For all he had been the one saying it, putting words into Monty’s mouth, Ishmael had not entirely digested it until Monty spoke for himself, and - admitted it, in different words.
He swallowed dryly, suddenly engulfed in silence himself. So it had not just always been him, reading between the lines, feeling something more than casual lust; feeling understood. It was not something, as a rule, that Ishmael often stuck around long enough or got deep enough to feel. “Me neither,” he admitted apprehensively, sliding his hand from Monty’s cheek to rest it further down at his neck, and ducking his eyes from Monty’s gaze for a moment.
Amongst the apprehension, there was a spark of smug self-satisfaction, too, that he’d been right; somewhere buried in there was a kernel of desperate, desperate relief. Burning at the edge of this flame, however, was all the resentment he had been trying to express for months. That he was stupid for falling for this, and Monty was more stupid, and this was not worth it and this would certainly not go well.
“It’s stupid.” Stupid, again, that the surety of doom was muted in the face of this, and the heat of triumph blazing up with a broad smirk. “But I don’t know if I can stop you,” Ishmael said, looking at him and pretending to be offhand; this was his only excuse for not launching into a list of reasons why Monty definitely shouldn’t be in love with him. And then the casual look got a lot less casual. “I know I can’t seem to stop myself.”
He swallowed dryly, suddenly engulfed in silence himself. So it had not just always been him, reading between the lines, feeling something more than casual lust; feeling understood. It was not something, as a rule, that Ishmael often stuck around long enough or got deep enough to feel. “Me neither,” he admitted apprehensively, sliding his hand from Monty’s cheek to rest it further down at his neck, and ducking his eyes from Monty’s gaze for a moment.
Amongst the apprehension, there was a spark of smug self-satisfaction, too, that he’d been right; somewhere buried in there was a kernel of desperate, desperate relief. Burning at the edge of this flame, however, was all the resentment he had been trying to express for months. That he was stupid for falling for this, and Monty was more stupid, and this was not worth it and this would certainly not go well.
“It’s stupid.” Stupid, again, that the surety of doom was muted in the face of this, and the heat of triumph blazing up with a broad smirk. “But I don’t know if I can stop you,” Ishmael said, looking at him and pretending to be offhand; this was his only excuse for not launching into a list of reasons why Monty definitely shouldn’t be in love with him. And then the casual look got a lot less casual. “I know I can’t seem to stop myself.”
