Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

FINAL WARNING: THIS IS NOT A SLASH FIC- MILO AND CAMUS ARE FRIENDS IN THIS FIC ...but I still hope you enjoy!

­Edgar knew he'd arrive at 8. Or maybe it was 9. He wasn't sure which. The only thing he knew was that his oldest (if not paradoxically steadfast) friend complained over the phone that he might be half asleep when he arrived. Such a complaint left the actual time a mystery, so he figured the sooner he could arrive to meet him, the better.

The sun had begun to rise as he arrived at the train station. Finding a place to sit on a metal bench by the ticket booth, he looked towards the distance at the tracks. Awaiting any sign of an arriving train, he absentmindedly checked his watch and wondered if his students were awake minding their responsibilities.

The thoughts were abruptly stopped by a burst of wind. Edgar tugged at the collar of his trenchcoat, bringing it closer to his cheeks. It wasn't so much the dying puffs of bitter cold that bothered the Aquarius Saint, as much as the inevitable rouge it brought to his pale face. Such a rose hue felt garish to him, despite having been told the contrary for many years.

Checking the time on the station clock with its dim glow and rusted hands, Edgar once again began to mull over seeing his old friend. Three years ago, he left the sweltering heat of Athens to train new Saints in Siberia, and the two hadn't been face-to-face in that time.

The two had kept in touch, certainly, but postcards and the occasional phone call could only do so much. They had agreed to meet again at some point, but Edgar knew distance was a detrimental factor for these kinds of things. Now that it was finally happening, the Aquarius Saint began to wonder how the reunion would go. Had his friend changed? Was Edgar expected to to have changed as well? Perhaps most importantly, would Milo remember to bring everything he said he would?

He rose and strode over to the schedule. The next train would arrive in about 20 minutes. Through the dim reflection of the glass, Edgar checked to ensure his own sleepiness was absent from his eyes. The steely blue eyes stared back, as did his slender, sloped nose, thin lips and high cheekbones for an expression that was stern at its most neutral.

Tugging at the worn fiddler's cap on his head, he sat back down once more, crossing his legs as he pulled out a worn paperback to pass the time. He certainly hoped he hadn't missed the train, though if he did he was sure he'd have heard the denizens of the small village trying to help a very confused foreigner get to his destination. He opted to settle into the book over fretting. Picking up where he left off the previous night, he lost himself to the story as time passed.

Soon enough, a distant rhythmic chugging began to creep into his ear. Looking up from his book, he saw the white puffs of steam billow into the clouds. Once more he rose, waiting for the train to roll in. More steam burst from the wheels with a hiss once it halted. As the warm clouds slowly faded away, the passengers began to disembark. Edgar eyed them quickly, realizing his friend would probably be hard to miss. Feeling his search was in vain as the train rolled away, he felt a hearty pat on his shoulder.

“Hey!” a voice behind him mocked, “Are papers still a nickel? Can't believe you can still pick up one by hand out here.”

Edgar turned around and rolled his eyes. Picking up the hand on his shoulder as if it were diseased, he dropped it at Milo's side. “Well, the literate would know,” he replied, crossing his arms. “Interesting choice in kerchief, ” he added, nodding his head towards the equally stretched out bandanna on Milo's head.

Milo gave a smirk in response. “Oh, you like it? Thanks!” He looked to the sky thoughtfully. “Well, we finally did it,” he casually announced, picking up the suitcases beside him. “You look like crap by the way,” he added jovially, “You getting enough food out here? I know you like the snow, but I don't think you can live off the stuff.”

Edgar sighed. “I'm eating enough. I just know when to control myself at the dinner table.”

The Scorpio Saint huffed, “Oh come on, we're still on that? I was really hungry that night, alright?”

“Then I can only imagine how much you can eat when you have a normal appetite.”

Milo shook his head. “Let's just drop it and get the hell out of here. My ass is killing me from all that sitting.”

Still vulgar, too. Edgar figured that wasn't going to change from spending time in the Sanctuary. As the Scorpio Saint, he supposed that Milo might even be influencing younger trainees to pick up his... habits. The horror.

At least he was getting enough sun, given the bronze of his skin. Milo's eyes were a close match to the vivid seas of Greece. He carried a slightly squarer jaw than Edgar, and had a sloped nose with the slightest crook on the bridge. A sly, if not subtly mischievous look was always twinkling just behind his eyes, his lips resting on a smirk always at the ready with a quip.

Heading out of the station and going towards the pickup truck, Milo took in the scenery around them. “I see it's as exciting here as it is back in the Sanctuary,” he commented, and of course by that he meant hardly.

“Were you expecting otherwise?” Edgar asked as he opened the doors to let them in.

“Just wanted to make sure I wasn't missing out on any fun,” Milo replied as he put his luggage in the bed. “Of course, knowing you,” he continued as he got into the passenger side, “you'd obviously pick one of the most un-fun places on the Earth as your training ground.”

“Well excuse me for not considering entertainment venues in my choice of locale,” Edgar retorted, rolling his eyes as he started the ignition.

Driving down the long road towards the cabin, the two were initially quiet. Edgar was focused on the road and not slipping on the ice, while Milo leaned his elbow on the window's edge and looked outside. An endless stretch of white snow raced by, the occasional cluster of snow-covered trees swaying in the wind as they passed.

