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They don't talk about it and they don't talk about it and they don't talk about it until one day Montresor bursts into the room and drags Will off his bed and presses him up against the window, hand against his head, radiating warmth.
Will's throat works, pointlessly; he stifles a startled gasp as the latch digs into his spine. Montresor won't want to hear none of that girly shit, will he. The panes feel like ice against his back.
He shifts, subtly, trying to get away from the latch, and then he regrets it because Monty's not letting him go, and his thigh's shoved up against Will's shoved up against the pane. A warm weight, keeping Will there, Monty's arm a vice against his chest, and he can't help it; his breath hitches, comes out in a small, faltering sigh.
Will refuses to look up. Can't, because Monty's seen, Monty's heard, Monty knows, or who's Will kidding, he already knew from the beginning, was just too disgusted to bring it up, to even think about it -
Will looks up.
Montresor's looking at him. His eyes are so dark they're black. He isn't breathing either, and then he exhales, long and slow and torturously drawn out, like he's preparing to say something. Montresor smiles, and it's all teeth. 'Wanted this for a long time, haven't you.' He says.
'I-' Will gets out, and Montresor's arm tightens against his collarbone, against his neck. His hand scrambles upwards to tear it away, then just holds it there.
'Yeah.' Monty breathes, out, his mouth curling. 'You have. You've been thinking about it.' His mouth curling up, or down.
Will doesn't know. He can't breathe.
'Ya think about me when you sleep, sugar?' He probably means for it to come out as mocking. Sneering. A knife meant to cut, to draw blood, to bleed. It sounds like a question. It sounds hopeful. It sounds like desire.
Will opens his mouth. 'Y-yeah.' He chokes out. He stays there, standing, held in place by Monty's thigh. By a hand in his hair and an arm at his throat. Hands that could strangle him. For being disgusting. For being a disgusting, dirty, depraved -
Monty yanks his hair back; Will cries out. Montresor looks furious. Like he wants to murder Will, tear him apart with his bare hands for daring to say the wrong thing, give him the wrong answer. He could. God knows Will would let him. Will couldn't do anything to stop him, if he wanted to. The thought sends a thrill down his spine.
'Yeah.' He says quietly. 'I do.' He's brave. See, Monty? I can be brave. I can be -
Montresor crashes their lips together. It's violent more than anything else that could be considered pleasurable, and Monty nips at his lips, his jaw, down his stinging throat -
Will struggles to bring his own hands up, to grab at Monty's shirt, to pull him in further, to slot their bodies together until they meld together, until they're one living, breathing, feeling creature, and he can feel it when Monty goes eerily still for a moment, wet lips silent and unmoving against his beating pulse. He can feel the moment Monty starts to recoil, to rear back in panic, and then all of a sudden Monty's outright thrashing against him, like he wants out, like he doesn't want Will, like he wasn't just kissing him a moment ago.
Will feels inexplicably angry now, and his grip tightens on Monty's heaving shoulders, and holds him still, because doesn't he do everything for Monty? Everything for him? Everything for -
he should get this, right?
He should get this - this one thing, just for himself -
And he could win, couldn't he? He's got Monty by the shoulders, by the neck, just keeping him there. He could win, for once he's winning, he's beating him, he's got him and he won't let go -
Montresor tears himself away, stares at him betrayed, lips red, quivering, eyes dark, afraid. Five mottled splotches line one side of his throat.
Five on the other.
Will could fit his fingers against them, perfectly.
'Montresor.' Will gasps out, mouth wavering. A half smile, half frown. 'Why'd you s-stop?'
Montresor's eyes don't leave his as he walks backwards. Hits the door, jerks the handle in his haste to get outside.
He stumbles out of the room with his new marks. Will watches him go. He stumbles to the mirror himself.
Watches his reflection, collar askew, chest heaving. Mouth red, shiny. A bruise splashed against his neck.
He imagines it went differently. The bruises don't stop there, because Monty didn't pull away. They travel down, down his collarbone, teeth on skin, pinpricks of blood, like an enthusiastic vampire went at him.
His very own marks, matching those ten little divots in Monty's neck. The ones Will made.
Will smiles. The Will in the mirror smiles back.