Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing is, the worst thing is, Monty can’t just fall apart. As much as he achingly, desperately wants to go to the local pub and get too hammered to remember the last three months, he can’t.

Because then Percy would know. And the only thing worse than Percy not wanting him is Percy knowing that Monty is desperately in love with him and still not wanting him.

So he has to be fine. This whole thing had started because Monty had been reeling from the Tape, and he doesn’t have that leisure now. He and Percy live in one another’s pockets, they always have. If Monty is anything other than blase about this, anything other than utterly fine, Percy will know.

So Monty goes to classes. He puts the key on a chain and wears it under his shirt, because it’s not as though Percy will have any occassion to see it now. He studies with Percy. He does his radio show. He gives Malory pats on the head, and turns in essays on time and doesn’t get drunk and he’s fine.

He’s not fine.

Despite Monty’s, and he suspects Percy’s, best intentions, it is awkward. Monty brings his books to Percy’s on Wednesday, and he can hardly even bring himself to look at the bed. Percy has already claimed the desk, and Monty hesitates before he just gives up and sits on the floor instead.

Malory, precious thing that she is, takes this as an invitation, and climbs into his lap to kiss his face. He scratches her ears, which earns him an appreciative wiggle before she climbs off of him.

When Monty looks up, Percy is watching them. The second their eyes meet, they both look away, and Monty can feel heat blooming on his face. He hadn’t even been this easily flustered back when he was an actual virgin.

“So, ah,” Monty flips his textbook open to a random page, “what are you working on?”

“Paper for my sociology class,” Percy replies. “You?”

Nothing. Monty is, astoundingly, miles ahead on his homework. It’s somehow easier to focus on that than on the urge to go out and get drunk, and for once in his life he truly does not want to do that.

“Just some work for my ethics class.”

“Oh. Cool.” They both stare down at their respective books.

Absently, Monty raises a hand to the key around his neck, then forces his hand down before Percy can see it.

“Did you want to go sit on the lawn?” Percy asks.

“Yes!” Monty coughs. “I mean, yeah. That sounds good.” Anything not in this room. Anything not at the cafe where Percy had-- where they had-- anywhere else.

Percy seems just as relieved as Monty and immediately starts shoving his laptop into his backpack. Monty returns his book to his own bag and stands.

The walk through the dorms is quiet, each attempt at conversation immediately stymied by the memory of what they’d had and then lost. Or, well, that was how Monty saw it. Maybe Percy was relieved to no longer have to put up with him. Maybe Percy was glad they were done with this, pleased that they could go back to their simple, platonic relationship.

The thought makes Monty feel sick with guilt. The idea that Percy could be thinking of what they had as something simple between them, when Monty had stored away every touch, every noise. When Monty would remember the feel of Percy’s lips on his for his entire life.

Percy picks a spot under a tree, just barely out of the reach of the sun, and Monty settles close enough that their shoulders touch. Percy moves to reach for his bag and when he resettles, there is a careful distance between them.

It’s back to the way they had been in the weeks after the Tape, when Percy had only barely been able to look at him, nevermind touch him. As though Monty is something corrosive, disgusting.

Last year, they had sat on this same spot of grass, and Monty had been able to rest his head on Percy’s leg while they both read, and Percy had laid his hand on Monty’s head and it had been uncomplicated and simple and lovely.

Monty wishes that he had never started this whole thing. He should have sucked it up, gone back to Eleftheria or stuck to pulling at clubs and never let Percy get dragged into this.

“Percy,” the word falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“Hm?” Percy is busying himself with his book, but Monty knows him well enough to recognise that he’s faking it.

“I hope that you know, I mean, what we did. I want to say--”

“Monty,” Percy cuts him off, and his voice is strained. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

Right.

Monty swallows.

“Of course. I only- we’re still friends. Right?” He hates how his voice shakes.

That makes Percy look at him, meet his eyes for the first time since the cafe.

“God, yes. Of course. I mean, if that’s what-”

“Just try and get rid of me, Newton,” Monty says.

“I would never,” Percy replies, voice soft. Monty feels his heart lurch, and he curses this perfect, wonderful boy who is so much more than Monty has ever deserved.

Monty gives him a soft smile, all he can muster. “I’m glad.”

Percy bumps their shoulders together. “Me too.”

This time, when they settle, Percy doesn’t lean away, lets their arms be pressed together.

Monty has a serious debate with himself about whether he’s going back to STAR the following Friday. He’s in no mood to have people calling in to ask about the Tape or make lewd jokes about him. He just wants to play music and talk to people who call in wanting to know where to get condoms at half midnight on a Friday.

The Tape itself is mostly old news by now, especially since Monty has mostly managed to stay out of the papers so far, but the show seems to have built upon itself, and everyone seems to enjoy calling in to hear what he’ll say.

In the end, he goes. Because, miserable as it’s been the last few weeks, he does enjoy doing the show. And, perhaps more than that, because he’d agreed to host this show, and to not show up would put everyone else in the terrible position of having to cover for him.

Sinjon gives him the once-over that Monty has become accustomed from him, and they exchange a few lines of flirtation, but Monty’s heart isn’t in it, and Sinjon can clearly tell.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Sinjon just gives him a look, and his blue eyes are as lovely as ever, and Monty can’t even bring himself to care.

Monty pushes a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing, really.”

Sinjon reaches up and tilts his chin up. He really is so lovely.

“Chin up, Monty.”

Monty musters up a smile. “Always.”

Sinjon winks at him. “There’s that smile. I can leave in peace now.”

That makes the smile a little wider. When Sinjon retracts his hand, he does it slowly, fingers lingering on Monty’s jaw. When Sinjon counts Monty down, he gives him another wink before he goes, and Monty winks back.

Predictably, the calls start rolling in less than fifteen minutes into the show. He dispenses with the drunk ones, flirts back with the ones who only want a laugh, and tries tries to ignore the fact that, in this instant, he hates everyone.

“Hello, this is apparently Monty’s sexual rejection line, how can I help you?” he answers the next time the phone rings. It’s almost certainly going to get him in trouble with one of the faculty advisors next week, but fuck it. If anyone should get in trouble, it’s the assholes who are calling in to give him a hard time.

“Um, yeah. Hi?” To his surprise, the caller is young, can’t be much into her first year. “I’m calling about your sex tape.” Monty makes a noise, and she immediately adds “Please don’t hang up.”

“Alright.” Monty says it through gritted teeth.

“I only. So my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. He put a tape out too. Of me. And you always seem so, you know. Cool about it. And people have been saying things. About me. Not about you. Well, about you too, but you never seem to care. So. Um. I just wanted to know what your secret is?”

For a second, Monty almost lies to her. He almost plays it off, and gives her some shit about how he doesn’t care because he knows how good he looks in that tape or something.

“There isn’t a secret, really,” he says. And then, because he’s pretty sure the poor girl is crying, and that her life has the potential to be ruined in a way that his won’t ever be, because he has money and status, and also he’s listened to Felicity enough to know that it has to be even worse for girls, he adds. “There isn’t really an alternative, you know? You have to be okay with it, you have to be cool. Because the alternative is to lie down and cry.”

Oh, God, he doesn’t even want to think about how many other people must be hearing this.

“So,” god, she is definitely crying now. “There’s nothing I can do?”

“Well,” Monty hesitates. “Besides keeping your head high, which I fully stand by as a coping mechanism, there is also— okay look. Revenge porn, which includes your ex posting videos of you on the internet, is totally illegal in the UK. So you can apply to have it removed, and they have to comply. And you can also press criminal charges.”

“But, if it’s that easy, why didn’t you do it?”

Monty swallows. “Look. I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s fucking hard,” can he swear on the radio? He’s pretty sure he can’t, “but it’s worth doing. People are still going to be assholes about it. But it’s something to do while you’re also keeping calm and carrying on.”

“But your video is still up!” she protests, which is honestly more information than he wanted to have.

“There are certain exceptions, in the law. For public interest stories. Which includes celebrities, political figures, and members of the peerage such as myself. But what applies to me doesn’t necessarily apply to you, unless I’m speaking to the Duchess of Kent, in which case I apologize for not giving your Grace the respect you deserve.”

That earns him a weak laugh, which is what he had been aiming for.

“No, I’m just a girl from Wales.”

