28th January, 1889 — The Abandoned House

He'd left the caverns just after dusk, and slunk down to the Slums to quietly use a fireplace, a pinch of Floo Powder in his pocket. He'd come out in Knockturn, and walked from there. London was slick with rain, passers-by hastening by with umbrellas or without, darting in and out from under eaves with scant regard for him. Ishmael, on the other hand, took his time. He wasn't hungry. Wasn't in a hurry. Wasn't sure he wanted to get to the house, and to the others.

He hadn't been there as often as usual, and had been less friendly when he was. Monty was to blame for both facts, and must be aware. They hadn't been strangers to quarrelling before - how could they have been, with Monty an insufferable shit on a good day? - but most of their fights fell to the wayside in their own time, and making up was always a high of its own. That was what Ishmael was worried about, this time round. Back in autumn, that had been too close a call. Not just drinking from Monty (though Ishmael refused to do that again), but the possibility of... shackling himself to a passing emotion. Doing - saying - something stupid, something he would inevitably regret.

And if Monty even felt a shred of the same way, Ishmael couldn't stand for it. His tactics against this had been callous attempts to quash the possibility, hoping that the more excruciatingly intolerable he was, the sooner Monty would realise his error, and the sooner Ishmael could get over his. If he had been more determined, he would have cut all ties already and moved on, not have come back time and time again, but that... was harder than it sounded.

He let himself in to the house and listened for any of the others. He'd been more in contact with the other two than Monty, recently, so it was an unpleasant shock to turn into the front room and find Monty there, alone.      

He fashioned his expression into one of vague disinterest.

"I heard there's a job," Ishmael said, in explanation.

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It had been months since the whole thing with Ishmael and it honestly had Monty in a foul mood. He didn't like any of it. He didn't like the feeling of needing Ishmael to be near. It was a foreign feeling for a man that had always only ever truly needed himself. His ragtag gang being the only other people he remotely cared about in the world and even then, he still mostly prioritized himself.

Ishmael was being a dick and Monty knew that it was because of what had happened. Months of dealing with that should have made him tire of the vampire and yet, he was always relieved when the damned cat of a vampire came back. Ornery shit.

The others had gone off to do whatever they did when Monty wasn't with them. Monty tried to make the pesky, inconvenient feelings within him towards Ishmael to go away but they seemed to have a mind of their own. Stubbornly taking hold of him and not giving him any peace of mind. This was going to be a problem.

"There is. Are you sure you're up for it? It will require spending time with me," Monty said, a little bitchily.

  

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There is, Monty said, and already Ishmael was as annoyed as he was gratified. He'd have been pissed off if he'd thought that Morales was trying to oust him from the group, sure, but the easiest way to end this interaction as soon as it had started would have been to lie, and say there wasn't. Then Ishmael would have had no choice but to leave.

But of course Monty couldn't make things easy, was instead going to try and make it sound like Ishmael was the problem here. "Spending time with him."

Ishmael folded his arms and leant against the edge of the table. "Believe me, I've got better things to do," he answered, with a dispassionate sneer - he hoped Monty would dwell on that, all those hypothetical better things - "but I didn't think you three cretins would get on very well without me." This was, possibly, strictly, not necessarily true. Ishmael considered himself smarter than the other two - he was definitely more charismatic than them both put together - but he had a few drawbacks they didn't, as a vampire. He stood out for it; couldn't do simple things sometimes, like scout out places without having been first invited in; and, most importantly, couldn't use magic. (For that reason, he didn't always fancy his chances alone.)

All the same, he was a vampire, Ishmael reminded himself. It hardly even mattered that he was quicker and stronger than humans: most humans were terrified enough already, when faced with that.

(And he didn't much like to think of Monty out there getting into trouble alone, either. But that didn't help anything.)

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"I'm sure you do," Monty said sarcastically. If he had such better things to do than what was he even doing here. It was weird for Monty to feel hurt so the output it provided was snarky anger, it seemed. He had no intention of ever giving Ishmael an easy time of it. Did some part of Ishmael still care, though? Then again, he was a vampire and had been for who knew how long. This was likely just a blip or something.

"We're scouting out tonight. It's a public venue so you'll be able to cross the treshold when we decide to make a move," Monty said informatively as he pointed out the map he had obtained of a muggle jewelry shop that had recently opened. "I heard that there is an exceptionally valuable jewel hidden away within its walls, as well."

  

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This wasn't getting any better. It didn't matter what he said, or what Monty said in return - it had no effect. Nothing had changed between them, not really: Monty snarked back, but he hadn't thrown him out. Ishmael was still here. And all the fear, the doubt, the caution, all the sense in his head - it was a shadow, compared to this gravitational pull.

