Swooped | ✓

Chapter 32: The Chicken Before the Egg

A/N: We're still in the flashback from 2 years ago :')

Milo looked like he wanted to hit me, shake me, scream at me, do something to me, but he didn't. He just sat there on the train beside me with a steely glare, his hand on my thigh and squeezing tightly like I would try to run if he didn't hold onto me. His hand was hot, large, and the grip was a little painful with how tight it was but I didn't care. I didn't care at all. The mix of the weed, my definitively broken arm, the adrenaline; it was all mixing in a big vat of messed up slush in my belly and I was full.

I think my blood dripped onto the blue linoleum floor of the train, people standing far away from me with concerned looks on their faces. I smiled up at them as I cradled my arm against my chest, the incongruous expression making them step further away.

Hah. See, even strangers don't want anything to do with me.

Milo's hand tightened on my thigh and I winced, my best-friend suddenly seeming to notice what he was doing. A short gasp left his mouth, his hand moving off my leg, hovering in the air for a moment, lost. He ended up dropping it to hold onto the dangling end of my belt, like a leash, or an anchor and I smiled at that. 

Milo's head finally turned to look at me when he saw the quirk of my lips in his peripheral vision, his brown eyes molten with how heated his stare was. His clean-shaven jaw was locked, and I could hear his teeth grinding, the sound grating to my ears.

"Milo..." I said slowly, my friend glaring harshly at nothing in particular as the train stopped. Milo abruptly got up from the seat, tugging on my belt. When I stood up, he grabbed onto my uninjured bicep, dragging me off the train. 

I didn't say anything as I trailed behind him, watching his broad back push through the other people getting off the train, making sure they didn't bump into the injured boy he was holding onto with a vice-like grip. At this rate, I would probably be bruising on my 'good' arm, but I wouldn't mind it, not at all.

It took a short tram ride to get to the hospital, but when we got there some nurses immediately rushed towards me at the sight of my broken and bleeding arm. They ushered me to a bed, Milo removing his hand from my arm stiffly, and I whimpered at the loss of contact that grounded me, instinctively reaching out for his hand again. I let out a pained noise as my sudden movement only strained my broken arm, but I had latched onto Milo's wrist, pleading.

Please don't leave me.

Milo stared into my eyes, normally placid face still apart from a downward twitch of his mouth.

"S-Stay?" I stammered, breaking my gaze from him to look at a nurse, who nodded, allowing Milo to accompany me. They had to - I probably looked like a mess, not quite right in body and mind, and I needed Milo.

Milo, who I should have called.

That's probably why he's mad, huh.

Milo stepped closer to me, standing at the edge of my bed, close to the wall, not wanting to get in the way of the nurses and doctor who inspected my arm. Now at the hospital, with doctors and nurses drawing my attention to my broken arm, it seemed to hurt more and more. I twitched in the hospital bed as my arm throbbed, Milo's had moving to link his fingers through my good one, squeezing silently. 

'I'm here,' is what his hand told me, warm in my palm. 

I'm not leaving.

Everything hurt, and they gave me painkillers, which made me feel a little better. One of the nurses put an oxygen mask on my face, the plastic digging into the bridge of my nose a little, the elastic strap definitely going to create a dent in my sweat-soaked hair. Milo held my hand all the way until the doctor said that it needed surgery, and since I was 16 it could go ahead as long as I was okay with it and understood the risks. It would have been best to clue my parents in, but they were deep in some jungle or bush or somewhere not here. I just nodded, telling the doctor I understood, and they wheeled me away, Milo's hand slipping from mine.