Milo was quiet, watching the grass flow gently like a flat ocean. Then he stood up and stretched, joints cracking quietly, padding across his bedroom and closing himself into his bathroom to heat the small room with steam. After a swift shower, Milo paused at the foggy mirror and used the palm of his hand to clear away a patch on the surface. In the pale morning light, the only light in the room coming from the window across from the sinks, he studied himself. His dark hair plastered to his head, parted far to the right of his head and pulled over, so it seemed to lie constantly over his left eye. Milo lifted his chin, studying himself absentmindedly like he did every morning---or every other morning---and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Sharp features, high cheekbones and heavy, long lashes over his pale green eyes. Down beneath his chin, on his neck, an ugly scar he'd had for the past eighteen years. He ran his fingers over it, cringing at the lack of feeling there, and backed away, opening the door and going into his bedroom again, and shivering at the sudden cool air that hit him. Before dressing, Milo went to the windows and opened them wide. Since he lived twenty minutes away from the city, in the wooded areas that surrounded two thirds of the place, he could be free to stand in front of his windows without anything on. Then he stepped away, gathering a plain black par of jeans and a blue button-down shirt.

His bedroom, like the other two in his house, was relatively large, and housed a standard-sized bed with dark wood framing, a bedside table on which a real vintage lantern, an alarm clock, and his reading glasses, which were needed for especially small print or when he had overtaxed his eyes during the day. He dressed in only the light of morning, which filtered through the many trees that surrounded his home and cast its glowing rays on everything, including the many canvases piled in the nearby corner that had yet to be used. He was a successful artist, receiving many large commissions nowadays. And unlike most, he preferred the rustic style of a cabin home, far from people so he could sleep well. Most in the artistic or political professions seemed to gravitate toward highrise apartments, condos, townhouses or large, gated manors. Milo's was a three-bedroom house, one bedroom used more as a storage room and office. He had a sunroom downstairs that acted as a studio, positioned on a neutral half of the house so that he could access the morning, afternoon, and evening light however he liked.

Going downstairs in sock feet, Milo paused at the front door and looked at the calendar. He was rather airheaded and if he didn't write down the next week's ideas and necessities throughout the days he wanted to get them done, he'd forget everything. Today was Saturday, so he was going into town for food for the week and some new paints and brushes. Nodding, he went into his kitchen and grabbed an apple, his wallet, and his car keys, going outside with a piece of paper he snatched off the fridge. It had his shopping list, which he made sure to update every time he could think of something else. His front yard was spacious and free of trees, and had two pathways and a semicircle driveway, a branch of which led off to an attached garage he didn't often use. His vehicle was a large blue truck, perfect for hauling a good amount of supplies from or to town. Getting off his private drive and turning left, Milo looked up at the sky between the wall of green and brown. A beautiful morning, but he didn't like his trips to town. He couldn't communicate with everyone quickly and efficiently, so he didn't go but once a week. And that day was usually the most stressful of his week, even with constant deadlines.

Cyril hated working at the grocery store. Piles of cans needed to be put on the shelves. The milk cartons always needed to be set up just right, the most recent ones slid right up in the back, and the oldest were put in front. The dusky skinned blond could understand the necessity of it, but that didn't make it any less tedious. At the moment, his blue eyes were pulled down into a frown as he tried to maneuver things around each other, fit the pieces together like a puzzle. All the boxes were in a neat row now, the big ones and the small ones.

The apron he needed to wear when he went to the produce section annoyed him more then anything else. It hampered his movements, and he could wear his usual clothes under it. Instead of his favorite jeans, black with leather straps and chains, he needed to wear dress pants. No red shirts, or chained leather jackets, nope. Not there. Instead there was a uniform shirt, a green thing that promoted conformity.

He wished he could do something else. Cyril hadn't been able to find a better job, one he liked more, no matter how hard he tried. So he went back to cutting the celery into neat little pieces just like he was supposed to.

He hated when a store didn't have the thing he was looking for. In the previous one Milo had found they were out of heavy cream and instead of asking someone if they had any in stock in the back, he cringed and decided to try a few streets over, glad that he'd decided to keep a cooler in the bed of his truck for cold things so they wouldn't melt when he had to stay in a certain place for longer than he thought he would. Now he was walking somewhat slowly through the cooler isles of the new store, one he didn't really frequent, and searching through the shelves. Of course it seemed to be all hidden away, and that meant he would have to sign to someone that might not even understand it. Or waste time writing out his request in the notebook he kept in his back pocket. Albeit he was very good at scrawling something down in a font that people could easily read in a moment flat, but it still ate up time.

