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Quicksilver, snake-like eyes flashed at him in the mirror. Eyes he’d never seen before. His own, but so unfamiliar.

He gasped in shock.

And nearly fell when Rowan pushed him away and fled the bathroom, leaving Milo alone to come to terms with the fact that he was, in fact, a fucking dragon.

Notes:

Anyone want a DRAGONIZE ME, BITCH sticker? No? Just us? Okay then.

7

Notes:

There was a joke in this chapter that spawned a monster. And that monster’s name is Milo.

Rowan

“Leave me alone to die.”

“Slightly difficult given that it’s my couch you want to die on and it’s making me miss my favorite show,” Troy grumbled, sounding antsy.

“Antiques and Antiquities isn’t anyone’s favorite show. That’s how I know you’re secretly the killer,” Rowan mumbled into the sofa cushion, opening one slitted eye to peek up at his best friend, who was still dressed in his pajama pants and robe.

“Then why is your ass parked on my couch? Shouldn’t you do the smart thing and run away if you want to die alone and not at the hands of my 1847 paperweight?”

“Stop babying him, hon. He’ll never learn that way.” Raina’s voice carried through from the kitchen before she appeared in the doorway wiping her hands.

She wore a flowing green dress that had a few flour handprints on it already, patches of scales a shade lighter than his own visible across her shoulders and neck. Her hair was already brushed, the gleaming waves of crimson catching the early morning light, and her makeup was perfectly done, accentuating red eyes that matched his. She was picture perfect, ready to tackle the day and anything that came her way with the ease of breathing, even though it was only eight in the morning.

Compared to his beer-stained, rumpled, flimsy vending machine clothes from the previous night… Well, you could see who the more functioning sibling was right now.

A witch instead of a dragon, if you asked him.

She marched over to the couch while he was contemplating their family tree, grabbing a stray pillow from the armchair before lobbing it at his head. “Get your ass up.”

“I’m in my dying hour and this is how you treat me still,” Rowan complained, head throbbing even harder.

“I let you crawl into our house with your tail tucked between your legs last night, steaming drunk. I think I’ve done my sisterly duties for the year. Now move your sad-sack act to the floor. My husband wants to watch a guy who looks like he should have died fifteen years ago talk about the prices of dusty relics.”

“He was my best friend first. Before you stole him. Just like you stole my toys when we were younger,” Rowan grumbled under his breath as he shimmied himself onto the rug.

Troy eagerly hopped in his grave, grabbing the remote Rowan’s body had been lying on (no wonder he had a crick in his back) and quickly finding the channel he wanted.

“We’re having pancakes for breakfast,” Raina said.

“I’m good.” Rowan’s stomach turned over. He really shouldn’t have grabbed that twelve-pack of beers from the twenty-four-hour mart. He hadn’t gotten that drunk since college. Maybe not even then. He always liked to be in control.

Milo was the antithesis of that.

This was all his fault.

“I wasn’t offering,” Raina quipped back. “I was just making conversation.”

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Har. Har.”

“I have a cure for that sour disposition if you want it?”

“I’ll skip the ginger shot.”