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Monty would just like to state for the record that he'd known it was a mistake before he’d done it.
Not only that — he knew it was the shaken-to-the-core, redirecting-the-entire-course-of-his-life sort of mistake. Like not minding one’s feet while walking the edge of a cliff and finding oneself hurtling headfirst towards the churning waves. And yeah, there was always the slight chance he’d survive the fall, maybe even pulling into a graceful dive that would wow a passing mer-person into befriending and thus saving him. But the chances of that were... well, slim.
The odds of this ending well were even slimmer, he’d known, and yet, in classic Monty Montague style, he’d gone and done it anyway.
And by it he did mean him and by him he did of course mean Percy Newton.
The first time wasn’t his fault. Blame the Palais Garnier for filling its bloody theatre with soft golden light that bounced off Percy’s skin and made his eyes gleam even more than usual. Or, blame the orchestra for playing songs that made Percy sway in time with the lively rhythms, causing his shiny black curls to bounce so enticingly around his shoulders. Or blame his fucking father who’d sent them on this trip in the first place because “unruly sons cause scandals and scandals are bad for campaigns, Henry, now leave the country before you ruin everything” — meaning Monty was very much alone with Percy in what was very much known as the City of Love. All this was combining into a perfect storm that Monty was helpless to resist.
And then, when the music had stopped and the crowd was applauding, Percy was turning to him with a brilliant smile on his face, thanking Monty for bringing him here and reaching over to squeeze his hand. It would have taken a saint not to kiss him right then and there.
Monty was many things, but a saint was certainly not one.
Percy had stopped speaking suddenly as Monty’s hand came up to rest on his face, his jaw had gone slack as Monty leaned closer, a smirk on his face. He’d meant to say something clever, a quick, witty quip to make Percy smile even wider and then back to his own seat and friendly personal space. But Percy’s eyes had slipped to Monty’s mouth and suddenly Monty’s smirk was slipping and his fingers were curling into Percy’s hair without his brain having ever given them permission and then their lips were meeting and —
Even after a year of pining after his best friend and imagining this scenario happening countless times, Monty couldn't have anticipated the rush that kissing Percy would send through him. It was like nothing he’d ever felt, and he’d kissed a lot of people. Percy, he figured, had considerably less experience, and yet Monty felt like he was the one melting, the arm he had braced against the chair giving out so he’s cradled against Percy’s chest, a moan falling from his lips as their tongues met. He’d never felt more undone, yet Percy seemed downright calm despite it all, smiling against his lips as if it was all a game. In retaliation, Monty let his hand slip to Percy’s chest, trailing down the tie Monty himself had helped him with earlier, and then lower.
Percy broke the kiss with a frantic hum, gesturing with his head towards the theatre, and the crowd filing out of the doors, reminding him that they were most certainly not alone. Monty righted himself, falling back into his own chair, smoothing down his shirt and re-buttoning his jacket. When he looked back up, Percy was staring at him. Their eyes met and this was the moment he should have said something.
Maybe: I’ve literally been waiting for this moment for a year at least but probably actually my whole life and god I’m so in love with you.
Or maybe he should have just laughed it off, blamed the wine they’d had at dinner and let this be a fantasy, a memory and nothing else.
But Percy was glowing in the lamplight and his lips were still swollen from Monty’s kisses and his curls were even more unkempt than usual because Monty’s hands had run through them and he’d kissed him back , goddammit.
So he said, “Let’s get somewhere more private, then, darling.” And with that he’d sealed his fate.
“Monty, it’s one in the morning.”
In his defence, it was seven o’clock in Paris. It wasn’t his fault his sister had moved to the States. And, anyway, Felicity was in medical school. It certainly wouldn’t be natural for her to be asleep anytime before two. Knowing her, she did all her reading the day it was assigned and worked ahead by at least two weeks, eager as she was to prove herself worthy of the position that Scipio had promised was waiting for her at the end of her degree. The only reason she’d be getting any sleep at all was that she was too boring to actually go out and do anything fun at night.