“Splendid,” Monty says, repressing his reflexive high-born urge to say something derisive about the Welsh. “In that case, I suggest availing yourself of our justice system. And in the meantime, remember that people suck, but true friends will always have your back,” he hesitates. “And you can always call back here if you need someone to talk to.”

The girl thanks him tearfully and bids him farewell. He lets her go with a smile, feeling slightly better at the idea that his own miserable experiences could have carved out a path for someone else to make their way forward.

“Well, I think that’s enough of our touching feelings hour. If anyone else has questions to ask, you can wait until our next commercial break.” Monty mechanically cues up the next four songs, takes his headphones off, and very carefully breathes for the next fifteen minutes.

The rest of the show actually goes well. He doesn’t get any more assholes calling in. He supposes even for the intoxicated masses on a college campus, calling to mock someone about a sex tape after a crying first year called in on the subject seems a bit low.

Sonia even stops him on his way out. “Hey, that was cool of you,” she says. “You didn’t have to help her like that.”

Monty ducks under her hand. “Yeah, I really did,” he says, and stays only long enough to count her down.

When he gets back to his room, Monty is surprised to see Percy waiting for him again. Percy isn’t on the bed this time, but still.

“Is this going to be a habit now?” he asks as he closes the door. “You waiting for me after my show ends?”

“I like listening to you,” Percy says.

“Oh yeah,” Monty laughs, a bit bitterly, “my show is a barrel of laughs.”

“You know, I think that was the most I’ve ever heard you say about the,” Percy swallows.

“The sex tape, starring me?” Monty says, dropping down onto his bed. “I’ve found it helps to say it aloud.”

“Yes. That. We never really talked about it.”

“Did you ever occur to you that maybe that was by design?” Monty puts his arm over his face, not wanting to look at anything.

“You always made it seem like it was some grand joke. It wasn’t until…” Percy trails off.

Until it had become too apparent to ignore. Until Monty had all but crawled to Percy on his fucking knees, needing more than Percy could give him.

“Well fuck, Percy, maybe that was by design too. Maybe I didn’t want to talk about.”

“Maybe you should have.”

“With whom?” Monty sits up, frustration crackling through his veins. “With you? Do you remember those first few weeks? You wouldn’t even look at me, Percy. You could hardly even touch me. And what, you wanted me to sit at your feet and tell you how much I hated fucking Richard Peele, and how much it fucking sucked, and I didn’t think I could trust a single person in the world except you, and then have you look like you would rather jump out the fucking window than talk about the Tape with me?”

“I didn’t—”

Monty laughs. “You really did, Percy. You made it more than clear that it was the last thing you wanted to think about, much less discuss. You hardly looked me in the face until—” He stalls out. For a moment, they just stare at one another.

“I’m sorry,” Percy says quietly.

Monty covers his face again. “Please, Percy. Just, go.”

Percy doesn’t press the issue. Doesn't try and touch him, doesn’t try to say anything else. Just gets to his feet and leaves. Monty keeps his face covered until he hears the door click.

He falls asleep with Percy’s key clutched in his hand, wondering how he managed to fuck this up yet again.

Monty’s first class back on Monday is Philosophy of Law, and he hates how much he honestly enjoys the class. He hadn’t spoken to Percy all weekend, the two of them avoiding one another by mutual agreement. Monty feels like he should apologize. It’s not Percy’s fault that Monty had gotten himself into such a mess, and it wasn’t his fault that Monty had expected, wanted, so much from him.

He’s thinking about how best to reach out to Percy when he enters the class and immediately realizes that something is wrong. The second he steps through the doos, all eyes swing to him in perfect unison. It had happened often at the start of the semester, but somewhere during the third week, his classmates had mostly gotten over the novelty of sharing a room with the next Kardashian.

The expression on their faces means fresh meat.

“Hey there, lover boy,” Christopher whistles. Monty sets his jaw and moves to his regular seat. Christopher is an asshole. Monty regrets sleeping with him. Twice.

Christopher just swings around in his seat to look at him. “You had a good time last week, didn’t you?”

“No complaints,” Monty replies. He fishes around in his bag for a pen. He’s fairly sure he brought a pen.

Christopher leans over and drops a copy of The Sun onto Monty’s desk. “I don’t see how you keep making news with this trash, you’re hardly interesting.”

Monty goes cold all over. The paper is already open to the correct page, not a cover story, thank god, but it’s unmistakably him. At the Opera House. Some photographer had captured the moment where he pulled Percy into his lap and kissed him, and the picture makes it look absolutely filthy.

There is a swatch of skin exposed where Monty’s hand has rucked up Percy’s shirt, and the camera had gone off at the exact moment where their lips were parted, giving the entire thing a tawdry, lewd look.

It wasn’t like that, Monty wants to scream. It was good. It was something he had taken for himself, something he had felt proud of. Proud and pleased and so joyful in that moment, to be kissing Percy and to be kissed by Percy, in full eyes of the world and God. And the local press pool, it would seem.

The only good thing about is that the lighting and the way that Monty had been angled makes it impossible to tell that it’s Percy in the picture. It could be anyone.

Monty is suddenly, horribly aware that every single person in the class is looking at him. He holds the paper up, because he knows that everyone has seen it already. “What do you think?” he asks, forcing a smile. “Did they catch my good side?”

A few people laugh. Someone whistles. Christopher scowls, clearly disappointed by Monty’s reaction. Fuck him.

“So,” Samaira leans over Monty’s desk, “who’s your partner? The paper only says ‘an unnamed gentleman.’” She taps the photo with one elegant nail.

“Just someone I met at the show,” Monty says. “I didn’t catch a name.” The lie feels bitter in his mouth. He’s been lying for what feels like his entire life, but never like this. He’s never had to cut Percy out of his life before. Never had to pretend as though Percy didn’t comprise the heart and soul of him.

Samaira laughs. “Monty, you slut!” She slaps his arm, playfully.

Monty dredges up a smile from somewhere. “I do my best.”

Thank god, he doesn’t actually have to keep talking because their professor enters the room. Pascal is usually a laid back teacher, insisting that they drop calling him Professor and letting them get away with more chatter than Monty ever had as a child, but today he’s calling for order before he’s even reached the front dais.

Monty follows the lecture in something of a daze. His mind keeps wandering back to the photo, the paper. Will his father have seen it by now? Will Percy? Monty doesn’t know which is worse.

“Monty, can I see you upfront?” Pascal calls after the class ends. A few of the other students make a low ooooh noise under their breath. Christopher bumps Monty’s shoulder with his, muttering, “Probably wants a blowie for proper marks.”

As if Monty’s marks need it.

Still, he approaches Pascal’s desk with some level of trepidation. “Yes?”

“Sit down,” Pascal gestures for Monty to take a seat by his desk. Monty does, feeling anxious. “No need to look so worried,” Pascal says. “I only want to talk.”

Monty has had plenty of just talking conversations that have still gone terribly for him, so he waits for Pascal to continue.

“Monty.” Pascal leans forward on his desk. “Is everything alright with you?”

“Everything is just grand,” Monty lies. “Why do you ask.”

“I know that you all think that we professors are out of touch,” Pascal says. “That we only follow the news of queen and country,” oh God, “but I have picked up a paper in the last three months.”

Monty feels humiliation swamp over him. He likes Pascal. He respects him. He wants to be respected by him. That he may have seen—that he could have watched. It’s beyond consideration.

Pascal must read something in his face. “I didn’t read any of the stories. Or,” he hesitates, the two of them on the precipice of dangerous territory, “anything else. I only saw that they existed. I happened to notice that a new story was out this morning.”

“Yes,” Monty says tightly, when Pascal pauses.

“And I’m asking. Are you alright?”

Monty considers his options. “I’m fine, professor.” He rarely calls Pascal professor, but he desperately wants this conversation to be over.

Pascal gives him a searching look. “Alright. If you say so.”

“I do.”

Pascal reaches out to clasp Monty’s shoulder, and Monty flinches back before he can stop himself. Pascal freezes. For a moment, they just stare at one another. Then, slowly, Pascal retracts his hand. Monty can feel a flush climbing up the back of his neck.

“Well,” Pascal clears his throat. “I’m always here, if you ever need to talk.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Monty says. “Can I,” he hooks a thumb at the door, and when Pascal nods, he practically flees.

