Coyotes and Wolves, Milo Manheim Original Story

Craving

POV: Estella

Milo leaned on the crutches to lower himself into the wheelchair. I tried to help him, but he's so damn stubborn. I can't be upset, really. I just feel so awful seeing my Lobo Blanco look so deflated.

I don't need him to be anything but Milo. But, no matter how many times I say that, he thinks that he has to be the strong one. For some reason he thinks that he's nothing-- unless he can prove that he's immortal. Heaven forbid, anything remind him that he's human.

He's obviously scared. Of course, he won't admit it, but I know him. He can't exist without being in control, not for long anyway, and even when he gives up control--it's always his decision.

I didn't realize that I was being a little aggressive in the car. It must've freaked him out when I tried to take control. But I really just wanted to feel him, and be close to him. He looks so good and he smells amazing. It's clear to me now that he doesn't feel confident that he can take back control if he wanted to. He's never doubted his own physical strength before, and I think he despises feeling vulnerable. Also, being in a wheelchair means that for the first time in his entire life, he'll have to look up at people who are looking down at him. That alone has to be a considerable mind fuck.

Jordan and Miguel ran over to us immediately, and they and Milo took turns slapping each other up, in their own goofy frat boy tradition. They pretended not to notice the wheelchair. I couldn't tell if Milo was grateful for that or not, but no one mentioned it.

I attempted to push the chair for him, but he put the brakes on and looked back at me, his expression was almost scolding. I took my hands off and stepped back, folding my arms passive aggressively.

I just wanted to help, but he obviously couldn't handle it, and he insisted on wheeling himself around.

We found the table that everyone was utilizing and Milo wheeled himself to it. I sat down in the chair next to him, and I slid my arm inside of his and rested my head on his shoulder, watching the dancers and admiring the decorations and lights.

He was quiet. Which he never is. So I knew he was having a hard time feeling like he was on the outside looking in.

"Do you want something to drink?" I asked, breaking the awkward silence.

He looked over at me, and it was like he was annoyed at everything I said and did.

"I can get us some drinks, Estella. You don't have to cater to me." He muttered.

"Fine." I murmured. "Nevermind."

He shook his head and bit his lip.
"Go dance, if you want to." He said abruptly.

"I don't need to dance, Milo." I replied.

"I don't want you sitting here all night because you think you need to babysit me." He grumbled.

"I'm sitting here, because I want to be with you!" I snapped. "You were so excited about tonight, why are you being like this now?"

He sighed loudly,
"I don't...I don't know." He continued to grumble.

"Are you mad about what happened in the car?" I demanded, in a light tone.

"No. Not mad. I just really fucking hate this. I hate that I can't...I don't know how to be this." Milo gestured to himself in the wheelchair.

"You think anyone knows how to navigate something like that?" I challenged. "Yeah, you should hate it. It sucks. It changes a lot. But it's temporary. This isn't who you are. You're the only one who sees the guy in this chair-- as some broken version of yourself!"