“Do you miss it? Athens, I mean,” Milo asked regarding the Sanctuary as they passed the occasional wooden cabin. High above Athens in the mountains, the headquarters of the Saints of Athena were known to few and accessible only to the powerful soldiers.

Edgar shook his head. “Not really. It gets too hot for my taste.”

Milo shrugged. “Guess if you're not used to it, that'll happen. It doesn't get that hot in France?”

“Not normally where I'm from,” Edgar replied. “Although, high up from my assigned temple it did feel a little cooler.”

“Yeah, Shura keeps bragging about how his temple is the mejor¹-whatever the fuck that means- one to stay in during the summer because it gets the best breeze.” Milo commented on their colleague, the Capricorn Saint. Adding out of the corner of this mouth, “If you can believe it, that guy's ego has gotten worse.”

Edgar nodded solemnly, knowing full well about the fellow Gold Saint's pride as his former next-door neighbor. “All the more reason I'm glad I left.”

“Looks pretty lonely out here, though.” Milo observed, craning his neck to see the next cabin far up the road.

“There's not much between the station and the village where I'm staying,” Edgar explained, “but there's more people there. The villagers are rather pleasant.”

“Gotcha. Do they know what you're up to there?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, and they don't mind?”

“We do our training further out in the tundra, away from causing harm to anyone. They're fine with it.”

“I guess that's helpful,” Milo responded, letting out a long sigh. “I'm still happier you took the assignment.²”

“Well, goodness knows if it was you training them out here, all they would learn is how to endure your whining.”

Milo shrugged off his host's comment, not denying its accuracy.

As they drove closer to the village, Edgar's visitor did note more clusters of cabins, and even a bar and convenience store. People dressed in thick coats waved to each other as they padded through the slowly melting spring snow. It may have been dull, but at least the place seemed friendly. He could say the same for his fellow Gold Saint at the wheel, but at this point he was more of a comfortable acquaintance than a confidante.

Much to Milo's relief, the truck at long last pulled up to a small wooden cabin at the edge of the village. Stepping out of the truck and heading inside, they found the living room empty. Looking around, the guest was surprised to find that despite Edgar's seemingly refined taste, the cabin's decor was minimal. The wooden cabin was furnished with just what was needed to get by: a sofa, television, two armchairs, and a coffee table.

“Boys? Are you here?” Edgar called out while Milo put his bags down. He noticed two doors that were closed slowly opening.

A young man emerged from each room, cautiously walking into the living room to greet their master. Within a matter of seconds it was painfully clear that the youths were stuck in the mire of their teenage years. Their gangly limbs still couldn't decide where to place all of the muscles they had acquired from their three years of training.

One of the teens, sporting spiked green hair and darker green eyes, stood upright first and saluted Edgar. “Master Camus, did you call us?” he said with the sternness of a soldier. His fellow trainee, a blond with longer, shaggier hair and blue eyes, also stood at attention, albeit with not as formal a stance.

Edgar acknowledged them with a nod. “Yes I did, Isaak. Have you two completed your morning tasks?” His voice was as stern as his face, looking to his pupils as a commander does his squadron.

“Yes, sir,” the blond now spoke, his voice more subdued than this training partner. “Once we were done we came back here like you asked.”

“Good. Have you two had breakfast?” The teacher asked next, the tone in his voice softening.

“Yes, sir,” Isaak spoke again, “And Hyoga cleaned the dishes.”

“Excellent. Boys, this is Milo the Gold Saint of Scorpio. He'll be staying with us for the next few days, so I expect you two to treat him with the respect he has earned.”

Hyoga and Isaak saluted the visitor by placing a fist over their hearts. Milo did all he could to hold back a chuckle. They were definitely under his friend's tutelage, arguably for too long.

Edgar side-eyed his guest before continuing. “There is something Milo and I must discuss in private, so consider this a rest day. I expect you both back by dusk. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” the two boys said in unison.

“Very good. Off you go, and behave yourselves this time. I don't want to hear from the neighbors that you trapped the mailman and his truck in ice again.”

The trainees looked to each other nervously and nodded, slipping past the two Gold Saints quietly before making their way out the door. Once they had left, Milo finally let loose the laugh he had been holding in.

“Didn't realize you were that uptight,” he noted as he removed his coat. “Is here alright?” he asked Edgar, holding it over the couch.

The Aquarius Saint shook his head. “I couldn't possibly expect you to understand the importance of raising young men to exercise discipline and respect. The coat rack is behind you, and you'll have to sleep on the couch. Hope you don't mind.”

“Nah, works for me.” Once he hung up his and Edgar's coats, Milo began to unpack his suitcase. “Do they at least know your name? They live with you, you might as well tell them that. Hell, I've known you this long and you haven't even told me.”

Edgar shrugged. “What's it matter if I give you my first name or my last? A name is a name. By this point anyway, everyone in Greece refers to me as 'Aquarius Camus'. That might as well be it.”

“Aquarius? Sounds very you,” Milo teased as he unpacked his suitcase. Laying out a few shirts and pants, he then pulled out a few plastic containers and a box of rubber gloves. “So then, where are we doing this?”

“Did you-”

“Yes, I remembered your color.” Milo was expecting the question, given that despite how calm Camus was, there were a few things he was neurotic about.

“Good. We'll be using the bathroom. If you don't have a spare shirt, I'll lend you one.”

