Prompt - Crane Wife (alternative sidestory)

[tensions]

HEART FOR SALE ( justin, monty ) A brothel along the river. Monty's debt is mounting. And then he spills tea on a wealthy patron. Things aren't looking good.

Comments

[tensions]

Monty stays kneeling on the floor, hands balled up on his knees, his head bowed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, why wasn't he more careful?

It started like this: half the brothel that night had been rented out to a large party. There was live music, dance, and warm lanterns lit everywhere. Sumptuous food came piling out of the kitchens: stacks of pickled vegetables, sweet and sour soups, fatty pork belly, plump cuts of fish, and fresh white rice. Nearly every girl (an all-inclusive term here, regardless of actual gender) working the floor was there, hanging off of someone's arm, laughing on cue to some stupid joke, or pouring alcohol, their sleeves shifting tactfully up to reveal the tantalizing naked wrist beneath. And of course, Monty was there as well, dressed in an outfit of gold brocade and blood-red embroidered spider-lilies that contrasted strikingly with his clear blue eyes. He was a popular prostitute here, to say the least, and got ample attention. If he did well tonight, the payout would surely be worth it (the heavy sum of his debt hangs over his neck, like a noose, every second of every day -).

And at first, things had gone very well, until halfway through the night when their patrons started getting too drunk, too high, and horribly sloppy. Everything started smelling like tobacco and musk and sweat. Monty had to do his best to keep a disgusted look off his face as he made his rounds, giving refills where needed, until one of the men grabbed his ass rudely in passing, which made him jolt hard enough to lose his footing -

Well, the whole tray of tea he had been holding spilled. Right onto the man in front of him, drenching and staining his entire shirt. The whole room immediately roared with laughter as Monty's face lost all color, apologies instantly flowing out of him as he desperately tried to salvage the situation to no avail.

So, now he's here, on the floor of a private room, paying for it. Literally. The madam of the house had insisted that the man get a discounted if not entirely free evening with the whore who so distastefully ruined his clothes and his time. It was "the least" she could do. Monty still remembers the thorny glance he was tossed as the madam spoke, snapping her lace fan closed in sharp disapproval in his general direction. ("Oh, he's a looker alright, nicest face we have here. Look at those eyes, like gems aren't they? But gods I swear, there's absolutely nothing going on up there in that pretty little head of his. Again, I'm so sorry, Dr. Baruch. Please, do have him service you tonight. On the house. My treat.")

[blessed_is_he]

He'd been in attendance at the party mainly as a courtesy; while he didn't begrudge any of his acquaintances their fun, when left to his own devices, his personal tastes tended to be a little more particular. It did give him a reputation for being fastidious, thoughtful, demanding. Which was not always a bad thing, when the social circles he moved in tended to consist of the young and dissolute, often children of the elite and wealthy patients - or the impatient relatives of patients - he saw in his practice as one of the foremost medical doctors in the region, having done a significant portion of his training overseas. He'd gotten used to some of their ways - his attire, for example, tending to learn more towards that style - and there was a part of him that was always balancing those different sides of himself.

What had happened was a mistake, and one clearly caused by the drunken rudeness and entitlement of the other party-goers. If he'd had his way, he would have shrugged his outer jacket back on, perhaps even taken the opportunity to excuse himself for the night. Instead the madam had hastened to make amends, scolded the poor boy in front of everyone, and then sent him off to one of the side rooms to 'get ready' while the other guests had alternated between roaring their approval and offering him unsolicited advice for how to 'get the most' out of the unexpected 'free' night. He'd kept his expression politely bland, just the right balance of interest (not that his careful control would be noticed by the other guests, who were well on their way to a drunken stupor). If nothing else, he'd have a quieter time of it away from the unruly mob. And perhaps...

Well. He'd decide what to do when the time came.

He gathers all his things, just to be thorough (no point in leaving them behind to be pawed over or accidentally stolen), and shrugs off the tea-soaked shirt to the loud cheers of the rest of the room, tossing it over one arm before he heads to the room the madam had indicated, his steps utterly quiet on the floors, far lighter on his feet than his build would seem to indicate.

When he walks into the room and closes the door behind him, shutting out some of the worst of the noise, he almost forgets he's not alone, as he breathes a loud sigh of relief.

