Fic: It's Not Poetry...

[ingenious_spark]

Title: It's Not Poetry...
Fandom: Saint Seiya: Legend of Sanctuary
Rating: T/PG-13
Warnings: Alcohol use
Relationships: Aquarius Camus/Scorpio Milo
Characters: Aquarius Camus, Scorpio Milo
Word Count: 429
Summary: ...but it sure is you.

Milo and Camus's first meeting, involving awkward situations, parties, a frozen drink, and a dropped glass.

But Milo always knew meeting her soulmate would be a disaster.

Milo doesn’t meet her soulmate until she’s twenty. It doesn’t really bother her, she’s busy training and becoming a legend in her own right. It’s her Cloth Ceremony, where she’s officially being accepted into the ranks of the Gold Saints. She’s technically held the title of Scorpio since she was eighteen, this is largely just a formality. She knows why it took so long- it’s taken Sanctuary a while to recover from Aiolos’s betrayal.

Still, it’s her first time actually meeting most of the Gold Saints. Everyone is lovely and polite, and it’s actually a nice little party, if a bit boringly professional. Still, that’s about what Milo had expected. There’s a small reception, and the finger foods are nice, and they don’t skimp on the alcohol.

Everyone is at least several years older than her, it seems, except the one man with blue-green hair who seems entirely preoccupied with holding the wall up and staring into his slowly melting ice cubes. He looks about her age. She can’t remember his name. She can’t remember any of their names, but that will come with time.

Milo wanders over and leans next to him. He looks up, startled, and then back down at his ice cubes. They’ve solidified again, into one weird lumpy chunk of ice. She giggles.

“I’d ask if I could buy you a drink, but the drinks are free and you just froze yours,” she quips, and he looks up at her with wide, round eyes and drops the glass. Ice and glass shatter at their feet and Milo swears, skittering backwards. “What the hell, I was just saying hello!” She huffs, and now everyone is staring at them. She flushes, uncomfortable, tugging at a stray lock of red hair and starts to walk away, trying to regain some dignity.

“No wait, come back, I’m sorry.” He blurts, catching her arm, and she freezes, spinning around to stare at him. He looks desperate, and adorable, somehow.

“You know,” she says slowly. “I always did wonder what you’d be apologizing over.” Several of their watchers cotton on after that and turn away, resuming their chatter, and everyone else leaves them to their own corner of awkwardness. “Also,” she winces, “ I don’t remember your name.”

“Camus. I’m Camus. And you’re beautiful.” He says, genuine and awkward and admiring, before flushing and putting his face in his hands. “This isn’t going at all well,” he moans softly. She giggles again.

“If it’s any consolation, I always knew it was going to be some sort of small disaster.” She tells him.