Milo held up a worn white t-shirt, covered in purple streaks. “You realize I've done this before, with you, right?”

Edgar went into his room as Milo spoke, returning with his own worn gray shirt stained with blue. “Yes, I know. Excuse me for trying to be a good host.” Pulling the brim of his cap, he removed it from his head. Blazing red hair was let loose from a hair tie, and flowed onto his shoulders and back. The tips were a faded jade, the remnants of the last time he dyed it. “I'll get the mixing cups.”

“No need. I brought those, too.” Milo said as he let out his own blond hair from under his bandanna, his own tips a dusty rose. Though not as long as his friend's, it too fell on his shoulders. Thicker and more unkempt, he scratched his mane as he looked through his plastic containers. “Just need some newspapers to spread out.”

“Alright, I'll get those from the kitchen. See you in the restroom.”

-

Milo had already begun laying out small brushes and cups when Edgar arrived. Dragging two dining room chairs to the doorway, he sat while Milo busily worked at laying out a number of hair clips.

“These are yours,” he said to the Aquarius Saint, giving him a new pack of clips, “didn't know how many you kept here. Figured it couldn't hurt to bring a few more.”

Edgar took it and began to section off his hair with the clips. “Thank you,” he said, opening it and placing a few on his wrists. “Where is the bleach?”

Milo waved a small box in front of him, and handed him one of the plastic cups he brought along. Edgar took the box and some other bottles he retrieved from his room, while Milo set aside a large bottle of conditioner for later and handed Edgar one of two plastic seat covers.

“I see you still use the same ones,” Edgar observed, noting the blue and purple streaks on the plastic.

Milo raised a brow. “Do they go bad after a while or something? Besides, it's not like the dried parts are going to stain the temples-and quite frankly that's all I care about.”

Edgar conceded with a nod. Figuring that was as good a spot to pick up a conversation as ever, he began to section off his hair with the clips and asked, “So how are things in the Sanctuary?”

Milo shrugged. “Same as always. Boring. Not much to do except the occasional mission Arles will send us out on.”

“Such as?”

“Such as what?”

“You know,” Edgar sighed, “for being such a chatterbox at times, you can be rather oblivious when someone's trying to carry on a conversation with you. What missions have you been on?”

Milo scoffed. “Well smartass, since you're itching to know apparently, the other day we were sent to Australia.”

“What for?”

“You know how it is with the 'Great Pope' - a Saint so much as says his fly's down and he goes berserk. Got a bug up his ass like you wouldn't believe these days, too.”

“You have such a way with words,” Edgar said sarcastically, “but what do you mean?”

Milo rolled his eyes at his friend's remark and continued. “Now all us Golds have to make a round of the Sanctuary every day and report any suspicious activity. Which of course there never is, because he's got everyone scared shitless. Want me to get the petroleum jelly? I don't see it out yet,” he asked, seeing that Edgar was done sectioning his hair in the front.

Checking all of the kit pieces that were out, the Saint realized that Milo was right.“Seems I forgot it.” He shrugged his shoulders, his arms already raised to pick up a section in the back. “I'll get it, it's no problem. Just do me a favor,” he requested as he rose from his chair, “and get the hand mirror under the sink cabinet.”

While Edgar went to his room to grab the missing item, Milo did as he was told and searched through the organized cabinet for the mirror. He kept speaking as he went, raising his voice so it could be heard. “That's about it, really. Same damn sun all day, same food, same duties. I'm going crazy, it's so dull,” he complained. Eventually finding a rectangular hand mirror, he pulled it out. “Is it this black one?” he asked.

“Do you see any other mirrors in there?”

Milo scanned the cabinet once more, hoping he'd be gone by the time Edgar could notice the disheveled contents thanks to his searching. Something like that could be easily pinned on the kids anyway. “Nope, just this one.”

“Then you just answered your own question,” Edgar stated, returning with a small white container.

Milo gave him a sneer as he closed the cabinet door. “You know, you certainly have a talent for making someone feel like a jerk.”

Sitting back down and continuing to section his hair, Edgar responded. “You brought that on yourself. If anything, I'd say it's a talent all your own.” The nonchalance in his voice made Milo all the more irritated and annoyed at what he was going to say next.

“As much as I can't believe I'm going to admit it, I had hoped something interesting might be happening on your end.”

The fact that he was looking to Camus for entertainment was awkwardly ironic. All the eloquently blunt redhead ever liked to discuss was “the arts.” Paintings, theater, classical music, all the things that bored Milo to tears. He usually just tuned out whatever Edgar was discussing on those subjects, or replied with nods and generic questions. Quite frankly, it was a miracle to him that they ever engaged in conversation at all. Then again, it beat waiting for his dye to set alone.

“Will wonders never cease?” Edgar asked once again with sarcasm. “Don't worry, I won't tell. I know you have your reputation to keep, whatever strange fixation you have on it.” Now done sectioning his hair into four parts, he put a dab of jelly on his fingers. Taking the mirror in the clean hand, he applied the jelly to his hairline.

“You better not. By the way, that reminds me. I have something for you. Wait here,” he told Camus, walking around the chair and over to his luggage. He returned with a small piece of paper in his hands, passing it to his friend. “On the way back, we passed by Sydney.”

Edgar placed the mirror down and took the gift, discovering it was a postcard. A large structure with numerous tapering white points as a roof was pictured on one side.