“Well, sister dearest, you didn’t have to pick up if you didn't want to talk to me.”
“I didn’t pick up the first four times. I’m only talking to you now because my ringtone is slightly more annoying than your voice.”
“That hurts, Felicity. I should hang up on you right now.”
“Please do, that would —”
“ But I’m not going to, because I’m in a crisis.” Monty paused, glanced over at Percy, before sighing and steeling himself for the words to come. Desperate times, and all. “I need your help.”
“What did you do?”
“Why are you assuming it was something I did? For all you know —”
“Monty.”
“Fine. I slept with Percy.”
He didn’t know what he expected Felicity’s reaction to be. Perhaps a dramatic gasp, likely some shrill yelling. Maybe she’d even faint from the shock. In any case, he expected a reaction equal to the profound seriousness of the revelation. He certainly didn’t expect what he got: an irritated pause. No one could fill silence with annoyance quite like Felicity. He could practically hear her eye-roll through the phone.
“Congratulations. Now can I go back to sleep?”
“What?” Monty whisper-yelled, mindful of Percy sleeping soundly barely thirty centimetres away. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.”
“I really don’t. What’s so dire about you sleeping with your boyfriend?”
“My what ?” Monty didn’t manage to keep his voice below a shriek this time.
“Honestly, Monty, was it not good or —?”
“Of course it was good , Felicity, I was involved. And it’s Percy, god, he’s like —” He stopped that train of thought, suddenly mindful that it was his sister on the phone and this was not where he’d meant for this conversation to go. “I’m not talking about this with you!”
“You called me! Do you think I want to know what you and your boyfriend, who I’ve known since childhood, I might add, are getting up to in your hotel room in Paris?”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Monty yelled, then smacked a hand over his mouth, only breathing easy when Percy rolled over and continued to sleep, unaware.
“What did you say?” Felicity asked, voice much louder than before.
“I said, he’s not my boyfriend,” Monty whispered back. “But I slept with him, and now he’s in my bed and I don’t know what the fuck to do.”
“You’re joking right? Of course you’re dating. Why else would you vacation in Paris together?”
“I brought him to Paris because our father kicked me out of England and I wanted my best friend with me so I wasn't all alone in a foreign country.”
“But why would he come? He has school.”
“We’re on Easter break, plus Paris is full of operas and symphonies and what-not. It’ll be good for his program in the long run, to see them and maybe even make the acquaintance of a few conductors and — Look, it’s not important. What’s important is that I’ve gotten drunk and had sex with him and now I don’t know what to do.”
“You were drunk?” And there was the shrill yelling he’d been looking for earlier. He knew she’d get there eventually. “Monty, you better not be treating him like one of your one-night stands. He deserves more than your usual games.”
“Of course he’s not a one night stand! I’ve been in love with him for years, and now I’ve ruined it and you need to help me!”
“Oh, Monty,” she groaned. “Look, I can’t help you. You need to figure this out on your own.”
“But you’re the logical one in the family. I’m just the pretty, charming one.”
“I can’t fix this for you. Why don’t you talk to him instead of calling me?”
“But —”
“No, Monty. Figure it out.”
The line went dead before Monty could reply, and he dropped his phone down onto the nightstand with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Percy stirred, rolling over onto his back and scrubbing a hand over his face. The only light filling the room was the sun pouring in through the windows, gently caressing Percy’s face as he blinked at the glare. If Monty had thought he was beautiful last night, now, sleepy and soft, he was breathtaking.
He rolled over slowly until his eyes landed on Monty, sitting up next to him, nothing to cover him but the bedsheets. Percy’s eyes widened. It wasn’t like they’d never seen each other naked before — their closeness since childhood had provided little room to be modest around each other — but this morning, their clothes were scattered across the room, both their states of dishevelment leaving no doubt as to exactly what they’d done the night before. Not that Monty could forget; the memories were pretty much branded on his brain, playing in a constant loop that made it very difficult to concentrate.
