Work Text:
“Listen, darling, if I was drunk, would I not be not flirting with you?” Monty slurs into his phone. The apartment’s completely devoid of life, except for him, and the bare grey walls somehow seem more depressing than usual.
On the other end of the line, Percy rolls his eyes. “You’re using double negatives again, Monty. Incorrectly, at that. So, yes, completely aside from the fact that you have been telling me how beautiful I am for the last hour, I would say you’re drunk again.” Percy thinks it’s honestly a testament to how well he knows Monty that he even understands him at all.
“Love, you’re speaking far too quickly for me to understand,” Monty whines. He can hear Percy’s exasperated sigh through the phone, but all it does is make him smile at the thought of how cute Percy is when he’s exasperated. Come to think of it, he’s nearly always exasperated when Monty is around.
“Ok, I’m–I’m just going to hang up now. At least promise me you’ll be safe, okay?” Percy hesitates, considering for a second whether it’s worth stopping himself. It is. (These late night calls from Monty always drive him up the fucking wall; he knows it’s not Monty’s fault, not really, not after all the shit he’s been through, but it’s hard to be patient and understanding when every time it gets harder to not just blurt it all out.)
Monty laughs softly to himself. Irony’s a bitch. He can’t help himself, though: “I’ll see you tomorrow, Perce, I love you.”
He has to tell Percy he loves him. It’s not a choice, at this point. It just is. But he isn’t in the mood for another rejection, so he hits the end call button before Percy can respond. He considers calling Felicity, but eventually rules against it. He supposes a man should have the right to revel in his own misery.
It’s not that his love for Percy is utterly uncontrollable– he’s capable of keeping it to himself, apart from his routine, subtle flirting. Most days. No, it’s not out of his control, but it’s– bigger than he is, somehow. By any standards, there’s no part of him that should be good enough to be capable of love, especially love for someone as good as Percy. But fuck if it isn’t there anyway.
God, does he love Percy.
To make matters worse, the alcohol has a nasty habit of mixing with his emotions, magnifying them. He wonders, vaguely, if his father takes any pleasure in the fact that he was right about Monty being a fuckup. Tonight’s liquor is expensive, one of his dad’s favorites: another connection between father and son, Monty thinks disgustedly. Whether it was in his nature to begin with, or just the result of his upbringing, Monty doesn’t know, but as long as he knows he’s worthless, does it matter how he got here? He stumbles drunkenly to his bathroom, not sure until he gets there if he’s going to throw up or not.
He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs for a razor from his bathroom cabinet, runs it idly over his skin; whiskey’s a hell of a numbing agent. He doesn’t leave any marks where anyone could easily see them, of course. Why would he want to ruin his only redeeming feature? This night is getting progressively worse; he can’t even pinpoint when he started spiraling.
This is bullshit.
He calls Percy again; or, he tries to. He can’t get his hands to work; he’s getting blood all over his phone. And the floor.
“Goddamnit!” He yells. Where the fuck is his gun? He’s jittery, and anxious, and he knows he’s not thinking entirely straight, but he can’t take this anymore. He can’t live his entire life next to Percy reminding him how unlovable he is; he can’t live his life with his dad hell-bent on pointing out how much of a sinner and a disappointment he is. He can’t live this life.
How do you tell someone you can’t be in their life anymore, when they’re the only person you’ve always been sure you loved? How do you tell someone you’d rather die than watch them live without loving you?
Having located it, finally, he grabs his gun and a bottle of vodka, and tries to type out a goodbye text to Percy. The message is maudlin, to say the least. Pathetic, actually, might be a more apt description. Certainly way too long. He takes another swig of cheap vodka (he refuses to die drinking like his father), and deletes the first text.
The second draft is only two sentences long:
i love you so goddamn much.
i can’t live without you anymore.
He presses send before he talks himself out of it; the part of him with a vile, twisted sense of humor knows he has nothing to lose. He wonders how Percy will take it; if it’ll remind him of how irrevocably fucked up Monty is; if it’ll make him sad; if he’ll even read it.
He rests the barrel of his gun against his temple, and wonders exactly when his damage became irreversible. He never really had a chance, did he?
Maybe Percy will miss him. Hell, maybe Felicity will. But he knows they’ll do better without him weighing them down. He’s nothing but a burden anymore, if he was ever anything different. He’s sure as fuck his father won’t care, beyond the blemish on his reputation. “I’ll see you in hell, you bastard.” Monty mutters.
Is he even scared to pull the trigger?
There’s a loud noise, but–Monty looks up in surprise–it’s not the gun. Someone’s knocking on the door. “Monty, it’s Perce, let me in or I’m using my key.”
Fuck. Fuck! Monty’s not even sure he could stand up if he tried. Is he supposed to say something? Open the door? Put the gun down, at least? He tries to decide, but he’s not actually sure how fast time is moving right now, and then suddenly the door’s wide open and Percy’s right in front of him.
“Holy fuck, Monty, what’ve you done?” Percy looks…stunned? shocked? Certainly not relieved. Huh. He stays silent, anyhow. He doesn’t have much to say.
Percy, on the other hand. He immediately grabs the gun out of Monty’s hands, fumbles to switch on the safety, and then pushes it as far away from the both of them as he can. He’s getting more and more hysterical; he takes Monty’s face in his hands, hoping that some kind of touch can anchor him.
