#para: wickedmilo

[evebrennan]

How To Walk 101

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Between the bar and Milo’s Apartment PARTIES: @wickedmilo & @evebrennan SUMMARY: Caoimhe teaches Milo how to walk in 3/4s time, Milo is grumpy but maybe he doesn’t mind the company. CONTENT: Alcohol, mentions of drug abuse, mention of blood

Milo was more than used to being intoxicated. In fact, he probably spent more time with alcohol in his system than he did without alcohol in his system. But given his new situation, he could no longer pass out in a gutter and wander home in the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately for him, the inevitable appearance of the sun had put a schedule on his fun. It definitely wasn’t the end of the world, not when he could return to a comfortable apartment, and a roommate who usually had a cup of blood waiting for him. But growing used to watching the time wasn’t something he had quite managed just yet. It was why, as he made his way back from the bathrooms, cuffing at his nose to erase any evidence of what he had just been doing inside the stalls, he glanced at his phone screen, surprised to discover the sun was due to rise in an hour. Sighing quietly to himself, leaning heavily against the wall, he took a moment to watch the crowd surrounding him. He knew some of the faces, but so many of them were a blur. People he had probably crossed paths with more than once and forgotten by the time his hangover hit. He missed being as carefree as they were. He missed not knowing that vampires, and werewolves lurked on every street corner. That his childhood best friend was a cold hearted killer, ready to dust him the moment she was given the chance.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to stay where he was forever, not technically at least, he pushed away from the wall and began to weave through the people on the dancefloor, making his way towards the exit. He wasn’t sad to be leaving. If he was being honest, the lights, and loud music were beginning to make his head ache, and at least he could smoke on the walk home. But it took effort. Effort he already didn’t want to expend. Not realising, as he crossed the threshold, emerging out onto the street, that he was in plain sight of everybody lining the sidewalk, he stumbled over his own feet and caught himself against the door jam. Maybe he was more drunk than he gave himself credit for. “Shit…” He muttered quietly, shaking his head in an effort to regain his balance. When he was finally ready, he continued on his journey, unaware of the woman now chasing after him.

It was almost too crowded. Caoimhe pushed through bodies that pushed back, eyes glazed; for once the noise was just noise. There was nothing rhythmic behind it, the jukebox lost under the din of voices and shouts. Alcohol made humans sloppy. Their fingers fumbled and their voices slurred, and Caoimhe never minded chaos, but there was a line between fun and messy. Enough people made the hair on the back of her neck stand up (but then, was that just White Crest), and the air felt heavy. There was nothing there for her save a cocktail and a passably amusing bartender. White Crest boasted enough bars, she was fairly certain she could get away with crossing this one off her list.

Her path out was cleared by someone else, someone who stumbled out the front door, who braced himself against the wall and had to shake his head clear before moving forward. There was no shortage of drunken strangers stumbling around outside of the bar, but most were finding themselves a ride home, or staggering away on the arm of a more-stable friend. This one left alone. Caoimhe hesitated a moment; of course she would need to go in the complete opposite direction. She thought of her couch and her books and the radio turned just loud enough to hear and all the boxes she had left to unpack and–

And she turned the other way and followed the drunken stranger instead. He’d managed just far enough she had to jog, a surprising feat for someone she’d assumed was having a hard time walking only moments before. “It’s one foot in front of the other.” She grinned as she caught up, “I know it can be hard to remember after you’ve had a few, thought I’d help out. Just left, then right. I believe in you.”

Already in the process of pulling his cigarettes from his pocket, Milo was too preoccupied to notice the woman until she spoke to him. Glancing up at her, he did nothing to hide how surprised he was by the sudden company. She seemed a little out of breath, as though she had actively run to catch up with him, though he couldn’t imagine why he was ever worth that amount of energy. “What?” He asked, taking a moment too long to register her comment. “Oh, right. Fuck you.” He muttered, amusement lacing his tone.  He couldn’t stop a quiet laugh from escaping him. The situation felt so ridiculous. He wasn’t exactly a child, he didn’t need taking care of. “I appreciate the concern but I’m fine.” He insisted, sparking up and taking a long drag of smoke before turning to face her properly. What kind of person did this? Chased after people leaving bars and clubs to make sure they were okay? He wasn’t sure whether he found it sweet, or patronising. He figured only time would help him decide. “And what if I want to put the right foot first?” He asked pointedly. “Are you gonna tell me I’m doing it wrong?”