“Morning, darling,” he said, little more than a whisper, but it cut through the silent room.
“Morning,” Percy responded. Then, after a pause: “Did we…?”
“Yeah, we, uh, did. Do you— do you not remember?”
“No! No, I do. Just —” Percy rubbed a hand over his face again. “Were you drunk?”
And didn’t that sting a little. Or, rather, a lot. Like a knife. Embedded in his chest and puncturing his heart and making it oh-so difficult to breathe. He’d finally slept with the actual love of his life and his first question the morning after was “were you drunk?”. In short, it hurt enough that his knee-jerk reaction really couldn’t be blamed on him.
“Yeah, uh. Yeah, I was. Abso-bloody-lutely wasted,” he said, with a laugh he didn’t feel, eyes fixed on Percy, waiting for him to call his bluff. But Percy turned away, quick enough that Monty thought he must have imagined the hurt he’d seen in his eyes. Afraid of what would happen if he let the silence stretch for any longer, Monty pushed on. “It was good though, yeah? Proves we can work well together no matter what the circumstances. I mean, we’re so in sync, being best friends and all, it shouldn’t be a surprise, but — um. We are best friends, still?” Monty finished, suddenly overcome with the fear that not only did Percy not feel the same way, but that he’d ruined everything between them in one fell sweep.
Percy turned back towards him. There was a smile on his face again, but it was ever so small. Monty’s heart fell into his stomach. “Of course we’re still friends, Monty. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“Good,” Monty replied. “Well, I should get back to my room, then.”
“This is your room.”
“‘Course, yeah. I’ll just go get breakfast.” He jumped out of bed, making for the door.
“Monty!”
“What? Oh.” He looked down and realized he had never actually put on clothes. With a smirk, he reached for the bedsheet, yanking it off the bed and wrapping it around his torso. “What do you think?”
“It’s a good look on you.”
“Yeah? I’m thinking Paris Fashion week, twenty-eighteen.”
“Hmm. Try 100 AD, darling. I don't think togas are making a comeback.”
“I’ll make them come back, just watch me.”
“Oh, gladly,” Percy laughed and Monty found himself joining in.
He had imagined the morning after their first time a lot differently, but they’d made it through the awkward tension and were laughing together at the end of it, friends through it all. He pushed down the longing he still felt and ignored the ache in his heart. As long as Percy was still by his side in some way, he could move past this.
They could move past this.
They didn’t move past it.
The following night had found them at a crowded club, having been lured there by a museum tour-guide who promised them it was the best for miles around. “Best” seemed to have a different meaning in french, or the tour-guide had poor taste, because it seemed to be a club like any other, just with a higher price for drinks. Not that Percy had much of a taste for alcohol after the previous night. Even Monty hadn't felt like much more after the first whiskey he ordered, just enough to coat his thoughts with a pleasant buzz.
The music was loud enough that attempts at conversation were pointless, and after barely ten minutes, they’d given up and sat in silence. The tension from that morning had returned, and talking around it was no longer an option. Monty couldn’t take any more of it, so he got up and extended a hand to Percy. Percy raised his eyebrows in response, but took it and followed him out into the crowded floor.
“Where are you taking me?” Percy yelled into his ear, his breath warm against Monty’s neck, making it nearly impossible for Monty to focus on formulating a response.
“We’re going to dance,” he yelled back.
“What?”
Monty turned so they were face to face. “I said, we’re going to dance.”
“No, I heard. But I can't dance, you know this.”
“You can’t,” Monty agreed, a wicked grin spreading over his face. “But I can.”
And they were lost.
The club was so crowded that they had to practically dance on top of each other, Monty’s hands on Percy’s hips to guide his movements as he tried to dance (and mostly succeeded — at least all of Monty’s toes remained unbroken). Their faces were close, breath mingling, bodies pressed together — it was no surprise to either when their lips met. But it was a shock — of heat and electricity and god did Percy’s lips feel amazing on his neck and when did Monty’s hands slip under his shirt?