He sighed and ran a hand over his hair, fingers teasing the strands that tried to fall into his face and brushing them back. He'd have to ask someone where the stuff was, and hope they'd be patient enough for a second to try to understand. He caught sight of someone nearby and stepped forward, readying his notebook and waving at them to get their attention, signing at himself then offering a questioning sign. It was simple question anyone that didn't know sign language could understand: "Do you know how to sign?"

Once the celery was done, he was told to go back to working the aisles. Shaking his head, the young man wandered away towards the dairy section, and started checking the dates. Restocking now was against store policy. There were too many customers around. So he needed to remember the things that were too old, so after the store closed he could pull them off the shelves to be shipped off who knows where.

Cyril paid so much attention to his work, that he nearly didn't notice a the dark haired man waving at him off to his left. Tilting his head, he frowned. "What are you trying to say?" Cyril turned on his heel so he could face the customer. "Can I help with anything?"

Milo bit his lip, instantly regretting his decision. Of course, he had to pick the guy that either hated his job or was running late and forgot his coffee this morning. Still, he had one foot in the door, he couldn't back out now. Waving and holding up a hand, he pulled his notebook out and scrawled a quick note, looking over the man as he did so. Dark skin and blonde hair was... an interesting combination, that. He slid the pen into his pocket and turned the notebook around to be read:

"I'm sorry, I'm mute. I'm wondering if you have any brand of heavy cream, I'm not a regular here." Some didn't understand how a man with perfect---sometimes acute---hearing couldn't speak. They thought he was an idiot, or had been dropped on his head as a child. Really, Milo would have preferred to have been dropped on his head---maybe then he wouldn't have remembered it.

Now what was the guy up to? He kept waving his hands around like that meant something. With a grumble, Cyril cocked his head to the side and waited. Surely with all that commotion, the man wanted something or other. But why he didn't just come out and say it, Cyril couldn't understand. And then it all made complete sense. Well ... if not complete sense, then at least more then just a little.

"Alright, wait a sec while I try to remember where the heck that stuff is." He turned back to the wall of dairy and scanned over everything once, then again, until he found what this newest customer was looking for. With just a few steps, he'd reached onto the shelf and picked out what he wanted. "Here you go. Need anything else? I stock the shelves so much, I pretty much know where everything is." He'd have made the same offer to any new customer. It was one of the things that the store manager kept harping on about, customer service and all that.

Milo quirked his lips a little in an attempt at a smile, but failed miserably. He just wanted to get home and avoid humanity for another week, until he needed more food or milk or something. Though he was grateful, taking the carton and tucking it under an arm while he quickly wrote another note beneath the first. "Thank you---I won't bother you again."

Sliding the notebook into his pocket after the man---Milo couldn't read his nametag from here---had read the note, he carefully skirted the edge of where he'd been busy and ducked his head. He might as well explore the place a little more while he was here, and so far in the back. Maybe he should get something sweet---chocolate, his worst enemy and yet his greatest friend. His only friend, really.

"Well if you do need anything else, just ask." Cyril turned away once he was sure the other man had wandered off. He needed to finish checking the milk, and then the bread, and all the other perishables. Dang it! He wanted a different job! One that involved more then just stocking things, taking them out, putting other things back. If only he could do something that was fun, or that he thought was that. He really envied artists, those wild souls who were able to survive on their creativity and do exactly what they wanted. That was impossible for him though.

Milo nodded before he was out of sight, sighing lightly and putting a hand to his throat, massaging the white scars. In light like this they seemed to gleam and act like a reflector, drawing the eye to the defaced skin. He hated it so much. Hated having this problem. Hated his father for giving him this problem. He was called 'lucky'---he could have, should have, died. But instead he was rendered entirely speechless for the rest of his life. When he was little, he'd wanted to be a singer. Sure, he'd been considered too young at the time to decide on anything he'd wanted to do, but he'd wanted to sing at every chance he got. Painting wasn't something he'd wanted to do at first. He'd settled, no matter what anyone else said or thought. He glanced back to where the employee was. Did he just settle, too? Milo stopped in front of a candy selection, not really seeing anything as he contemplated that idea.

