His mother tells him that's not normal, but what's not normal is the mother you created telling you something isn't normal. What's not normal is that he's spending a beautiful Sunday afternoon moving his sister's shit-in-a-box from one room to another, all because she likes the dark in the second room better than the dark in the first room. That's weird. That's concerning.
He's juggling two boxes in his arms like oversized toddlers and hopping on one foot as he exits the hallway into the foyer, behind the front desk. His ankle catches the door on his way in, slamming it shut behind him. Also not normal: an unexpected guest on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Guests are never unexpected, not in Vikram's establishment, not on Vikram's Earth. Vikram knows the name of every person who enters this lobby, except the name of the man currently standing behind the desk, waiting to be serviced.
Vik squints at Milo, at his hand on the bell, and says, finally, ) Be with you in a sec, mate.
( Just needs to put his sister's shit-in-a-box down in a corner, to be dealt with later. He slaps thick, caked-on tendrils of dust from his shirt and jeans, turning back to Milo for another head-to-toe assessment. Well, he does look familiar. Occasionally Vik forgets he's God and that sometimes he receives guests on beautiful Sunday afternoons. )
You here for a convention? ( Leaning over the countertop, Vik crab-pinches Milo's shoulder lightly, rubbing the material of his suit between his thumb and forefinger. ) Very nice. I like the fit. Let me guess: Don West? Lost in Space, 1998? ( Then, further clarification: ) Matt LeBlanc? The bloke from Friends.
( Unfortunate that all of Vik's pop culture references are from the late nineties, early noughties. )
sol. [ the word sounds punched out of him. milo stares at vikram once he steps into view, seemingly unfussed on his meandering path to the front desk. ]
i’m here for you. [ the realization dawns on him as it tumbles out of his mouth, a sharp, nagging fragment of a thought that lodges firmly into his foggy head. he’s been looking for him: apollo, his fellow olympian, missing in action. here. his hand reaches for the one toying with his suit, clutching at vik’s fingers because he’s warm and solid even through his gloves and milo’s been so unmoored throughout this hopeless search. he finally has something to hold onto.
he lets out a breath that shutters out of his chest, a wispy sound on the verge of another. ignoring the warning notifications about his vitals, milo retracts his helmet into the rest of his suit to get a good look at him. it’s been ages since he’s seen those warm brown eyes, the loose curls in his hair. and it’s been even longer since he’s gotten to see vikram like this, less like the end of a knot that’s been completely frayed.
between them milo probably looks worse for wear, sallow bags underneath his eyes. stubble lines his face. his brows twitch together in confusion. ]
lost in– what are you talking about? [ unfortunate that milo’s version of the nineties is off by a few millennia. ] it’s me, milo. demeter. we’re– [ although even he begins to sound uncertain, eyes darting about vikram’s features in search of any recognition there. his touch skirts down vikram’s forearm to grasp him closer to his elbow. ] what are you doing here?
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His mother tells him that's not normal, but what's not normal is the mother you created telling you something isn't normal. What's not normal is that he's spending a beautiful Sunday afternoon moving his sister's shit-in-a-box from one room to another, all because she likes the dark in the second room better than the dark in the first room. That's weird. That's concerning.
He's juggling two boxes in his arms like oversized toddlers and hopping on one foot as he exits the hallway into the foyer, behind the front desk. His ankle catches the door on his way in, slamming it shut behind him. Also not normal: an unexpected guest on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Guests are never unexpected, not in Vikram's establishment, not on Vikram's Earth. Vikram knows the name of every person who enters this lobby, except the name of the man currently standing behind the desk, waiting to be serviced.
Vik squints at Milo, at his hand on the bell, and says, finally, ) Be with you in a sec, mate.
( Just needs to put his sister's shit-in-a-box down in a corner, to be dealt with later. He slaps thick, caked-on tendrils of dust from his shirt and jeans, turning back to Milo for another head-to-toe assessment. Well, he does look familiar. Occasionally Vik forgets he's God and that sometimes he receives guests on beautiful Sunday afternoons. )
You here for a convention? ( Leaning over the countertop, Vik crab-pinches Milo's shoulder lightly, rubbing the material of his suit between his thumb and forefinger. ) Very nice. I like the fit. Let me guess: Don West? Lost in Space, 1998? ( Then, further clarification: ) Matt LeBlanc? The bloke from Friends.
( Unfortunate that all of Vik's pop culture references are from the late nineties, early noughties. )
no subject
i’m here for you. [ the realization dawns on him as it tumbles out of his mouth, a sharp, nagging fragment of a thought that lodges firmly into his foggy head. he’s been looking for him: apollo, his fellow olympian, missing in action. here. his hand reaches for the one toying with his suit, clutching at vik’s fingers because he’s warm and solid even through his gloves and milo’s been so unmoored throughout this hopeless search. he finally has something to hold onto.
he lets out a breath that shutters out of his chest, a wispy sound on the verge of another. ignoring the warning notifications about his vitals, milo retracts his helmet into the rest of his suit to get a good look at him. it’s been ages since he’s seen those warm brown eyes, the loose curls in his hair. and it’s been even longer since he’s gotten to see vikram like this, less like the end of a knot that’s been completely frayed.
between them milo probably looks worse for wear, sallow bags underneath his eyes. stubble lines his face. his brows twitch together in confusion. ]
lost in– what are you talking about? [ unfortunate that milo’s version of the nineties is off by a few millennia. ] it’s me, milo. demeter. we’re– [ although even he begins to sound uncertain, eyes darting about vikram’s features in search of any recognition there. his touch skirts down vikram’s forearm to grasp him closer to his elbow. ] what are you doing here?