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Within the halls of the fallen ark, everything was perfect, placid, easy—Monty could hardly stand it. Glancing around his dull room, it began to feel as if the walls were closing in on him.
Everything looked just like his room on the Ark, back when it would slowly drift throughout space, but it lacked anything that made it his; no dirty clothes scattered on the floor, no discarded drawings covering his desk, and not a single pair of those stupid goggles he used to see everywhere.
The fragmented, dim glow of the desk lamp flickered. It terrified him: the calmness that was being able to breathe. Monty quickly stood up, before his better judgment could tell him otherwise, and walked out the door—being in that room did him no good. As he studied the halls he passed through, the degree of the quiet finally dawned on him. Everything remained just as the day before, and Monty often found himself feeling exhausted of his new home—and guilty, because he should be feeling the exact opposite.
That night, however, the dismal metal surrounding him held a nostalgia that incessantly tugged at his heartstrings. Recently, his life had been so overwhelming and moved so rapidly that he had been unable to revisit the past. As the sleek metal stared back at him, he recalled once stampeding through halls similar to these as a child—a ratty-haired and wide-eyed boy never too far behind.
They used to be so close. He despised thinking about it, how nearly everything reminded Monty of him. Everytime they were in the same vicinity, Monty could feel a looming gaze, dripping with animosity, drill daggers into his shoulders. Maybe it was wrong, but he was glad the boy could at least acknowledge his presence. He previously tortured Monty by cruely pretending he never existed, like he was nothing but bitter memory.
Monty shook his head, hard. As he continued aimlessly strolling through the dimly lit corridors, only slightly brightened by the light of the jaded moon, he kept his guard up. He found himself standing in front of a large window with a clear view of the night sky. He couldn’t focus on the beauty of the bright, bold moonlight that washed over his face while a perennial, vivid memory danced behind his eyes, begging to be noticed.
The foggy picture of Monty studying his best friend observing the very same moon fluttered through his mind. They used to do that for hours: ponder all the planets had to offer—especially Earth. They would concoct truly terrifying concepts, but also awfully beautiful ones. In hindsight, the earth could never have produced anything as ludicrous as they hoped, but it was nice to dream.
However, Monty no longer had that luxury. He hastily plopped himself on the floor, haphazardly crossing his legs. His brain had begun to flip through every memory since his feet touched the ground so swiftly he was overcome by a rush of dizziness.
He deeply missed his best friend—the ease at which they existed haunted him. He was left with a cold, empty space next to his sulking frame in front of a window on a planet they used to fantasize about being on.
Monty reflected on every decision that had led him to this windowsill. The choices that now allowed his lungs to rhythmically inflate and deflate, his heart to leisurely beat. He hated it though, being the lucky one. He realized that if he had done something different, maybe someone else could have been sitting here instead of Monty (or maybe he could be sitting next to him). A small tear slipped down his face and silently splattered onto the cloth of his pants. Monty watched as it instantaneously absorbed into the fabric, wishing the weight of his mind would similarly ease away.
He let out a shaky, exasperated breath. He still remembered watching them pull that lever, remembered how he willingly acted as a catalyst, remembered the look of raw, all-encompassing, dumbfounded pain that spread over the boy’s face as he held a limp frame in trembling arms, and remembered the painful knots that formed in his chest that night, ones that had never truly went away. He instinctively shot to his feet in hopes of soothing the bile slowly rising up his throat when loud, slow footsteps thumped down the hall.
Suddenly embarrassed, he snapped back to reality. Monty swiped at his tear-stained cheeks and pressed himself into the corner, out of the moonlight pouring through the window and sight of the passerby strolling at this obnoxious hour.
The heavy footsteps began to slow and Monty realized the person was not very different than himself, stopping in front of the window to think. Luckily hidden by a stack of rogue crates, Monty felt a wave of relief; the onlooker should be leaving shortly. Or he was relieved, until he saw the all-too-familiar glinting edge of a bottle wrapped in domiciliary fingertips. Monty’s head began to spin.
The passerby heard his breath hitch, and flicked their head in the direction of the sound. A sullen, tantalizing smile grew on Jasper’s face. Wishing he had taken the opportunity to burst through the window moments prior, Monty pushed himself from the crevice and diverted his gaze from Jasper.
“Monty?” he spoke. It was so bitter, the sound of his name dry and salty on Jasper’s lips; the bile previously rising in Monty’s throat nearly took its opportunity to spew from the pit in his stomach.
“Are you—crying?” Jasper’s smile had flickered away, only to be replaced by a poorly stifled and theatric chuckle. Though Monty had spent months wishing for Jasper’s forgiveness, to return to what the used to be, he silently wished away his presence in this moment.
“I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just—what could possibly make someone like you cry?” As Jasper inched closer, Monty could smell the bitterness wafting off his tongue, and he was nearly suffocated as Jasper’s breath rolled over his face.
“Fuck off,” Monty replied, shoving Jasper away from him to maneuver out of the small corner. Monty began to slip away from the window before Jasper snagged onto his wrist, gripping it snuggly.
“Jasper, let go,” Monty muttered, reluctantly looking up at him. For the first time in what felt like centuries, their eyes met. Two pairs of dark, cloudy, apprehensive eyes locking under the light of the faraway moon. It was almost poetic the way the two searched the other’s face for something they knew was not there.
Monty could never hate him. In his mind, Jasper’s awful treatment stood no contest to the persistent memories that clouded his head or the hope they could relive them one day. Jasper knew, maybe not yet, that he didn’t hate Monty either, that he never really could with the ghost of the past incessantly lingering over their shoulders.