Caoimhe thought about vices: alcohol, cigarettes lit just before dawn, music. She wondered how much of it was habit. He certainly looked like it was natural, like the easy way he cursed and laughed all in the same breath, relieving a tension she hadn’t even been aware was there in the first place. He could have easily meant it. She’d been half-prepared for an argument, one she’d win even if she had to make sure he made it home at a distance. As it was, his beratement was tinged with amusement, and Caoimhe found herself smiling instead.

“Well, you would be wrong. Everyone knows it’s left first, even a Waltz starts with the left.” She mimed a quick Waltz before giving up. There were some things from her childhood that stuck. Her family had never been the type to frequent ballrooms or concert halls, preferring quick-time beats and the kind of chaos that only ever came on late fall evenings, laughter dancing through the trees off Beara way. Formality was something she’d picked up later. She couldn’t think about dancing in rough circles with people who might’ve been friends; she couldn’t think about leaving. “All judgement withheld, though, just let me help you home. You uh, you seemed a little rough back there.”

Milo watched as the woman smiled at him, clearly relieved to find he was in a decent mood, and not about to aggressively protest her company. She had a nice smile, he thought. Something about her was welcoming. “I’m not waltzing though, I’m walking.” He countered, exhaling a breath of smoke, careful to direct it away from her as she demonstrated the dance. He couldn’t help smiling too, raising his eyebrows as he waited for her to stop. “You done?” He asked finally, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. If she thought he seemed a little rough because he had stumbled in a doorway, she had no idea what rough actually was. “Believe me, however bad you think I am now, I’ve been a thousand times worse.” He assured her. “And however worried you are about my safety, or whatever… you don’t know the shit I’ve been through. And I survived, so...” Kind of survived. “I think I can handle walking home alone.”

His words weren’t slurred, but they fell from his lips with an easy, almost clumsy enunciation. One you only ever adopted when you were under the influence, or incredibly tired. And much like his pronunciation, his judgement was taking a fast dip in quality. If it were any other night, or if she were any other person, he might be pushing her away by now. Angry that she was assuming he couldn’t protect himself. that he was incapable of avoiding trouble. As it was, he didn’t see the harm in letting her stay. It might actually be nice, having somebody to talk to. “I’m Milo.” He introduced himself after a few beats of silence had passed between them, faltering as he struggled to walk in a straight line, and rebounded awkwardly off of a brick wall to his left. Narrowing his eyes, already anticipating a comment from his new friend, he hurried to catch her gaze. “You didn’t see that.”

Caoimhe resisted the urge to reach out and steady him, tucking her hands firmly into her pockets. There was some pride mixed in there. He hadn’t chased her off quite yet, but his confidence brokered no argument, and she wasn’t going to try. He could bounce off as many walls as he wanted, and she’d turn a blind eye to each, as long as he made it safely home by the end of the night.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t amusing, the way his eyes darted up to meet hers, like he knew she’d say something. And she would. She bit back a grin and swallowed a laugh, but she didn’t have that good of a poker face. The corners of her lips twitched up and she huffed out a breath. So defensive for someone who couldn’t seem to figure out the left then right bit. Caoimhe thought she might actually enjoy this random, drunk stranger. “Didn’t see what?” She gave him the benefit of the doubt, looking away and taking pointed steps forward, sure to match whatever pace he managed to set.

“Milo.” She tried the name out. It fit, somehow, with the brick and the cigarette smoke. “For the record, Milo, you’re stumbling because you’re being stubborn about which foot goes first.” Because it couldn’t possibly be the alcohol. He’d told her he’d been through worse (and she believed him; there had to be some history behind someone who’d stumble home from the bar alone, who’d probably been there alone drinking who knows how much for who knows how long).

“And I’m Caoimhe, by the way.” She wondered if that fit. “I’m sure you’ve been through some shit, but maybe tonight you don’t have to go through anything because you properly used the buddy system.”