[tensions]

He stays still, only his eyes moving to look at the door as it opens and closes. He remembers the name of the man and runs it over in his mind, across his tongue quietly, so as not to mess it up later. But he doesn’t speak, knowing it to be rude unless he’s addressed first.

He takes this moment to admire the man before him (he’s very handsome, Monty thinks. Mature and responsible. That’s hot in its own right, really) wondering what his tastes could possibly be. Despite being only 20 years old, Monty has had quite some time in this “industry” and has come to pick up some great skill in reading people - at least, the types of people who come through the doors of a pleasure house. He can usually tell a man’s kinks and preferences, his favorite fantasies just from a quick look these days. It certainly helped him in his work. But this Dr. Baruch? He was a tough one. Monty couldn’t quite seem to pin him down just yet.

But no matter. He’s sure all will become clear relatively soon. And whether or not Monty could preemptively guess what a man wants from him, the baseline is always the same: a good, dirty fuck.

He shifts, purposefully. The motion makes the robe he’s wearing slide off his shoulder, just a little.

[blessed_is_he]

"You don't have to stay kneeling," he says, absently, without looking at the boy, putting his things down and running one hand through his hair with another, quieter sigh, mussing it up further from the dampening it had already taken, from the spilled tea earlier.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, already shirtless, and leans back slightly, examining him thoughtfully. "What's your name, gorgeous?"

[tensions]

“My name is Monty, sir. But you can call me anything you’d like.” He bows his head a little at that, his wavy hair sliding forward into his face. “Where would you prefer me, sir?”

He looks up at the man through long lashes, dusted with fine glitter, his eyelids decorated with red shadow and little pearls, courtesy of Alecto, one of the other popular prostitutes here at the house. A cool, biting beauty, Alecto would have been, hands down, the highest earner if he wasn’t so constantly distracted by his not-so-secret lover: a dashing young fighter pilot with blonde hair and a smile that could charm entire cities to fall. Monty often caught them sneaking about at sunrise or dusk, stealing kisses in dark corridors or fucking in the garden, a handkerchief clenched in Alecto’s mouth to keep him quiet. It was…cute, how the two of them were, and how Alecto spoke about him (“It’s nothing serious,” he would say, a lie. Monty could see the way his eyes went a little starry at the thought of that man, the hollow of his throat flushing red with want), and so Monty helped keep his secret. And in exchange, Alecto was sweet on him, often offering to prepare him for the evenings, dolling him up for clients.

Presently, Monty sees the way the man’s hair was still damp, likely still smelling of chrysanthemum tea. “I’m so sorry about before, sir.” He’s close enough to the bed where the man is sitting to touch his knee, leaning forward slightly, suggestive. Monty was well known for how good his mouth was and he figures if anything, that might help to start - what man didn’t like a good blowjob after all? But he doesn’t move forward without explicit direction. It wasn’t his place to drive the narrative of the night (unless he was asked to).

[blessed_is_he]

There are a lot of things Justin could likely say, observing Monty peer up at him, clearly apologetic and eager to please, his mouth already hanging open slightly, anticipating what he thinks Justin might want. He's sure plenty of man in the past have put their hands on him, have cooed about what a pretty little thing he is, how lovely he looks on his knees, how much they enjoyed fucking him open, getting their money's worth. He could comment about the chaos of earlier, assure him that no apologies were needed, that he understood it was an accident. He could even tell him that he might as well get some rest, that what Justin really needed right now was a moment of peace and quiet, that he was tired out from a day of seeing patients and had only attended the party out of social obligation, invited by the family of a patient he didn't want to offend unnecessarily.

But he really looks at Monty, at the pleading in his blue blue eyes, accentuated by the delicate placement of careful make-up and decoration (truly not needed, in all honesty, though he could appreciate their effect), at the carefully arranged carelessness of the picture he makes, hair and clothes artistically awry in a way designed to entice and seduce.

He finds that he's... curious enough to let it.

"How old are you, Monty?" He asks, conversationally, reaching a hand out, fingers carding through Monty's hair, brushing it back so he can see his face, the gentle but insistent pressure forcing his face up, so he can catch Monty's gaze directly.