Cyril was tired of working day and night at a dead end job. The more shelves he stocked, the more tedious it became. Life kept repeating like a broken record. The same scenes played out, the same sounds rang in his ears. So far the only new thing that had ever happened, in this past long year, was this mute man walking right into the store and asking for cream.

What a sad life. What a wasted man. "I wish I could be anywhere but here." The words mumbled under his breath were sure not to be heard by anyone else. Only the newest of the store's customers was nearby, and he didn't look like he was paying any attention at all to blond haired Cyril. He was just another dead end worker at a grocery store, after all. There were thousands of others out there just like him.

Milo was barely scanning the shelves, moving back and forth and finally deciding on a bag of dark chocolate truffles. It cost a fortune for such a small amount but he didn't care when it came to cocoa in any form. He only ever wanted the best, just like his painting supplies, even if it didn't last quite as long as painting supplies. And if history repeated itself, he would eat at least half the bag tonight.

When someone spoke nearby Milo startled and glanced around. That same worker, the one that had helped earlier. Milo had heard his words, low though they were, and raised his head in acknowledgment. So he did just settle with this job. True it was important, but who really, really wanted to work at such a repetitive job when they didn't have some compulsion or a serious case of OCD? He nodded when the man looked toward his way in agreement, then sidled down the isle a bit in hope that he wasn't thought of being an eavesdropper.

he was startled to find the heavy cream guy looking at him, and nodding. So, the other man had heard his low muttered words. Well, there was nothing Cyril could do about that, save perhaps start a conversation. Though, how a conversation would work out with only one of them able to talk ... The young man shook his head. Another carton of milk straightened out, and then another. Always the same repetitive tasks that had to be done, and they were royally annoying.

Maybe he would go and start a conversation with the speechless man. "Hey." He walked over with a rather nervous look. "You said you hadn't come around here before. So why are you here now?" The safest question to ask, that was, under the the circumstances.

Milo blinked in surprise, but didn't feel as put on the spot as he normally did. Mainly because this man was initiating a conversation rather than the other way around, which was normally how all of Milo's interactions went. With things in his arms, Milo had to crouch down and set them at his feet before pulling his notebook out. It was more than obvious the worker didn't understand sign language, which was how most of the people he encountered seemed. At least he had mastered speed writing, and his reply was only momentary: "The other store didn't have what I needed. And I don't like asking because people get impatient with me." He grimaced a little as if he were actually speaking the words. The emotion was there, of course---people just overlooked it when they had to communicate with him. Sometimes it was interesting to them, and they would look for something to say, until the writing and reading got tedious to them and they searched for any reason to get out of the interaction.

He paused, then took the notebook back and added, "I'm sorry if I bothered you. I have a hard time reading smaller texts and I don't have my glasses with me." Yet another mistake of Milo's. He should have took them up before leaving the house, but simply forgot.

The other man did write quickly, though now he felt like an annoyance. Surely having to put everything down just so he could scribble down his part of the conversation got on the customer's nerves. The paper felt a little odd under his fingers. "That makes sense," said Cyril before the notebook got snatched away again. He waited until it was turned so he could read again, and then laughed a little.

"Don't worry about it. Helping people find what they need is kind of part of my job description."

Milo shrugged, then wrote his reply. "Still, it must be frustrating to hate your job and have entitled costumers verbally flogging you because they can't find their precious flour or apple juice." He smiled in a silent laugh, then tapped his pen on the paper. There was very little doubt this guy hated, absolutely hated his job and felt emotionally and physically drained. There was just that sign of loss all over his face, the way he held himself. Biting his lip in caution, Milo slowly wrote an offer, which he tore off this time and handed to the man specifically:

"I can tell you hate it here. It's hard to deal with the repetition, I know. I worked retail for a few years and it was hard enough for people that could speak, let alone a mute. If you want to do something else? I could pay you better than this job does." He was tearing himself up inside. What did that sound like? He just needed a runner, someone to take care of what he couldn't from week to week, go to town so he didn't have to embarrass himself by taking up too much time from peoples' days. And if he could help someone, it would be better. He added something quickly, with a slightly shaking hand: "It's nothing dangerous or demeaning, I promise."