A short whispered conversation and a painfully long cab ride later, they were back in Monty’s bed.
Monty wasn't a poet, by any means, but he could write a thousand verses about the way Percy’s brown skin looked in the moonlight, the contrast of his black curls against the white sheets, the way his gasps broke through the still air.
Of course, Percy’s poems would make Monty’s look like rubbish, beautiful creative genius that he is.
Or they would, if Percy had actually loved him back.
Fuck.
When Monty woke, he was alone. It shouldn’t have been a surprise — Monty knew better than most that sex didn’t mean anything more than sex. Expecting a relationship after every one (or two) night stand was a surefire way to wind up disappointed and perpetually alone.
It’s just — Percy had never been one for casual relationships, as far as Monty could tell. He’d never been one for random hook-ups or meaningless flirtation. No, that was Monty’s area of expertise, yet here he was, tears pricking his eyes at the prospect that maybe Percy didn’t want anything more than casual sex.
It turned out that Percy was in the shower, and when he emerged, the previous day’s awkwardness reared its ugly head again. But this time, they moved passed it with little delay, quickly falling into a discussion of their plans for the time they had left in Paris before flying to New York to meet Felicity.
Monty knew they should talk about what happened. The first time he could blame the alcohol, but neither of them had been drunk the night before, not really. But it felt like mentioning it could throw off the precarious equilibrium they’d reached, throw them into an abyss of confusion and heartbreak that Monty doubted they could emerge from still friends.
So he joked and he smiled his way through the day and tried not to think too much about holding Percy’s hand.
And when they fell into bed together again that night, without the theatre, or champagne, or club music to blame, well. Let’s blame Paris.
And when they woke up the next day, and Monty loudly proclaimed that he'd be introducing Percy to everyone as his friend with benefits from this point forward, ignoring both the way Percy’s smile dropped and the way those words left a foul taste in his mouth and an ache in his heart — Yeah. That was on him.
Before they’d left England, they’d argued for ages about where to stay. Percy had the working knowledge of Paris, the valid opinions on what made a good location, and the extended list of things he wanted to see. But Monty had his stubbornness and that was no small thing.
Monty’s father had effectively banished Monty from the house following what was now referred to as the “Oxford incident” - a string of events culminating in what Monty would like to consider a mutual breakup with the university - leaving Monty to crash in Percy’s dorm room in London and living off his wages from a cafe down the road. At least, until his father’s campaign for leader of the Party (he never had specified which one, Monty assumed he meant the Tories, and just never referred to it as such because he refused to recognize the others as valid political parties). With larger amounts of fame and scrutiny on the horizon, his father suddenly became ever so generous with money for his prodigal son, on the condition, of course, that he evacuate the country for the next several months.
The offer had come with as little communication between the two as possible, which was fine by him, but left him little opportunity to act like the little shit he was. Monty wasn’t proud of it, but Percy had ended up getting the brunt of his trademark brand of difficulty. In as affectionate a way as possible, of course.
“Let’s just not get a hotel then,” he’d suggested. “Let’s just sleep under the Eiffel tower every night and squander our money away on expensive drugs and champagne.”
“And when we get arrested and put in the morning paper, I’m sure your father will be more than happy to continue paying for your travel,” Percy had shot back. “Honestly, though, Monty do we have to do this? You can just lie low with me, and we won’t have to deal with your father at all.”
“And lose a chance to waste his money while having a grand old time with you in Paris? No thank you, Perce, I’ll stick to the plan.”
They’d settled on a small private hotel in Montmartre, the district satisfying Percy’s artsy (read: hipster) preferences and Monty’s desire for good night-life. But except for their activities in the hotel room, they hadn’t really done much in the area, instead spending their days in the more touristy areas, knocking the cliche “things-to-do” off their lists, before spending what was inevitably a long and tension filled metro ride back up the hill, so that, by the time they’d arrived, any thoughts of restraint or separate rooms were long gone. Honestly, looking back, Monty was struggling to see if he had ever tried to prevent this from happening, them from happening, night after night.
