold ground.

"Camus!" Milo shouted: but then his mouth was filled with ice, his arms and chest immobilized by burning cold. He was so shocked he did nothing as a hot tongue darted over his skin; when greedy lips latched on to him, fingertips stroked, teasing, teasing, better than any hooker, it felt so good he just let it happen. Around him the sound of the sea rose suddenly, like a landslide, like a waterfall, like a thousand swords crashing against a thousand shields and then just as suddenly dwindled down to a single beat.

Someone was knocking on his door.

~ : ~

Milo rolled from his bed and stood in the dark, resisting. He knew it was Camus on the other side of the door: no other cosmo had ever made him feel this way, unsure, inadequate, under attack.

In a few seconds the knock came again, measured, inexorable.

"Go away," Milo murmured.

It wasn't enough he was haunted during the daytime, now Camus was pursuing him in dreams as well, hounding him in every corner of the night! Why couldn't the bastard just stay away?

Feeling a rising fury – and a need to settle things once and for all – Milo strode across the room and yanked the door open. "What do you want?"

Camus' expression was wary. After studying the shirtless, flushed Scorpio for a moment, he said, "I interrupted something?"

Milo shrugged, trying to dislodge the shards of tension and frustration searing his shoulders. "Sleeping."

"I'm sorry to wake you."

"I don't want to talk, Camus," Milo said, rubbing his eyes. "Just tell me what you want so that I can go back to bed."

"I wanted – " Camus began.

There was a tone in Camus' voice that Milo had never heard before, different than the usual crisp, arm's-length delivery. If Milo hadn't known better he would have said it sounded like uncertainty. Weakness, almost. But it couldn't be, not coming from Camus. "You wanted what?" he prompted.

"I came by to see if you had had any unusual dreams tonight."

This brought him fully awake. "And if I did? Why should I tell you about it?" He'd be damned if he'd let Camus in. He'd be damned if he'd wag his tail.

"I can't explain why, but I feel it's important for me to know."

"I was dreaming about the banquet they held when you came back."

Camus thought for a minute. "Why that? It was nothing exceptional."

Milo rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, well, my version wasn't exactly the same." If Camus really wanted to know ... maybe he would tell him. It might be worth it to see the reaction on that perfect, unflappable face.

"How was your dream different?" Camus pressed: when there was no reply, he asked, "Milo?"

Milo laughed bitterly. "Fine. Just remember, you asked me to tell you. And you have to agree, when I'm done, to never ask about it again."

"Alright." Camus' forehead furrowed, just the slightest bit.

"That night, I went for a walk right after dinner."

Camus nodded slowly, recalling. "You didn't come back."

"In the dream, you followed me outside, and – had your way with me."

"My way?" Camus shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Your way," Milo said furiously. "Your way. You – came outside, pinned me down ..."

Camus' eyes widened, and Milo plunged on, flushed in sudden excitement, enjoying the retaliation he was going to deliver. "Bound me in ice and gave me head. Against my will." Relishing Camus' shocked expression, he added, "Aren't you happy you asked?"

"How could you – ? I would never do such a thing," Camus said, sounding stunned.

"Yeah, whatever," Milo said, wearily, staring at the floor. Go away now, Camus.

In answer, Camus reached out and took hold of his wrist.

Milo's hand curled into a fist.

Camus lifted it slowly, watching Milo all the while, until he finally touched the knuckles to his lips.

With that, Milo felt something inside of him break, releasing the emotions he could not name, and he had to acknowledge that the feeling was – happiness. Happiness that Camus was here, uncurling his fingers, pressing lips to his palm, making a path of kisses up his bare arm. He could feel the silent tears spilling over his lids and into the corners of his mouth. No one had ever, ever, touched him so gently ... If this happiness was taken away, now, he would not survive the loss. "What do you want?" he asked again, his voice a croak of misery.

Camus stepped closer, murmuring, "Mon âme, mon coeur, mon amour, ma vie." When his lips reached Milo's shoulder he finally answered the question. "This," he said simply. "To be with you." His other hand went to the back of Milo's head as he kicked the door shut behind him, pulling Milo to him in the dark, communicating that same mix of tentativeness and determination his face had shown when he first appeared at Milo's door; communicating that he wanted this, but only if Milo did as well.

And Milo – he had never realized how much he wanted it until he had it. Perhaps this is why he had felt so uneasy in Camus' presence – holding himself at a distance, he was unable to go to what drew him. But now there was no need to hold back. He put his arms around the other Saint, and the embrace completed him.

Camus spoke, his lips moving against Milo's neck. "I noticed you, always standing apart. I could feel your heat. I wanted to know more about you, have you closer, but I couldn't see how that could happen."

Milo drew back a little. "What changed?"

"Tonight, I also had a dream," Camus said, and kissed him.

This kiss was like nothing Milo'd ever experienced: it was a raw force of nature, an eclipse, an earthquake, a nova. Camus's body was unyielding, gloriously hard as they pressed together, desperate with a pent up need for touch, for release. They embraced so fiercely it seemed that they would tear out each other's hair and shatter bones.

"Be with me," Milo whispered. "Camus, be with me."

"Yes."

That first time they made love Camus almost killed them, because it really had been his first time and, unprepared for the intensity of his climax, he had sent out a pulse of cold that had congealed around them into a fatal, airless solid. In an instant, though, he had flared his cosmo and shattered it, and held the gasping, shaking Milo even tighter against him. "Mon coeur, ma vie . . ."

~ : ~

Sunlight filtered through the over-arching branches of the huge trees along the river bank, dappling their skin with shadow, smudging them into the landscape as they floated gently with the slow-moving current. Above, the clouds textured the sky; around them, shards of sunlight coruscated on the water. Threaded through all was the sound of wind and bird song. Idyllic perfection as they lay facing each other on the raft, falling into each other's eyes, catching their breaths as their heartbeats returned to normal.

"Why did you take so long to tell me?" Milo asked.

Camus reached out, touching Milo's hair, shoulder, chest wonderingly, his attention as intense as if he had just been given his senses after a lifetime of gray numbness. "These things – sometimes one is wrong. Both people have to be ready, have to be sure. I was not, until tonight." His fingertips traced Milo's profile. "Should I say now that I regret it? Apologize for the man I have been before? For that other Camus' choices, his fear?"

Milo rolled onto his back. "No, I don't think I was ready either." He held up a hand up to block the sunlight dazzling his eyes. "I wonder," he said thoughtfully, "the dream we're having now – did you come into mine, did I go into yours, or are we someplace different?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really. Still, we've been – " he glanced sideways at Camus, slyly, " - dreaming a long time. Shouldn't it be morning by now? Shouldn't we be waking up?"

"Dreams can stop time," Camus said, "Some say that you can live an entire lifetime in the space of a single night." He brushed the back of his hand along Milo's arm and down his side; his fingers swirled over the flat belly, tracing around the navel until he teased out a shiver. "We should take advantage of this and dream some more, don't you think?" They moved into position with practiced economy, whorls of hair clinging to their sun-dappled shoulders as they merged in the familiar rhythm. The physical aspect of their union almost seemed secondary to the emotional aspect: they really were inside each other now, they really did feel like one flesh, one heart, one spirit. With Camus, Milo for the first time in his life felt truly present in the moment, truly alive despite the terrible, uncharted vastness of loving someone who loved him back.

. . . and then Camus vanished, and Milo's world ended.

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Next chapter: Camus