[tensions]

He pauses. He could lie, he thinks. He could make himself out to be far more mature and practiced. But something about the way Justin is looking at him makes Monty think he wouldn't get away with it. This isn't a man so easily fooled. By anything.

"...I just turned twenty," he says, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment as his head is eased back. It's a surprisingly tender motion and Monty leans into it, keeping his body language open and eager, a whispered offer: I'm yours to have your way with tonight. I'll do anything you want me to. I can't say no.

"Does that please you, sir?" His youth was certainly a selling point, he'd be stupid to think it wasn't, so maybe this was a good thing. He's used to seeing that look of hunger in the eyes of older men (and women) who have had him, who have paid ridiculous amounts of money to do unspeakable things to him, eager to possess and to hold something so bright and new and fresh. Monty doesn't think about how that makes him feel; it turns his stomach to explore the implications of that.

Plus, he wasn't paid to think. He was paid to spread his legs and cry and moan and be whatever wet and wild fantasy the men who came in here wanted him to be.

The question was, now, what did Dr. Baruch want him to be?

[blessed_is_he]

It is several weeks later - almost a full month and a half - when Dr. Justin Baruch next makes a visit to the red-light district. He is impeccably dressed, in full western attire, and the madam recognizes him almost immediately, fluttering over to greet him at the door and offer him the services of any of her girls, remembering a particular night not too long ago, when he'd had tea spilled all over him, and only left the house after parting with a truly obscene amount of money, first offering the expected payment directly to the whore that had spilled the tea and been gifted to him for the night, rather than through the madam (as was proper), and secondly taking on the bill for cleaning the silken kimono that said whore had been wearing, that had been dirtied at some point in the course of the evening. The madam had a lot of monetary interest in this handsome and apparently eccentric doctor, who had done most of his education overseas and had an exclusive clientele list made up of rich and influential families in the region, among whom he was respected, his tastes and opinions sought after. If she could get her hooks into him, get him to start regularly patronizing her brothel... well. That would be a social coup, when he could steer so many others in her direction...

"Tell me about Montgomery Quill," he says, idly, as they chat, and she grins to herself. What did she care that this man had such terrible taste, so long as he paid out the bills she set before him?

[tensions]

He was working the windows that evening, dressed in light silks and cottons for the summer, splayed all around him, showing off just enough of his bare arms and legs: an obvious invitation, perfectly arranged, asking to be unwrapped.

(Technically, he wasn't supposed to be on the schedule, but Alecto wanted to trade shifts. Earlier that afternoon, he tugged on his favorite red robes and braided the sides of his hair with gold threads and pearls, saying, "Help me out tonight, M? Please? Take my shift up front, and I'll cover for you another time. It's Joshua's weekend off and he's meeting me in the gardens. I have to go sneak him in from the back gate." Monty's mouth goes dry as he listened, but he smiled, nodding, "Sure," and paused, adding, "...you should wear the gold sash instead of the white one. He'll like it better." And Alecto had only grinned, rosy-cheeked, murmuring "Oh, what would I do without you?" as Monty gripped the fabric at his waist for him, twisting it into a perfect drum knot.)

Outside, the world was misty with rain as the sun sets and the lanterns are lit, casting a red glow to everything, all around. He sees men start to come knocking, ducking in past the entryway noren, their chuckles and polite chatter fill the halls. The girls all giggle behind their hands, tossing compliments and teases left and right, each trying their best to entice a fat wallet. Monty keeps to himself, having had a rather packaged schedule just the night before, but is nonetheless called up by the Madam herself, shoving him towards the backrooms, telling him to hurry up - someone was already waiting for him.

Monty thinks it must be someone more high profile, someone with a well known face or reputation that had to be ushered in from the alley, never to be seen coming in through the front. He counts off the options in his head: Police chief? Politician? Oil tycoon?

He doesn't, actually, expect at all to see Dr. Baruch again.

[blessed_is_he]

He glances up when the door slides aside and smiles, the expression polite and somehow also knowing. He is settled on a cushion at the table, already laid out with all the things needed for tea; nothing about his demeanor or appearance give the impression of what most patrons visit the place for, despite the way he had left the last time he was at the house, tugging on his own mostly-dry shirt, having never stripped further the entire night, while Monty lay panting and wrecked, face-down on a bed, skin streaked with his own spend, a beautiful silk purse heavy with coin clutched in one disbelieving hand.