His dorm room is a wonderful, blessed safe-haven. He all but collapses down onto his bed, hyper-aware of the sheets up his skin, of the press of his pillow, of the sound of the electric fan he has going in the corner.

He just lays there for what feels like minutes and hours and seconds and years. Time slips by and he doesn’t feel a part of any of it. When the tape had come out, it hadn’t felt like this. It had been almost funny. This doesn’t feel funny.

He hears someone knocking and ignores it.

“Monty?”

It’s Percy. Of course it is.

“Monty, I know you’re in there!” Percy is a liar. There is no way to know where Monty is. He is unknowable, an enigma. A ghost.

“Monty, I’m coming in!”

Monty hears the scrape of a key in the lock. When did Percy get a key?

He pulls himself upright, straightens his hair. “Go away!” he shouts, but even as he says it, he knows that it’s pointless. The door swings open, and Percy is staring at him. His chest is heaving, his hair is in disarray. It’s a good look on him.

“Monty.” Percy just looks at him for a moment.

Monty quirks a brow. “Percy.” Then, mostly to be an asshole, he looks to the dog at Percy’s side. “Malory.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “I came as soon I saw.”

“Oh. You’ve seen it.”

“The entire school has seen it, honestly, Monty. A girl in my ethics class asked if I had your phone number.”

“Did you give it to her?”

Percy scowls. “I did not. If she wants it so bad she can ask you herself.”

Monty watches his own hands as he plays with the hem of his shirt sleeve. “Right.” Then, “I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

Monty forces his hands still, clenches them tight together. If Percy is here to yell at him, he doesn’t think he can bear it. “I know you didn’t want to be in the papers. I know it was the last thing that you— and now it’s in the bloody Sun.”

Percy sits next to Monty, almost in his space. “I don’t care about that.”

“Uh, no, you made it pretty fucking clear that—”

“Monty.” Percy reaches out and puts his hands over Monty’s, stopping the nervous play of his fingers. “I promise, I’m not mad.”

“No?” Monty can’t look away from their hands, the contrast in their coloring. He could turn his hand over and interlace their fingers. He doesn’t.

“I mean, it’s not ideal, obviously.” Percy gives a small laugh. Obviously. “But you can’t even tell it’s me anyway.”

Right. Of course. As long as no one know about them. Monty pulls out from under Percy’s touch. He doesn’t dare reach for the key around his neck, but if he closes his eyes he can focus on its weight, the press of it against his skin.

He can hear Percy hesitate, hear the breath he draws in. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Percy, I’m great. I’m just loving this,” he snaps.

Percy doesn’t rise to the bait. When Monty turns his head to look at him, Percy is just watching him, patient.

Monty sighs. “You know, you’re the second person to ask me that today?”

“Oh?”

“Pascal asked, if you can believe that.”

Percy, who had Pascal last semester, makes a thoughtful noise. “I can, actually.”

“I’m fine,” Monty says.

“Hm,” Percy says.

“I am!”

“So, you’re not going to go out and do something stupid?” Percy asks skeptically.

Monty bristle. He honestly hadn’t planned on it, but something about the tone in Percy’s voice is making him reconsider. “I was planning to go out and get well and truly pissed.”

Percy scowls. It’s weird that it’s this, and not Monty lashing out, which seems to truly upset him. “Isn’t that what got you into this mess to begin with?”

“No, it was that fact that the bloody papers can’t keep their cameras to themselves,” Monty snaps. “Other people are allowed to pull, why can’t I?”

Percy’s face twists. “A pull?”

“Or whatever!” Monty throws his hands into the air. “I’m not trying to argue terminology with you.”

“Right.” Percy runs a hand through his hair. “Right. So you’re going to go out and, what? Get your face in the paper with some other boy?”

“Or girl, Percy, don’t be so limited.”

Percy makes a rude noise. “Have you heard from your father?”

“On second thought,” Monty says. “I’d rather argue terminology.”

Percy winces. “That bad?”

Monty pulls out his phone, unlocks it and holds it out. Percy takes it with the air of one holding a live grenade.

“What am I looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Percy’s brow wrinkles in confusion.

“Not a word.” Monty drops back onto the bed. “I know he’s seen it by now. I swear, he has a member of his staff whose only job is to scour the media for news of yours truly.”

“Sounds like a full time job to me,” Percy says. And then, at the look on Monty’s face, “Sorry.”

Monty waves it away. “No, it’s—you’re not wrong.”

“But, that’s good right? No news is good news?”

Monty feels a desperate laugh curl up his throat. “There is a good chance that he’s working on the paperwork to disinherit me as we speak. Just because the paparazzi didn’t recognize you, doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

Percy sucks in a breath. “Does that—would that make a difference? It being me?”

Monty tilts his head on the pillow, and he can’t bear one more second of that look on Percy’s face. “Honestly, I doubt it. He’d say you were too good for me. You know, if he weren’t also a homophobic shit head.”

Percy licks his lips. “Is it likely, that he’s going to disinherit you?”

“I’m not sure. He’s threatened it before.”

Monty can tell, from the way that Percy draws in a breath, from the way his mouth twists, that his next sentence will start with ‘no offense, but’

“No offense,” Percy begins, and he’s already softening the blow with a hand on Monty’s knee, “but this is far from the worst thing you’ve done.”

“The thing about the straw that breaks the camel’s back,” Monty says, “is that it’s still just a fucking straw.”

“Monty—”

“Trust me. The longer he waits to call, the worse it’s going to be.”

Which, of course, it when Monty’s phone begins to ring. Percy looks down at it, still in his hand. “It’s your father.”

“Yeah,” Monty almost wants to laugh. “I figured.”

“Would you like me to stay?” Percy asks softly.

“Yes,” Monty replies. “Please.”

He answers the phone.

It’s been years since Monty cried in front of his father. It was always worse when he cried, and now any time his hears that Tone in his father’s voice, something inside him ices over. It’s part of what had driven him to Eleftheria that first time, the driving need to feel something, anything.

Something other than cold and distant.

Now, listening to his father yell, listening to what his father is saying, Monty can feel that ice creep under his skin, like the words themselves are a blizzard inside of him.

Then, he feels a hand on his. Percy is looking at him with tender concern, his face open. And suddenly, abruptly, it’s like Monty’s father can’t hurt him.

It’s like being by a warm fire, watching snowflakes melt on the window outside. He hears the words his father is saying, hears him talk about disgrace and shame to the family, and one last chance, and it doesn’t matter.

For the first time in almost 10 years, when the conversation ends, Monty still feels like himself, still feels as put together as he did when he first started talking to his father.

It doesn’t matter, in this moment, that Percy doesn’t want him, that Percy will probably never want him. Because Percy is here for him, and will probably always be here for him.

Percy is his best friend and Monty wouldn’t trade that, not for anything. It’s not all or nothing, because as long as Percy is in his life, with his sweet smiles and his kind touches and his stupid jokes, nothing else matters.

Percy is enough.

Felicity’s call comes in mid-day on Tuesday, and Monty knows that he shouldn't be surprised, but he is. He picks up with a sense of trepidation, because he may love and adore his sister more now with half a country between them, but she can still be a brat.

“So,” Felicity's voice is teasing, and Monty already knows that he’s going to hate whatever she says next. “I thought that you and Percy weren’t dating?”

“We’re not.” Monty’s voice comes out choked despite his best efforts.

“Yeah, pull the other one. We get The Sun up at Oxford you know.”

“Really, Felicity. We were, something. Not dating.”

“Something where you kissed at opera houses?”

“I kissed him.”

Felicity makes a rude noise. “Well, obviously.”

“What is that supposed to mean!”

“That Percy is far too much of a gentleman to kiss you at the opera. That, and he’d be more interested in the show. No offense.”

“Offense very much taken! I’m more attractive than 100 year old men playing 500 year old music.”

“Not to Percy,” Felicity chimes delightedly.

Except that he had been. Execpt that Percy had been at a show he’d clearly loved, and he’d still touched Monty, had touched him in time with the music until Monty had fallen apart in his hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” Monty says. “We’re done with that too.”

“Is this the same thing as over the summer? Your stupid friends-with-benefits-with-feelings thing?”

“If by that you mean my unrequited pining for Percy while he refused to even kiss me then yeah, that thing.”