He forced himself to avoid, even furtively, looking at Monty, as though not looking would allow him to forget who he was. Instead, Ishmael pored over the map with laboured intent, tracing out the lines and routes with his fingertips in appraisal. An easy enough job, then, particularly in the muggle world, as long as they managed it subtly, the news didn't reach the Ministry too quickly, and they kept Magical Law Enforcement off their tail.

Besides the jewel, if it was particularly hidden. With any luck, it had been in muggle hands for its whole history, and wouldn't have had the opportunity to be cursed before they laid their hands on it. There was one jab Ishmael couldn't resist, though. "Of course," he snorted sardonically: of course Monty would choose jewellery if he could. All the riches and wonders and powerful objects in the world, and he'd always go for whichever dazzled brightest, never mind its value. "What are you going to do with it, set it in a ring?" He drawled, tossing Monty a look and regretting it instantly, as well he regretted the jibe. His thumb unconsciously rubbed at the place where the band of his sun ring usually sat on his hand.

Best not think of rings.

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"Sure and I'll give it to you," Monty said without thinking, his mind still on the pretty gem that he was currently coveting. "I'm joking of course," he said once he realized what words had slipped past his lips. "Shall we get started on heading to our location? I can side-apparate you to get there quicker. Which generally meant holding onto Ishmael but Monty chose not to think about that fact.

  

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There it was again. Monty hadn't been thinking, that much was obvious even without his quick clarification, but Ishmael had interpreted it exactly as he was not supposed to - and he despised himself for it.

It was difficult to pay any attention to the talk of work, even as Monty fought to keep them on track. The truth was, Ishmael suddenly realised, that he didn't give a fuck about this job, or the next job, or any other. The thrill of thievery had worn down, over the years - there were still glimmers of satisfaction to be found in it, of course, but Ishmael was far too familiar with it. He had done far too much.

The incessant tightness in his chest was not so familiar to him. He knew that light, fluttering feeling, the kind that had been fleeting enough on its own; it had always eased eventually. Sometimes, perhaps, he had felt a stab of something like this beginning, but he had always stamped those out early. But this - this feeling - was proving harder to dislodge, which was perhaps the reason he felt so out of sorts.

"Let's be very clear," Ishmael said coldly, proving that he had heard the instruction by striding over and grasping Monty by the arm - as roughly as he could, in fear that Monty would find some tenderness in it. "I don't want anything from you." Not his blood, not his warmth, not his worry and care and concern, and least of all his affection. Couldn't he see that? Couldn't he stop?

Monty had to tire of this sometime. Tire of him. He would get sick of Ishmael eventually, and then Ishmael would finally be free of him.

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This was not going as Monty had thought it would go. He had figured that at most they would trade snipes and ultimately work through their task of the night. That it would be enough for the annoying sensation of feelings to be sated for another few months. None of that seemed to be coming to pass, though. Instead, it was becoming harder to think of Ishmael being elsewhere the more Ishmael stayed.

Monty winced as the vampire grasped his arm. Then why don't you leave, was on the tip of Monty's tongue. Ishmael could easily leave and just not come back. He went off on his own often enough that Monty knew he had some other things going on that didn't involve him or the rest of their montley criminal crew. Instead of pointing any of this out, Monty grabbed onto the back of Ishmael's head, pressing his lips against his with heated, raw passion.

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No no no. This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not part of the plan. He was supposed to keep being mindlessly cruel until they drifted apart or Monty cut ties with him and found someone better, someone who would worship at his feet and always be there and be uncomplicated - and presumably didn't want to drink his blood.

But no, Monty had the nerve to call his bluff, and kissed him like that, catching him off guard... and Ishmael's brain froze, only thinking yes, and before he knew it his mouth had opened under Monty's, and he was no longer gripping his arm like before, only pulling him closer to him in desperation, pinning himself securely between Monty and the table, the map upon it utterly forgotten.

This, he wanted this. How could he pretend he didn't? Where else would he find this addictive warmth, who else's heartbeat in his ears would be such a comfort, a sound and a rhythm he knew as well as if it had been his own? Who else but Monty could he trust, and trust to treat him not like the monster he often made out he was, a soulless, careless being, but like he was still living, breathing, petty and real and human and alive?

It was all an illusion, though, one that was never so convincing as now; and then Ishmael caught the arch of Monty's neck in the corner of his vision and remembered what was wrong about this, what he could not change, what was not worth it, however good it made him feel in the moment. What was a moment worth? Not enough.

