Work Text:
One–
It had been a few months since Monty and Felix started working together, and they’d settled into something of a routine. Familiar enough to know who sat where and who handled what, new enough to bicker about the tiniest disparities in management strategy. Monty did the tinkering, collected callouses and electrical burns more frequently than his paycheck; Felix had the funding, the branding and the drive. The ambition. He’d been born into success, and he fully intended on staying there.
However– when one was as… Tenacious as Felix Huxley tended to be… Complications, of a sort, could arise. Namely, the single-minded focus on emerging victorious that could blind him to the rest of the world. To the rest of his life.
To his father.
Father had never been all too concerned about Felix’s safety, not so long as he upheld the company image and kept out of contact with the rabble. Father respected Monty, Father approved of Felix’s business dealings, Father encouraged their partnership. Father did not, however, encourage Felix to return home with singed hair and a sooty face after a minor explosion in he and Monty’s lab.
He’d walked in the street like that, after all. Hadn’t so much as cared to call upon Driverton to collect him. Had allowed all those below him to gawp and gape at his state of utter dishevelment, Applesoft pin displayed traitorously proudly upon his chest. As heir to the most prestigious mega-corporation in the world, it was Felix’s duty to maintain a good image.
(Father’s reaction seemed somewhat counterproductive, but Felix had long since learned better than to question him.)
Typically, when such an incident arose, Felix would meet with his ex-girlfriend Cynthia to remedy the cosmetic fallout. Cindy was a master with her powders and concealers, and when she worked her magic, it was like a bruise had never existed in the first place! And beyond that, Cindy didn’t ask questions. Besides, it was hardly a singularly beneficial transaction: he made sure to pay her handsomely for her assistance.
Unfortunately, as of late, Cindy had been away from school. Confined to her dingy little house and her pink-patterned room under claims of a common cold. Uneasy as he was about the state of his face, Felix was smart enough to know that if he contracted her illness, matters would get infinitely worse.
(One would hope, by now, that his father would have learned better than to allow his temper to overwhelm his rationality. Nevertheless, it was Felix’s job to manage the fallout– and manage it, he would. Everything would be fine.)
He showed up to school the next day with a gaudy white sticky label plastered crudely onto his face, and hoped that would be enough to avoid questions.
It had been a decision of impulse, truly– he was overtired and antsy and dreadfully self-conscious– and despite the odd looks he quickly began to accumulate, Felix was certain that this was better than the alternative. Being judged a spectacle was not foreign when one entered kindergarten in a tie each day. Being pitied, on the other hand– well. Felix knew which he would prefer.
Kindergarten was as tedious as ever; Felix pioneered the day through a swarm of ignorant derision and poorly-hidden snickers, and found himself slumping in relief by the time the final bell tolled. Finally. Now, he would be able to spend his time productively.
He met Monty outside of the school gates, and the redhead immediately burst out laughing.
“Haha, yes, hilarious,” Felix gritted out, folding his arms with a burning face. This was far from the first time Monty had grated on his nerves, but this time had poured kerosine all over the exposed axon of his coveted dignity. “Laugh it up, Montgomery. Get it all out. You’re only making a fool of yourself.”
(Monty was making a fool of the both of them.)
Eventually, mercifully, Monty’s spluttering died enough for him to bare his teeth in a crookedly mirthful grin. “What, did you fall asleep in the name badges?” He snorted, bespectacled eyes zeroing in on the tacky patch of paper adhered to Felix’s skin.
“Far from it. I assure you, this was entirely deliberate,” Felix sniffed in return, turning up his nose. “Why are you so overcome by a trivial little label? It’s unbecoming of a–” He stopped, straightened, scowled. “Business partner. You’re an associate of Applesoft, not a ridiculous schoolboy.”
Monty stared pointedly at the kindergarten gates. Felix stared pointedly away.
“Alright, alright,” Monty sighed finally, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure you have some grand reasoning for… That. Let’s go.”
When Monty began to move down the pavement, Felix paused for a moment, then followed ever so slightly behind.
They walked in silence for a time, and Felix found himself acutely aware of the way his label tugged at his skin every time the wind caught it, the adhesive beginning to curl at the edges. He resisted the urge to press it down again. That would draw attention.
Monty was watching the shop windows, Felix noticed. He glanced over to them himself, catching their reflections in the corner of his eye. A shock of red hair, a worn green jacket, a bright Applesoft pin, and a white sticky label.