Felicity draws in a sharp breath. “Seriously?”

“Was I seriously pining for him? Yes, obviously.”

“No. Monty, did he really refuse to kiss you?”

Monty debates the merits of suffocating himself with a pillow. “Yeah.”

“That’s really shit, Monty.” There is a long pause, and Monty can practically hear her drawing out the timeline in her mind. “Was that your first kiss, in the paper?”

“No. We—the first time. I kissed him.”

“And he, what? Said ‘Don’t do that again, let’s have sex?’”

Monty’s laugh comes out rough and broken. “Yes, pretty much.”

“That’s really awful. I never thought I would say this, especially about Percy, but you deserve better, Monty.”

“I don’t though.” He turns his face into the pillow and tries not to cry. He can think of few things more mortifying than crying over a broken heart on the phone to his younger sister.

“Monty,” Felicity trails off, her voice heavy with sympathy. “Have you tried talking to him about this?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“He dumped me.”

There is a clatter that sounds a lot like Felicity dropping her phone, then a brief scramble. “He what?”

“He called it off. Told me to find some other sucker to fuck me for awhile.”

“He did not.”

“Not in those words,” Monty admits. “But, yeah. That was the gist.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, bully for you,” Monty snaps.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then, hesitantly, Felicity says, “I’m sorry. I do believe you. It just surprises me, that’s all. Percy always looks at you like—”

“Yeah.” He can’t bear to hear how Felicity thinks that Percy looks at him. “I thought so too. I was actually asking him if he wanted to—if this thing could be something real. If we could, you know. Date.”

Felicity is silent.

“In secret, obviously.” Monty hastens to add. “I mean, I know he’d hate, you know, having his face in the papers all the time, being seen with me. We wouldn’t have had to tell anyone. But I still wanted,” his throat closes up, and he’s glad that it stops the tide of words. He doesn’t want to Felicity to hear them.

“I’ll kill him,” Felicity says, and her tone is perfectly matter-a-fact. “I’m going to murder him.”

Monty is so surprised that he can only take his phone away from his ear and stare at it. “What?”

“I’m coming there, and I’m going to murder him. Painfully. You don’t deserve that shit, Monty.”

“No, c’mon. You know me, Felicity. I’m a disaster. I don’t blame him.”

Felicity breathes out a long sigh. “Yeah, you’re kind of a mess. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve to be happy, Monty.”

Monty doesn’t have a reply to that.

Felicity barrels on. “And if literally all you want is the privilege of being Percy Newton’s dirty little secret and he just, he couldn’t even—”

“It’s not like that!” Monty protests. “He doesn’t owe me anything. Just because I- he doesn’t have to do anything. I knew that it wasn’t—I knew I was more invested. None of this is a surprise, Felicity. ”

“Oh, Monty.” Felicity sounds so heartbreakingly sad in that moment, and Monty can’t for the life of him imagine why. “That’s part of the problem.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I know.”

Monty clears his throat. “Well, this has been strange and cryptic. Tell me about Oxford. Have you met any cute boys? Or cute girls.”

Felicity makes a rude noise. “Who has time for dating? There’s so much to learn here! And don’t change the subject. Repeat after me: I, Monty, deserve to be happy.”

“C’mon, Felicity—”

“Repeat it. I, Monty, deserve to be happy.”

“I, Monty, deserve to be happy,” Monty rushes the words out, feeling mortified. But also, just a little bit, pleased.

“I heard you rolling your eyes,” Felicity says. “But I’ll take it. Sit back and let me tell you about everything you’re missing out on at your second-rate university.”

The rest of the week passes quickly. Monty dodges lewd comments about the photos from the Opera. On Wednesday, he musters the courage to stretch out on Percy’s bed while they do their homework and it’s only about 10% weird. The students on campus have gone back to treating him like a pseudo-celebrity, there for teasing and pick-up lines. Monty is expecting the show on Friday to be more of the same.

Instead, he only gets about two calls about the photos before he picks up and the man on other line is shy, hesitant.

“Hi. I just wanted to, I heard you talking to that girl last week? And I wanted to ask—so you were really helpful for her. And no offense, but you seem like you really know shit. Like, I’ve seen you in the papers and you seem like you get around. Again, no offense.”

“None taken,” Monty replies because he supposes at this point that’s more of an objective fact than anything else. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

“Oh! Um. So, my girlfriend did something pretty shitty recently. I mean, not like, selling photos to the papers shitty, but still, shitty. And now she’s coming back and apologizing. And I want to forgive her, I love her but also. I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Whooo boy,” Monty breathes out a long breath. “I mean, I’m not entirely sure I’m the right voice on this. Most of what goes in and out of the papers hasn’t been what anyone could call a relationship. But hell, you’re here, I’m here. Let’s give it a shot.”

The other boy gives a weak, watery sounding laugh. Monty taps his pencil on his desk.

“I mean, it depends on a few things. I don’t know you, and I don’t know your relationship. There are people in my life who could stab me and I would forgive them for it, because I know them well enough to know that their reasons were probably good and, honestly, I probably deserved it,” another laugh. “But other people I’ve known, once that trust is broken, can you really move forward with them, you know?”

“Yeah.” There is the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“So, the question I would ask is, can you move past it? Because even if you love them, if you can’t trust them—if this will always be hanging over the two of you? That’s it. Love is great and all, but trust is what matters.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear, or if that wasn’t very helpful, but, I don’t know. That’s what I think.”

“No, that was, that was helpful. Thank you.”

“Anytime. Good luck.”

He ends the call, hoping to God that he didn’t just fuck up someone’s life beyond repair.

From there, the rest of the night goes smoothly. He gets another caller asking for advice on coming out, which seems like a weird way to do it, on a radio show that anyone could hear but he does the best he can to be helpful, and then a third caller who, thank god, only wants to know the best pub near campus.

When Sonia shows up for her own show, Monty jumps. He hadn’t noticed that time was passing so quickly. He signs off awkwardly, and, to his own surprise, invites anyone to call back again next week.

He signals Sonia to start and steps out into the hall. To his vast surprise, Sinjon is stretched against the wall, charmingly posed like something out of a vintage pinup. He has one foot propped up on the wall, his head tilted back. All he’s missing is a cigarette and a leather jacket.

“Oh.” Monty says. “Have you been here this entire time?” Not his best work.

“I was waiting for you,” Sinjon replies, voice lowered flirtatiously.

“Like that?” Monty’s show is two hours long.

Sinjon drops his leg with a laugh. “No. I was doing chemistry homework until I saw Sonia come in. I thought this would be more fetching.”

“It certainly was, at that.”

Sinjon winks. “So, would it be too much of cliche to ask if you wanted to come back to mine for some tea?”

Monty feels a smile start to break out over his face. Sinjon isn’t Percy, but he is lovely and charming and, in this moment, interested in Monty.

“It’s a bit cliche, but I think you have to looks to pull it off,” he replies.

“Yeah? Do I have the looks to pull you off?” Sinjon asks.

Monty winces. “You know, I think you may have just utterly destroyed your chances there.”

“Even as I said it, I knew it was too much. I really hope you can forgive me.”

“I don’t know.” Monty starts walking down the hall, utterly confident that Sinjon will follow him. It’s something he hasn’t felt in some time. “You’ll have to persuade me.”

Sinjon grabs his elbow and turns him around, backing Monty into the wall in the same smooth motion. “I think I can manage that.” He tilts Monty’s face up for a kiss.

It’s a good kiss, as such things go. Sinjon knows the right angles, the correct place to put his hands. He clearly knows what he’s doing.

It pales in comparison to the kiss Monty had shared with Percy.

Monty pushes that thought away. It makes no difference what he had shared with Percy. It’s not going to happen again. Percy doesn’t want him. Sinjon does.

Monty pulls himself free of the kiss. “So, about that tea?”

Sinjon lives off campus, like a proper senior. They go through the door to his apartment already kissing, and Monty tries to block out the thought of everything else. Sinjon has his hands in Monty’s back pockets. Monty is clutching tight to Sinjon’s blazer.

He feels, in that moment, utterly desired.

Sinjon guides them to the bedroom, and his hands move from Monty’s pockets to his shirt. He starts the lower buttons and works his way up, unbuttoning each button with a careful slowness. Monty’s chest feels cold when the shirt comes open, and he is suddenly, achingly, aware of the weight of the key against his chest.