It was a fight to break the kiss, aching as it was, but eventually Ishmael put a cool hand on Monty's cheek and pulled away. It was easier to look composed, as a vampire, because the flush he felt didn't show on his face: the heat of Monty's breath and touch and life were vanished in an instant, as if he had not felt them at all, and Ishmael was there, looking as he always did, supposedly inscrutable and impassive and unchanged.

They could not continue like this forever.

"You're in love with me," Ishmael said. Monty might deny it, but he had not phrased it as a question.

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Monty felt all coiled up internally as he waited to see what Ishmael was going to do. A sense of victory surging through him as Ishmaels mouth opened under his and he felt the vampire pulling him closer. This was the reaction he had been hoping for but hadn't been sure that he would actually get. Monty didn't want to think or talk or any of that - he just wanted to display his emotions in the main way he knew how - with his body.

Monty was frustrated as Ishmael pulled away. It was sometimes so irritating how one couldn't really read a vampires face. Ishmael looked like he wasn't effected at all but Monty had felt things in that kiss. Or at least, he had thought he had.

"How dare you," Monty said though was it even an outright denial?

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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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Monty was on edge at being called out. Ishmael could always read him so well that it was rather annoying.

He actually winced when Ishmael repeated his words. The vampire was not going to just let this go, was he? His pride warred with his sense that the sooner he just admitted, the sooner something could be done about it. Though what could be done about it was not a thing that Monty even knew otherwise he probably would have done it a long time ago. They couldn't continue to work so smoothly together if they didn't get back into sync was also another factor.

He was silent for a long moment before finally responding. "It was never something I meant to do." After all, Monty had always ever been in love with himself rather than other people.
 

  

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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.”

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For Monty, the silence felt deafening. Having it all out there felt disturbing to a man that always made sure to keep his cards very close to his chest. Feeling things for someone beyond himself was just not a thing he was comfortable with but it wasn't like he could have helped it, apparantly.

Whatever Monty had been expecting, he hadn't really counted on Ishmael's apprehensive admittance, Montys eyes widening a little. He was at an utter loss for words - probably a first. Though there was also - as always - his ego that had him thinking well, obviously, just look at me, who can blame you?. And oh, relief. That he wasn't the only one harboring these feelings.

He at least agreed that it was stupid. How could this even turn out, with Ishmael being what he was and Monty decidedly mortal? It was going to end in pain was almost a certainty. "I wasn't able to stop myself so I don't see how you could," Monty couldn't help snarking. His heart was a traitorous being but ha, so was Ishmael's.

Monty could not help but smirk when Ishmael said he couldn't stop himself, at the same time feeling a feeling so intense that he didn't think he could ever describe it. Instead, he moved in closer to the vampire. "We could just take it day by day."

  

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“Night by night,” Ishmael corrected, with a quirk of an eyebrow. Still, he nodded, pleased at least that Monty could be in love with him and not expect... things he could not promise him. They didn’t need to talk about neat dovetailed lives and happy endings, being who they were, and Ishmael, being what he was, did not want to think about their futures. But days, and nights, tomorrow and tomorrow: those were not too much to count on. “You know I’ve got plenty of those.”

Monty loved him, though, ha! That high was enough to soothe the sore spot that was the fact he’d said the same - and not just said as some easy means to an end, but said because it was true and he felt it, even though it made no sense. Vampires were not supposed to feel vulnerable, and Ishmael wasn’t certain of how he liked it - but was this really vulnerable, if he trusted Montgomery Morales as much as he had ever trusted anyone? He already knew how Monty trusted him.

Strange, wasn’t it, all this? At least it gave him excuse to kiss Monty again; slow, this time, slow and savouring, without pretending to be careless or angry about it, without any pretension at all. Perhaps it was still a bad idea. He would savour this while it lasted, then, and only commit to seeing how far they could stretch out their tomorrows.

“Well,” Ishmael breathed, gripping Monty tight by his lapels and breaking into a glittering grin, “aren’t you going to apparate me to that jeweller’s?”

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"Of course I do," Monty said with a smirk when Ishmael corrected him and said he had plenty of nights. There was the obvious problem that Monty would grow old while Ishmael was stuck in this state forever. Even so, he would take what he could get. And who knew what the future really held? Monty was very into just living night by night.

Ishmael loved him. Monty would not be Monty if he didn't feel a ridiculous amount of pride and smugness about that fact. Monty sank into the kiss Ishmael was treating him to. Smiling when their lips finally parted. "Yeah, let's go," he said with a smirk, holding the vampire tightly against him as he disapparated with him.

wrap?

  

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