“I know that's your thing, so I figured you might like it,” Milo said as he went back to his seat. Even if listening to Camus ramble on about it was comparative to watching paint dry, he wasn't opposed to a nice gesture towards him.

“It did take quite some time to build that opera house you know, and it's still fairly new. At least, as far as these things are concerned.” Edgar noted, handing it back. “I'm surprised you considered getting me anything at all. If you don't mind, place it on that shelf above the fireplace. I'll find a place for it later.”

“'Thank you' works too, you know.” Milo commented with a dry laugh, doing as he was asked.

“I think stating I'm going to find a place for it is the same thing, isn't it?” he asked as he finished applying the jelly. “I was trying not to make you uncomfortable by being discreet with my pleasure. You should learn subtlety.”

“Says the redhead dyeing his hair blue,” Milo quipped. “So, how's life out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Edgar had to think on the question for a moment, now preparing the bleach powder in one of the mixing cups. He poured the contents of the bottles from his room in the cup along with the powder, mixing it with the end of one of the brushes. “I can't say much that you might find entertaining, but I'm enjoying myself. Speaking of opera, Swan Lake was on the other day. It's not opera, but it's-”

“A ballet, right?” Milo felt like he could punch himself for realizing such a useless fact slipped through the cracks. He didn't mean to contribute to the asinine conversation, and braced for yet more useless trivia.

“Yes. A Russian one. So I suggested the boys sit and watch it. It's their culture, after all, their history. They should know about it.”

“I'm not sure if I should be impressed that you got two teens to sit down and watch a ballet, or worried about how you made them do it.”

Edgar threw a glare at his dyeing partner. “I didn't force them to watch it if that's what you're implying. Believe it or not, they willingly saw it.”

“Gotta be something in the water here,” Milo mumbled.

“I heard that,” Edgar snapped, “I've raised them to be respectable young men who don't go running around swearing all day and have an active interest in something other than themselves.”

Milo raised his hands in false surrender. “It's the only explanation I can think of, I'm just saying. Anyway, did they like it?”

“They did, Hyoga especially.” A small smile tugged at the corners of Edgar's lips as he recalled the memory.

“That the blond one?”

“Yes. He's half-Japanese which explains the odd name. His mother was from Omsk, or so he tells me. Anyway, he's begun integrating some movements into his attacks. He'll wave one arm, and then another, and then pose on one foot. It's rather a sight to see,” he chuckled, trying his best to imitate it in his chair.

“Sounds like your kind of fighter then, am I right?” Milo asked, finding such motions ridiculous not only for combat, but overall intimidation.

Edgar lowered his head, looking quickly out the window from the bathroom to ensure his trainees were nowhere in sight. “Between you and me,” he said in a low voice, “I find it to be a little silly. But, if it helps him channel his cosmo, who am I to argue against it?”

Milo couldn't help but snicker at his friend's teasing of his trainees, but eventually nodded in agreement. “God knows we've seen weirder, right?”

Edgar raised his brows in acknowledgment as he put on a pair of the rubber gloves.

“How old are they?” Milo asked as he finished sectioning off the hair, “Fourteen?”

“They just turned fifteen a while ago. Their birthdays are just a few weeks apart too” Edgar picked the mirror back up and passed it to Milo to hold. He ensured his brush was well-covered in product and began to coat the front of his hair with it.

“Fifteen, huh? Man, now I feel old. I think it was around that time I started doing my hair,” Milo recounted.

“Me too, I believe.” Moving from root to tip, Edgar moved the brush along his bangs. “Have you tried any other colors?”

“Nope, always done purple. You?”

“Same. I've never been interested in any color aside from blue.”

“Huh.” Milo nodded his head as he listened, surprised to see that in a strange way they did have some things in common. “Well, you know why I always pick purple, so I'm not set on changing any time soon.”

Edgar paused and tilted his torso to look questioningly past the mirror at Milo. “I do?”

Milo looked both confused and insulted. “My gang, remember?” He asked a bit hotly.

“You were in a gang?” Edgar was rather baffled, feeling he would recall if someone he had spent a decent enough time with was once in a gang.

“How have I never told you about that?!” Now the Scorpio Saint was shocked at his own lack of exposition.

Edgar shrugged and kept applying bleach. “Maybe you did. I might have tuned you out.”

Guess there was more than one thing they had in common, Milo thought. “Hm, I guess I can tell you again if you're willing to pay attention this time.”

“My apologies for disregarding something so important to you. I will listen this time,” Edgar said in a softer tone, embarrassed that he had actively ignored such an important aspect of his friend's life.

Milo waved it off. “Nah, nobody really asks me about it anyway. They don't really care much, I guess. Anyway, I'll start at the top,” he said, clearing his throat as he prepared for his story. “About thirty some-odd years ago-”

“Is it really necessary to start from when you were born?” Edgar asked, now working on the longer sections in the front.

“I'd say the day I was born is an important place to start, wouldn't you? There wouldn't even be a story without me, so we might as well start there. So, here was my mom, heaving and huffing as she was trying to pop me out-”

“Would you mind sparing me the graphic description of your birth?”

“Point is,” the Scorpio Saint said pointedly, tired of the interruptions, “I was born, and my mom asks my dad what to call me. I was the second kid, you see, so he was already used to this whole process. He was waiting till the last minute to figure out a name for me, and was expecting me to be another girl. When I wasn't one, he panicked and scrambled for another name. He was eating an apple³ at the time, so he opted for that.”