Monty breaks away. “I can’t,” he says with a gasp, and it’s as much a surprise to him as it is to Sinjon. “I can’t, I’m sorry.” Then, to his immense horror, he bursts into tears.

To Monty’s further surprise, Sinjon immediately takes his hands off of Monty and takes a step back. Not that Monty had expected him to force the issue, but he would have been well within his rights to be frustrated. Instead he just looks concerned.

“Are you alright?” Sinjon asks awkwardly.

Monty tries desperately to get himself under control. “Yeah. Yes. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

“Right. Which is why you’re crying in my living room.”

“I’m not crying!”

Sinjon sighs. “Right. I’m going to go make that tea now.”

By the time he’s returned, Monty has at least managed to stop crying, and Sinjon passes him the cup.

Monty takes it gratefully. “I’m really sorry about that.”

Sinjon sits on the couch and indicates that Monty should do the same. “It’s fine. I mean, kind of an ego killer, but fine.”

Monty winces. “Sorry.”

“Is this about that Newton chap? From the papers?”

Monty goes utterly, perfectly still. “What?”

“That other kid you’re always with. That was him in The Sun, right?”

Monty almost upsets his tea when he says. “Sinjon, you can’t tell anyone.”

“I—what?”

“No one, I mean, the paper doesn’t know who was in the photo. It would—Percy would—you can’t tell anyone!”

“I won’t.” Sinjon puts his own cup down and then carefully takes Monty’s and sets it aside as well. He takes Monty’s hands in his. “Seriously. I won’t. Though, you’ve got to know that at least half the school will know that it’s him. You’re always together.”

“Shit.” Monty tugs his hands free and puts his head in them. “Fuck.”

Sinjon pats him awkwardly on the back. “I don’t think anyone will say anything. I mean, honestly, I don’t think it will occur to anyone that it was a big deal. I didn’t even think you two were—”

“We’re not.”

“Ah.” There is a wealth of understanding in that noise. Monty turns his face away from Sinjon’s suddenly knowing face.

Sinjon doesn’t press.

“Well, it’s dark now. Sleep on the couch for the night.”

Monty thinks about protesting. Then he thinks about the walk back to the dorms at this hour. “Thanks.”

Monty has faced some awkward morning afters in his time, but never one quite like this. Sinjon offers him another cup of tea. Monty takes it. They sit in utter silence on Sinjon’s couch.

“You know, last year I would have taken you up on last night in a blink,” Monty says ruefully.

Sinjon sighs. “I suppose that makes me feel a little better.”

“I mean, you’re gorgeous, don’t get me wrong,” Monty says, well aware that he is only digging himself deeper.

“Well, thank you for that,” Sinjon laughs. “But let me guess, you’re past all this casual nonsense now that you’re in love?”

Monty stares into his tea. “I’m not sure about that. I mean. I don’t know what I want. Ever since that first article in the Sun.”

“Ah,” Sinjon says, and there is that same wealth of knowledge in his tone as there had been last night. “I suppose that does make it hard to trust in the kindness of strangers.”

“Exactly. And even though Percy—even though that’s not an option. I’m still not ready to—”

“Monty,” Sinjon puts a hand on Monty’s knee. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Monty reaches up and fiddles with the key around his neck. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“A year ago you wouldn’t have cared.”

“A year ago it wouldn’t have been an issue,” Monty replies.

“You’ve changed, Monty.” Sinjon tightens his grip on Monty’s knee for a brief second, then lets go. “And I think I want to get to know the new you.”

“Not the old me?” Monty asks, and his tone is joking, but there is something tender waiting for the answer. Sinjon, to his credit, thinks it over.

“I wanted to sleep with the old you. But I think I’d like to be friends with the new you.”

Monty feels a smile bloom over his face. “I’d like that.” He doesn’t have many friends. He could probably do with more.

“Friends, then.” Sinjon extends a hand.

Monty shakes it. “Friends.”

That night, Percy and Monty end up back at the pub. Monty doesn’t trust himself to be drunk around Percy right now, so for the first time in his life, he doesn’t order a drink. Percy raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t comment.

“We can leave, if you want,” Percy says. The noise in the pub means he has to lean in close to say it, and the combination, Percy’s breath on his ear, Percy’s words, the subtle smell of him, makes Monty think, just for a second, that Percy means Leave.

Then he shakes himself out of it and leans away. “Nah. We haven’t played billiards in ages.”

Something flashes across Percy face, too quick to name. “You’re rubbish at billiards.”

“How dare you, sir.” Monty racks up the balls. “I demand trial by combat.”

Percy rolls his eyes, but hands Monty one of the cues off the wall. “First shot?” he offers.

Monty takes position. He’s not posing for anyone, not trying to make his shots attractive, not trying to do anything but have a good time with his best friend, to reclaim what he’s scared they’ve lost, and when he breaks he actually manages to sink a ball.

“Ha!” He give Percy a triumphant smile. Percy mimes a sarcastic golf clap.

“Where were you this morning?” Percy asks as Monty lines up his next shot. “The dining hall had waffles, I came by to get you.”

Monty, focused on lining the next shot—he’s pretty sure he can bounce the three off the seven and get them both in—answers distractedly. “I was still with Sinjon.”

“Still?” Percy asks.

“I spent the night,” Monty says, and shoots. He misses the seven entirely on the ricochet, but the three goes in and he lines up another shot. He scratches that one entirely, and steps back to let Percy take his turn.

Percy’s back is tense, and his shot hits with more force than usual. Monty is no real judge, but it looks like the four goes in by pure chance, ricocheting off a corner and two other balls before going it.

“How were the waffles?” he asks awkwardly.

“What?”

“The waffles? For breakfast.”

“I ended up skipping. It’s not as fun with—by myself.” His next shot goes in as well.

“Next time, you can text me.”

“Right. Yeah. Next time.” Percy’s shot scratches.

To Monty’s everlasting surprise, being friends with Sinjon is not terrible. He has had very few friends in his life, and his relationship with Percy has been complicated ever since Monty realized he was in love almost five years ago. It’s nice, to have a relationship that can just be simple, with no expectations or desires weighing it down.

It’s Tuesday, which means that Percy will be occupied with his violin practice for a few hours, so when Sinjon asks if he wants to get a coffee and do homework, Monty agrees. When they aren’t occupied in mutual flirting, Sinjon can be surprisingly funny.

They both still flirt, but it’s playful, kidding. There is no intent behind it.

“So, anyway, I’m standing there, pantless,” Monty is saying, “she’s topless—and her dad comes in. I swear, my entire life flashed before my eyes. And, well, I had nothing to lose at this point, so I take off my blazer. The school blazer, mind you, and I gently place it over her. Because honestly, this is her dad, right? It’s got to be worse for her. So then I book it.”

“Pantless?” Sinjon asks, almost crying with laughter.

“Completely and utterly.”

“You make my high school years look tame by comparison.”

Monty gives his hand a sympathetic pat. “I’m sure you had your share of scandals, a pretty boy like you.”

“Well, I never ran anywhere pantless, that’s for sure.”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you about the time I ran through the gardens of a Duchy completely starkers then.”

“Please tell me it was your own Duchy.”

“It emphatically was not.”

As Sinjon laughs, Monty lets his gaze trail over the shop, and is startled to see Percy standing at the register. He’s watching them, and his face is cold and closed off. Monty raises a hand to wave, and Percy turns away.

Right. Okay then.

“Ah,” Sinjon says, following his gaze. “The elusive Mr. Newton.”

Monty shushes him, afraid that Percy will overhear.

But Percy doesn’t turn back to them as he collects his drink and leaves.

“He’s in a bit of a mood, isn’t he?” Sinjon says, leaning his chin on his hand.

Monty frowns after Percy’s back. “Yeah…” He shakes his head, and realizes that he’s started fiddling with the key again. “He probably just got back from practice. He gets really focused, and sometimes it takes him some time to shake out of it.”

Sinjon’s grin widens. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

Percy begs off their usual Wednesday study session which is…fine. It’s all fine.

By Friday, he still hasn’t heard from Percy, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Thursday is another practice day for Percy, Percy isn’t obligated to spend every second with him.

