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When Monty's boot stuck in the mud and popped off his foot, he almost considered leaving it behind. A few months ago, he might have done it with the knowledge that he had more pairs like it at the estate. Sometimes he had to remind himself that he was no longer Henri Montague's trouble making son who stayed out too late and let boys climb through his bedroom window. These days, he was just another poor sop in this disgusting town, trying to make a living.
Which was nearly impossible, by the way. Why there were so many people stuffed into this tiny town, no one knew, but it made finding a job difficult. Especially for a person with no skills and previous employment. Not like Percy, who had enough talent with his violin that he could play for kings if he wanted. If he wasn't black.
Monty tried not to think about it and did his best to balance on one foot while tugging at the stuck boot. It was a miracle that he didn't fall over when the shoe finally came loose and Monty almost knocked himself in the face with it. He was surely making quite a spectacle of himself. Maybe he could apply to be an entertainer somewhere. Everywhere else had turned him down.
He resumed trudging down the mangled dirt street, ignoring the stiffness in his back, ignoring the gnawing hunger in his stomach, ignoring the little girl who tugged on her mother's skirt and pointed right at the ropey red scars covering his face. God, he was tired.
As Monty stomped up the stairs to the flat, his footsteps sent clanging noises reverberating through the metal in a way that sounded almost melancholy. He really felt like he understood these stairs today.
He slammed the door a little too hard and didn't bother to hang his coat and hat up, instead letting them drop on the floor. He went to start a fire in the small oven when he glanced into the other room and saw Percy curled up on the bed, gripping the sheets hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
Percy was never home this early.
Monty forgot about the fire and how hungry and tired he was and ran to kneel at the bedside, taking Percy's hand and watching his brown eyes open slowly.
"Monty," he whispered through clenched teeth, sounding pained.
"I'm here, darling," Monty promised, trying to stroke the tremble out of Percy's hand. "Are you sick?" He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. "Are-are you going to have an attack?"
Percy snorted, then grimaced. "Already did. Think it's mostly gone away now."
The panic buried in the back of Monty's head erupted. "God. God, I'm so sorry, Perce. Um... should I make you some tea? Or soup? Shit." His mind was running in circles.
"It's okay-" Percy tried to reassure him.
"It's not okay, damn it. You shouldn't have had to go through that by yourself. God. I should have been here." He raked his nails through his own hair, cursing at himself. "I'll get whatever you need."
Percy rested their entwined hands against his cheek. "You're here now. That's all I need." He shuddered and held back a gag. "And maybe a bucket."
Monty hurried to fetch the pot, which luckily was clean. He held back Percy's hair and rubbed his back while he vomited, certainly not the nighttime activity Monty had been hoping for tonight.
Percy practically collapsed against Monty's chest. "Sorry," he groaned, wiping his mouth.
"It's alright," Monty whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I do have to go wash the pot out now, though."
Percy made a small grunt of protest, but let himself be laid back down.
"I know, love. I won't be a minute."
True to his word, Monty returned a short moment later, kicking his boots off before slipping under the covers, gathering Percy in his arms and holding him tightly.
Percy nuzzled against his heart beat and took a deep breath, the exhaustion catching up with him. "I love you," he mumbled, and drifted to sleep.