“Your name is literally apple in Greek?”

Milo laughed, trying his best to keep his arm still. “Pretty funny on its own, but my mom nearly killed him when he tried it the next time around with my little sister. He was gunning for a boy again, but when she wasn't, he looked down to his meal and shouted 'Call her Souvlaki⁴!'”

“Somehow that impulsiveness of your father's explains a lot about you,” Edgar noted.

Milo gave out a frustrated grunt, his eyebrows furrowing in irritation. “Are you going to listen to my story or critique it?”

“Go on, go on,” he sighed, going back to bleaching.

“Anyway, it was me, my mom, my dad, and my two sisters. We lived along the coast for a while. You know those pictures of all those white houses with the blue roofs?”

“Yes,” Edgar responded, always finding such pictures of the coast of Greece quaint.

“Yeah, our place looked nothing like that.”

“Then why bring it up at all?!” Edgar's idyllic picture of Milo's home by the sea was instantly shattered.

Milo grinned from ear to ear. “To see the look of disappointment on your face.”

Edgar scrunched his face in irritation, seeing as his friend succeeded. “Just keep going. What was it actually like then?”

Milo pulled his lips to the side. “Kind of a shithole to be honest, it had a leaky roof all the time. Part of the reason was that my mom was the only one that worked. She was a teacher, and a damn good one too. Eventually, she got a job at another town more inland, so off we went.”

“Do you remember that town?”

“Oh sure. Technically, we moved to a different section of the same area. Sisters and I were born around Thessaloniki, see, and her job was more inland in Neapoli-Sykies. It's all part of the same region, though⁵.”

“I see. They have a similar setup in France, too.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, there are several regions, that all have their own departments, then those break down into cities⁶.”

“Alright, interesting,” Milo nodded, shifting back to his tale. “So, around the time we moved, I started to develop a certain, er, trait.” His voice seemed to stifle for a moment before he continued, sliding his eyes over to meet Camus's. “I'm sure I don't have to explain any further than that.”

Indeed, he didn't. The first things that stuck out to Edgar the day they met were Milo's index fingernails. Both of them were a deep scarlet color, and slightly sharpened at a point. They were a stark contrast to the other normal, filed down fingernails. After an explanation he found that no, Milo didn't have a strange preference in manicures.

“I'm sure your parents had no clue what to do about your Scarlet Needles,” Edgar said.

Milo chuckled and shook his head, a strange nostalgia glowing on his face from recounting the more innocent times. “It took a good half an hour to explain to my mom that no, I didn't raid her nail polish. She was getting ready to storm out the door and buy me some to use, so I wouldn't take from her stash!” His laughter tapered off, still grinning from the memory. “It had just woken up though. I couldn't do anything with it yet.”

“How old were you?”

“Hm, must have been about twelve I think.”

“I see. So your nails were just inexplicably red and sharpened?”

“Yeah, it drove the doctors crazy. Nobody knew why the hell I had it. But it wasn't hurting me, so my mother was fine with it as long as I didn't poke my sisters or anything. Which of course, I did constantly.”

“You must have been such a charming boy,” Edgar rolled his eyes sarcastically. If there was one thing he was thankful for in his past, it was the lack of siblings. However, this wasn't about him at the moment, and his interest in Milo's story was beginning to grow. “Alright, so you moved. Then what happened?”

“Hm?” Milo had to snap himself out of his gleeful memory of chasing his sisters around the house to poke them. “Oh, right. So, my mom starts at this new school. Now the thing is, my mom's a great teacher like I mentioned. The problem was that she was new at this school. This was a private school, too, so you know the kids there were extra snobby. My mom had worked public all her life, and this was a big break for her. The only reason I know was because she kept talking about it, it excited her so much. She was happy with the setup, but apparently the kids she taught weren't.

“One night we're sleeping, and I hear thwacking against the window, right? So I peer out to check. Lo and behold, there are these assholes my age throwing eggs at our window! They kept shouting slurs about my mom, telling us to go back to where we came from, and making fun of her height.”

“Is she short?” Edgar asked, starting to surprisingly feel some sympathy for Milo's plight.

“Nope, the exact opposite. She's two meters⁷ tall, long brown hair and big green eyes. My sisters are practically carbon copies of her, but I look like my old man,” Milo explained as a side note.

“I see. Sounds like a lovely family.”

“Yeah, they're alright,” Milo said warmly with a small smile, which soon morphed back into his classic smirk as he went back to his story. “But back on track here, the kids kept calling her a tree that should be chopped up for firewood.”

“That's terrible,” Edgar condemned and sucked his teeth as Milo continued. Children really could be cruel, and he couldn't help but recount the times he had to teach Hyoga and Isaak to behave when they first arrived.

“Yeah, so my mom was humiliated. Sure, she nagged all the time, but I love my mom. Thing is, my dad's got a bad leg. He gets everywhere with a cane, and it's hard for him to get around. My mom's the one that brought home the bread, and she never once complained.

“My sisters and I knew that she was exhausted every day. But to her, it was worth it. My dad picked up the slack at home, doing the cooking and the cleaning. Despite that he'd always tell me 'Your mom's the real hero, when you get older you find a woman like her and you take care of each other.'