“Why are you crying?” Jasper pressed. the juxtaposition of sincerity in his inflection, paired with the disdain in his expression dumbfounded Monty.
“It doesn’t matter, just let me go,” Monty ruthlessly tugged his arm away from his grasp.
Jasper always wanted Monty to understand, to truly feel his pain, and to suffer unrelentingly the way he has been for months, but the small tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, swimming with guilt, made Jasper’s stomach turn. He longed for Monty to hurt but seeing it made him nauseous.
“Monty,” Jasper pressed. For a just a moment, the recent past melted away—they were young and vulnerable again. Then that sincerity fled.
“Whatever. You deserve it,” Jasper tipped the glassy end of the nearly forgotten beverage to his lips, taking a large sip in hopes of forgetting their encounter entirely. The liquid twisted uncomfortably in his chest. Monty only scoffed and turned on his heel, wholy regretting ever leaving the confines of his room.
“Your overdue for it anyways—after all the shit you pulled,” Jasper slowly spoke. His tone was all too loud for the hour and his words were barely comprehensive. Monty again spun around to face him.
“Stop. Quit acting so selfish—and quit blaming everything on me! I did what had to be done, it wasn’t even my decision, and its not like I enjoyed it,” Monty began to match Jasper’s tone: loud, childish, and petty. They were rehashing a wound that had just begun to scab over—now it was destined to scar.
“She was my friend too, you both were. You’re not the only one who’s hurting,” Monty continued. He had reigned himself in, nearly opposite to moments prior. His words hung barely above a whisper and ran true.
“Don’t talk about her,” He gritted through his teeth, at a lower, more personal volume. In futile attempts at intimidation, Jasper pressed closer to Monty, pushing him back into the corner. The stench from the drink burned Monty's eyes, only pooling more tears. He studied the way Jasper faltered before his face returned to the angry expression.
“Why? You’ve been acting shitty for months—and I get you’re grieving—but the world doesn’t revolve around you. Stop trying to pull me down alongside you when I'm trying to move on,” Monty poured out. He was so tired of this stranger that replaced his best friend and longed for the boy he used to know. In that very moment, with Jasper’s face so close to Monty’s that he could see every wrinkle on his face, an aged memory fluttered in front of his eyes. Monty saw the same lips in front of him curled into a long-gone, mischievous smile, the same eyelids pressed shut from pure, heinous laughter.
“I’m trying to pull you down? Oh my god, you’re ridiculous!” his eyes fluttered for a moment, not fully there.
“You were just jealous weren’t you? You were. I spent more time with her than you. So—so you killed her. And you make all these excuses, blaming me for your bitterness and fucking guilt,” Jasper rambled, drawing backless conclusions strung out by an intoxicated mind. Monty was awestruck and speechless and embarrassed.
“You know none of that is true,” Monty said slowly, leaning nearer to an already close Jasper and enunciating every word in hopes he would understand him. The tears that previously only pricked Monty’s eyes now flicked down his cheeks—Jasper’s eyes presented a similar fate, defiant drops careening down his face. His frown contorted, his whole heart did.
Then Jasper smashed his lips against Monty’s mouth. It caught Monty entirely by surprise as he found himself pushed back against the wall. For a moment he let himself indulge in the embrace. The messy clash of lips was laced with bitterness, animosity and guilt. Monty barely realized what was happening as Jasper's hands traveled over his back, hips, and down to his belt, desperately tugging at the clasp. Monty, sober in his thoughts, desperately shoved Jasper away, nearly falling over from how intensely he threw him.
“What? You didn’t like that? I thought that’s what you wanted. I’m all yours, Monty, now that she’s dead,” Jasper spat, half genuine with a conniving smile on his wet lips. He scooped the spilled, nearly empty bottle from the place it had fallen and took a large swig. Monty could only bring himself to stare. His face was hot and moistened by tears. His breathing was ragged and unsteady and his stomach was lodged in his throat.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Monty let the question hang in the air: accusatory, pointed, and unanswered. As he hastily retreated, he deeply regretted ever stepping out into the hall, he would have preferred the walls crushing him over their interaction.
Jasper watched his retreat, not moving a single muscle. He could feel the destruction he caused as Monty left. Jasper’s hands began an unrelenting tremble, nearly shaking the bottle out of his loose grasp. Regret coursed through his blood. He never, ever meant to hurt Monty. He knew his blame was misplaced. He was just so overcome with emotions, he always was. He wanted someone to understand his anguish, wanted Monty to understand. The more he thought about it, he couldn’t even begin to explain his feelings to himself.
Jaspers breathing hastened. He wanted Monty to hurt, he wanted that to make himself feel better, but he also so dearly longed for his forgiveness. His mind flitted back and forth between the two concepts so quickly his head spun. He was so conflicted he could not decide what it was he truly wanted.
“I fucking hate you!” he yelled after Monty’s long-gone footsteps. He knew the boy hadn’t heard him, and knew he didn’t mean it. He continued repeating the mantra in hopes that, just maybe, if he said it enough, he would believe it wholeheartedly. That he would be able to fully despise Monty without a flicker of doubt. He couldn’t breathe right, as if his own lungs were confused by his mind.
The bottle rolled away from his degenerated, shaking frame, a very final sound. The melodic scraping of the glass on the floor panels whispered a desirable escape to Jasper’s gullible mind. As he scooped the bottle back up and tipped the end skyward, it was nothing like the distant, vivid daydreams of Earth he would share with Monty. The beverage was only bitter, hopeless. It sparked no sense of future and resilience, it stuffed his dignity down his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he tried to mutter, though it never really left his lips.