How dare he? That was not a no. It was not a yes either. It was a kind of backhanded answer that was very Monty.

But Ishmael was not finished here - he was tired of all this, tired of having to fight his own instincts, tired of keeping his distance, tired of not knowing.

“You’re in love with me,” Ishmael repeated, needling, as if he could provoke a different response by refusing to move on until Monty admitted it. You’re in love with me: it was not what Ishmael had intended to say in the first place. The sentiment had come out twisted, somehow sounding as desperate an evasion as it was a demand for the truth. What Ishmael could possibly be evading, though -

There was something broken with them, something unresolved, something they could not just keep ignoring. And Monty might either get offended enough to break this worse, or he would have to admit it, and fuck his pride. Ishmael wasn’t precisely sure what that would fix, but he had had enough of skirting around the issue, the undercurrent that was always there between them. Better Monty have to give up some ground than him.

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