Chapter Text
The door felt bigger than before. Even beside a man as tall as Dean, the black wooden entrance towered over the two men. The last time Monty saw this door it was slammed in their face, accompanied by screaming and the hurling of clothes from a second-story window. Eleven years had passed since then without a word. Not a single text or email or God-forbid letter from his mother. Not a call or Facebook message from his father. Not even a goodbye.
And yet there they stood – waiting for courage to build in their chest as they clung for dear life to their boyfriend’s hand.
Two weeks ago he had received the message, succinct and quick, venom dripping from periods like water off of the still-not-fixed shingles on the roof.
Hello, Rachel, the email read.
The name – Rachel – forced Monty to blink hard to force out the tears that threatened to fall. After eleven years of not hearing that name, memories of screaming matches, broken plates and torn-through walls came rushing into their mind. They were tempted to throw the phone across the room, scream and scream until it felt like even their lungs were hoarse, and then keep screaming.
The email lingered in their mind through the rest of the day. Of course they wondered how their estranged mother had gotten their email, but what really tumbled through their mind was the decision to email in the first place. If she was able to find their new email address, she logically would have been able to find his apartment, his phone number, or some other, more personal way of delivering her first attempt at contact in eleven fucking years.
The following day, Dean noticed the way Monty scratched at their healed thigh, the way they nervously chewed their inner cheek and glanced at their phone. When he eventually got Monty to admit what was bothering them, he offered to read the email with them to minimize the stress. Taking him up on his offer, Monty opened the email while they sat at the kitchen island and read it to themself.
Hello, Rachel,
I am writing to tell you that you are invited to the wake of Theodore Martin. Details attached below.
Regards,
Deborah Martin
And indeed, attached below was the invitation. Sterile, stark white, and headlined with his estranged father’s name.
Dean leaned further over the countertop. “Monty? You good, babe?”
“He died,” they mumbled, eyes still focused on the name atop the pristine invitation.
“What?”
“My. My, um,” he choked on the word. For all the times they had gone over it in therapy they still had a hard time saying a single fucking word . “My dad,” they finished, swallowing knives.
“Are you… happy?” Dean was beside him now, head dipped low enough to be level with their own.
“I don’t know.”
Dean took a moment to read the invitation. “Are you gonna go?” He eventually asked, eyes dark and brows furrowed, voice low and gravelly.
“I don’t know,” they repeated, running their tongue over their elongated canine. Was the invite even real? Was it just a formality? Would they be escorted out if they came? Was he supposed to wear a dress?
Deborah hadn’t seen him in eleven years. They had top surgery two years ago, been on testosterone for four. They had tattoos and piercings and dyed hair and all of it would piss her off so fucking much.
He had to go.
And so here they were, three feet from the porch where they used to drink lemonade and dance to the Backstreet Boys and pretend to be a witch transforming their dog into a toad. Three feet away from a whole lifetime ago.
“You alright?” Dean’s low voice broke through the fog of Monty’s mind, “‘Cause you’re holding my hand kinda tight…”
“Shit. Sorry, yeah.” They let go.
The late summer wind took a hold of Monty’s nerves, tumbling and turning their stomach in circles and somersaults.
“Y’know, you don’t have to–”
“I do, though.” They looked up into their partner’s eyes, finding the glints of orange and gold in the deep brown. “I gotta.”
“Alright.” His gentle eyes squinted down at Monty, brows pressing together and a weak smile replacing a grimace, “but if you wanna leave, we’ll leave. Deal?” He held out his pinky between them.
Monty rolled his eyes but hooked his finger around Dean’s, “Deal.” Monty’s gaze returned to the charcoal-coloured door, his eyes narrowing and chest rising in a determined breath. With a final squeeze of their partner’s hand, Monty reached for the heavy handle and pushed.
The long, deep creak of the door opening drew stares from friends and family adorned in black. Chatter quieted as Monty and Dean crossed the threshold into Monty’s childhood home. Their eyes darted around the room, mildly familiar faces in each corner taking in scandalized breaths as their heavy platform boot touched the near-medically clean hardwood.