Milo grinned, unable to help himself, both surprised and endeared by the woman’s response. “Good.” He said decisively, tapping ash as he spoke. He watched it fall to the floor, careful not to get too distracted by it lest he stumble again. Only looking back up at his company as she echoed his name, he realised it was weird, hearing a stranger say it. More often than not he barely registered the sound. His name was his name, he heard it far too often to really think about it, the phonetics, the way it fell from people’s lips. But now, he heard it as if hearing it for the first time, and found himself wondering whether it suited him. “Wow,” he deadpanned, his smile giving away how amused he really was. “You’re hilarious. Maybe I’m stumbling because you made me feel self conscious and now I’m putting the left foot first… or the right foot? Whichever one it was. It’s never good, asking somebody to change a fundamental aspect of who they are.” He teased, feigning sincerity.

“Caoimhe?” It was his turn to repeat her name, as he committed it to his memory. Or tried to, at the very least. When he had been drinking there was no guarantee information would stay with him, but that didn’t stop him from making the occasional effort. “As much as I appreciate this ‘buddy system’ I really don’t think you’d be able to protect me from some of the shit this town likes to throw at people.” It was true, perhaps he was being more honest than was smart, but he didn’t see any reason to lie. And it led him to a question, one that felt like a sudden, genuine concern. “Hey, if you’re walking me home, who’s walking you home?”  

“Don’t be self-conscious, be self-confident.” Caoimhe could barely manage it without descending into laughter, her words choking off at the end. It was something she could likely find on a motivational poster in some high school somewhere. Luckily, Milo seemed like the tough on the outside, adequate sense of humor on the inside type. “There are much bigger hills to define yourself by than what foot you put first. Like whether or not you like pickles, or if you had a two-thousand-six emo phase. Maybe I’m not just helping you walk home, Milo. Maybe I’m helping you be a better person.”

She spun to walk backwards in front of him, a feat made easy by the pace. He looked like the type who had a two-thousand-six emo phase. With the cigarette smoke clouding out beside him and the way his eyes seemed to focus on his feet (though, perhaps that was her fault). She wondered again what had him in a bar until the sun was threatening to peek over the horizon; she wondered why he was stumbling home alone. He’d accepted her help easily enough, rolled with the twists and turns of the conversation even if she looked so completely random waltzing with no one only moments before. He made good company.

And he was concerned. It seemed genuine, and her smile shifted from light and joking to something a little softer in return. “Unlike some, I know which foot goes first. And–”

And she could defend herself. And there was more to her than just a woman making her way home from the bar. Humans could be cruel, sometimes. She so often saw the best in them, but she wasn’t blind. Caoimhe had learned where her defenses lay: not in her hands or her strength, but rather in the way she spun words, and the way she pulled from them with a simple touch. “I’m stronger than I look. I’ll find my way home again.”

“All of my problems have been solved. However can I repay you?” Milo deadpanned, secretly enjoying the way Caoimhe laughed at her own joke. “I like pickles.” He added, realising after he said the words that they probably were no longer true. It was the first time he had found himself genuinely missing human food. A burger with pickles sounded perfect right about now. He was never going to have that satisfaction again. He craved a different satisfaction, one completely unrelated to greasy diner food. “And I was too busy for an emo phase. Honestly, I don’t think I could have pulled it off.” He had never been the type to put much thought into his clothing. If he liked it, he bought it. And if the colours and styles didn’t seem to horrifically clash then he was more than content to throw on an outfit and forget about what he was wearing. He knew just by watching people in high school that fashion could be taken very seriously, he just didn’t have that kind of energy to expend. “So you assume I need help to become a better person?” He asked, narrowing his eyes in mock offense. “You’re assuming I need to become a better person in general?”

Taking a long, final drag of smoke before dropping his cigarette to the floor, he raised his eyebrows as his company decided to walk backwards. He couldn’t decide whether she was doing so without really registering her actions, or pointedly showing off her dexterity. “Okay, okay, I get it- you can walk backwards without tripping over your own feet.”He laughed. “You can stop with the showing off now.” Watching his new friend curiously when she insisted she was stronger than she looked, he didn’t doubt in White Crest that was entirely possible. He had been steadily learning the tells for various supernatural creatures, but there was nothing about her that caught his attention. Was she human? Or was she something else? “Me too.” He admitted, offering her a genuine smile. “Which makes your little venture entirely pointless, by the way. Even if I do appreciate having someone to talk to.”