Their fifth day in Paris, the fourth day he’d woken up to sheets smelling of Percy and clothes scattered across the room, they finally explored the neighborhood they’d been living in. Percy was explaining the history, all the artists and famous people that had lived nearby, and all the neat little sights they could stumble upon. Monty was weighing the pros and cons of reaching out for Percy’s hands, wondering why he could do unspeakable things to this boy at night and talk to him like normal the next day, but twining their fingers together would push them over the cliff they were teetering on. The internal dialogue was taking up so much of his focus, he was catching only snippets of what Percy was saying, just letting the lovely timbre of his voice wash over him, until he heard three words he’d never let himself believe would ever fall from Percy’s lips around him.
“What? ” Monty squeaked. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Percy started uncertainly, raising his eyebrows at Monty’s obvious distress, “Down that path there’s the “I love you” wall. Or le mur des je t’aime , I guess.”
“Oh,” Monty replied, disappointment creeping in despite all his efforts to keep his hope from building. “Wait, isn’t that a bridge?”
“Huh? No. That’s the lock bridge. That’s, like, an hour walk from here.”
“What’s this wall then?”
“Well it’s a wall, that’s got “I love you” on it in two hundred different languages, or something,” Percy said. “I think it’s much more meaningful, much more romantic than some locks on a bridge. It’s a monument to eternal devotion, written so that every lover in this city can understand it.”
Let’s go then , Monty thought, And I’ll kiss you next to it until you feel like you could say it back. I don’t need two hundred languages, though. Just the one. “I’m hungry,” he said aloud, and reached for Percy’s hand to drag him across the street and through the open doors of the first restaurant he found. If nothing else, at least he’d gotten to hold his hand.
“This has got to be the most stupid thing you’ve ever done,” Felicity informed him. “And that’s saying a lot.”
“Thanks. That’s so helpful. The huge amount of trust I have placed in you by going to you over everyone else has really payed off.”
“Please, you’re only talking to me because you can’t talk to Percy because— oh, what was it again? Oh yes! You slept with him and then instead of talking to him, you decided to continue sleeping with him for a week without a single word of how either of you feel.”
“You’re making it sound ridiculous,” Monty huffed, slumping into the chair on the balcony. He’d called Felicity under the pretence of making arrangements for their arrival in New York, but had immediately spilled a PG-rated version of the past week and all-but begged for advice.
“It is ridiculous! You can’t just go and ruin your oldest friendship by doing — by becoming —”
“Friends-with-benefits?”
“Gross, Monty. My point is, I told you not to play games with him. He deserves better.”
“I know he deserves better! That’s why I haven’t talked about it with him, because I know he doesn't feel the same way. How could he? I’m a fucking mess. My own father doesn’t even want me in the same country as him. I couldn't even finish university for christ’s sake. How the fuck would I ever deserve him?”
“Monty —”
“Don’t even say it isn’t true, because I know you agree.”
“Relationships aren’t about deserving each other, Monty. They’re about love and respect and trust. Things that the two of you have a ton of.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t love me back.”
Felicity sighed. “Look, I may not know Percy as well as you do, but I've never seen two people closer than the two of you. You should see the way he looks at you.” She paused. “Won’t you regret it if you don't give this a try?”
Monty didn’t say anything for awhile. He looked out over the rooftops, the Seine glimmering in the distance, lit by a million tiny lights. It was a beautiful city, Paris, and though he hated the cliche, he couldn’t deny its romance. What better place to fall in love? Maybe that's what Percy had been doing these past days they’d spent together. Monty could hope, anyway. “Fuck it,” he said. “I’ll give it a try.”
Looking back, Monty should have known something was wrong the moment he stepped through the door. He should’ve guessed when Percy didn’t smile in greeting, or when he said nothing as Monty tripped over the threshold, not even a gentle “steady on, darling” in that lovely, teasing voice of his.