“You know,” Monty said, casual. “If you wanted people to stop asking questions, that might have been the worst choice.”
Felix scoffed, chin lifting. “Hardly. People ask when something is out of place. This is very clearly deliberate.” He scowled. “We have work to get done. Do at least try to stay focused, Montgomery.”
“Right,” Monty sighed, something hardening in his eyes. Good, Felix thought. That was good. A strange sort of pang found its way to his throat, and he brushed it away without comment. “Of course. Let’s talk business.”
This was familiar. This was the routine. Complications like this didn’t matter.
Monty and Felix worked well together, and that was how it would stay. Felix was sure of it.
Two–
Monty didn't like talking about what the janitor did.
It was gory, and it was unprofessional, and it had caught him off guard. A brief moment of earned derision that had ended with him battered and broken and bruised, crumpled on the filthy cafeteria floor with the last shattered remnants of his pride and his life. A mistake.
Fantasising about killing him was always a cathartic way to pass the time– until the fantasies got a little too tangible, a little too scarlet, a little too dangerous– but Monty hadn't been near the man in months. He didn't need to be. He'd cut ties. Or, rather, the janitor had cut ties for him.
Monty wasn't scared of him. He wasn't. He just had a business to run, and refused to extend partnership to someone so... Volatile. He wasn't worth Monty's time, really.
The janitor was unpredictable. The janitor was a mistake.
Felix, on the other hand, was the most predictable person Monty had ever met.
Naturally, Felix himself would violently object should Monty suggest as much, but the fact remained that Felix was nowhere near as subtle or clever as he liked to believe he was. Monty knew exactly how to interpret every scoff, every glance, every superior sniff. When push came to shove, Felix was all talk. A privileged rich boy who didn't know the meaning of danger or hardship. Who couldn't recognise a threat even when it was glaring
The arrogant overconfidence was one thing, but to have such oblivious conviction in his own success that he could talk about murdering a potential rival when sat right next to him was a whole other ordeal.
"That," Monty began flatly the moment they'd left the building. "Was a disaster."
It was honestly a surprise Felix wasn't dead yet.
Monty tilted his head, considering. "Maybe check your tea for poison over the next few days. Or years. Who knows how many people you've pissed off over the last few months."
"Tch," Felix scoffed, just as Monty knew he would, folding his arms in that objectionably straight-backed way of his. "I don't see what the problem is. The fool wasn't listening to me. I whispered."
"Oh, he absolutely was," Monty groaned, raising one hand to his temple. "Felix, you can't just plot murder in a public setting. At least wait until you're five feet away from the guy!"
“He is of no concern to me,” came the infuriatingly adamant reply, and Monty was certain that if his eye twitched the way it wanted to, the organ would drop straight from its socket. “Even simpletons like him are aware of my family name. Should he attempt an assassination, he would face the wrath of my father!”
“And I suppose that wrath is less desirable than the death you’ve been publicly planning for him?”
“Of course,” Felix responded, without missing a beat. “I’d do things cleanly. He’s a threat to the company, so I would manage it like a professional. As would Father, though he would draw it out to make a metaphorical example of him.”
Monty blinked. “...Right. But the thing is, Felix, I don’t have your fancy family name or psycho father– who, might I add, is a lot less impressive than you make him out to be. You’re not just putting yourself in jeopardy here–”
“I suppose you believe yourself above him, then?!” Felix stepped closer, eyes narrowed, more indignant than Monty had seen him in weeks. A slight against his father and he swelled like a pufferfish. Monty truly didn’t understand the admiration Felix held for Mr Huxley when the man was so easy to best, but he supposed this was expected from him. “My father is a multi-millionaire–”
“Try asking him what happened in Bangkok,” Monty couldn’t resist a smirk. “I’m sure he’d love to share.”
“You are–” Felix breathed sharply in, arms folded tightly across his chest. Defensive. Spine somehow even more rigid than usual. Monty could read him like a book. “I don’t know why I partnered with you in the first place. At least Teddy had some sense of decorum. Your entire personality is so…” He waved a hand, derisive, superior. His voice was made of money when he spoke. “Penuriously crass.”
“At least I was smart enough to keep my own clothes in my wardrobe,” he sneered back.
"Well at least I didn't get myself crippled by an octogenarian janitor!"
At that, Monty froze.
His lips settled into a cold, thin line, pressed icily together. He took a deep, shallow, steady breath through his nose. Swallowed. Stared up at Felix's nose. And calmly said:
"I'm going home."