Cyril stared at the paper, then back at the other man. He had wonderfully understandable handwriting. Unlike Cyril's own unreadable script. "It really is frustrating. It's the repetition that really does me in." The other man seemed like such a good listener. Probably he had to be, to compensate for his voicelessness. Had he been born that way? He had to wonder, to think of it and mull over the possibility. There could be so many reasons for loss of voice. And yet he didn't dare ask.

Another piece of paper was shoved into his hands. The words made the grocery worker's eyes widen. "What exactly do you have in mind?" His first thought was a suspicious one. Why would anyone just randomly offer up a job to a near stranger? The only work that needed so little knowledge of the employee was less then savory. Cyril didn't want to think this man was anything like that.

Milo pursed his lips. He'd expected the suspicion---after all, in this day and age, who wanted to agree to a job with a near perfect stranger they'd only just met? And one that couldn't speak, at that. He wrote his reply quickly. "Well, you can probably tell I hate coming out like this. I'm an artist, very highly commissioned, so I have quite a bit of work to do from day to day. Each week I come out to buy food and supplies for the rest of the week---I'm a recluse, really, so it's easier to push all my discomfort and frustration into one single day, like today. But I could pay you well to come to my home each week, accept a list, and do this for me. It would help me greatly, and it's not repetitive, like this job is."

He thought it through. Milo knew what he wanted each week, so he never had to be specific in his lists. But if he wanted someone else to do it---and that someone actually agreed---he would have to write brand names, and stores that each item or items could be found in. But that was a simple thing. He rolled his eyes at himself, then offered another message: "My name is Milo Hill, by the way. Sorry I didn't mention that sooner."

Now it all made sense. Cyril tilted his head to the side as he thought it over. Running errands in town would certainly be more interesting then stocking shelves all the time. And he would get to travel, to explore and meet more people. And Milo was an artist. Maybe he would be able to get more then money from the other man. He could learn how to paint, how to draw .. Or have someone to talk to about his hobby anyway.

"My name is Cyril Hamilton. And I would like to work for you. I just need to give the people here some notice." He needed to quit his current job, in order to get a new one. Leaving the grocery store was going to be great! But, he hoped the owners wouldn't be too short handed after his departure.

Milo grinned widely, and nodded, writing a note. It took a moment to decide on how Cyril spelled his name because he still couldn't read the nametag, but after a mistake, he corrected it. "Great! I'm glad you're in. Today isn't really necessary, since this was my last stop, but I'll be happy to see you next week, or sooner if you'd like some help finding my home. It's almost half an hour outside town, but otherwise a straight shot when you find the right road." He paused, tapping his lip with his pen and, after Cyril read the first part, added the rest of his thought: "I hope six hundred dollars is acceptable to take a day out of your week? It's a small number, so it'll be my lowest." Handing the note over, he did a figure in his head. Six hundred being his lowest, he would offer that for short lists. Longer, more specific lists would be upwards of a thousand dollars, but no more than that. That fee, separate from what he would give Cyril for the items on the list themselves, would fit rather well.

The first part was easily understandable. A meeting to make sure he knew how to get to the place, that was reasonable. What wasn't was the insane amount the other man wanted to give him. Just for being a glorified gopher? Mouth agape, he stared. He just couldn't believe it! "That's ... .that's more then alright. It's way more then I expected. " He expected half of that. Not even. It was just running around, doing errands. That was it! This guy had to be seriously loaded, to be able to afford to offer that kind of money.

Milo offered a little smile and shrug, then wrote his reply. "It's not much to me. So I don't mind helping you out. Especially since you might have to go all over town for me some weeks. I'll give you my address..." He flipped a page, tearing it out and writing simple directions down. The road that led off and to his home was halfway down East Avenue, to the right if one was going to come down the road from the north side. He folded the paper, handing it off to Cyril and writing one more note. "I'll look forward to seeing you there soon. I should go before everything I have in my car turns into a puddle." Smiling and nodding a final goodbye, for now, he bent down to pick up what he was going to buy and sidled down the isle, turning and heading to the front of the store. He was glad that the cashier didn't offer to speak much, offering comments that he only really needed to nod or shake his head at, and then nod a goodbye as he usually did with his little bag.