In the moment, however, Monty had been too caught up in what he was about to say, too nervous about baring his soul to notice the way that the Percy’s eyes were glassy even as his jaw was set and resolute.
“So Felicity won’t come to the airport to meet us, which isn’t a surprise really, but still, I’m disappointed, I mean, I am her only brother, and we’ll be travelling so far, but, anyway —”
“I don’t think I should come to New York.”
“That just means that — sorry.” Monty cut himself off when Percy’s words sunk in. “What?”
Percy squared his shoulders and repeated: “I don’t think I should come with you to New York.”
“Why not?”
Percy sighed and looked up to the ceiling. He seemed to be steeling himself, and Monty’s stomach was filling with dread, his thoughts a chorus of n o, no, please no . Finally, Percy spoke: “You should visit Felicity on your own and I — I should get back to campus.”
“But you don’t have to go back for another week,” Monty reminded him, a pleading note creeping into his voice. “And we’ve been having so much fun together, haven't we?”
“We have, it’s just —”
“Did I do something? I’ll fix it, whatever it is.”
“No, Monty, only —”
“Well, then, you can just stay, and we can talk and —”
“This isn’t what I want, Monty!” Percy snapped. He deflated instantly, and began to apologize but Monty wasn’t listening. Maybe couldn’t listen was more true. His head was ringing with Percy’s words and Felicity’s and a great number of his own creeping in, reminding him that Percy deserved far better and Percy didn’t love him and didn’t even want him and he was nothing but a failure, failure, failure.
Percy’s hands clapped down on Monty’s shoulders, and it was then that Monty realized he’d been panicking. “Are you alright?” Percy demanded, voice full of fear, but Monty’s heartbreak was already settling heavy in his gut and churning into red-hot anger. He couldn't bear Percy’s pity, not now.
“Fine,” he spat. “I’m fine. So why don't you just go, if you’ve been so eager to this entire time.”
“It’s not like that, Monty, believe me.”
“Not like what, Percy?” Monty snapped, jerking away from his grasp and clenching his fists. “It’s not like you’ve been sleeping with me for a week and now you’re leaving me on my own? I’m sorry, was it that awful for you? Or did you just figure I needed to be the used one for once.”
“Like you would have wanted anything more!” Percy returned, his voice loud, but failing on the last word. That shook Monty’s resolve a bit, but nevertheless he pressed on.
“Oh so I’m just not capable of deeper emotion now? Can’t actually have a relationship, only good for a fuck, is that it?”
“No! Please, would you listen to me?” Percy yelled. “What was I supposed to think, Monty? You kissed me, you started this, but you never said anything. And you’ve never been one for more than a casual hook-up. I thought that’s what you wanted. But I can’t do that anymore, I need --”
“Someone who’s not as royally fucked up as me. No, I get it.” Monty sniffed sharply, blinking rapidly, all fight gone out of him. “I’m gonna go now, then.”
“What? No, please, don’t,” Percy pleaded, reaching to grab his arm. Monty stepped away, all but running for the door, yanking it open and, in his haste, leaving it ajar behind him. He heard Percy’s voice following him down the empty hallway: “Where are you going, Monty? You’ll get hurt, please —” He cut off with muffled curses as Monty reached the stairwell.
He emerged onto the street. The sun had set hours ago, replaced by streetlights and neon signs for the clubs and odd stores still open. Monty rushed past all of them, not minding the street signs or landmarks that might have helped him on the way back. Tears were blurring his eyes now. He blinked them away and felt them drip down his cheeks. He wiped at them angrily, and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyelids to stop anymore from escaping. He shouldn’t be crying, should have known this was coming and numbed himself too it. He didn’t get to cry, not when it was his fault that the only consistently good thing in his life had been torn to shreds in front of him.