"Have you been well, Monty?" He asks, almost idly, his tone urbane and considerate, gesturing at the table, as if offering direction. He sounds like he's paying a social call, a visit between acquaintances.

[tensions]

He hides how stunned he actually feels by bowing lightly, the action hiding his face from the candlelight. Memories of their last night together, nearly a full month ago, filter back into Monty’s mind, making his throat feel tight with anticipation.

So after all that…the good doctor actually wanted more?

“I have, sir,” he says lightly, used to hiding the realities of his life here at the whorehouse from clients when they ask such a question (they didn’t really want to know the details after all. It was usually a bit of a mood killer, so they say). “And you?”

He moves to settle beside Dr. Baruch and slowly pushes up his silken sleeve so that he can start the ritual of brewing the tea set out before them.

“…I’m,” surprised, is what he wants to say but doesn’t, “happy to see you again.”

[blessed_is_he]

He certainly hears what Monty isn't saying, but doesn't comment on it immediately. It's never very obvious how closely he is listening, a habit from dealing with patients, to put less pressure on them as he tries to glean information from their entire demeanor, not just the words they say - or don't say.

"Mm, I should hope I'm not too bad, as far as substitutes go," he says lightly, eyes apparently fixed on the way Monty is brewing the tea, his bared wrists far more prominent than would be the case at a respectable tea shop, where the drink and the ceremony were the actual focus, rather than a prelude to other activities.

[tensions]

He glances at the man, brow furrowing just a little. “Substitute? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” As he speaks, he pours a delicate amount of tea into a small ceramic cup, every motion calculated and practiced. Hopefully, he thinks, this makes up for the first impression he had made several weeks ago.

Monty shifts slightly, pressing his thigh just so against Dr. Baruch’s beside him. A subtle tease. These were common steps he took for every client: making sure the seduction was slow burning, demure, until the man paying decided to change the pace.

He slides the cup over, watches the doctor’s hands, ever alert to respond to any motion, preemptive to serve any desire at a moment’s notice.

[5 years later]

[tensions]

His shop is a humble thing, nestled near the base of the mountain in a small town up north. It had an abstract little bird as its logo mascot, printed on a mossy green banner that hung in the doorway and sold all manner of stationary, ink, handcrafted paper, ribbons, and calligraphy.

It's not very much but it's his and it's a living. And certainly better than having to do sex work, having to be on his knees with a smile as men took advantage of him, used him, hurt him. Here, he didn't have access to a lot of the fanciful things he once had at the house - elaborate clothing, an excess of food, makeup and accessories - but he makes do. He dresses in simple cotton and linen and his face is kept fresh and free from decoration (although he still turns head when he goes into town for supplies, his unique, warm beauty a constant topic of conversation amongst the townsfolk and their nosy but well-meaning wives who consistently ask Monty when he'll settle down and choose a bride or, more likely, a husband and finally start a family for all their sakes). And most importantly, he's happy.

It's around noon and Monty is trying to close up for an hour for lunch when the small windchime at the front jingles, indicating a customer. He sighs gently, and puts down his boxed lunch (just a simple assortment of homemade seasoned rice balls, grilled fish, and a cup of soup). "Welcome," he calls, making his way out onto the floor, "Is there anything I can help you with -"

His words fade as he sees Justin Baruch standing in front of him, backlit by the sun. The past suddenly starts to beat inside of him like a second heart and he feels himself staring, unsure of what to say next.

[blessed_is_he]

With the passing of years, city life had left him weary of the churn of appeasing his privileged, entitled clientele, only growing more corrupt and contemptible, year by year. On a whim he had written to his old friend and mentor in the north, who was getting on in years and had been keeping himself going by dint of pure stubbornness, as the only accessible doctor in the region, and offered to settle in the area, to help with the training of the old man's apprentices, and allow himself to focus on what had been his intent from the start, when he'd chosen this profession.

So he'd moved, and settled in one of a handful of small towns, and started traveling at intervals through the region, getting to know the people in the surrounding area, learning them as patients and as people. People who were simpler, with more immediate concerns than the jockeying for power and money, who had simpler wants and needs.