He could hear Felix splutter as he turned his head away, making to leave entirely when slender fingers snagged onto his upper arm, slightly above the elbow. Felix’s thumbs pressed in just a little too hard, insistent, entitled, demanding.
“You can’t just leave,” Felix protested, glancing rapidly from one of Monty’s eyes to the other. “Montgomery, you are being dramatic. We have work to get done, and your inane sensitivity is compromising our–”
"I'm not putting up with this shit from you," Monty replied coolly, easily tugging his arm away and continuing to move. Once, he had been embarrassed by the bulky spectacle of his wheelchair. Now, it was sleek and familiar enough to feel almost like another body part. "Fuck off, Felix."
"There's no need to be so crude about it," Felix criticised uselessly, continuing to follow behind to pester him. Monty's finger twitched on the button to summon his laser. "Do grow up, Montgomery. You're being ridiculous."
Distantly, Monty noted that Felix was trying to speak to him like he was Ted again. Predictable.
"Tch. Fine! I'll summarise the meeting myself. We both know you're only really good for your inventions anyway, engineer. I don't need you. I am Felix Huxley!" Felix laughed then, loudly, cracking, brash. Fake. "I don't need you!"
Monty kept moving.
Somewhere behind him, he could hear Felix storming in the other direction.
On the way home, Monty continued to breathe in and out, measured and clinical and numb in a way he couldn't quite articulate. He was angry. He knew that. He deserved that. But he didn't feel angry. He mostly just felt– well. Hollow.
Monty knew what Felix was like. He was the most predictable person Monty had ever met. This wasn't new behaviour for him. He'd always been an ableist prick.
And here's the thing– Monty wasn't shy to talk about how his legs were broken. He was far from the first or only person who'd ended up on the wrong end of the janitor's mop. Hell, Felix himself had triggered a spontaneous assault too!
But Felix, Stevie, Kid– they were all fine now. Felix remained bigheadedly unruffled, Stevie's sling came off last week, Kid had nothing more than a couple facial scars. They were all fine.
Monty was still in a wheelchair.
And that wasn't his fault! He knew that, and by God had he tried to remedy it, but– usually, the janitor didn't do halfway. You were dead or you were fine. Shaken and busted-up and flinched at the smell of disinfectant, but largely fine.
Monty looked down at his legs, and resented how much the janitor had taken from him.
He was fine– really, he was– and this was an inconvenience he'd learned to work around. But that didn't change the way teachers' eyes turned critical or simpering when they noticed the wheelchair, or the casualty with which his classmates called him an invalid, a cripple, as if the janitor had actually managed to break him, beyond his legs.
It wasn't a state of being. It was just his legs. It was something done to him, and Monty had moved on. He was better for it. More aware, more calculating, more suspicious. More ruthless.
There had been a time when Monty didn't want to kill anyone. The janitor had gotten his dirty, yellowed, ragged fingernails under that principle and dragged it up from the ground by its mangled, bloodied roots.
Monty would kill the janitor in an instant, if he felt like it. He should, really. Another kid was bound to end up dead soon. Monty had never been all too concerned with what was the "right thing to do", but he knew that even Lily and Billy advocated for killing when necessary. For the "greater good".
What a joke. If Monty killed the janitor, it would be for himself.
Not for Felix, or Stevie, or Kid, or whoever would end up mutilated next. It would be for him.
He likes to think he'd smile, vicious and vindicated, and that the sight of blood could shift from horror to victory. That it would right something in him, and his classmates would stop snickering, and the teachers stop demeaning, and he'd get back the respect he'd lost the minute his glasses had flown off his face. That it would fix things.
But he already winces when he cleans the lab, and he already panics when he wakes up from a nightmare without his glasses on, and he already struggles to sleep on his back rather than his side. The janitor's not at his house, or in his lab. He's all alone. So what difference would it make, really, if the man was gone for good?
Monty was ruthless. He had to be, for the money. For himself. Felix liked that about him.
But Monty didn't go around planning to kill at every hint of a challenge. Monty could best his opponents without a weapon in his hand or a slur in his mouth. And it was fine, and this was about what he'd expected from Felix, so Monty really didn't care.
Nothing had to change.
He wasn't upset. He was just mad.
Just numb.
Felix wasn't his friend, Monty reasoned to himself as he opened a stale packet of salt and vinegar Lays from his uppermost cupboard. He knew that. His tongue stung. He bit down, hard.