“Percy doesn’t swear.” Monty says, his eyes closing. If he doesn’t have to look at Percy, maybe he’ll go away. That’s sensible, right? “Why is he here?”
Percy looks…frozen. Like he doesn’t know what to think. “Christ, Monty, what happened? There’s blood everywhere, hang on, let me just…where are the fucking towels!”
All the towels in Monty’s apartment are white, which is just piling insult on to injury. More mess he’ll have to be around to deal with now. “Honestly, Percy, leave it alone, will you? It’s fine, I’ll clean it up.” Monty snaps, not genuinely mad, but upset that Percy had to see him like this, upset that he couldn’t have just waited a few fucking minutes to come in. The whole problem would have been solved! He grabs the towel from Percy’s hand and aggressively wipes off his thighs. Some of the blood’s already dried. It occurs to him that he’s not wearing any pants, and Percy’s standing right in front of him, but then it also occurs to him that that’s not the most pressing issue at present.
Percy looks as if he’s on the verge of crying. Monty’s only ever seen him cry twice, so it’s somewhat disarming. “Monty, how drunk are you? Can you walk?” Percy asks, once he’s taken a deep breath and moved any and all alcohol and sharp objects a fair bit away from his best friend. Monty nods, though he’s not entirely sure. “Come on, then.” He holds out his hand, and Monty’s wary of touching him but what other choice does he have? He’s still in a fog of alcohol and heavy thoughts, so Percy has to guide him over to the couch. He can’t feel his legs. Maybe that’s a good thing. He moves to sit down beside Percy, but instead Percy pulls him directly on top of him, so he’s sitting on his friend’s lap. Monty’s surprised by the sudden body heat, but he doesn’t have it in him to move.
“Perce, why–”
“Can you just, please be quiet for a moment?” Percy cuts him off. His voice isn’t harsh. It’s heartbroken. Percy wraps his arms around the other boy, pulling him as close as seems humanly possible. He rests his chin on Monty’s shoulder. “Please.” Monty obliges, reciprocating Percy’s embrace. It’s not exactly avoidable, even though it’s slightly painful. Percy holds him as tightly as he can, trying to keep Monty from slipping out of his control, to keep him here. “I got your text.” He murmurs into Monty’s side. “What were you thinking?”
What were you thinking?
A tiny part of him knows that’s probably not what Percy meant, not exactly, but that part gets overruled as the words echo around Monty’s head, bounce off his brain until the voice morphs into his father’s, his mother’s, his own: what were you thinking?
You’re not my son, you’re a sinner and you’ll go straight to hell where you belong. I thought I’d managed to beat it out of you; what were you thinking?
How could you embarrass the family like this? This is not the way we raised you. What were you thinking?
You’re a fucking fairy, and an idiot as well, and he’ll never love you. What were you thinking?
“It’s fine,” he spits at Percy, trying to pull away. Leave it to him to be pathetic enough to believe someone might care. He’s let himself down again. “Soon it won’t be your problem anymore, will it, so it’s fine, isn’t it? I suppose I was thinking that I’ve loved you for years, and that I might as well tell you before I died, but you’re right, I wasn’t thinking, I wouldn’t want to burden you-”
“Stop! God, Monty, just–that’s not what I meant, obviously! I love you! Okay? But this–”
“What?” Monty interrupts him, and stops analyzing completely. “You what?” He must have misheard. Right? Yes. Completely misheard.
Percy gives him a confused look. “I said I love you. I–Did you not know that?” Monty just gapes at him, absolutely aware that he’s making an extremely unattractive face, but unable to control it just at present. Percy’s eyes widen in understanding; he’s a complete imbecile, he thought Monty knew, thought he’d been obvious enough about it. “You idiot, of course I love you. With my entire fucking heart and soul, I love you, Monty.” He pauses for a second, searching for the right way to say this without being an insensitive prick. He takes Monty’s face in his hands; they’re inches apart from each other. “The fact that you thought I could ever live without you…” He shakes his head in utter disbelief. “Listen, if you didn’t know it before, you do now. There is no me without you, Monty. I’m entirely yours, until the second I die. And if you offed yourself I would never forgive you.”
Monty’s brain is battling against itself: Perce wouldn’t lie to him like this. Not about this. But how could Percy be capable of loving someone so…fractured? Monty doesn’t understand why.
Percy frowns. “I can see the cogs turning in your head, darling. Just be still, will you? I love you, and you love me, and nothing about this is easy but it’s enough to wait until tomorrow.” He tucks a strand of hair behind Monty’s ear, then leans back on the couch, pulling Monty down so he’s laying on his chest. “I’m not letting you go.”Monty smiles half-heartedly, the weight of the evening washing over him. Percy presses a kiss to the side of his head. “I know I can’t fix this and you clearly need help.” Another pause. “But one way or another, you have to get better. I refuse to live without you.”
The sick irony of Percy’s statement is not lost on Monty. But right now, tonight is…okay.
He says it again, because apparently he can now, and that’s a freedom he intends to exploit grandly until it goes away: “I love you, Perce. So much.”
There’s a sort of inspiration in this; he knows he’s fucked up, he still doesn’t understand how or why Percy can love him, but apparently the fact that he doesn’t understand it isn’t stopping it from happening. Funny that the lack of control that usually suffocates is now presenting him with a gift he knows he doesn’t deserve. “I don’t intend to lose you, either.” He lets himself relax; there’s a mess to deal with in the morning, but now he closes his eyes; drifting into sleep, held close by the man who loves him.