He had only noticed the shop in passing, had walked by it a handful of times in his recent afternoon walks between meeting new patients in this particular town. But something about it had drawn him - the simple, elegant banner, the beautiful (familiar) calligraphy on the signs in the window - and he'd had no idea what that something was until he opened the door and found -

"Mr. Quill," he says, unexpectedly retreating into formality at the strange turn in circumstance - though they had never been formal, the two of them, had they? - "What a... surprising pleasure to see you again."

[tensions]

He's blinking, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. "Just 'Monty' is fine," he says, almost automatically, a little breathlessly and gently, a near repeat of his usual introduction back when they first met, years ago.

"I, um," he starts, tucking his hair back behind the curve of his ear (still pierced, but kept unadorned. He pawned much of his jewelry for the downpayment for this little spot of land). His hair had gotten a bit longer and he wore it tied back now in a messy little bun which gave him a comely, soft look, a completely different feeling to the seductive, sharp little creature that once sat in the brothel window. "I could say the same."

He bites his lip. Of course, he hadn't told any of his clients that he had left when he finally did. There was no need, he thought. He owed nothing to any of them and they surely wouldn't care: they were nothing to each other other than a patron and a paid-to-order fantasy. But with Justin, that line had been blurred just a little bit, at least near the end of their time together, so for months he had agonized over whether or not to say something. More so, Monty had to admit that much of his current lifestyle and newfound freedom had to be credited to Justin's diligence and interest in not only teaching him how to read and write, but also nurturing in him a sense of confidence and independence that he otherwise had never thought to cultivate. Granted, Monty could not pinpoint exactly why Justin was so invested in him. And he never really asked.

Perhaps we're both substitutes, in a way.

Should he thank him? Apologize?

"...would you like some tea?" is ultimately what he ends up saying, his cheeks flushed bright with color. "I was just about to have lunch."

[blessed_is_he]

"I -" he's not sure what he intended to say, in any case, so he just nods an acknowledgement.

He hadn't... missed Monty, not really. When he'd found out he'd paid down his debt to the house and left, he had even been a little proud. Monty had been a diligent, bright, and incredibly motivated student, and it had been - very gratifying, to teach someone who had so much potential, who soaked up new knowledge and information and skill, a neglected flower blossoming under just a little additional care and attention. They had developed an intimate familiarity with each other during the few years of their acquaintance - Monty for some of Justin's more esoteric preferences, Justin for the way Monty looked in the throes of all manner of pleasures, desperation, desire - while barely knowing each other at all.

"As long as I'm not intruding. It would be...nice to catch up with you." He says, absolutely polite, courteous, a conversation between equals. "How long have you been living here? At least a year or so, I'm assuming?"

[tensions]

It's strange being able to talk to Justin like this now, without the forced roles they had to inhabit previously. It's...refreshing.

"Yes, just about," he says, turning to get the kettle - still hot from just being off the fire - and two ceramic cups. He arranges them delicately on a tray (this he still remembers how to do) along with a small plate of freshly cut melon. So often he had done this in the past, entertaining his customers and playing house before they got to the meat of what they really wanted from him (which wasn't a wife or a lover but something so much baser, dirtier, easier). But the same motions repeated now, here, in this sunny little shop that was all his own, his safe space - it felt entirely new.

"Come with me. We can have a seat in the back if you'd like."

He settles down in a soft flutter of simple fabric against the wood floor of the engawa behind the shop, overlooking a tiny little garden filled with greenery and hydrangeas about to bloom. The sound of the shishi-odoshi clicks rhythmically in the distance, as if keeping time.

[blessed_is_he]

He glances around the garden, taking a deep breath and then sighing, feeling oddly...content. The scenario is so familiar - Monty serving tea on a tray, the conversations that had sometimes resulted from it - but everything else about it is utterly different, including the two participants involved.

"I think your handwriting has gotten even better," he observes, tilting his head towards the front of the shop, remembering the beautiful calligraphy on the signs. "You must get a lot of practice."

[A home visit]

[blessed_is_he]

It's only after a day or two, seeing the way Montgomery Quill fits into his space, two transplants coming together in a brand new setting, the strange and the familiar combining in unexpected ways, that Justin thinks about how he himself has changed since moving. Life really is simpler here, but no less rich for it. Here, he knows his neighbors, their families and circumstances, lives in a house that is sturdy and solid but with a tendency to let in drafts when the wind blew too hard from the west, hung with herbs and teas and tisanes alongside his more scientific apparatus - a far cry from meetings with politicians and their mistresses, from walking along bustling streets lined with beggars and performers, from sumptuous, hollow surroundings - the life he'd adopted, when the one he'd once thought he might have had dissolved into nothing.

