Chapter Text
Milo finds out he was buried in a field of amaranths by clawing his way out from underneath them.
The dirt in his mouth doesn’t bother him as much as it should. He’s not choking on it—he can’t choke on it, because he isn’t breathing. He’s cold all over, from the tips of his fingers to somewhere behind his eyes to his bloodless veins. That’s to be expected, he thinks. Necromancy was never his forte, but he knows that it never brings anything back quite right.
He was dead a moment ago. It’s a little hard to believe, when he’s scraping away the dirt of his grave—the grit under his fingernails feels as real as the day he died. However long ago that was. It feels like it was only a moment ago, but very few people find themselves six feet under the ground only moments after their death.
Milo certainly isn’t six feet under, anyway. The dirt gives way to the night sky without too much effort, and he heaves himself into the fresh air, only to find he can’t breathe it in. Hands reach out for him, brushing away debris and grabbing at his clothes, and Milo swats them away before scurrying backward into the flowers. He doesn’t know what sick purposes a necromancer brought him back for, but he doesn’t intend to stick around to learn them. He needs to leave. He needs to find-
“Milo!”
Everything stops.
Milo waves away the petals fluttering across his view and squints at the figure in front of him—the world is lit only by moonlight, but even that is a touch too bright for his eyes. The person stands silhouetted against the full moon, their features are impossible to make out against the shadows. It’s almost as if they are one of the shadows.
“Milo.” His name is said as if it might break. “Milo, Milo, it’s me.” The figure’s hands raise in surrender. “You- you remember me, don’t you?”
Milo swallows hard. He still can’t see the face of the person, the necromancer, in front of him, but he knows that voice.
The realization makes him a little sick.
“Sunshine?” he whispers hoarsely.
“Yeah.” Scott nods, kneeling down in front of him. “It’s me, Milo. I’m here. You’re here.”
Milo reaches out for his face with both hands, as if that will help him see it better. Scott gently takes his wrists, guiding him upward until his fingers brush against his cheeks. Milo holds his face carefully and tries to wipe away the shadows that cover it. Though his hands come away wet with tears, the darkness remains, shrouding Scott’s expression.
“Sunshine,” Milo says, dirt crunching in his throat with each syllable. “Did you do this?”
“Yes,” Scott replies breathlessly. “I’ve been trying to bring you back for so long, Milo. Since the day you died, and now it’s worked.”
He traces his thumb along his shadowy cheekbone. “I’ve been gone for a while, haven’t I?”
Scott’s grip tightens ever-so-slightly. “But you’re here now.”
“Why?” Milo chokes out.
“I did a ritual that brought you back to life.”
“No, no.” He can feel himself starting to shake from the cold within his own bones. “No, why did you do that?”
Scott makes a soft, scandalized noise. “You were dead,” he says. “I couldn’t just leave you that way.”
“But what about you?” he presses, still cradling his head between his hands. “What have you done to yourself, sunshine?”
“Nothing more than I had to,” Scott replies smoothly. “I’m all right. More than all right, now that you’re here.”
Milo bites his lip to keep it from trembling. “I can’t even see your face.”
“It’s dark,” he says. “Come on. Let’s go home, yeah?”
Scott helps him to his feet and Milo winces at the moonlight. The only darkness seems to come from Scott, or at least be drawn to him. Of course it is. After all, he is a necromancer. Scott is a necromancer.
It doesn’t make any sense. Necromancy isn’t inherently an evil practice, but bringing something back from the dead… well, that sort of is. Summoning zombies is one thing—they were never alive, just animated. There’s a difference. But messing with the remains of people and animals, resurrecting them into the not-quite living state that’s found a home in Milo’s unbeating heart, that’s frowned upon. Life and death aren’t meant to be twisted in such ways.
Milo isn’t necessarily upset that he’s not dead anymore, but he cringes at the thought of what Scott must have done to raise him from the grave.
Still, when he takes his hand in his and tugs him along, Milo follows. What else is he supposed to do? It’s Scott. Besides, he’s in no shape to do anything on his own—every step he takes is unsteady. He holds onto Scott’s hand like it’s a lifeline.
He supposes that, in a way, it is.
Scott guides him deep into a forest with an urgency to his pace. Milo keeps up as best as he can, glancing around nervously for monsters. While he sees several zombies, none of them seem to notice him or Scott. A creeper makes an appearance, but before Milo can make a sound, Scott’s head turns toward it and fangs shoot out of the ground, killing it cleanly. He doesn’t even break his stride. The fangs sink back into the earth, but Milo’s gaze remains fixed on the spot until it’s out of sight.
How long has he been gone for?
Eventually, a tower pokes out from amongst the trees. Scott heads straight for it. The house that comes into view is wonderful—it somewhat resembles the one Milo had started to draw up plans for the two of them to move into. The tower is made mostly of dark stones. Thorny berry bushes grow in the garden. Dead grass crunches beneath his feet.
It’s not a perfect resemblance, by any means, but it’s close.
“In here.” Scott holds the door open for him. “You okay?”
“Tired,” Milo tells him, leaning against the wall.
“Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.” While the room is by no means brightly lit, there are lights, and yet a piece of the night seems to have come in with Scott—it’s like no matter where he stands, he’s always in the shadows. “Sorry, I was rushing. I just wanted to get you home.”
Milo manages a nod. “I understand.”
“The bed is upstairs,” Scott says, still holding his hand. “This way.”
Climbing the ladder is no easy feat in Milo’s condition, but he manages it. He kicks off his dirty shoes along the way and Scott pulls him up the last few rungs, then helps him to the bed. The covers are already pulled back. Milo practically falls onto the bed, rolling over to his side of it with a sigh that moves his ribs but not his lungs.
“Goodnight, darling,” Scott says softly. “I love you.”
Milo hums in response, the words not quite being able to make it past his lips. His eyes flutter closed, exhausted.
It takes him a moment to realize that Scott hasn’t laid down beside him. He sits up to find that he’s wandered over to the other side of the room—he’s sorting through a chest, but it’s clearly an act. His head is tilted in Milo’s direction.
“Scott,” he calls. “Come to bed, sunshine. Please.” He hesitates, staying by the chest. “Please, Scott.”
Uncertain as he is about everything at the moment, Milo can’t bear the thought of sleeping alone. It’s too much like death.
Scott approaches the bed, but he doesn’t get into it. “I don’t sleep anymore.”
“Don’t?” Milo asks. “Or can’t?”
“I just don’t,” he replies. “It’s complicated.”
“Sleep tonight,” he requests. “Please.”
It’s hardly night anymore, but that’s not the important part. A sliver of the gray rays of dawn have started to leak through the window, at long last casting light on Scott’s face. Only a tiny part of his pale jaw is visible so far—Milo can tell that it’s tense.
“Okay,” Scott relents, shedding his cape and boots. “For tonight.”
He climbs into bed next to him, arms open for Milo to nestle into. They’ve shared a bed a thousand times, and it’s usually Milo who holds him, but he’s not complaining. The touch is warm. He can’t help but sink into it.
Scott breathes softly, chest rising and falling as he runs a comforting hand through Milo’s hair. As nice as it is, something is off. More light has entered the room by now, and he wonders if he could finally see Scott’s face if he looked up. It’s as he considers it that he realizes why his embrace feels strange.
Scott’s heart beats once under his head. Just once. Then it falls silent again.
Milo counts the seconds until the next beat. Eight. He counts again. Another eight seconds.
He shuts his eyes, buries his face in Scott’s shoulder, and wills himself to drift off to sleep.