Caoimhe almost paused. She almost forgot left then right. Because Milo asked, and she could imagine just how the conversation would proceed, if she were anyone else, if it was her mother who’d offered to walk Milo home. Her smile would have edges. However can I repay you, and she’d have a thousand answers at the ready. An open ‘I owe you’ would be the worst of them, to be paid in a forest somewhere. She could ask for a song, sing, even if it’s horrible, even if you can’t keep a tune. She could try to talk around and around until he said ‘deal,’ and there was something vague and ominous on the table she’d cash in at some later date.

That was her mother. Caoimhe could see it, she could still toy with the thought. Like she was fifteen and twisting in on herself with her mother’s guiding voice whispering in her ear. That was her mother. She only faltered a moment, finding the same easy smile she’d had since she’d caught up with him outside the bar. “Consider it your second bit of free advice. But be warned, the rest comes with a price.”

She already thought of her mother enough; there was no room for her on that dark street, laughing through the haze of cigarette smoke and a little too much alcohol. Not yet. Caoimhe still had some distance left, she wasn’t that tired. And Milo wasn’t a target, either. He was just someone Caoimhe had hoped to help in a small way. “And can’t we all be better people? I don’t like pickles, and I’ve had far too many people tell me that’s a massive character flaw upon which I could improve.”

She believed him. Even if he couldn’t seem to walk a straight line, at the very least his stubborn insistence he was fine meant he’d fight like hell should anything actually try to come after him. There was some strength there. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat and looked down to the concrete, a smile still playing on her lips.  “I’m blatantly choosing to ignore all of that, except the ‘I appreciate having someone to talk to’ bit.”

Milo laughed, shooting Caoimhe a pointed look. “Considering I didn’t technically ask for any advice, you can keep the third piece, whatever it might be...” Even though it was a rather abstract concept, he had no way of knowing what his company might pull from the air if their conversation were to continue, he was almost curious as to what the third piece of advice might end up being. His smile fading, becoming more melancholy as he registered her question, the idea of becoming a better person was one he actively tried to avoid. When you were concerned about working on yourself, you couldn’t always put yourself first. What if he needed money to score and his conscience tried to stop him from swiping someone’s wallet? What if he wanted to ignore texts from his friends, or his parents, begging him to come home, and the guilt weighing down on him became impossible to ignore? Being a better person meant changing. And too much in his life had been changing, as of late.

“I don’t know.” He admitted, scuffing his shoes against the sidewalk. “I try not to think about shit like that, I’m fine as I am.” The mention of pickles amused him, but he couldn’t bring himself to react. If only it was that easy, if only his negative traits consisted of disliking controversial foods. “You can choose to ignore all of that if you want to.” He teased, forcing himself back to the present. “It doesn’t make it untrue, and you know it.” Finally smiling again, a real, genuine smile, he was forced to admit she was good company. He would be an idiot if he tried to claim otherwise. “But yeah… I do appreciate it. Usually I’m doing this alone so… it’s nice having someone to talk to. Even if they don’t like pickles.”

“Your loss. It could’ve been the best yet, and now you’ll never know.” Like Caoimhe had anything even remotely useful to say for the entire walk home. Like she’d been a fountain of knowledge. Rather, she’d be lucky to be remembered come morning, and then only as the woman who’d done a waltz and criticized his walking, and–

And oh. She’d hit on something. His tone shifted and she looked up from her own shoes as his scuffed against the concrete. She was so sick of thinking of her mother, but she wondered sometimes at the shape of people. If they were ever told they had to fit a mould, that certain pieces of themselves should be favored over others. “Hm. Other than the walking thing?” She tried for a smile, something crooked and softer around the edges. “I’m sure you are. Fine as you, I mean. I only meant…”

She only meant what? That she could pick herself apart and find every imperfection, and never be done looking? Everyone had somewhere they could grow. It was in obsessing over those places that the trouble came in. Perhaps Milo had a point. It was better not to think about it. “Maybe it’s okay to always strive to be better. Even if some of us are already perfect.” She tempered it with an actual smile, something brighter than it had been before. He was good company. He was fine as he was.

