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Monty prided himself on how well he was able to compartmentalize.
When the 100 first landed upon the earth, his first night of sleep was quite peaceful. He was woken quite often by those around him tossing and turning–but he could always fall back to sleep with little more than a smidge of annoyance, of a mountain of acceptance of their fate that ever changed.
When he learned his father had died, he slept like the baby his mother had taken care of so lovingly, back on the Ark. It’s not like he was naive enough to have expected his father–let alone his mother–to survive, anyway. Yes, he had been given glimmers of hope: 320 people were sacrificed on the Ark, but it made more sense to believe that his father was part of the approximate 87% of people remaining that weren’t; after the 100 started taking off their wristbands, sealing their fate, the Ark came down and was not left to stagnate into stardust in the sky as they had all expected; seeing his mother’s face meant his father could be right behind her. But, once more, he was not naive. He learned fast that hope, down here, was just the Grim Reaper in disguise.
When he found out that his mother betrayed him, he was angry–but sleep was his reprieve, a time when he didn’t need to be angry at anybody. And at least she was still there, even if she wasn't acting like the mother he knew and trusted.
When his mother died, at least he had the solace that she felt no pain. That managed to squash most of his own, at least enough to still let him have enough hope to dream of happier things, even though he knew that was playing with fire. The dreams evaporated every morning when he woke up, and in the hours between then and falling asleep again, that hope poked and prodded him until it wore him down to exhaustion; wanting better things but never finding them was tiresome and draining.
Make no mistake–all of those things hurt. He'd be a liar if he pretended he felt nothing, because by God did he feel pain at those events. But at night, he could forget, for a little while, and when he was awake, he still had family to turn to. At first, his mother; then, when she was gone too, Jasper. What he could not forget were the only things his brain could not save him from, and rather took the route of punishing him for: they were the things that took his brother, for all intents and purposes, away from him. Every loss took a part of him, or changed pieces in ways he hated, until he didn't even know if he still had himself.
First it was the arrow–but at least that separation was only temporary. He got him back at the end of that. And at least neither of them knew it was flying through the air until it landed.
But then there was the tea, the one that Jasper brewed himself, and everything that compounded and compounded into that first and last sip. Every little toxin that wormed its way into Jasper’s brain and whispered at him to do what he did. That convinced him, that soured him, that killed him right in front of Monty.
All the self-high fives in between. The fact that he only ever gave them to himself should have, in theory, made it easier. He never had to wait for his friend to return it; he could always just give it to himself. He always did. But now, there was no echo, and certainly no following laughter.
He wondered if he almost never had nightmares his entire life because Jasper always took them from him. Always shouldered it, carried it so Monty never had to. God knows Jasper had more to be upset about than Monty ever did. And when Jasper was unconscious from that arrow, and now had no mind to dream in at all… they fell on Monty’s shoulders.
And those horrific dreams did fall, that very first night alone, and every aching night after. Each and every night was a replay of the night he wanted to get as far from as possible, and then hated himself for having that urge because it meant he'd be leaving Jasper in the past too, alone and ashen in that ship.
And when he woke each morning, sun pressing against his closed eyelids and projecting a haze of red and orange into his gaze, all he could see was the blooming red ball in the sky that terrible night. All he felt was anger, all the time–at himself, for disrupting that small moment in which his best friend had him at his side for the last time. Jasper had no clue of what the future would bring, and had peace at that knowledge. That was the point of it all.
Jasper had been selfless. He knew Monty better than he knew himself; he should have listened. He should have told him what Jasper wanted to hear, because for Jasper, it was not about what would reach his ears. It wasn’t about what would actually be heard, for he knew he’d be gone in moments and anything that was said would not matter–to him. But it would matter to Monty, for it was about what left Monty’s mouth, no matter where it reached. And all he did was dig his heels in.