His door echos with knocks at almost any and every hour, patients with questions and well-wishers with offerings and children wondering if the doctor had a treat to share with them, and he's stopped every few steps when he heads to the market, drawn into gossip and to mediate petty disputes, to share news from the surrounding towns and villages he visited when making his rounds. Food is filling and plentiful - an unexpected benefit, of taking payment in anything other than money and certain types of favors - though a far cry from the delicacies of the pleasure-houses and formal dining halls.

He's not entirely sure what Monty is expecting out of this visit, of seeing Justin in his space that he had tried to make his own. He remembers that exchange, just a week or so ago, the two of them pressed against each other on Monty's narrow bed, half dressed and half breathless with kisses and hopes and unspoken fears. He doesn't know exactly what he wants, what he thinks the future might look like - only that he thinks Monty might fit into it, in some perfectly undefined way, the same way he'd served as a spot of anticipation, the oddest kind of indulgence in a world filled with every kind of salacious pleasure.

He brings home fresh fish from the nearby lake, already prepared at the market, and makes a soup of wild greens foraged from the mountains and eggs from the chickens kept by the young mother of a colicky baby down the road, alongside perfectly steamed rice.

[tensions]

Monty’s natural friendliness and warmth makes it easy for him to slide near seamlessly into Justin’s day to day routine, making light chatter with whoever comes to the door, offering tea and fresh cut plums to patients and well-wishers alike. His name was learned quickly, and neighbors were fast to gossip behind their hands and paper fans (“Now, what’s a pretty, young thing like yourself doing all the way out here!” “Surely a relative? No? Then how do you know the good doctor? Oh, do tell me more…”) but it was harmless and ultimately amusing. Monty’s smile never wavered, a perfect curling shape that teases at everything, revealing nothing.

As for himself…well. He isn’t sure what it is he wished to find or confirm here other than assurance that Justin was everything he had purported himself to be (though Monty really had no reason to doubt him so far), and that he wasn’t hiding a spouse or family somewhere somehow. And of course he wasn’t. Because Monty’s already heard about the one that got away, the biggest heartache Justin harbored (or so Monty suspects) from years ago that left such a huge, gaping wound between his ribs that thinking to replace it, stitch it shut with someone new, couldn’t even be fathomed for a long time. Monty didn’t know all the details but he did know the man’s name, the fact that he had a mean streak that was equal parts handsome and monstrous, and the general timeline of their doomed romance: how its star-crossed ending propelled Justin to flee quite literally to the opposite end of the earth.

Monty can’t say he understood what that was like personally but he could empathize with the ache of it, and the need to remake yourself after.

But all that aside, Monty found that he enjoyed having more time with Justin, living alongside him in this momentary domesticity. He realized they worked well together, almost naturally falling into step during the day throughout a variety of tasks as if they had always done things this way, as a pair.

“Here, I’ll clean up,” he says as he starts to gather up lacquer plates and bowls, now that they’ve finished eating the simple yet delicious meal Justin prepared for them, highlighting several local specialties (to which Monty found a particular liking towards the freshwater fish, steamed with chilies and ginger, its bones used to make a light and beautiful broth). “And there’s a few more deliveries from earlier this evening in the entryway.”

Without thinking, he kisses Justin gently on the cheek, before he gets up, a surprisingly light yet deeply intimate gesture that in hindsight, makes him blush.

[blessed_is_he]

He startles in surprise and amusement. While the gesture was very much appreciated, if not expected, there was something very charming about Monty's casual, matter-of-fact air, as though he did this often, as though it were an established habit between the two of them.

It wasn't. It never had been, had never been an intimacy the two of them had shared, though Justin knew Monty's body very well, almost inside and out, knew exactly what it looked like in the throes of pleasure, desperate, and wanting, under all manner of physical sensation. But it had mostly been one-sided, with Justin observing as an instigator rather a true participant, and Monty - whether from relief or complacency or resignation - had never really tried to push for more. Teaching Monty to read and write, undertaking his education in discussion and debate, had been an odd whim, but one he'd never regretted, especially not now that he'd run into him again, seeing what he'd made of himself in this new place, this new occupation, a successful experiment by any measure.