No, Felix wasn't his friend. Their relationship was as transactional as it could get. Felix was predictable. It made sense that they cooperated, it made sense that Felix was an ignorant asshole, it made sense that Monty moved on. It was just the way they worked.
They didn't care about each other, and they certainly weren't friends. And this– a little insult Monty had heard a hundred times before– this was nothing at all.
Felix was out of line, so Monty had left. Everything would be back to normal tomorrow.
When he showed up at the lab early Sunday morning, Felix did a double take.
Monty blinked at him, raising an eyebrow at Felix's gaping face. He had admittedly decided to arrive late out of spite from the day before, but it wasn't as though he'd waited until lunchtime to show his face. 9AM was perfectly reasonable to start a working day.
"...What are you doing here?"
It seemed Felix disagreed.
"I'm... Working?" Monty prompted slowly, brow furrowing. Maybe Felix had finally had a mental break. One last rejection from someone better than him at business and he'd been tipped over the edge. Monty felt a strange sting of pride and disappointment at the thought.
"Right." Felix nodded, jerkily. He opened his mouth to continue, then hesitated, eyes flitting down to Monty's shoes before dragging back up to his face. His mouth twitched slightly, unconscious.
"Right," Monty echoed, increasingly judgemental and concerned in rather equal measure. Felix had never been normal, exactly, but he was certainly predictable. This, however, was downright odd.
He let the matter lie, brushing past Felix to get to his chemistry set. They'd recently been testing the goo's chemical composition against his last stash of principal's pills, trying to find the combination that led to that inexplicable addiction. Monty longed to get his hands on a sample of slop from his old school, but it had been boarded off with police tape since the day it closed down. As it turns out, Jerome's mom did care enough to call the cops to tell them to clean up the body, even if she did send her son right back into school the next day.
Monty winced at the memory. Jerome was much better now, but they'd suffered similar losses of dignity on that first Tuesday back. Crying didn't suit Jerome. Didn't fit his brand. At least now he recognised his dad was a major psychopath.
A sudden pain burst out across his palm, and Monty hissed in pain.
With a jolt, he realised he'd tried to lift his test tube from the Bunsen Burner with his bare hand. Monty blinked bewilderedly. Maybe Felix wasn't the only one out of it today.
"Are you alright, Montgomery?"
No, scratch that, Felix was definitely acting a thousand times weirder.
"Minor burn, don't worry about it," Monty dismissed, eyes flickering suspiciously towards Felix before he went for the rubber tongs, lifting the tube as he'd intended to do the first time. Once it was firmly in place, Monty shook his hand half-heartedly, the lingering prickle mutating into a throb the more attention he paid to it.
"Here, allow me," Felix strode over, something bunched and bristly in his hand, and–
"Is that a cold compress?" Monty couldn’t help but huff a laugh, the motion interwoven with a mountain of disbelief. "Okay, what the hell is going on with you?"
“Nothing!” Felix’s hackles immediately rose, his shoulders hunching to match them. “I am simply being a courteous business associate. It is integral to being a successful businessman that I can plan in advance– you know, one might even say that business is built upon effective preparation and awareness–”
“Considering you just said the word ‘business’ three times in the space of a minute, I get the feeling you’re kind of freaked out,” came the deadpan response. Really, Monty was only being reasonable. Something had to be causing Felix’s dreadful red flush, and Monty would be damned if he let Felix hide another sickness bug.
“Freaked!” Felix laughed, far too obnoxious and far too loud. Monty’s face didn’t change. Felix made to press the compress to Monty’s burnt hand, and the redhead swiftly extracted it from his grip. “Me? Freaked out?! Montgomery, my dear fellow, you do have a way with words. Hah! Is it truly so incomprehensible that I would want to help you?”
At that, Monty frowned, the cold seeping into his irritated skin. “You don’t do freebies. And you sure as hell don’t do altruism. And I’m still pissed with you. What, is this your attempt to get back on my good side?”
“I would never!” Felix gasped, though his typical outrage seemed a little more comical than usual. The predictability of his melodrama was a welcome change from all… That, but that didn’t change the fact that something about it felt distinctly off. “Such manipulations ought to be reserved for the hired help.”
“Am I not that?” The question left his lips before Monty had even decided to articulate it, but he found upon having said as such that he didn’t regret it. His tone cooled. “If I remember right, you seem to think I’m only worth something because of my inventions.”