He gets to the station a bit early this time, exchanges some meaningless small talk with Sinjon once Sinjon’s own show is over.

“Ready to dispense more wisdom to the masses?” Sinjon asks as Monty gets ready to go on.

Monty rolls his eyes. “I don’t know about wisdom. Salacious advice, maybe.”

“Sorry, Monty, but it’s wisdom. You’re like a hot Gandalf.”

Monty almost chokes on his spit, and Sinjon winks.

The show starts as Monty has become accustomed to. He plays a few songs, offers some advice to some freshman in bad relationships and baffled suggestions to people in good relationships. He’s not sure how or when his show turned into a talk show, but maybe Sinjon is right. Maybe he is a hot Gandalf.

As songs play between calls, he checks his phone. Nothing from Percy. But then, maybe Monty expects too much. Maybe he always expects too much.

He shoots off a text to Percy, ‘hope your night is great ;)’ and tucks his phone back into his pocket.

The final calls in at 11:45, when Monty has pretty much called it a night in his head and isn’t expecting more than a few drunk callers.

“Hello, Monty’s words of wisdom, how can I improve your life?” he answers, overly jovial.

“Hey, man. I like your show.”

“Thank you. I like that you like it. What’s up?” he should probably make his show more formal or something, if he really is going to end up giving people advice on a consistent basis.

“I know you don’t usually talk about romance stuff on here, but I guess I don’t have anyone to ask.” The caller, male, probably not a first year by his tone, laughs ruefully. “Pathetic, right?” Monty can relate.

“No, it’s fine. Sometimes it’s easier with strangers.” Monty winces at his own choice of words, but the caller doesn’t jump on it. Instead, he sighs, long and staticy through the phone line.

“I am just, madly in love with this girl,” he says. “She’s just, she’s everything. I love her laugh, the way that she wrinkles her nose. I love that she is always forgetting her hairties and has to use a pencil to her hair up. I just, I really love her.”

Yeah. Monty can relate to that as well.

“That’s really great,” Monty says. “She sounds worthy of your love. And not that I don’t like hearing this, I do, but is there a question here.”

“She doesn’t know I exist. Well. That’s not fair. We’re friends. But she doesn’t see me like that, and I think it’s killing me.” The caller laughs again. “I know it’s not, running from the paparazzi or getting revenge on a cheating ex, but just—I don’t know what to do anymore.”

God. There is no way Monty is admitting on the air that he is the literal last person in the world to give advice on the subject.

But then. He could have used some advice of his own. He could still use some advice. He knows what it’s like, to have that gaping place that you desperately want another person to fill.

“So, you have two option here. You tell her, and even if she doesn’t feel the same, you have your answer. Or, you keep it secret and let it kill you. I don’t recommend that, by the way. I know what you’re thinking. Telling her is terrifying. It’s the scariest thing you can imagine. What if she doesn’t feel the same. What if she wants to end the friendship. What if you ruin everything.”

Monty takes a deep breath, lets the words go through him, from somewhere deep. “If she’s as amazing as you say, she won’t end the friendship. If you tell her, she knows. And that’s, god, it’s fucking scary. But if you don’t, if you hide from it. That really could ruin this. And who knows. She might feel the same. She might not. But living with the possibility? It can turn against you. You tear yourself apart on every word, every other person she looks at. It festers.

“Love is- it’s hard and sometimes it sucks. Sometimes it hurts, it tears out gaping holes and you think you’ll never get past it. But if you love her, and I mean, really, truly love her. Then she is enough.

“Just, having her in your life is enough. Watching her smile, hearing her laugh. Waking up each day and even though she isn’t beside you, knowing that you still get to see her. That becomes enough.” Monty is moving the key back and forth on it’s chain. Not nervously, not twisting it, but feeling its weight, the familiar curves of the teeth. “So. Yeah. That’s my advice. Take the chance. Jump. Even if she doesn’t catch you, she’ll probably still help you get up and put yourself back together.”

A part of Monty, a part of him he’d hoped that he had buried by now, is hoping that Percy will be waiting for him when he gets back to his room. That Percy will be sitting there, on his bed, and say that he heard the show, and he hadn’t realized how much Monty loved him. That he, Percy, has realized how much he loves Monty is return.

He had been telling the utter truth. Percy is enough. Just this. Just as they are, it’s enough. He had no ulterior motives, nothing beyond helping the caller and letting the words spill out of him.

But still. He hopes. He had splayed himself open on air, and though maybe no one else would get it, Percy should have heard himself in every word Monty spoke and—and Monty hopes.

He turns the key in the lock. He turns on the light.

His room is empty, cold.

Monty lets out the breath he was holding and slowly, tiredly, gets ready for bed.

Monty thinks about getting breakfast with Percy, but he is still feeling a little raw so he heads down to the lawn to get some reading done. He suspects that his professors won’t take ‘abject humiliation’ as a reason to be late on his school work.

One of the curses of Monty’s life is that the press never seems to catch pictures of him doing any sort of meaningful studying. Which is why he is so surprised when a particularly lovely woman approaches him with a tell-tale camera around her neck.

“Don’t worry,” she says when Monty flinches away. “I’m not here to catch your sordid academic dealings.”

Monty looks down at his Philosophy of Law textbook. “Perhaps you should. It might improve my public image. Here, I’ll pose for you.” He holds the book up so that the title can be seen while still catching his face in frame. “Henry Montague IV Spotted Having A Life Outside His Scandalous Sexual Shenanigans.”

The woman doesn’t reach for her camera. Instead, she hold out her hand. “I’m Helena Robles.” When Monty doesn’t reach out to shake her hand, she lets it fall. “I was the one who—”

“The one who took the picture at the Opera house,” Monty cuts her off. Her eyes widen, and he smiles coldly. “I know I don’t look all that bright, but I can read a photo credit.”

“I wasn’t following you, if that helps. I just happen to enjoy the opera.”

“And when you spotted me, you just had to take a photo?”

Helena reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Monty. He declines. She lights and it and slips the lighter back into her pocket.

“I didn’t tell them the name of your friend, you know. Your Percy Newton.”

Monty goes cold all over. “Is this blackmail? Because if it is—” he trails off. Because if it is, nothing. He’ll pay it. He’ll pay any amount of money to keep Percy’s name out of the papers.

Helena waves him off. “Down boy. I’m not threatening your lover boy.”

“Then what?”

“Did you know that I’m a local?” she asks.

“Uh. No?”

“I’ve seen you at the pubs a few times. And, of course, I saw the news on you this summer. So I didn’t think it was such a big deal, to see you at the opera house. Just another casual fuck for Lord Montague.”

Monty flinches at hearing Percy referred to like that, and Helena’s sharp eyes catch the motion.

“Did you know that the St. Andrews radio station goes to most of the surrounding area?” she asks mildly.

Monty shakes his head, taken aback by the non sequitur.

“There isn’t all that much in the way of good radio out here, so I listen to it every now and then. Beats current politics anyway.” She flicks ash off the end of her cigarette. “Your show is good, you know. Especially recently.”

“You mean the part where I spill my guts out to the entire university and surrounding towns?” Monty asks bitterly.

“Yeah, actually. Your advice is good. People listen to you. You’ve got the charisma for it.” She gives him a long look. “I misjudged you.”

Monty shrugs, and the motion draws his shoulders up by his ears, defensive. “You probably didn’t.”

Helena ignores him. “I also didn’t realize it was a proper date. I didn’t think you were someone who dated, when I took the pictures, and I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m not. We weren’t. We’re not dating,” he sputters out, and he’s said those words so often in the last few months, he would think that they would stop tearing up his throat on the way out.

“Oh.” She takes another drag on her cigarette. “Well, if my photos played any part in that, then I’m truly sorry about that. I can tell you care about him.”

God, is it so obvious? “He doesn’t feel the same. Your photos had nothing to—it ended it before the article came out.”

“Hm.” Helena looks at him. “You know, I really just came over here to apologize. But I think I might have something that could interest you.”

She reaches into her messenger back and pulls out an envelope. “Before you start harping about blackmail again, these are the only copies.” She sighs. “I should have known I was wrong about you as soon as these were done developing, but it’s hard to change an opinion once it’s been formed, you know.”

She hands him the envelope, and his fingers close over it on reflex. She doesn’t let go. “Don’t let that stop you,” she says, holding his gaze. “Your first impression isn’t always the right one.”

