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Summer spun. Or, if he’s feeling less original; tawny gold. Shot through with fine threads of darker brown. Something like that, Will thinks. That’s the colour of Montresor’s hair. Metaphorical, and all that. ’f course, Monty’d laugh, if he told him what he thought of it, wouldn’t he. Give Will a weird look, like he’s said something off. Then his eyes would glaze over, slide off him like Will had never said anything at all.
Will bites his pen and thinks. Course, Monty doesn’t need to know, does he? Doesn’t need to know what Will thinks of his hair. Probably doesn’t want to know either, if Will’s honest.
He taps his pen against his teeth. Thinks.
It’s got a hint of wave to it, like it itches to spread out into soft curls. If he combed it, it’d be… well. Will thinks about running his hands through it. Thinks it’d be coarse, kinda. Like horsehair. Anything but soft. Nothing about Montresor is soft.
His pen nib catches between his teeth. Pain flares, briefly. Will inhales a splatter of ink, coughs, violently.
He stares, abashed, at the pen, as it leaks black ink down his front and his book.
‘Will?’
Will starts, shoves his book under his bed hurriedly. The pen rolls off the sheets, trailing ink all the while. Will stares at his sheets forlornly. He’ll have to change them after this, and Montresor’ll snigger at him and say, ‘quit jerking it while I’m sleeping, will ya?’
It’s the first time Montresor’s acknowledged him since the arboretum. Since Will had brought him his crutches, only to find Montresor’s shoulders hunched inwards and his breathing haggard (he’d ignored the bloodstains on the wall; clearly nothing good had happened, and he wasn’t fool enough to ask Monty for details when he’d looked white as a sheet and was shaking like a leaf in the winter). Since Will had taken Prospero’s key. Prospero had taken the key from Annabel graciously, but there was no hiding the thin press of his mouth as he looked at first the standoffish invalid, then the dejected Will. Even when supporting Montresor while he hobbled awkwardly into the room, he’d looked… displeased. Will couldn’t think why. Montresor wasn’t that bad, not really. Would it kill Prospero to act cordial, for once? It’s not like Will could complain, though. The minute he’d offered to swap rooms with Prospero, the other had hesitated, then given it up wordlessly.
Will can’t tell if Monty’s annoyed at him, or, or something. He worries at his lip, tastes the saline tang of ink.
‘Godamnit, Will, it’s like I’m speakin’ to myself here.’ Monty’s voice is gruff, low with sleep. His huddled shape shifts slightly in his bed. Will has to strain to see him in the dim shadows of the dorm-room.
‘Y-yeah? Sorry, Monty – Montresor.’ Will tries for nonchalance, digging his fingernails against his wrist to stop his pulse’s pitiful racing. His voice wavers, and Will curses, inwardly. Hopes that Montresor won’t be able to detect it. A small, cowering part of him hopes that Montresor will. Will frowns; shakes the thought off. God, Montresor’s right. He is a bit pathetic, sometimes.
‘Some of us are tryna sleep here, Will.’ There’s a trickle of annoyance in it. Other than that, Monty’s – Montresor’s – complaints lack any real heat behind them.
‘Sorry, Monty – Montresor.’ Will repeats uselessly. He holds still; braces himself, for something, for anything. Hopes Monty can’t see his ink-stained sheets.
‘Godamnit, Will,’ Monty says again, and then – ‘what’re you doin’, anyway? You weren’t jerking off, were ya?’ There’s something in his voice that seems a little off, at that last part, but Will figures Monty must be tired. ‘an stop saying sorry.’ He adds, as an afterthought.
Will blinks and then feels like he could cry with relief. Monty’s not mad at him. The feeling passes quickly, and he feels like giggling instead, something like elation bubbling in his chest, because he knows Monty so well he can picture his every response. ‘I’m not, Monty.’ He says, and the nickname comes out bright, and it feels good.