“That is not what I–” Felix made to protest, then stopped himself, stiffening. He took a deep, exaggerated, audible breath, and Monty had just about prepared himself for the half-condescending, half-genuine rant to come when– “That was. A regrettable choice of wording.” Monty blinked. Felix’s jaw clenched further. “I do not. See you… That way.”
For the first time in months, Monty found himself struck speechless. The cogs in his mind began to turn, well-oiled as ever despite the spanner suddenly thrown into their works.
Unfortunately, it seemed, they hadn’t worked fast enough: Felix began to speak again before Monty had the chance.
“It was all nonsense anyway! Just a silly little spat. We should move on and focus on what’s important. Not dwell on the damage done by a decrepit lunatic, or any prior business pertaining to my father, or– or poorly phrased hiccups. Yes, that’s all it was. A hiccup.” Felix nodded firmly, as though agreeing with himself. “Really, there’s nothing to focus on at all. I have been acting of perfectly sound mind. Unlike you, it seems– is your hand quite alright? Now it has had the compress, that is. Perhaps we ought to look for some sort of ointment– can you make an ointment? Of course you could, you’d just need the ingredients– hm, that does make this sound like some sort of– cooking business, doesn’t it? I imagine you’d be a– moderately successful cook, should you pursue that career path. Not that I would ever want you to. No, you do just fine working for Applesoft. With Applesoft! We are business partners. And your contributions are– valued, and observed, and noted. Repeatedly. Consistently, one might add, and consistency truly is the golden lovechild of a good partnership. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Monty felt his eyebrows raise halfway to his hairline. “You’re acting a hell of a lot less consistent than usual, Felix. My hand’s fine.”
“Excellent,” Felix nodded jerkily. “Yes.” He paused. “Indubitably.”
“Indubitably,” Monty parrotted, deadpan with disbelief.
“Indubitably!” Felix reiterated with a strained smile, panic flitting across his face before dimming into something unmistakably resigned.
It looked as though he was bracing for something, though Monty couldn’t place his finger on what.
"Look, Montgomery… I must confess, my behaviour yesterday was... Somewhat imprudent. And I may have... Perhaps... Briefly lost full government over my restraint. It was…” Felix swallowed visibly. “Unacceptable. It won't happen again."
“I… See,” Monty replied slowly. “So you’re apologising?”
Felix's hands were folded behind his ramrod-straight spine, shoulders tucked in as though actively resisting the urge to hunch. He didn't meet Monty's eye, instead finding a particularly interesting patch of the ground to scrutinise. “I suppose one could refer to this as such.”
At that, Monty felt something snap inside of him. Not quite into place, not quite out of it: a sharp, reverberating ping that sent a rush of energy through his shock-frozen muscles and twisted his gaping lips into a deep frown. “Are you apologising because you know you were a dick, or because you want me to keep seeing you as a professional? Because it’s feeling a lot like the latter.”
Monty watched, unmoved, as Felix’s eyes darted back to his face, wide with surprise. “I– I merely mean to show you that I– value your input! My brief moment of folly was childish and crude, and while it definitely does not befit someone of my position, it also ought not have been targeted towards someone of yours. That… Incident with the janitor was unfortunate, yes, but you have proved yourself more than capable since. We all make mistakes! I do not want petty disputes to dissolve our business connection when it is so undeniably valuable.”
“So this is a business thing,” Monty snorted dryly, not bothering to hide the derision soaking in his own tone. “You know, I don’t know what I expected. You’re like a carbon copy of your father when you want to be. I work with you because it’s convenient for me.” At that, Monty’s voice cooled. “I could just as easily work for anyone else. Leave me alone, Felix. I’m trying to invent.”
“Wait!” Felix cried out, and Monty felt a sweeping rush of dizzying deja vu.
Against his better judgement, his hand halted on the beaker he’d begun to lift, knuckles whitening as he gripped it silently, waiting. The glass was cool against the pads of his fingers.
"I thought you weren't coming back," Felix said finally, quietly.
At that, Monty blinked. What?
“Yesterday,” Felix continued, faltering but resolved, his voice tight at the edges. It felt wrong to hear him without his typical blistering confidence. “I believed that I may have… Driven you away. With what I realised was perhaps– no, was insensitivity. Nonsensical insensitivity at that. I– Montgomery, I associate with a very select group of individuals. And after witnessing your work, I– I admire your capability. And having undermined it in such a way as I did was not an accurate reflection of how I perceive you. That is to say, I was… Wrong. And I had thought that my mistake had led to you having chosen a different business to partner with. A different person. I… Do not want you removed from my life. And I do not believe that your legs are a flaw that diminishes your significance. In my life or otherwise.”