He kept walking, turning at random. The anonymous streets were a comfort at first; no one here to recognize or stop him, no one to ask if he was okay. But barely fifteen minutes had passed before reality began to set in, and the panic with it. He was alone in the middle of the night, lost completely, all his money back in the hotel room.
He stopped on a street corner, a sign for the metro station glowed half a block on, but he was too far to read it. He turned around, and behind him saw a park, a gravel path cutting through it. Something about it tugged on his memory and he found himself turning down it before he could understand why.
He was still puzzling it out when, about a hundred metres on he saw a wall on his left, blue subway tiles covered completely in white print and — oh.
It was covered in “I love you’s” — it was the wall that Percy had mentioned, the one he’d thought was so much more romantic than that stupid lock bridge and god. Monty couldn’t stop the tears when they came this time — in heaving, bursting sobs that shook him and fuck, he must look absolutely foolish and thank god no one else was around and —
“Monty?”
He whirled around, and Percy was standing there, his coat pulled hastily over his shoulders, and Monty’s held in his arms slippers still on his feet. They both stood, motionless, for a moment, caught in each other’s eyes, and then:
“I’m sorry, god Perce, I’m so so sorry, I —”
“I’m sorry too, I never should have said any of that,”
“What you said? What about what I said? I never should have — you didn’t deserve any of that. I didn’t mean it, not really, I —”
“No! I shouldn’t have expected anything more than what you’re willing to give. I know that —”
“I love you.”
“You might not feel the same and — I’m sorry, what?”
“I love you,” Monty repeated. “That’s why I kissed you. Because I’d been thinking about it doing it for months, or years, really, and you were just so happy and I couldn’t help myself anymore and —” He took a deep breath. “I love you, and I get that you might not feel the same way but, you need to know. And I get that it might ruin things, but please don’t go away, I want to be your friend over everything and I’ll manage this I promise. I won’t ever kiss you again if that’s what you want. Or — not never, because I am drunk a lot, and you never really know —”
“Monty!” Percy interrupted, which was probably a good thing, because Monty was quickly running out of breath as the words seemed to keep spilling out of him faster and faster, before his brain could even try to stop them. “You love me?” Percy asked, and Monty’s heart skipped a beat because he was smiling .
“Yeah, I do. Didn’t I say that? Like three times?” Monty responded, trying and failing to keep his voice at a normal octave. “You can ignore it though, if you want.”
“That wouldn’t be very smart of me, though,” Percy said, slowly, carefully, as he stepped towards Monty and pulling him in close by his hand. “Because I love you too.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” Percy smiled, no beamed , and Monty would swear up and down that in that moment he outshone the sun. “I always thought I’d tell you in a romantic speech though, not right after an argument in some random park.”
“This is romantic, isn’t it?” Monty gestured with his hand that wasn’t encased by Percy’s (because he wasn’t moving that one anytime soon, thank you very much) to the wall behind them. “I love you in a billion languages behind us. Lit by a lonesome streetlight. It’s like we’re in a movie, and this is the part where you’d kiss me.” Monty took the final step towards him, and then wrapped his free arm around Percy’s neck.
To his disappointment, Percy didn’t melt into him the way he’d expected, instead he leaned backwards slightly to glance at their surroundings. “I know I said it was romantic but it’s actually not a very safe part of town, we should —”
“Percy,” Monty interjected, twining his fingers through Percy’s curls, forcing his head back down to meet his gaze. “Kiss me right now or I might actually explode.”
So he did.
To: Felicity 22:30
thx for the advice lil sis
From: Felicity 22:35
Did you two work things out?
Or will I have to beat you over the head when you arrive?
To: Felicity 22:35
actualllyyyyy
turns out we’re not coming to nyc after all
we’ve heard venice is a beautiful city
v romantic
great for couples
From: Felicity 22:37
What about for friends-with-benefits?
To: Felicity 22:38
jfc
WE’RE DATING
happy now?
From: Felicity 22:38
Sure. But are you?
To: Felicity 22:40
very
like scarily probably unhealthily happy
now let’s both agree to never use that phrase again