And Jasper was right. He did regret it. He did have to live with it. That was why Jasper didn’t want him to say what he said. But Monty said it anyway, much too late for it to be heard by ears other than his own, and so much was left unspoken. It did matter to him that he said it at all, that much was true–but even so, it did not help.
He wanted to be angry at Jasper. He did; and perhaps part of him really was. The occasional nightmare that played out with him not pleading as he usually did, as he had before, but rather yelling words of hate and anger and appall at the notion of his friend leaving him by himself in a world that was literally on the verge of exploding suggested so. As did the borderline jealousy of the fact that he couldn’t achieve the peace that his friend did, even with his unwavering–even from being hurt more than he thought he ever could, from losing him, the one thing that would break him–staunchness in the idea that giving it to himself would not be worth it. But then the guilt upon waking would kick in, and he would remember all the reasons he couldn’t be mad. He’d cycle, that night, back into a dream that was nothing but a reflection of the reality he couldn’t change.
And then he read the letter.
That night, he was afforded a second chance: he dreamt of Jasper again. And for the first night since the source of the nightmares, he knew from the moment he walked up to that window, standing beside his best friend, what he was there for. The version of him in that unconscious state was not blindsided by the truth, slapping him in the face night after night as it always had. He knew, and Jasper knew, and there were no protests. No attempts to make Jasper undo what was unfolding. No bargaining, no insults, no selfishness. Just that quiet acceptance of what neither of them could change.
Before the tea hit, before his words started slurring and it became hard to hold his eyelids open, they were already on the ground. Monty had already scooped his thin, trauma-laden frame into his arms and fallen gently back against the wall, comfortable on the windowsill. Jasper was leaned up against his chest, his own rising and falling less steadily, less deeply, with every passing second. Their eyes were on the setting sun, red wisping out into the clouds. They were silent, Monty’s arms wrapped around him so that his friend could feel his heart beat on his back as his own slowed to a standstill.
The breath before no more were offered, Monty guided his friend’s sigh into his own silence. Only four words were shared, and Jasper heard them this time, the last thing he’d ever hear. They were given lovingly, carefully, gingerly. A soft whisper into the ear that was now turned up to him, his friend’s neck becoming too weak to hold his head up, falling against the shoulder behind him. One hand left the body below him, coming up to gently brush against his hair, smoothing it down as one would do for a sick baby brother who knew nothing but joy and comfort. Who trusted the other to give it.
“Jasper, I love you.”
He kept whispering it with each stroke of his hair, until the sun set, and they were plunged into darkness.
But that darkness wasn’t in Monty’s chest anymore, as he felt the full weight of an empty vessel leaned against him.
He didn’t need to hold his friend’s face in his hands and look in his eyes to tell him what needed to be said this time. He knew whether he said it or not would not change anything for him–as his words finally left him only to fall on deaf ears that real night so many nights ago, he knew then that Jasper was at peace regardless. There was no pain on his face, no anger that he had been carrying since Maya. He knew anything he said or did not say wouldn’t touch that; if it would have, he’d have been able to save him.
He just needed to hug him. And he did, rocking their forms back and forth as he stared at his reflection in the blackened window, until the sun rose again and forced his eyes open for real.
The next night, he dreamt of him one final time, one more memory to live in. They were making moonshine, talking about as much as they loved that and they loved it down here, a part of them still missed the moon bay and the weed they hid in the wall. The fire was crackling around them, the first 100 laughing and hollering at the idea that the planet was theirs–that they were safe, that they were alive. Everything that it took to get here did not matter, nor did anything that they would have to face each day in such an expansive, unfamiliar space.
They took a sip of their current batch, and high-fived for real this time, fingers touching fingers and palm touching palm. For a split second, everything was hopeful again, the moon reflecting off of Jasper’s goggles atop his friend’s head.
He awoke feeling drunk on the reflection of having all this love with nowhere to go, all of these memories with no one to share them with, all of the ways he had to be strong for them both now.
He never dreamed of him again, and he was okay with it. He knew they would meet again someday, on the other side.