“...Right,” Monty replied, softer now, a little lost. He put down the beaker. “Right.”
“I take it we will be continuing our partnership?” Felix asked, fingers drilling a repetitive rhythm against his arm. “I assure you, I will not reduce either of us in such a manner again.”
“Okay,” Monty nodded, feeling something close to a smile flicker back on the edge of his lips. Felix hadn’t said sorry, and the entire apology was buried under barriers of fluff, but Monty found that he really didn’t care all too much. For once in his life, Felix was demonstrating humility. Monty knew him well enough to be certain Felix would never choose to behave as such insincerely. “We’re staying partners. I can’t promise I’ll lay off your dad, because he sucks. I just want to know that you’ll listen to me when I call you out for doing something dumb.”
“Fine,” Felix sniffed, straightening again. There. Monty felt his own shoulders minutely relax. “I will consult you more often in the future.”
“Thanks, Felix,” Monty replied. It felt more charged than the words would suggest.
“Now then, let’s get this new chemical mixture of yours going! Are you certain it isn’t some sort of ointment?”
“Felix.”
Three–
“What are you doing?” Felix peered over the pot, nose scrunching slightly as he watched Monty rummage in his cupboards to pull out a crinkling plastic packet.
“Building a railway to China,” Monty retorted. Felix stared blankly at him.
“...No you're n–”
“I’m cooking, Felix,” Monty interrupted, rolling his eyes. “It's just pasta. I figured if you're staying the night, we should probably eat.”
“Ah! Of course,” Felix nodded quickly, relaxing slightly. Cooking. Right. Inconspicuously surveying Monty's packet of pasta, he frowned deeply. “Why does it look like… That?”
“Like pasta?” Monty arched an eyebrow at him. Felix faltered.
Catching himself, Felix narrowed his eyes. “Like the sort of bow tie Ozzy would find fashionable. Pasta shouldn't look like that. It's meant to be straight.”
“Is that so?” Monty asked distractedly, clearly not paying attention. Gritting his teeth, Felix fought the urge to scoff–
And gave in to it. “Tch. You clearly have no idea what you're doing. Where are the sardines?! The olives?!”
Flatly, Monty placed a round, cylindrical… Can of something in front of him. Felix did not eat from cans. It hit the counter with a metallic thud. “Tomato.”
“...The chives?” Felix finished, trying to mask his uncertainty. “Father would never let me eat something so…” He waved his hand, searching for the right word. “Unrefined.”
“Do I look like your Father?” Monty snorted at the thought, shaking his head. Felix adamantly pushed down the flicker of pride that arose at having brought that crooked smile onto his business partner's face.
“You're wearing a green zip-up jacket and broken glasses,” the blonde pointed out, leaning closer to survey the damage. “Really, Montgomery, this isn't just a disaster for your image, but your capacity to work. If you're so desperately in need of funding, I can–”
“I don’t need your pity, Felix,” Monty's shoulders went rigid, the smile slipping from his face. Felix could see his knuckles on his spoon whiten and felt his stomach sink slightly.
“Well I don't need your poor people pasta!” Felix sniffed, turning his own attention to Monty's cupboards. “I can make my own food! I'll just– where are your olives?!”
“Jesus, Felix, does it look like I can afford olives?” Monty glanced pointedly up at the patch of mould by his window. Felix had to admit, the place was immeasurably dingy. He was sure Monty… Tried his best, but was it really so hard to clear his apartment of a little damp?
“What am I paying you for then?!” Felix's mouth twisted, a familiar motion.
Monty turned around, glaring, and Felix patiently– eagerly, almost. Monty was very quick-witted when he wanted to be. A very refreshing change from Teddy. Yes, eagerly– awaited the rant to come.
It didn't.
Monty's face softened slightly, and he released a noise that landed somewhere between bored and exasperated. “Pasta and tomatoes, apparently.”
“Apparently so,” Felix agreed reluctantly, folding his arms.
“Alright,” Monty moved briskly on, and before Felix knew it, he’d somehow acquired a wooden spoon. “You’re in charge of stirring the pasta. Leave it too long and it’ll all stick together.”
Felix opened his mouth to protest, his pride flaring instinctively at the idea of being Monty’s manual labour. He was a Huxley, he thought. He was above such trivial matters as stirring a pot of pasta. That was what the hired help was for.
