CHAPTER ONE
— sweet briar —

' i wound to heal '

-ˋˏ ༻ ❁ ༺ ˎˊ-

Ever since Milo first realised that his life had come to an abrupt standstill, the summer nights have grown to feel endless.

   The Cimmerian darkness of winter is no more, paving the way for a less than gentle twilight where the rising temperature is a more burden than blessing. The constellations spin before his starry eyes and paint the cosmos in molten silver, a sky of purple to match the sleepy bruising of his under eyes. On most nights, warm droplets of rain will bead against his window panes, the odd smattering visible under the golden glow of the lamp posts if you are squint hard enough. The whir of his cheap fan has become unfortunate normality to his ears, cooling the nape of his neck when the heat grows to be truly unbearable. He might've found himself lost in the poetry of it all if it weren't for the other things on his mind.

He can't sleep. It's been days, for when he screws his eyes closed, he's kept awake by infinite questions and worries and suspicions — cursed by his own curiosity. The stuffy nights in his flat have been spent poring over latin translations that he can't quite wrap his head around and lines for a novel that won't stick to the page, his eyes growing weary as sunrise seems to stretch further out of his reach. When he lies on his back, spine digging to the springy matress, a million thoughts accompany him during the eternal night whilst he abstains from sleep. Hiding from the nightmares concocted by his own mind. He yearns to hear the aubade given by the aliferous dawn chorus, ephemeral and dulcet, dancing past him the way stones skim upon a stagnant surface of a lake. It never manages to come as quickly as he'd wish.

Traffic rumbles past outside, neglecting the late hour in search of a good time. Milo listens to the ballads of the drunken passers-by as they stumble around several floors below his window, an envious sensation stabbing through his gut while he bears witness to the laughter bubbling from their chests and the friendship held in their hearts. The insomnia seems to bring out a jealous side to him that has lurked beneath the surface for years, his sleepless nights partially spent cursing these strangers for having more fun than he has in a long, long time.

  After all, blaming the strangers is easier than facing up to his own problems. He buries his face into the plush comfort of his pillow, a frustrated groan omitting from his lips as the midnight traffic begins to crescendo.

The daydreams carry him away. He has to let them, for what else is there for him to do? It has reached that time of night— or, early morning where Milo wants to close his eyes and wake up to the bleary face of his love, to rouse from a comatose lie in and find the space next to him isn't empty or cold. The harsh truth is that he just can't, since in order to do that he'd have to fall asleep in the first place and Donovan has been missing from their flat all day, anyway.

His glaring absence makes Milo feel strange. When Donovan isn't home, Milo perpetually acts as though he's waiting up for him, hanging by a thread in case he calls. At this point, he probably is.

The ceiling grows duller the more he stares up at it. He has an ache in his fingertips and dozens of ink stains from scribbling down words to make up for the hours where he evaded sleep. Everything hurts, scars new and old, as the weight of the world overwhelms him like the titan Atlas. His eyelids begin to flutter.

Though, Milo's jolted awake when the phone begins to ring, sending tremors around his flat. His heart rate begins to pick up. He scrambles to his feet, slipping across the floorboards in a mad scramble to reach it in time.

  Their phone is lemony yellow and hanging onto the wall by a thread, a spiralling chord twisting from the bottom like ribbon under the moonlight. His fingers curl around it, rings grating against the plastic as he wrenches it from the wall and presses it to the crook of his neck, craning down so that he can direct it to his ear.

"Hi," he breathes, holding onto the phone like a lifeline. Lovesick and hopelessly devoted — if he had any sense, he'd feel embarrassed.

"Alright?"

  His voice is slightly slurred. He's been drinking.

Milo hums. "Aye, grand. Um, where are you just now?"

He can practically feel Donovan rolling his eyes out of his head. "Out with some mates from uni. I left a post-it on the fridge."

  "Oh. Must've missed it." He turns to find a blank fridge staring back at him. "Anyways, you remembered about lunch tomorrow, yeah?"

  Donovan snickers suddenly, his voice growing passive. "Mm, about that... Dunno if I can make tomorrow. I'll have a mad hangover and I don't think I can handle your weirdo mates when I've already got a headache."