Carefully, he accepted the note and read over the directions quickly. He smiled. "I'll be there when I can. Which means, when I've taken care of leaving this place." What a relief! Though of course, he still had his suspicions. He needed time to do some research about Milo Hill. If he was in fact an artist, then there were sure to be articles about him, websites featuring his artwork. Even if the man was a recluse because of his lack of speech, his work needed to be displayed, otherwise there would be no living for him.

Thankfully, he got out of town without a problem. Milo breathed a sigh of relief when the trees enveloped him, and his home came into view. A few trips was all it took to bring in all his supplies, and it took a while to put it all up. Once that was finished, and he didn't bother locking his front door, Milo went upstairs to find his tablet and make a call. It was easier than using any phone beyond the use of texts, and some conversations needed to be face to face, in a way. With the call pressed in, he set the tablet on the shelf in front of him and waited. It was positioned in a way that he'd be face to face with who answered, his agent and director of his studio. She answered from her laptop, and smiled brightly. Her name was framed behind her: Carlie Moreno.

"Hi, hon! How's it going?" She smiled brightly, having just taken her dark hair from a bun at the top of her head.

He didn't bother with his pad of paper---Carlie could understand sign language. "Have you updated my website with the pieces I sent in the day before yesterday? I haven't had the chance to look."

"Of course! Carlie waved. "But you need to update your watermark, it's a little too light. I caught one of your sketches on a site that doesn't host original artists."

"Oh just great. Can you take care of that? Darken the saturation for now, and I'll handle a new design."

"Sure thing, hon. When you gonna send me a new one?"

"Patience! I'm only one man."

"Yeah, that's for sure." Carlie smiled, and Milo narrowed his eyes. He didn't like the tone of her voice, but she said goodbye and ended the call before he could question her. Sighing, Milo shut off the tablet and ran a hand over his face. Well, he should start a new painting soon. Today. Now. Milo smiled at himself and turned, gathering his supplies while he thought of a new idea. He wasn't short on them, certainly.

Cyril was quick to find his manager when his shift was over. Though his back ached and his legs twinged from far too repetitive motions, the grocery store worker still managed to walk around with a spring in his step. There were so many new possibilities open to him now. Well there was one, but what an opportunity! Even if it didn't pan out, leaving the dead end job he had was definitely long overdue.

"Hey, Mrs. Morgan! Can I talk to you for a sec?" She was a kind faced woman who ruled the grocery store with a soft fist of iron. Nothing ever got past her.

Talia Morgan slid another cash drawer into place, and snapped it shut with a snap of her wrists. The money clanged inside the box, and the drawer clicked shut. "What is it, Cyril? No more days off, you're already at the limit."

He shifted awkwardly. "Well about that ... I wanted to give you my notice. I've got a line on a job somewhere else that I'd probably like more then this one."

The grey haired woman pressed her thin lips together. "Alright. This isn't entirely unexpected. I'll say you gave me the letter today. I expect to have it by tomorrow. And by this time next week, you'll be a free man."

Cyril grinned. "Thanks. See you." And then he was off, slipping past long shelves and making his way into the staff locker room. All he needed to do was change, and then he was out of there. The young man didn't like using his car too much when he didn't need to. Instead he waited for the public bus to arrive. The station was crowded. Light didn't even shine through the small shelter's plastic window panes. Someone really needed to clean them.

Milo went down to his sunroom and set the paints down. He loved the deep, thick color that oil paints gave his paintings, and it was easy to control with simple movements. They were smooth to each stroke of the brush, and while hard to correct a mistake until it was dry and could be painted over, the mistakes were always impossible to see. Since it was the middle of spring, Milo had a desire to paint something cold. His mind's eye conjured a domed, intricate greenhouse in the midst of a glen whose frosted trees, a few flat leaves still clinging, covered in sharp white blooming frost.

He used a variety of small pencils to paint the very faintest lines to follow, and shifted a bit as he started mixing paint. He tested it on a small square of canvas he had cut to make sure the color was right, and began on the background tones. He loved to see his paintings come together, loved to watch as the pictures emerged as if he were scraping off the white fog obscuring it and instead, revealing what already existed. It was therapy, let him melt away the real world and envelop himself in the art.