…And yet, he and Monty were business partners. Equals in all but their finances. So that rather removed any hired help from the equation.
Huffing a sigh that took more effort than it ought’ve, Felix got to work stirring the pasta.
They worked efficiently together, he and Monty. Perhaps that was the natural consequence of their months of partnership; perhaps they simply possessed inherently complimentary dispositions. Felix liked to think it was a combination of the two.
Once the pasta was done and the sauce mixed in, he tentatively raised his spoon to his lips. He hummed. “This is…”
Monty was watching his face. More attentively, probably, than he seemed to realise. Felix’s eyes widened as the taste of the meal hit him.
“This is…” He remembered his manners with a jolt, finishing the bite in his mouth before he spoke again. “Adequate,” he settled on, quieter.
“There’s something about having made it yourself, hm?” Monty grinned back at him, nudging Felix with his absurdly bony elbow. Felix was certain his skin would be mottled with bruises by morning. “Good work, Felix.”
“Hm,” Felix replied non-committally, feeling a familiar telltale scarlet begin to crawl up his cheeks. “It was hardly a difficult affair. But I suppose– you do, perhaps… Have a point.”
At that, Monty’s grin shifted to a smirk, and Felix knew exactly what he was going to say next. “I tend to.”
“Quite, Montgomery. Quite.”
Four–
Monty couldn’t move.
His body was cemented in place, the ridges of his back digging into the thin rug below him, mottled balls of wool blurring into one another as he tried and failed to so much as twitch a finger. His lungs were stone cold in his chest and yet spluttering all the while, seizing and twitching and scalding, something thick and hot boiling up in the back of his throat.
Panic hooked into his bones, under his ribcage, tugged and seized at his wilting heart, gushing through his bloodstream at the ultimate helplessness of his situation. The room was dark, he was buried under the night. If someone turned on the light, they would witness his sprawled-out defencelessness, and know that he had failed to be what he ought to have been.
Monty had been outsmarted. Outmatched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something shift, ghosting into itself, fuzzy at the edges, wooden. Glistening.
He couldn’t move.
There were footsteps, and there was something all over his clothes. It was sticky, seeping onto his skin, sliding into the crook of his elbow, down the cavity of his nostril. He could not speak, could not move, could not defend himself in any way, or shape, or form. He was stuck.
He looked up, and Felix was standing directly above him. His face was drawn with shock and revulsion, paling as he looked Monty up and down, dead to toe, peering at him like one of Dr Danner’s old specimens. He took in the blood, the stillness, the way Monty was splayed out, damaged, helpless. The way he’d been overcome.
“What a shame,” Felix said, his voice low, calm, disgusted. The ridges of Monty’s glasses were absent from his face, the world no longer rimmed by weight on his nose and dark wire edges, yet he found himself perfectly able to see regardless. “I really did think you were a worthy partner. I had no idea you were so very weak.”
Monty’s chest was being crushed. His ribs creaked and groaned. His cheekbone seemed to throb, hot but painless, blossoming invisible purple in the dark. It was as though a spotlight had seared into his eyes, as though his legs had been turned to two blocks of ice under him, every muscle taut as though another blow were about to hit him. It should hurt, he thought distantly. This was supposed to hurt.
Felix turned away from him, a scoff spilling from his lips. And Monty watched, and felt watched, and Monty could not move. And it built, and it built, into a flood within his lungs and a tsunami in his head until finally–
Monty sat up in bed with a strangled gasp, and fisted one hand into his bedsheets.
It was dark, still, and that set his heart racing, so he fumbled to the right of him for his bedside lamp, just barely clicking it on with fingers that refused to cooperate. His clothes stuck to himself, sweaty and cold, and yet his face felt as though it were burning up.
He heaved in a breath, hunched over himself, fighting to get in the oxygen he needed if he wanted to stay alive. Monty didn’t want to die. He wanted–
“Montgomery? Is something wrong?”
Felix’s sleep-groggy voice met his ears, and Monty was enveloped by confusion. That wasn’t right. Felix wasn’t supposed to be here.
Slowly, foggily, he remembered glimpses of Felix arranging to stay over the night. And with those memories came a dreadful, overpowering, suffocating wave of dread. He attempted to respond, to summon some fast retort to his lips, but all that escaped was a pathetic sort of straining wheeze.
“Oh.” A blur of colour that was Felix’s face appeared a way away from him, and when did that happen? It shifted, coming closer and further into focus, seeming to swim no matter how much Monty vainly blinked the water from his eyes. “Oh dear.”