“We lived in a damn shack until she got that job, and all of her hard work was going to get shit on by a bunch of rich brats? No! I had to get even.”

“How did you do it?” Never had Edgar been more interested in Milo's decisions, given how poor in taste they typically were.

“I found out where they hung out after school from asking around town. Turned out they were part of a small gang. I went up to them one afternoon and told them they owed my mom an apology. You can imagine how that went,” Milo recounted.

“So how bad was the fight that broke out?”

“It was me against I'd say three or four of these guys. They had pipes, shanks, you name it. I wasn't really expecting anything like that, so all I had were my fists, my teeth and my nails. I was ready to use whatever I had at my disposal. So I jump in with my nails, hoping to at least scratch 'em and draw some blood. Wouldn't you know it, my cosmo woke up right then and there like this-bang!” Milo snapped his fingers as he ended the sentence.

Edgar paused, looking up from the mirror with piqued interest. “When you needed it most, right?”

Milo nodded. “Yeah, I hear that's the trend apparently. Pretty convenient if you ask me. Same thing happen to you?”

“You could say that,” Edgar replied, “but I digress. Keep going.”

Milo's eyes lit up, glad to see that he had Camus's attention. “So I used it for the first time. Everyone paused as the nail on my right hand grew and grew a few good centimeters longer. Then a shot of red light went from it to the kid closest to me. Right in his shoulder.” He tucked in his index finger, and tapped the redhead's right shoulder with the remaining fingers to demonstrate.

“Of course the kid was terrified, and he kept crying 'It hurts! It hurts!' He leaned in momentarily, quietly adding, “Believe it or not, it wasn't until I was recruited to train as a Saint that I learned Scarlet Needle injected venom. I just thought I sent some strong shot of pain through him or something.

“So there's the kid screaming on the pavement, and the other gang members instantly backed off. They looked up to me and begged for mercy. I decided to let them off easy, of course.

“Somehow I don't think that's the case,” Edgar retorted.

Milo raised a brow. “What, you think I had another reason?”

“I think you had no idea what you did, and seeing as you didn't know how to redo it, you acted like you did to scare them.”

Milo furrowed his brow and looked away. He sulked, “Either way it worked, didn't it?”

“Would you mind helping me with the back? Sorry to interrupt,” Edgar requested, holding up the brush.

“Sure, no problem.” Milo rose and armed himself with his own pair of gloves, taking the brush and applying the bleach to the back sections of Camus' hair. He continued, “Finally the kids stopped, and I decided I liked their attitude. I'll be honest, I was a little hellraiser when I was a kid.”

“I think prodding your sisters with ultra-sharp nails gave that away,” Edgar told him.

“Heh, I guess. Either way, I didn't mind causing a little trouble every now and then. Even though I didn't like that they harassed my mom, the idea of egging strangers' houses sounded fun. They let me join and gave me a jacket for their gang: the Chimeras. The back was black and the sleeves were purple.”

“I see,” Edgar nodded slightly, so as not to and botch Milo's work on his hair. “So I suppose you do it to honor them?”

“Eh, more like remembering,” Milo answered.

Edgar got the sense that wasn't the entirety of the story, given the slight fall in his friend's voice as he spoke. He knew better than to pry.

“What about you? Why blue?” Milo figured it'd be as good a story as any, and unless it involved being inspired by some opera, he wouldn't fall asleep while Camus told it.

Edgar was silent as he contemplated revealing his reason for choosing the unorthodox shade as his hair color of choice. His past was something he kept very much to himself.

The Scorpio Saint could feel the hesitation in his friend, and leaned over to meet his. “Hey, if it's that personal you don't have to talk about it.”

“Hmm,” Edgar hummed. “I suppose it's only fair, given what you told me. It's a bit of a longer story, though. Though I suppose if I wanted to keep it short and sweet, it's out of spite and to hide.”

“Spite? You?!” Milo asked in faux shock. He knew Camus was perfectly capable of it, and found himself intrigued. “Who are you trying to hide from?”

It was several seconds before Edgar decided to respond. “My mother.”

“Did she hurt you?”

“She never raised a hand against me. It's-,” Edgar sucked in a breath through his teeth, waving his hands slightly as he struggled to find the right words, “it's complicated.”

“Oh,if that's what it is, I get it. Got all sorts of time to kill though. If you're okay talking about it, I'll do my best to try and work it out,” Milo joked, going back to treating the Aquarius Saint's hair.

After another brief silence while, fidgeted with his fingers as he spoke. “It's just not something I like to discuss,” he managed to eke out, “you understand.”

“If you're implying what I think you are, then I'm not going to tell anyone. I know I can talk a lot, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

Edgar nodded, once more having to think, trying to figure out just where to start. This was his first time talking about his past, after all. Fully realizing that the exact breakdown of his exit from the womb was irrelevant, he chose to start with a memory of his bedroom window, facing the Eiffel Tower.

“I grew up in the heart of Paris. The apartment building where we lived was walking distance to all of the sights that people flock from every corner of the world for. Imagine the most luxurious, grand manor you can think of, and it'll give you a good idea of what my home was like. I had maids at my beck and call, delicious food for every meal, a homeschooling teacher, and all the finest toys a boy could have wanted. You'd think I'd want for nothing, but every bit of it felt worthless.”

Edgar's gaze trailed to the window above the bathtub, as if searching through the rays of sun and the clouds for his memories.

