Chapter Text
Milo was always different, in many different ways. Some of them were subtle, like the way he parted his hair down the middle while every other boy in his class wore theirs more to the side. And some of them weren’t so subtle, like the way he spent every hour he could spare, soaking in books and old films and crisp autumn air like he was a succulent, and knowledge was his sunlight.
That’s the only reason why, in the end, he even figured it out. He’d always been different, and so for a while, he thought it was just more of the same. He grew older and instead of playing soldiers and cowboys, his cousins and neighbors started playing at courting girls (or boys). And well, Milo hadn’t wanted to go out when it was for t-ball or swordplay, so why should he want to go out now?
(He knows why, of course, in the intellectual sense. He’s read a book on it, or several. But he’d always just assumed they were exaggerating, at least a little bit. That was what writers did, after all. They take the truth, and then sometimes they spread it or ball it up or spin it a little, to make it seem more interesting than it already is. The same way that people sometimes tell a little white lie about themselves, when they’re trying to impress you: yes, I fought in the war! Never mind that he never actually left the home base. No, I’ve never kissed anyone else! Maybe not on the lips.)
And then suddenly one night, he and Kida are kissing–kissing, Milo has found, was not an exaggeration, and is every bit as good as he was promised–when she slides her hand up his leg, and then just keeps going. Milo manages not to choke on his own tongue, though it’s a near thing, and Kida can clearly tell something’s wrong.
She’s confused, and he supposes that makes sense. He hasn’t hidden how beautiful he finds her, how interested he is–in everything, her world, her history, but mostly in her. Everything about her. She probably assumed–well, he’s not sure what she assumed, but if she’s anything at all like the girls back home, she probably assumed she’d at least get a wedding night out of him.
Milo has always been different, but he’s never felt self conscious about those differences–not even when all the other boys on the swim team were denser and faster, not when his professors changed their office hours without telling him just because they didn’t want him around, not even when he got stood up on his first and only date when he was sixteen. Not until now.
He could probably do it, right? He’s inexperienced, but then he was inexperienced when it came to kissing too, but Kida didn’t seem to mind taking the lead. She liked being the teacher. So he could probably just, what, lay back? Think of England?
Kida puts a hand on his cheek, the way she does sometimes. Her skin is always cooler than his, the same temperature as the water. “What is wrong?” she asks, and he knows that he has to tell her. He always tells her the truth. He’s never even wanted to twist it.
“I don’t–I’ve never, uh,” he glances down at the hand she has still resting on his thigh, hoping she’ll catch his meaning. Judging by the way her mouth slides up like a cat, she does.
“I will show you,” she purrs, and Milo pulls away just a little when she moves to kiss him.
“No, it’s, uh, more complicated?” She sits back, waiting for him to finish. “I’ve never actually wanted to. I don’t, uh, want to, that is.”
Kida eyes him up and down, but not like she’s disappointed, or upset. More like she’s curious, the way she is about most things from the surface world. She’s always been just as interested in him as he is in her, and most of the time he loves it. But sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on display at the Smithsonian, in a little glass box surrounded by eager eyes.
“Do they not–in your world?” She skips over the actual words, and Milo isn’t sure if it’s because she’s taking cues from him or because she isn’t sure of the translation.
“Most do,” he shrugs. “As far as I know, I’m the odd duck out.” He tries a smile, but it must be as nervous as the rest of them, because Kida melts back into his lap without hesitating.
“Do you want–” she pauses, and then kisses him, ruining his hair and knocking his glasses aside, kissing and kissing him until he can’t breathe.
“Yes,” he says–gasps, if he’s honest–when she pulls back, just far enough for him to still feel her breath on his lips. “Yes, that’s, uh,” he swallows, and she grins. “That’s fine,” he says, and she leans back in. They’re both smiling now, and it’s a little tricky, kissing while smiling, but they manage.