A grunt in response. Shuffling, like someone’s turning over.
Will lies down, turns onto his side. Watches, eyes darting in the dark. Picks out Monty’s form, the sheets hugging curved shoulders, slim hips. Will blinks.
Monty’s facing him. Eyes open. They’re slightly bleary, but focused. Intent.
Will feels oddly like he’s being laid bare; resists the urge to shiver. ‘What?’ He asks instead, hating that there’s a waver in it.
Montresor’s eyes are wide.
Will frowns, and then he sits up, and starts a ‘you good there, Monty?’ and Monty’s eyes follow his mouth, and Will’s heart leaps in his chest, and then he berates himself, because Monty looks like he’s seen a ghost, not like – not like -
‘Monty?’ He kicks away his sheets, gets out of bed. A cold breeze hits his bare ankles immediately, raises goosebumps on his pyjama-clad arms. Will tugs the sleeves of his pyjamas down.
He reaches Monty’s bed, then halts, debating whether or not he should risk sitting on Monty’s bed in order to comfort him. He doesn’t want to get kicked away by the other man and be forced to leave him to his silent torment. He crouches down in front of Monty, instead, on his knees, steeling his nerves.
‘Monty? You alright?’
Montresor’s eyes meet his. For one long, tense moment, Montresor’s hand reaches out. His fingers find Will’s face, hesitantly; Will inhales, soft, and thinks, oh. He was wrong, because Montresor is so, so gentle and his touch is so, so light.
‘W-will, your –‘ - He stills, waiting, not hearing what Montresor’s saying, and Montresor’s thumb – calloused, warm – lands on his bottom lip, and he strokes it, almost wonderingly, and when he draws away a smear of ink comes away with it. Montresor lifts the same trembling finger to the corner of his own mouth, and Will holds his breath, and he’s got pins and needles in his feet, but he doesn’t care, because Montresor is – Monty is -
And then he shoves him away, flailing backwards, and Will stumbles to right himself, clutching wildly at the bedsheets for support.
‘You’re not – you’re not him – you’re not Will -’ – Monty’s voice is strangled, hoarse, rising in pitch, as he scrambles back and away –
Will watches, dismayed, his heart sinking. He desperately wants to ask, what do you mean, Monty? I am Will, I’m right here, ain’t I? He doesn’t. Montresor’s shoulders are shaking. His right hand’s clutching his cross necklace. Will doesn’t think Monty’s aware he’s even doing it.
Instead, Will lowers himself down once more, until he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and leans his head against Montresor’s bed. The wooden slats are cold through his thin pyjamas; he ignores the cool sensation, and his own confusion, and Montresor cringing away from him like a cornered animal, and he opens his mouth and begins to talk.
He talks about what he remembered of his life, before Nevermore. How rain was a rare occurrence in his sleepy little town, thunder even more so. How when the skies finally opened, and rain tumbled down, Will and his several other siblings would run outside with their mouths open, eager to catch the droplets on their tongues. How he once was bullied by a boy called Tom, and his sister who was three years younger found out about it, caught a spider and marched up to Tom to tip it down his shirt.
Monty’s eyes close. His breathing slows. A strand of golden hair flicks over Monty’s face. Will wants to reach over, to tuck it behind his ear so it doesn’t annoy him. He doesn’t. he keeps talking, and slowly, a hand inches its way to rest just by Will’s shoulder. It radiates warmth.
Will keeps talking; softens his voice, so it’s less than a whisper. And he talks, until his limbs grow heavy, and his words start to come out slurred, and then his eyes fall shut, and Will sleeps.
Prospero finds them like that in the morning, slumbering peacefully. Will, cross-legged on the floor, neck craned at an uncomfortable angle. Face tilted towards Montresor. And Montresor, curled inwards, towards Will, so that he’s in danger of sliding right off the bed. His right hand, snaking around Will’s shoulder, below his collarbone. Over his heart.