☠ Milo Periander ☠
In the deeper rounds of a game, Milo knows, the winner and the loser will emerge at any point. There's no hiding, no slipping under the radar until the perfect moment to strike, no wildcards that get to live. There's just him and everyone else, trapped, scratching at the surface for any feeling of life, refusing to sit back and wait for the game to end.
In a game, there are rules. Regulations. The nos and yeses of what needs to be done in order to win, and the disqualifications resulting from any of these broken laws. But Milo has never cared for rules- only because they don't exist- and the deeper rounds of a game become manipulation, digression, and the killing fate of people willing to turn on one another.
It's a gamble, really. Put your life in other's hands, and watch them crumble it to dust. Keep it in your own hands, however, and see it thrive. See it as it's supposed to be. Unending, kept safe from risks and wagers. And, when all bets are off, nobody can kill you. Except you.
Milo, as per usual, walks alone in the sulfur caves. The drumline of water drips down in offbeats, either splashing against stone or crashing like cymbals into the lava, releasing a mist musical and silent seconds later. It's this constant echo that he walks to, watching steam pile high after a droplet hits the burning red, the clear liquid reflecting black rocks and orange magma alike. Like a fire born from its ashes, desecration set to reverse.
He sweats as his heels dig into the ground, wiping his hands on his pants as soon as they're too wet again. His frown descends from his mouth, the edges so low it's like the man has never seen a smile before; it's morose and devilish and the sight of a subdued storm without a peeking sun, shadows delusional as they place themselves upon his lip. Tasting of charcoal on his tongue, yet dry and dehydrated as hell-lands in every direction.
He thinks his skin becomes slippery and melted, stumbling candle wax as he leans on the brimstone wall, the other side feeding the air lava and purging it to his heels (purging, he thinks, I've done that before), heating him more than he's ever been. It's durable, though. Like the soles of a foot on a trail of hot coals, still moving, still alive. He can handle it, now.
Blood seeps from his knees, the pant fabric sliced into shreds. Pain is merely a kilogram as he leans down (back hunched, lean over and-) and pulls a few threads out of the wound. It stings, but it's shallow enough that any kind of infection would plant itself in shallow dirt, growing into a stunted scar. He wonders where it'd come from- perhaps dying intoxicated makes reliving the same, dazed and hazy as day and night don't exist in the dark. Oh, there's no moon in death. No sun. And the passing of time is counted by how faded your memories become, and how long ago you loved him.
The rocks scald his palms when he touches them, using them for support as he stands upright. It's painful, but he closes his eyes- the washing sound of a reddened river flows past him, smelling as rosemary as the cave even glows when he looks away. The shirt on his back- rough and heavy- dries, yet his hair still hangs wet with humidity.
Igneous rock is the first to form- and it does, right before his eyes, pools like embers popping from the stream and landing at his feet, solidifying in seconds. Igneous rock is the first to crumble, its fiery life over as it becomes stone, its light dimmed into another phase. Milo Periander is igneous, breathing in steam beneath an array of burning crag.
Then, the other man appears (honeyhair oceaneyes and theskinofaprince). As if forming from the steam itself, Milo consumed to a wistful trance, his gambling lover steps from the dark. Ren Cayse. Milo knows him- knew him. If igneous was heat and fire and things alight, then Milo sees Ren as sedimentary, a stone bore through air, uplifting and light in terms of weight and not gold. Together, they were the runaway sight of a hot air balloon, wind and flame carrying them across the sky.