“See, I knew the pickle thing would bother you. It’s always…” It wasn’t always the pickle thing. It was never the pickle thing. It was the leaving thing. “Well, it’s not usually the pickles, but I’m allowed to have my suspicions.” It was her turn to kick at the ground, to stumble. “And Milo. It has been nice having someone to talk to.”

Milo laughed, shaking his head at Caoimhe. “Clearly you’re underestimating just how much I don’t care.” He was only half teasing. His ability to let things go, almost in spite of his own curiosity, made his life far easier than it otherwise would be. He was almost proud of that fact. He knew it made him trustworthy, knew it was a part of why his friends felt they could confide in him. After all, it was far easier to tell somebody a secret if they weren’t trying to pry it out of you. Offering his company a shrug when she asked him to clarify, he felt something stir in his chest. She actually agreed with him. It wasn’t often he was told he didn’t need to change, didn’t have primary traits that were unsavoury, and required his attention. It meant more to him than he could ever say, even coming from a stranger. “You’re about the only one.” He admitted, the alcohol in his system allowing the words to fall from his tongue. Smiling in response to her joke, he brushed off what remained of his lingering doubts. He wanted to be enjoying the journey, and he couldn’t do that if he allowed himself to get lost inside his own head.

“You’re not perfect if you don’t like pickles. I’m sorry, it’s the truth.” He countered. Raising his eyebrows quietly when Caoimhe admitted it wasn’t usually the pickles that bothered people. He realized he really didn’t know her. There was so much more to her than what he was seeing right now, and he was beginning to wonder why she was also at a bar alone so late at night. Was she drowning her sorrows? Looking for some form of distraction? “If it’s not the pickles then what is it?” He asked, fully expecting her to brush off his question. Though maybe she wanted to talk about it. He couldn’t know until he at least encouraged her to elaborate. Watching as she stumbled, he held his tongue, his eyes shining as he waited for her to acknowledge her clumsy footing. “So, are you going to tell me how much you’ve had to drink tonight? Now that we’ve established I’m too drunk to walk myself home?”

Caoimhe held up her hands, letting it go easily.

The tone had changed, even if only for a moment. Joking gave way to an admittance Caoimhe almost missed in the moments before laughter took its place. She looked over, her hands tugging at the insides of her coat pockets, and she thought about how many songs were so incredibly sad, all dressed up in an upbeat melody. There wasn’t a word for it. Caoimhe thought perhaps there should be. He didn’t linger, and she wasn’t going to press. The moment came and passed as fleeting as everything else had, with a laugh and a smile and his insistence upon playing grumpy without actually telling her to leave.

“I stand in judgement.” Her hand pressed to her forehead, “Have you considered it is you who is flawed for liking them? It’s a crime. It’s a crime against me, specifically. I hope you think about that every time you eat a pickle, you felon.”

And she paused, again. It was easier to talk about the things that didn’t matter. It was the pickles. It wasn’t the connections forged with people who loved their instruments or their voices or her. He asked and the answer was the way her stomach twisted itself into knots, and the scratch at the back of her throat, and how she still wondered what he would create, if she told him he could, just so, if he tried. It was finding out their favorite color was blue and then leaving, always leaving, because how was she supposed to know that, and watch them whither all at once?

“Well, there’s also the whole…” She waved a hand, “Walking superiority, thing. Not everyone can handle criticism. Which,” and pointed at her own feet, “an accident, by the way. I’ve only had enough to think helping a random stranger home is a good idea.”

Milo grinned easily at his company. “I have not considered that because it’s impossible. I have no flaws.” He wasn’t sure how the conversation had become so fixated on pickles, but it was very amusing, and way too easy to humour. This kind of nonsense was liable to take place when somebody insisted on helping him home from a bar in the early hours of the morning. He wasn’t exactly thinking straight. “Do you think pickles were created solely to become the bane of your existence?” He asked, his eyes shining as he caught her gaze. “That would be really fucking petty of the universe…” He could honestly say he probably would think about Caoimhe every time he ate pickles now, and though he figured that would end up being a rather rare occurrence, it made him realise he was happy they had met. Or rather, happy she had forced her company upon him because she saw him as entirely incapable. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he handed it out to her as they began to near his apartment building. Still in the distance, but close enough to see. “No pressure or anything, but if you want to plug in your number then feel free. This was actually- this was kind of nice.”