Helena lets the envelope go and flicks the end of her cigarette into the grass. When she stands, she steps on it to put it out. “If you ever want to do an interview, call me. My card’s in there.” She nods at the envelope and heads out.

Monty watches her go, then turns his gaze to the envelope in his hands. It’s fairly light, and considerably more interesting than his textbook.

He tips it open and over a dozen photos fall into his lap. His breath catches in his throat when he sees the familiar architecture of the opera house. For a second, he wants to get up and chase her down, humiliation and anger burning in his throat at the invasion of his privacy.

Then he looks at the first one, and humiliation wells up in him for an entirely different reason. He sees now, why she had been so sure that he loved Percy. The photo is from before the kiss. Percy is watching the musicians. Monty is watching Percy, and it’s written all over his face.

God. He never thought he would be happy about that photo in The Sun, but now that he knows how much worse it could have been… This one is much less risque, but so much more telling. For one thing, Percy is almost impossible not to identify. And for another, the idea of the entire world seeing the depth of Monty’s feelings. It’s unbearable.

The next few photos are more of the same, Monty gazing at Percy with his heart in his eyes. Then a few of Percy still looking at the stage, and Monty’s head tipped back. Anger flares again, at the thought that Helena had seen this, this intimate and magical moment with Percy.

The next photo makes him stop. In the photo, his own face is tipped back, pleasure written across it. But Percy isn’t looking at the stage. He’s looking at Monty, and the look on his face is so—something. Monty doesn’t have words for it. He flips back. The picture of him looking at Percy. Forward. Percy looking at him. He lays the photos out next to one another.

It’s the same expression.

He looks through the rest of them. There are another half dozen around the kiss, some dirtier than the one that ran in the paper, some almost entirely innocent. He stops on one that has been zoomed in. His face is close to Percy’s, and he remembers the moment, his own eyes closed, savoring it. Savoring Percy’s hands on him, Percy’s lips against his.

Percy’s eyes are open and he looks at Monty like he’s everything. He looks at Monty like Monty has been looking at him for years.

Monty slides the photos back into the envelope and stands.

Monty stands outside of Percy’s room for what feels like an eternity, his hand poised like he’s about to knock. It’s absurd. He hasn’t knocked for Percy for over five years now.

He takes a deep breath and turns the handle.

Malory looks up at him when the door enters. Percy does not. He’s got headphones in, and Monty watches with charmed affection as Percy nods along to the music, running a highlighter over his notes. Monty sits down on the bed and scratches Malory behind the ears and for a moment he just watches.

Then, because Percy will be furious if he looks up and finds Monty watching him like an utter creeper, he waves his arms until the motion catches Percy’s attention. Percy startles, yanking the headphones from his ears.

“Monty!”

“Yes, darling?” Monty asks. He feels full of light and sunshine and pleasure. He can’t seem to stop smiling.

“How long have you been there?”

“Not too long. An hour or so?”

Percy’s face creases for a moment, then smoothes out. “Hilarious. How long, truly?”

Monty laughs, and the laugh comes so easily to his lips. “Only a few minutes. I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You could knock!”

“I could,” Monty acknowledges.

“And you call yourself a gentleman.”

Monty clutches his chest. “I never!”

Percy grins and shakes his head. “Why are you here?”

Monty feels his smile fade. “I didn’t know I needed a reason.”

“No! Of course you don’t. I only meant.” Percy frowns down at his notes. “I thought you would be out. With Sinjon or something.”

Monty rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what your obsession with Sinjon is, but I haven’t seen him in days.”

“Since you slept at his place.”

“We’ve gotten coffee since then. I know you saw us.” Then, off the way Percy’s mouth twists, “Why do you care?” The hope is building in his chest again, buoyed by the sudden realization that Percy is jealous. That Percy might care if Monty sleeps with other people.

“I don’t,” Percy says, and Monty can read the lie on his face.

“I don’t give a damn about Sinjon, Percy.”

Percy’s face creases into a scowl. “Don’t lie to me, Monty. I heard you on the radio last night.”

Monty flinches back. It’s like being punched. It’s like all the air leaving his body at once. “You heard? And this,” he hesitates, “this is your answer?”

“No,” Percy snaps. “My answer is that I don’t care. Do whatever you want, Monty.”

Monty has had actual broken ribs that hurt less than this. He’s been wrong. Percy won’t be there to catch him. Won’t even be there to help him get back up again.

“Ah.” He swallows. It’s been years since he’s cried in front of anyone, but he can feel tears building. “I’ll just. Go then.”

Percy turns away from him. “I’m sure Sinjon is waiting for you.”

It’s too much. “What the fuck does Sinjon have to do with any of this?” He’s genuinely angry now. He never could have expected this level of cruelty from Percy.

Percy is still facing away, but Monty sees his hands clench on the desk. “You’re in,” he has to stop, “in love with him, aren’t you?”

“With Sinjon?” Monty asks, incredulous to the point of fury. “Are you insane?”

“You slept with him, didn’t you?”

“Percy, I don’t mean to be driving this point, but I have slept with a lot of people. And I certainly wasn’t in love with all of them.”

“Just one?” Percy asks bitterly.

“Just one,” Monty agrees, and his voice is so, so soft. “I only slept there, you know. On his couch, even.”

Percy picks up his highlighter and turns back to his notes. “Oh?”

“I mean, he offered, don’t get me wrong—”

“How lovely for you,” Percy says.

“I didn’t want to sleep with him.” Monty draws in a breath. His heartbeat seems terribly loud. “He wasn’t you.”

Percy doesn’t even look up from his book. “I’m sorry that his knowledge of internet BDSM failed to impress you.”

“Dammit, Percy, you could at least look at me for this.” Monty’s hands are clenched in the sheets of Percy’s bed, the comforter wrinkling under his fingers. He can feel the blood rushing in his face.

Percy looks at him, and his expression is almost perfectly blank.

“We’re not sleeping together any more. You can fuck whomever you want, don’t let me stop you.”

“I don’t want to fuck anyone else.” His voice is shaking. It’s so terribly hard to say. He had told the caller to jump, and he’d thought he already had. He’d been wrong. This, right now—this is him throwing himself off a cliff and hoping that Percy will be there to catch him. “Just you.”

Percy’s face stays closed to him. “Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to play that game anymore.”

Monty feels like he’s choking on those words. Game. Like something trivial, something meaningless.

“Then why did you?” he asks. He reaches out with one hand until he feels Malory under his fingers. Her fur is soft and warm, and he takes comfort in it.

“Why did I— what?”

“Why did you,” he spits the word, “play, if it was so distasteful to you?”

Percy falters, and Monty feels on more solid ground.

“I— you needed it.”

“That’s awfully altruistic of you,” Monty says. He reaches up and touches the key through his shirt. “Would you do that for any of our friends?”

“We don’t have any other friends, Monty,” Percy says. His voice is leading towards humor at the old joke.

“Well, there is that,” Monty concedes. “Still, it’s awfully generous of you, to fuck someone when they’re having a hard time.”

“Why did you accept then?” Percy asks. “You could have anyone in the world why,” his voice breaks, “why me?”

Monty takes a deep breath. Another. He thinks of the photos. He thinks of what he wants. He thinks of the key around his neck, the one he’s kept so carefully hidden.

“Because, Percy, when someone offers you almost everything you ever wanted, you’d be an utter fool to refuse it.”

Percy’s face goes slack with surprise, and the same fear-withdrawal that Monty is so used to being on the other side of. “And what is it that you want, Monty?”

He’s trying for harsh, for aloof, and he’s missing entirely. Monty feels full to bursting with emotion, with fear and love and hope. How many times has Percy asked this of him? How many times has he failed to answer? It seems absurd, now. He’s always known what he wanted. The answer has never changed.

“You, Percy.”

And then, when Percy only stares at him, gawping like a spectator at a freak show, Monty’s words escape him in a panicked rush. “It’s always been you. And when you offered. I had to. And if someone offers you what you want most, even if,” he has to stop and swallow, pulling in air like he’s drowning, “even though it’s only partly what you want, even if it’s only halfway there, it would be stupid to, to…” he trails off.

Percy is still staring at him.

“Say something!” Monty snaps.