  Every critical comment Donovan makes about Milo's friends feels like a stab to the gut. ( You'd think he'd be bleeding out by now. ) Milo opens his mouth to say something when a staticky voice chimes in on the other end of the line, female and excruciatingly Brummie. Milo is met with muffled chatting as though Donovan's pressing the phone to his shoulder in an attempt to stifle the conversation. Impatience wears at Milo's meek temper. He returns after a few minutes, the ghost of a laugh still hanging from his lips.

  "Oh, God. You're not cross, are you?"

Milo twists the chord around his fingertip, eyebrows furrowing. "I mean, 'suppose I am a wee bit—"

  A scoff, as if that's exactly the answer he was expecting. Donovan always insists he's taking things too seriously, that he's sensitive. Milo can't shake off the growing desire to defend himself.

  "It's just that you've been going out a lot recently. I feel like I never get to see you."

"D'you hate it when I have fun, or something?" He laughs breathily. "No offence, but you're the only person that would ever get bothered by this, Milo. You can be so controlling sometimes."

  His eyebrows knit. "Van, that's not what I—"

  "You can come along next time, I guess," he says agitatedly as if he's being coerced into inviting Milo or, God forbid, being forced into spending time with his boyfriend. Another laugh breezes through his nose, quickly dissolving into suppressed hiccups. "If it'll stop your whinging. Dunno if it's your thing, though. We can see how it goes."

Milo purses his lips. He hadn't agreed to come, nor does he particularly want to. Maybe this is Donovan's way of pushing him into saying no, so that there's no one to blame but himself when this scene is repeated in a week's time. Or maybe he's just overthinking the invitation. Milo screws his eyes shut to think.

  "Don't worry," he replies tersely, opening his eyes. "I'll be fine."

  Donovan cheers. "There you go, that's the spirit! Anyway, I'll be home at some point later t'night. See you then, yeah?"

  Milo hums. The line goes silent, though it's clear that they're both still present at either end. He unravels the chord from around his finger, opting to wrap his arms around his own torso in search of something to comfort him. Inexplicably, Donovan's jumper feels scratchier than usual against his skin.

  "I love you," he hazards hopefully.

There's a pause. "Yeah. Love you too."

  Milo smiles softly. "Good ni—"

  A click sounds, the line going dead.

  His sigh rattles his skeleton, jaw ticking as he hooks the phone back onto the wall.

  Sleep evades him for the rest of the night, dancing just out of reach, taunting him in an act of cat and mouse whenever his eyes begin to droop. His whirring fan fades into the background noise as he stares down into the dregs of his chamomile tea, annoyance on his mind while the scalding warmth fans across the width of his body. Milo wrenches off his boyfriend's jumper and burrows under the covers, curling up like a woodland creature hidden in the undergrowth.

With a sigh, he discards his mug on his bedside. Milo buries his face into his pillow, relishing in the smell of citrus and saccharine wildflowers. Shadows dance across his wall, more midnight entertainment to distract him from the lull of rest. He brushes his fingertips across the smooth diameter of the tumbled amethyst beneath his pillow as a distraction — he'll stop at nothing to induce a prolonged sleep, accepting any remedies or old wives tales that his friends throw his way. In the quietude of his own head, the thoughts pile up and begin to talk over one another, cradling his mind with all the comfort of a pounding migraine.

He lifts up his head, daring to cast a glance in the direction of his alarm clock. The flashing red numbers signify that hours have passed in his state of reflection, a hermit in his own mind, the minutes finally counting down to sunrise. He lazily peers over his shoulder to take in the view of shuttered windows and flashing signs from takeaways, admiring the calm before the storm as the dawn chorus preludes the cacophonous rush hour bound to arrive at any moment.

Orange streaks crest the skyline. His eyes finally begin to flutter closed.

JOE'S THOUGHTS ! ! !

-ˋˏ ༻ ❁ ༺ ˎˊ-

first chapter adjourned wheyyyy

nothing very important or crucial to the plot happened in this chapter but i mainly wanted to introduce yous to donovan's character! they're both traumatised, meaning that donovan has unhealthy coping mechanisms and even more unhealthy relationships so... make of that what you will. on the other hand milo is miserable and melodramatic but we love him for it

no remus in this either but that'll change soon 👀