“I'm afraid, unlike you,” Edgar went on, “I didn't care much for my mother, Genevieve. In turn, she didn't care much for me, either. Not in the sense that a mother should care for a child, at least.

“She was-and still is-one of the top fashion designers alive. Every piece she creates, from the sublime to the ridiculous, sells. In record numbers. Everyone wants a 'Genevieve Gerard' something, whether it be her dresses, her purses, her accessories.”He scoffed, “You couldn't begin to imagine how her line of socks sold.

“And she loved it. She didn't know of any other life, really. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and one in each hand.”

Edgar's tone grew heavier as he carried on. “It was only natural that she would do whatever it took to maintain that lifestyle. The only problem is that when you live a life where everything's for show, you learn to treat people the same way.”

“What do you mean?” Milo asked as he resumed painting the bleach on Camus's hair.

Edgar looked down towards his feet as he continued, leaning on the chair with his shoulders. “I was just one of her countless accessories. She only gave me the name she did to try and start a trend, which of course was successful. The only times she ever held me were to show me off at parties in her season designs for children's Clothing, or to marvel at my modeling potential.

“The guests at all of her parties treated me the same way. They looked on in admiration, and then moved back to their hors d'oeuvres and gossip.” The more he spoke, the stonier his tone became. He let out a deep breath through his slightly flared nostrils, his hatred for those days still able to boil his blood.

“So as much as I had all of the creature comforts I needed, I'm sure even in your shack you were far richer than I ever was,” Edgar said, the slightest hint of envy in his voice.

Milo remained silent as Edgar spoke, waiting for the opportunity to try and inject at least something positive. The vibe in the room had gotten far too melancholy for his taste. It made him wonder if maybe Edgar had a point about his good luck.

“It couldn't have been all bad, right?” he asked, hoping it'd get some ring of positivity out of him.

Edgar snapped out of his trance, regaining his focus on the present. “I suppose you're right. I was fed, Clothed, and educated. That's more than many in the world get.”

“Nah, I mean besides that.” Milo emphasized with a wave of the brush, “You're not a complete jackass, so that means someone must have been good to you.”

For as somber as Edgar had become in digging up these old wounds, the mention of someone being good to him made his eyes light up, his posture straightening out a little.

“My father, Colonel Camus,” he said with a smile. “He was involved in extremely confidential matters with the government. At Genevieve's socials they tried everything they could to get our current state in the arms race out of him⁸.

“But he completely ignored them, barely engaging. He was only home one week a month, and he spent it all with me.” He did his best to contain a grin, running a hand over his mouth to hide it.

“He'd always come back on a red-eye and wake me up before dawn. Sneaking out so my mother wouldn't hear, he'd take me to the streets. Our breakfast on that first day would always be the same: a fresh baguette at the nearby bakery, just starting their day, with slices of brie and some fresh strawberries.

That's all it was. So simple, yet far more delicious than all the meals I'd had in between his visits. He'd take me out to the parks, and in the afternoons we'd go to the Louvre, the Arc, Montmartre or whatever piece of the city we fancied exploring.”

“All I just heard was a bunch of French,” Milo grimaced teasingly.

Edgar shook his head. “Proof of the taste you lack. Need I now ask you not to interrupt?”

Milo raised his hands in surrender, despite still being behind Camus. “Keep going, then.”

“My father's alternative plans to Genevieve's parties were the best experiences of my life. He and I would attend for the first few minutes to make an appearance, but then we'd head out to the Palais⁹ while my mother was engrossed in her conversations.

“We knew the place like the backs of our hands, along with the programs for the season. During the intermissions he'd explain everything to me: what the dances meant, what the Italian singers were saying, and have me guess what feelings the highs and lows of the music were meant to convey. I learned some of life's deepest lessons from the stage. It was certainly more meaningful than the weeks I spent in Genevieve's presence.”

“I guess it explains why you love that stuff so much,” Milo noted, understanding his friend's passions a bit better. “I'm all done back here. Pass me a shower cap and I'll help put your hair in it. They're right by the sink.”

Edgar nodded as he passed along a clear vinyl hair cap, working to contain all of his hair in the front while Milo worked on the back.

“He'd tell me,” Edgar went on as they worked, “that she was trying too hard to live in the future. The past is where true lessons are, so the present can be lived more fully.”

“God, the way you yammer on makes so much more sense now too,” Milo joked again, with curiosity following soon after. “I don't get it, though. It seems like your dad was a half-decent guy. Why did he marry your mom?”

“I actually asked him that once,” Edgar replied, “and he told me, 'Son, men like me at times need to join a partnership with a woman, even if we don't see eye to eye.' He said he hoped that in my time, a couverture¹⁰ would be an archaic thing of the past.”

“A what?” Milo asked, a baffling look crossing his face as he took his seat once more.

“Never mind,” Edgar waved it off, figuring diving into the obscure slang would steer them off course. “The point is, he had to do it. Of course, he assured me that he had always wanted a son, and that I was the best one he could have asked for.”

“Well, that's rather touching,” Milo said with a smile, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands on his torso. “I bet you carry those feelings to your trainees, huh?”

Edgar held up a hand to stop where Milo was going with that statement. “They're not 'trainees,'” he said assertively, before taking on a less aggressive approach. “Those boys are my students. They look to me for wisdom on how to navigate the world and the battlefield, and I take that seriously. Calling them 'trainees' does not encompass all of the lessons I'm teaching them. I see them no less than how fathers see their sons, as that's exactly what they are.”