Laughing when she insisted stumbling had been an accident he shot her a look that was equivalent to saying duh. “No shit it was an accident.” He countered. “It was an accident when I tripped but you decided it meant I needed your protection or whatever, so maybe I should be more worried about you.” He narrowed his eyes, pretending to observe her carefully for any signs of inebriation. “Ah, so far too much then?” He grinned again, ready for her to adamantly deny what he was saying. “I appreciate the honesty.”

“Mhmm.” Caoimhe hummed around a smile. “The world is conspiring against me.”

But maybe not entirely. Maybe it had found a moment in the chaos she’d made of her own life to give her a single, silly moment on a sidewalk with a man a little too drunk to walk straight. It made her think, perhaps, even if White Crest wasn’t permanent (nothing was ever permanent), it could be one of her better temporaries. She accepted the phone, thinking for a moment before entering her number and contact name ‘Call For Advice.’

“But if this is conspiring, it’s not half bad.” She handed the phone back and lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. The sky was shifting from dark indigo to a softer purple and somehow she’d found herself further from home than she had been since she’d moved. The town was expansive and full of so many things just off normal, she actually allowed herself a moment to wonder what it might be like if she stayed. If she settled at the university, if she unpacked all of her boxes, if she was a contact in Milo’s phone he thought of in the present rather than the past tense. She could stay long enough to teach him how to walk in three-fourths time.

“I’ll make it home just fine, thank you.” She settled, instead. It was always a pipe dream, there long enough for her to wonder before someone caught up. But at least they’d had a moment. She found one last smile and a laugh and “I’ll dance, it’s stronger than the alcohol. Will you make it from here?”

Milo laughed. The idea of a universe creating pickles to spite one person in particular was definitely out there, but he had seen some very strange things since becoming a vampire. “Maybe it is. But it can’t be too mad at you because it threw me into your path and I am a genuine delight.” Watching as Caoimhe took his phone, when she handed it back to him he laughed at her name, already brainstorming weird, philosophical questions he could send her when he felt like amusing himself... and potentially annoying a new friend. “What if I need advice on weird women trying to escort me home because they’re worried about my alcohol consumption?” He teased, pocketing his phone again, grinning easily at his company.

“I’ll take not half bad.” He added, after a brief moment of consideration. Shooting an uneasy glance towards the horizon, the sky was already a few shades lighter than it had been when he first decided to leave the club. Gesturing towards the end of the street, he reminded himself that he wasn’t in any danger. He was basically home, and there were a good thirty minutes until the sun would fully begin to rise. He really needed to stop cutting things so close but for now he had miraculously managed to make it home on time, which felt like a cause for celebration. It always did. “That’s my building.” He admitted, turning back to face her. Raising his eyebrows at the mention of dancing, his eyes were shining with humour. “You’re going to dance the alcohol out of your system? You might have to show me how to do that sometime.” Coming to a halt so that he could properly focus on the conversation, he nodded, hoping to assure Caoimhe that he really would be okay. “I will.” He insisted. “If you promise me you will. I mean it… not many people give a shit so… it means a lot that you wanted to check up on me.” As annoying as he liked to say it was, he was touched by the sentiment. It meant an awful lot to know there was one more person in the world watching out for him. “I’ll see you around?”

“I’ll ask if they know proper foot placement. That’s the difference.”

There was almost too much weight placed on her spur-of-the-moment decision. It turned out Caoimhe had helped more than even she thought she was going to. It turned out she didn’t mind it. But it turned into an I’ll see you around and that was hardly a promise she could make, if she was in the business of making the promises. She smiled, and–

“We’ll see.” But she hoped they would. She kind of hoped he’d ask for advice, even if she was three states away with her rearview mirror pointed down. With a wave and only the smallest of stumbles, she pivoted and walked back the way she came.