“Is that my key?” Percy asks. Monty looks down and finds that he’s been playing with it as he spoke, pulled it free of his shirt.

“It’s mine,” he says stupidly. “You gave it to me.”

Percy stands and moves close enough that Monty has to part his legs so that Percy can stand between them. He reaches out with careful fingers, and touches the key. Monty lets it go, and Percy just looks down at it.

“I searched everywhere for this,” Percy says. “I turned my entire place upside down.”

“Why?” He can hardly breathe. Percy looms over him. His fingers are running over the key, and he’s so close that Monty can feel the heat of him, all along his front.

“Why do you think?” Percy asks.

Monty can only look up at him, feeling helpless and hopeful. “I don’t know. I don’t know why you gave it to me in the first place.”

Percy lets the key fall and reaches for Monty’s hands, pulling Monty to his feet.

“I didn’t know if we would do that again. I thought if one time was all we had, I wanted to keep the memory. A token.”

“Well, it’s my token. You have to get another one,” Monty says, and immediately wants to bludgeon himself with Percy’s textbooks.

To his surprise, Percy’s face is breaking into a slow smile, like a sunrise. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He turns his delighted smile from the key to Monty’s face. “You’ll have to get me something this time.”

Monty swallows. He’s not sure what Percy is saying, what Percy means here.

“Percy. If you—”

“I thought it was my only chance. I thought it was something that you needed, something that only I could give you. And I loved that. I loved that you needed me, that no one else would do. But I—” he stops, and bites his lip. Then his face breaks out into the most heart wrenchingly smile. “If someone offers you everything you ever wanted. You’d be an utter fool to say no. Even if it’s all you’ll ever get.”

“It’s not,” Monty says. He unclasps the chain from around his neck and holds out the key. “It’s not all you’ll ever get. You can have,” he swallows. “You can have everything.”

“Oh,” Percy breathes. With trembling hands, he reaches out, and Monty thinks he will take the key. Then his hands close on Monty’s face. “Oh.”

This kiss isn’t like the night of the opera. It’s sweet, exploratory. Monty presses slow, lingering kisses to Percy’s mouth, their lips clinging.

He breaks off with a gasp, and Percy’s hands settle on his waist. It’s almost too much, he’s shaking with it.

“Monty?”

“I kept thinking,” Monty ducks his head. “I kept thinking that if I could only kiss you, if you would only let me—that I would be able to win you over. Like it was some stupid magic spell, and kissing you would solve the entire fucking thing. And then we kissed the night of the opera and then, God, Percy you could hardly look at me the next day. And then you wanted to stop and—”

“Wait, I wanted to stop?” Percy says, incredulous.

“Well, yeah? I was going to ask if you wanted to,” Monty feels utterly foolish, “date. Or something. And you wanted to stop, and I thought, that’s it then. That’s that done.” He draws the key back into his grasp as Percy makes no move to take it back.

“Monty,” Percy says, with infinite tenderness. He leans down and catches Monty’s lips again, kissing him slowly and deeply, until Monty’s legs are shaking with it. When Percy breaks away, his face is flushed. “I couldn’t kiss you,” he says against Monty’s lips. “I was so sure that you would know how I felt. And then, when you kissed me. It was too much, Monty, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t have so much of you and still have it still be a game.”

“It was never a game,” Monty replies, the words falling into the quiet place between them. “I’m in love with you.” It’s astounding how easily those words come, after years of being so afraid of them.

Percy’s face is a sight to behold. He looks lit up from within, incandescently happy. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Percy. I thought that was pretty obvious by now.”

“You were talking about me on the radio,” Percy says, like he is only just now putting the pieces together.

“Yes.”

“You said that this was enough. Just to have the person in your life. That was enough.”

“It’s everything,” Monty ducks his head. “You’re everything. Even if we never kissed again.”

“God, Monty.” Percy’s voice is choked, and he raises a shaking hand to cover his mouth. His eyes are brimming with tears. “I love you so much. I’m so very, very in love with you.”

“Oh.” He can’t speak. He can hardly breathe.

Percy smiles at him. “Have I rendered the great Lord Montague speechless?”

“Shut up,” Monty says. “I can’t believe—I never thought this would happen. I can’t believe it’s happening now.” Then, before Percy can say anything else. “Don’t worry though. We don’t have to tell anyone.”

This close together, still pressed against Percy, he can feel the way that Percy’s breath catches at that. He looks up in time to see Percy’s brow crease.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Monty shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “I know you’d hate—I know you don’t want to be in the papers. That you didn’t want to—” he can’t finish the sentence, but Percy hears what he means anyway.

Percy lifts Monty’s face up to meet his eyes. “Monty. I am not ashamed of you. I will never, ever be embarrassed to be seen with you. Let the press take whatever pictures they want.”

“But you— I thought you—” he’s reeling.

“I didn’t want to be listed as another one of your conquests, Monty.” Percy looks away, and it occurs to Monty for the first time that Percy has been hurting as well. “I was already waiting for you to call it off. I couldn’t bear—” he clears his throat.

Monty thinks back, all the times that he played it off like he was just waiting for the next thing, the next person. The look on Percy’s face when he had seen Monty and Sinjon together. The thought of him being jealous isn’t funny anymore.

“All those times I mentioned us being causal. When I talked about meeting other people,” he trails off.

Percy glances away. “Yeah, that, uh. That sucked.” He takes a deep breath and meets Monty’s eyes again. “But I can’t think of anything I would want more than for the entire world to know that you’re mine.”

It’s like Monty’s entire body catches fire at those words. He reaches up and pulls Percy into another kiss, hardly able to believe he gets to do this.

Percy pulls away with a gasp. His face is flushed, and his eyes are wild and Monty is so in love with him that it hurts.

“Wait, wait,” he says. “One more thing. I just— what you said the other day. About how I was after the Tape. I never meant to—” he takes a deep breath and lets it all out in a rush. “IwatchedtheTape.”

“I—what?”

Percy’s grip tightens on Monty’s, like he expects him to pull away. “I didn’t realize how much it bothered you. It all seemed like a big joke to you. I didn’t mean to but.” As close at they are, Monty can feel the heat radiating off of Percy.

“Did you get off on it?” he asks, mostly curious. He feels like he should be angry, or upset. But, it’s Percy.

“I,” Percy stutters. “Not once I realized that it bothered you.”

“So, yes.”

“Oh, god,” Percy says, and he sounds mortified. “Yes.”

Monty frowns, not displeased, but thoughtful. “Why tell me now? We were sleeping together, you can’t have thought I would mind.”

“It’s not exactly platonic behavior. I was doing my best to hide how I felt from you.”

“Mission accomplished, I guess.”

“It was selfish of me. I was so mortified that I’d watched it, and everytime I looked at you— I was never disgusted with you, Monty.” He pauses. “A bit horrified, maybe, at the realization that I was jealous of Richard Fucking Peele, but not at you.”

“Fuck Richard Peele,” Monty says.

“We hate Richard Peele,” Percy agrees. “I should have been there for you. I never meant you to feel—you seemed fine. I didn’t even think you’d noticed.”

“Yeah,” Monty drawls. “You really could have done more than help keep me grounded with a kinky sexual relationship with almost no context about what was going on.”

Percy huffs a laugh. “When you put it like that.”

Monty draws a breath. “About that. I can’t begin to—it helped. I can’t even say how much you helped me, Percy. Even when I thought you didn’t want me, it helped. You kept me sane.”

“Not want you?” Percy asks. “I could never.”

“Sap,” Monty says, teasing.

“I’m sorry that you doubted that. That I made you feel unwanted.” Percy tucks a piece of Monty’s hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

“I hurt you as well,” Monty says, and it’s still a surprise. He hadn’t thought their relationship had the power to hurt Percy.

“We hurt each other,” Percy agrees. He reaches down to Monty’s clenched fist and uncurls his fingers. The key sits in his hand, and Monty isn’t sure if he wants Percy to take it, or for Percy to let him keep it.

Then Percy interlaces their fingers, the key pressed between their palms as Percy raises their clasped hands to his lips. “We’ll just have to start over.”

Monty can feel every ridge and bump in the key, and it doesn’t feel like a lost reminder. It doesn’t feel like a token to something that he is struggling to hold on to.

It’s just a key.

And it's been within his reach the entire time.