There was something absurd in that, Monty thought. He was about to die, choking on his own breath, and Felix’s response was as lamely simple as an ‘oh dear’. Monty jolted when a weight joined him on the bed, his arms seizing up, neck arching away so his hair hit the headboard with a soft thump.
Then, to Monty’s astonishment, Felix began to breathe.
Not in the way he had before– in large, exaggerated, visible things that contorted his mouth to an ‘o’ and caught him in a loop of constant noise. He inhaled, loud and deliberate, then paused, then released it in one long, measured motion. Monty’s eyes caught onto Felix’s fingers. They were moving. One, two, one, two, one, two, three, four.
Unconsciously, almost, Monty found himself mimicking that, struggling against the intangible vice grip on his lungs. One, two, one, two, one, two, three, four. He breathed. Again. Again. Again.
Finally, eventually, he reached a point where the energy had faded from his body, slumping with exhaustion against the sturdiness behind him. His mouth was dry, his body still trembled, and he was lightheaded with a lack of air– but he was breathing again. Choppy and uneven and with considerable effort, but breathing nonetheless.
“Where…” Monty panted slightly, loosening his death grip on his covers. “Did you… Learn that?”
Felix flushed scarlet, looking away. “…It is just counting. You can count. It was logical to deduce that it would help.”
“...Right,” Monty nodded, unconvinced, grimacing at the clamminess of the nape of his neck. “I’m sure.”
“The real question here is what was that?” Felix asked loudly, and Monty recoiled slightly.
“Bad dream,” he said shortly, hating the way his voice wavered slightly. “That’s all. Nothing worth focusing on.”
“Right,” Felix said back to him, brow furrowed. That was telling of something he was feeling, Monty knew. He just couldn’t quite tell what. “I’m sure.”
Snorting a breathless half-laugh that came out all wrong, Monty sat himself up slightly, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “You can be pretty funny, you know that?”
“Oh, I am well aware,” Felix replied smugly. He settled himself further onto the bed, legs crossed primly over one another, and Monty felt some of the tension drain from his body.
This was nice, he realised. This was really, genuinely, actually nice.
“Hardly very professional of you, is it?” Monty challenged, arching an eyebrow.
Felix’s smile widened, and he leaned slightly forward. “I am a master of many fields, Montgomery. Am I not capable of both business etiquette and the occasional bout of humour?”
“Oh, because you’re an expert at maintaining a healthy work-life balance,” Monty remarked, relishing the way Felix puffed up indignantly.
“You’re one to talk! You keep a list of upcoming projects pinned in your bathroom!”
Monty’s mouth dropped open. “How else am I meant to keep track of them–?!”
“The bathroom!” Felix threw his hands in the air, and Monty stifled a laugh at the flailing motion. “Honestly, it doesn’t even make sense! It’s not as though your sheet is laminated–”
“Why would I laminate the sheet if it’s going to be replaced every few days?” Monty cut in logically, crossing his arms in front of him now the tremors had ceased.
“Everything should be laminated!” Passionately arguing back, Felix got to his feet, pointing to Monty’s desk. “Photos? Laminated. Signed contracts? Laminated. Certificates? Laminated. Planning sheets? Laminated. Need I go on?”
“I think I get the gist of it,” Monty laughed weakly, his hand finding and twisting the corner of his duvet, around and around and around. He hesitated, then said, “I take it you want to go back to sleep now?”
The idea of doing so himself seemed to set his teeth on edge, worming under his skin and slithering around his spinal cord. Nevertheless, he was sure Felix would be insufferable if Monty kept him up any longer without stated cause. Monty could handle the rest of the night alone. He always did.
“Well,” Felix replied slowly, looking squarely into Monty’s eyes. “I tend to work best at night. I am a– what’s that phrase– night falcon? Something along those lines. I think I will get to work for a little while. Organise some sheets, perhaps. Sort through yours to see which out to be laminated first.” He made to move, then hesitated, and asked faux-casually, “would you care to join me?”
“Sounds good, Felix,” Monty’s voice was quieter than he’d intended. With a distant sort of quiet appreciation, he knew that Felix was making an effort. No spectacle included.
“Excellent.”
Monty was certain that by the end of the week, he’d end up with a laminator in his apartment. He followed Felix to the piles of paper on his desk, and together, quietly, they began to sort through them.
This was familiar. This was routine. And the two of them worked together better than Monty had ever thought they could.