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The air in the Sanctuary’s hospital felt crisp, infused with the subtle fragrance of medicinal herbs blended with disinfectant and traditional remedies. Hyoga, wrinkling his nose, eased his eyes open, his blurred vision gradually sharpening to the soft light filtering through the curtains of a tall window. His body weighed heavy, as though Milo’s Scarlet Needles still pierced his flesh. Struggling to rise, a sharp sting in his chest forced him back, gasping.
“You’re awake, Cygnus,” Milo’s deep, velvety voice resonated through the room. Hyoga turned his head, spotting the Scorpio Saint seated on a wooden chair beside the bed. Milo wore plain civilian clothes, stripped of his golden armor, yet radiating the innate grandeur of Athena’s elite. His blond hair cascaded loosely over his shoulders, and his piercing eyes gleamed with an emotion the young Bronze Saint hesitated to unravel.
Hyoga studied him for a moment, seeking assurance this wasn’t a dream. Bracing on his elbows, he shifted to a near-sitting position, ignoring the earlier discomfort.
“Don’t strain yourself. Even with the Goddess’s cosmos, your body’s still mending,” Milo cautioned.
Hyoga frowned, his last memory of Milo anchored in the Scorpio House, where the Gold Saint had struck him with Scarlet Needles, pushing him to death’s edge with the final blow, Antares. Yet Milo had spared him, citing the Bronze Saints’ resolve to save Athena. Hyoga had nearly perished. No, so much more had transpired since. He’d encountered Camus of Aquarius. Memories surged, but he pushed them aside with a heavy sigh, squeezing his eyes shut and sinking into the mattress.
Now Milo sat by his bedside, his expression unreadable. The Scorpio Saint tilted his head slightly, as if sensing Hyoga’s inner turmoil.
“Scorpio,” Hyoga rasped, his voice rough. “Why are you here? How did I survive?”
Milo offered a faint smirk, folding his arms with an air of unshaken confidence, though lacking the predatory edge of before.
“Of course you survived. You’re tougher than you seem, Cygnus,” he replied, his tone softening. “But your Cloth, it couldn’t shield you anymore. It was nearly lifeless after our clash and the battles that followed.”
Hyoga’s eyes widened, his pulse quickening. Everyone knew a sacred Cloth, when gravely damaged, required a special ritual to revive. Cloths, in a way, were living entities, needing life, blood, and none was more potent than that of Athena’s Saints, especially a Gold Saint. No word had reached him of such rare blood restoring the vital essence of a Bronze Cloth like his. Staring at Milo, his mind reeled with the implication.
“You,” Hyoga faltered, emotion tightening his throat. “You gave your blood to the Cygnus Cloth?”
Milo glanced away briefly, as if unsettled by Hyoga’s intensity. Running a hand through his hair, a near-nervous gesture, he responded.
“Yes. Mu said your Cloth needed potent blood to awaken. And, well, you nearly died in my arms. I wasn’t about to leave you defenseless, not after all you and your comrades did for Athena.” Meeting Hyoga’s gaze again, his eyes shone with respect and something deeper. “You left a mark on me in the Scorpio House, Hyoga. Your resolve, your loyalty, I couldn’t overlook that.”
Hyoga’s cheeks flushed, a flood of emotions washing over him: gratitude, awe, shame, and something unnameable. It dawned on him that Milo, a man who prized honor and willpower, had sown seeds of mutual respect by sparing him. But this act, offering his blood, so intimate and sacrificial, stirred a profound connection within Hyoga. Unable to hold Milo’s gaze, he noticed his own hands trembling. This man had spoken his name. Milo could likely hear his racing heart, yet Hyoga couldn’t tame it.
“I don’t know what to say,” Hyoga whispered, his voice thick. “You didn’t have to do this. After everything, after what I did, why would you risk yourself for me?”
Milo rose, stepping closer to the bed. Sitting on its edge, close enough for Hyoga to feel his warmth, the Scorpio Saint leaned in, eyes locked on Hyoga’s, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.
“Because I see in you what I rarely see in others, Hyoga. You bear Cygnus’s chill, yet a fire burns within you, unyielding even in the face of death,” Milo said, a tender smile gracing his full lips. “In the Scorpio House, when you endured Antares, I felt your cosmos blaze, even on the brink of collapse. That struck me deeply. And later, you did all that was needed to save Athena, what every Gold Saint should have done.” He paused, seeming to wrestle with his words. “Now, your cosmos carries a piece of me. My mark on your flesh, my blood in your sacred Cloth. I’m not selfless.”
Hyoga’s heart raced faster. A Gold Saint’s blood, near-sacred, symbolized power and sacrifice. Milo’s act wasn’t mere kindness, Hyoga felt in his bones, yet it forged a bond beyond the physical. Amid these implications, Hyoga could only see Milo not as a Saint, ally, or foe, but as a man. Milo’s gaze intensified, roaming over Hyoga’s form despite the bandages and cloth shielding him.
“Milo,” Hyoga began, but his voice broke. Breathing deeply, he tried to sort the emotions flooding him, distinct from friendship, fraternal love, or devotion. “I don’t deserve this.”
Milo reached toward Hyoga’s face, hesitating before gently resting a hand on his shoulder. The touch, warm and reassuring, sent a shiver through Hyoga, not from cold but from something profound, blending respect, gratitude, and an unexpected affection. It was the recognition he’d always craved, never before received.
“Don’t say that, Cygnus,” Milo said, his voice steady yet laden with feeling. “You deserve more than you know. You and your friends showed me what it means to fight for something greater. I’m a Gold Saint, but that day in the Scorpio House, you taught me true courage.” He squeezed Hyoga’s shoulder, his gaze softening. “And now, we’re closer. Don’t you think?”
Hyoga lifted his eyes, meeting Milo’s. Once again, he saw not just the Scorpio Saint but the man beneath the armor, Milo, with his strength, honor, and rare vulnerability. Hyoga’s chest tightened, not from pain but from an inexplicable warmth. Slowly, he placed his hand over Milo’s, a shy gesture heavy with meaning.
“Yes,” Hyoga murmured, a shaky smile forming. “And, I don’t know what this means, but I’m glad it was you.”
Milo’s genuine smile lit up his face in a way Hyoga had never seen. Then, withdrawing his hand, he stood, his demeanor once more reserved.
Hyoga frowned, fearing he’d imagined their shared moment.
“When you’re fully recovered, come find me.” Milo stated in a neutral tone, just as a group of doctors entered the room.
Hyoga swallowed his intended reply. The Greek was already gone.