"Thank you, Monty," he says, glancing briefly after him before he stands up himself to go to the door and examine the packages and offerings, leaving him to collect, wash, and rinse the dishes in fresh water set aside for the purpose. There is another small basket of eggs, a bag of brown rice, and a small container of salt, all of which he carries in to store with his other food. Some was shared, of course - there were many ailments that a steady supply of food could address easily - but it was far more than he could eat himself regardless. Having Monty in his space, taking on some of these domestic duties, was an unexpected pleasure, even if part of him was somewhat baffled. What was it that he intended to accomplish by this visit, that couldn't be done in some other way?

Well, he was enjoying this anyway, having Montgomery Quill in his simple life here, sleeping in the guest room that had been set aside for family, rather than patients, by the doctor who had mentored him, offering fruit and tea to visitors and gently deflecting questions from local gossips about their relationship. He just didn't want to get too used to it.

[tensions]

"I'm not overstepping, am I?" he asks after a long while, as he puts the last of the dishes back and dries his hands on a rag printed with indigo birds fluttering over a valley.

He could feel Justin studying him. His gaze pinned Monty in place like a butterfly against the back of a shadowbox. "I know this all must feel a bit strange," he says. "I don't mean for it to be. I just..." like how things feel with you when we're together like this. I like waking up and knowing where you'll be, and I like not being the one always waiting in the window, wondering if today you'll decide you want to see me again. I'm greedy for more of this but I don't know how this is all supposed to go. I've never done anything like this before. No one has ever wanted to do anything like this with me before.

He isn't sure what he's trying to do here, playing house. To what end? he thinks. Maybe he's trying to get a feel for normalcy and agency again, having spent so much of his formative years without it. He's glad Justin is patient enough with him to let him try. To try and get a feel for what he might want, and for what they could be, especially considering how they started out. Monty's well aware that he had been Justin's willing little experiment for a while. A project. A fascination. And for a long time, he wasn't sure how to feel about that, how to process that, so he capitalized on it instead as best as he could, used the man using him.

Sometimes, he almost wished things had been more straightforward, dirtier and simpler. He almost wished Justin just ravished him and left him like everyone else. Easy. But he hadn't. He had walked out of each of their engagements giving Monty a cliffhanger, a next time, to which Justin would return expecting more, expecting growth, change. None of the other girls in the brothel could make any sense of it either and so even in this, Monty was left alone to ponder. Ultimately, he didn't arrive at any satisfying answer.

Instead, he finds himself here, doing Justin's dishes, kissing him on the cheek as if they had - something - between them.

He was supposed to stay another night. He wonders if maybe he shouldn't.

[blessed_is_he]

He glances at Monty over his shoulder, and then he walks over to him from across the room, taking the damp cloth - a gift from a patient's daughter, out of gratitude - he'd been using to wipe his hands dry, and setting it aside without looking, before reaching for Monty's still very slightly wet hands with his own. He raises them both up to his mouth and kisses their backs gently, one after the other, before letting them drop between them, but not yet letting go.

"Thank you," he repeats, gazing into Monty's eyes, lending additional weight to the simple words, the rote phrase. "This is all -" he grimaces slightly, the faintest flicker of a shadow passing over his face, "almost new again for me. I can't imagine how it must feel for you. If there's... anything else you want..."

He takes a deep breath. "I hope you will be comfortable letting me know."

[tensions]

That makes him smile, a little laugh threatening to bubble up. The sweetness of this moment comforts him, fills him up inside and gentles him. "I know," he says, realizing that for the both of them, the past is still an unwelcome guest that neither of them know how to fully turn away from their door.

We'll learn together, then.

His fingers tighten momentarily, closing around Justin's larger ones.

"There actually is something I want." He flutters his lashes, a coquettish habit taught to him too young. "...Let me take care of you tonight?" he asks, a phrase they used often as a greeting at the brothel yet spoken here, within the private walls of a kitchenette, its window bursting with white magnolias from the hanging branch outside, they took on an entirely different level of intimacy.