“Alright, alright, jeez,” Milo relented, “my bad.”

Edgar shook his head and sighed, working to discard the gloves and wash away the remaining bleach. “It's fine. I suppose I got carried away there. A lot of the lingo back at the Sanctuary used to bother me quite a bit.”

“Eh, it's alright. You know, though,” Milo said after a brief pause, “it's sort of interesting.”

“What is?”

“How much we take after our folks. More than we realize. I bet you're lot more like your dad than you think.”

Edgar pondered on the same idea. “Aside from my tastes, I can't see how similar I am to him.”

“You really don't see it?”

“No, should I?”

“Huh,” the Scorpio Saint said, “you really don't?”

“Once more, no.”

“Alright then,” Milo challenged, clearing his throat, “let's see if I can't find a few examples. You don't really slouch, do you?”

“Slouching is a habit of the crass. Speaking of, I see you haven't taken my advice on the matter have you?” Edgar accused.

“That's because you're not my mother,” Milo countered, adjusting himself after being called out for slumping. “I bet your kids say the same thing about you when you bark at them for it.”

“Who says I bark at my boys? I'm simply telling them what my fath-”

Edgar paused when he realized what slipped. Seeing Milo rest his head on his fist and smile, the Aquarius Saint could only scowl.

“If I remember right, you were always polishing your Cloth, too. Come on,” Milo said with a sly grin referring to the armor they wore in battle, “when was the last time you worked on it?”

Edgar narrowed his eyes then glanced away, an admittedly reluctant look on his face. “Two days ago.”

“HAH! You see? You're obsessive! Even the place where you live is spotless! This is a cabin in the middle of nowhere and it looks like the logs are painted on. It's so clean, you'd never believe two teenagers live here!” Milo gestured towards the room behind Camus, which was just as pristine as he described.

Edgar quickly retaliated with “I've taught the boys to have respect for their living spaces. A clean environment facilitates a clear head.”

A skeptical look creased Milo's brow. “Really? How are their rooms?”

Camus gave an annoyed huff, “I like to give them their privacy, so I don't quite know about their personal spaces. But that's irrelevant. They know how to clean their dishes, sweep, dust, and make their beds. That's more than they knew upon arrival.”

“Do they do the laundry, too?”

“Yes, though oftentimes I've noticed mismatched socks on them. It's a common occurrence. I would be fine with it, had they not refused several times over to procure the matching sock. It sounds like they know where they are, but won't bring them out,” he accused the youths, prompting a snort out of his companion. “What, may I ask, is so funny about that?”

Edgar looked irritated at the man across from him, who was squeezing his eyes shut to hold back a giggle as his friend went on about the socks. “Remind me how old they are again?” Milo managed to eke out.

Then it clicked. The Aquarius Saint pressed two fingers to his temple, then rubbing to his eye in an effort to rub away the dismay and disgust. “Looks as if we'll need to have a talk once you leave,” he grunted, while Milo finally let loose a cackle at Camus' naivety.

Edgar crossed his arms in frustration as he waited for the Scorpio Saint to calm down, so he could change the subject. “Well, then, how about yourself?”

Milo shrugged, wiping his eyes with a hand. “Dunno, you tell me.”

“Well, one of your parents had to be rather...” he took pause, trying to find the most tactful euphemism for his actual opinion, Milo raising his eyebrows in both amusement and warning. Camus nodded to himself when the word came to him, “outspoken.”

“Well, I guess mom does have a mouth on her,” Milo trailed, trying to think of what else he might have in common with his family.

“Is anyone rather short-tempered?”

“I guess all of us kind of are,” Milo chuckled, “except maybe my dad, thank God.”

“I see.”

“Do your students know their parents?” Milo pried.

“Isaak doesn't. They died when he was young. He's been raised by the village. Hyoga recalls his mother, though. He speaks rather fondly of her, and from what I understand she passed away in a cruise accident. He's got a soft heart, that one, probably from her. Certainly can be cracked a little more easily than Isaak. It's not something I approve of, at least not during training.”

“Ah, come on. Don't you think you're being a little too harsh?” Milo asked.

“How so? A bleeding heart will be your ruin in a fight. You should know that more than anyone.”

“Hey,” Milo began to argue, “just because you had a shitty mom doesn't mean you get to berate someone who didn't.” It was practically an offense to Milo, while also reminding him to ask Camus if he could make long distance calls while he was visiting. “What if it was his dad that cared for him more? Wouldn't you be able to relate? You actually looked happy when you were talking about him. It's the same damn thing, so knocking him for it makes no sense.”

Edgar let out a sigh through his nose, his lips pursed as he took in his friend's valid argument. “Very well. Either way, he needs to be tougher out there. Dwelling on the past will impede him from controlling what could happen in a dangerous situation.”

“I guess I see where you're coming from,” Milo said, calming himself down. “Just take it easy on him. It's obvious you want the best for them, so loosen up a bit. They need someone they can trust.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind,” Edgar agreed. He rose from his chair. “I say this needs a few more minutes. In the meantime, I'll get some newspapers I've been saving to lay out on the floor.”

“I'll get the colors, then.” Milo followed, leaving the restroom to allow Camus to wash off the bleach.