What, no snark? Ishmael almost interjected, at the rolled eyes and Monty's three-word response. But Monty's counter, he realised swiftly, was as good an answer as any; it was like he could hear Ishmael's fears, in all that he said, that in fact he was the one to -

So, sure, Ishmael ought to be more careful. He ought to stop bloody projecting, because the thought that Monty cared half as much as he did was so ludicrous it was laughable, even with his finger now dressed with proof that the man was perhaps slightly more sentimental than previously supposed.

He couldn't be the one to cave - cave first to the ring, to the notion that things never were the same without him, to those implacable desires for mawkish tenderness that had begun to carve themselves a home in his chest. So, he wouldn't kiss him the way he wanted to. Wouldn't dwell. Would return to repaying him for the thought with another feelingless favour.

Rather than making it back to the couch, Ishmael stopped, and turned to face Monty again with a raised eyebrow. "Come on, then," he intoned with a smirk, dropping deliberately to his knees and beckoning him over in order to finish the undressing he'd started earlier. No different to usual, though perhaps it would be a test, all the same. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see how long you last."

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