Eyes followed the two men through the open-concept entrance as the gossip began.
Is that Deb’s daughter?
Monty adjusted their posture, pushing their shoulders back and raising their chin.
Dear Lord, what happened to her?
They expertly dodged each comment and insult as they were hurled at them from under breaths and around corners.
Who is that?
They kept looking forward, eyes on the bad bleach-job that tried and failed to hide the grey roots.
What is she wearing?
Their baggy black slacks shifted and slid audibly around their thin legs, and the coal-grey dress shirt clung uncomfortably close to their neck. They adjusted the deep purple tie that Dean had helped him tie, loosening it slightly.
Look at that hair!
Their eyes never strayed from the woman speaking to an old friend, nodding along with a story and placing her wrinkled hands on his.
Lord have mercy on her soul.
With only steps left between them, Monty gulped down their fear and closed the distance, listening in briefly on an exchange between Deborah and an older man.
“It’s such a shame that she couldn’t make it,” said the man, eyes steady on the minimal cleavage Deborah had showing.
She dabbed at her dry cheeks with a makeup-stained kerchief. “Yes. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see her again.”
“Excuse me,” Monty interrupted, fighting the crack that their vocal chords threatened. Watching Deborah turn felt like centuries, every moment stretched into the next until finally, finally she had turned enough to see their face. He knew he wasn’t unrecognizable, but he certainly looked different. They had light facial hair now, deeper features and a much deeper voice. The man in front of her widened his eyes as he moved his gaze from her bosom to Monty. Some older women in the same room gasped, their mouths hanging open. Monty extended a shaky hand towards Deborah as he watched her smile fade in slow motion. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Her plucked-thin eyebrows slanted downwards, the whites of her eyes growing wider. Her smile quickly returned, now aggressive and forced.
She ground her teeth. “Rachel!” The man, now behind her, looked Monty up-and-down before whispering something to an elderly woman clutching a walker.
“It’s Monty,” he said, his heart racing and hand still shaking, extended in an offer to shake.
Her threatening smile made her eyes crinkle, a passive-aggressive hum making its way past her lips. “My apologies, it’s just been so long since I’ve seen you! And thank you, dear.” The worst part was that she almost sounded sincere. Almost .
She quickly glanced down at their hand and chose to smooth out her skirt. Or maybe she was preemptively wiping her hands, Monty couldn’t be sure. They placed their right hand back in the pocket of their slacks and let their shuddering left hand fumble in space before grasping Dean’s hand.
“ Monty ,” her nose scrunched like she was smelling something rancid, the name in her mouth sounding unnatural. “May we talk?”
Monty led Dean by the hand to stand beside them, their grip tight on his larger hand. “Of course. But before that, I’d like you to meet someone.” Dean stood eerily still as Deborah gawked at the large man. His eyes were wide and his lips were squashed thin, he stood up straight with his arms pressed to his side, like any person in the room might try to stab him.
“ Deborah ,” Monty returned her distorted grin, “this is my boyfriend Dean.” As if on cue, Dean flashed a smile and gave a half wave. Deborah’s face grew red as her intense grimace dropped. Gone was the pretense of polite conversation, of a long-overdue meeting between acquaintances. Monty felt a bony hand grip his bicep, manicured nails digging into the skin through his cotton dress shirt. Her hand forcibly tugged at the grey cloth, a white-knuckled grip kept on Monty’s arm. Dean pulled Monty towards him first, wrapping his free arm around Monty’s left. Deborah blinked intensely at Dean, her facade fading quickly.
“Rachel,” she stuttered.
“Monty,” they corrected.
Her nostrils flared like a dragon about to unleash hellfire.
“Would you please come with me into the other room?” Her voice was strained, weakly attempting to be quiet as her jaw stayed shut.
Despite the pit in his stomach telling him to leave and the shaking in his legs telling him to run, Monty persisted.
“I quite like it out here,” his voice betrayed his air of confidence. “I haven’t seen the house in a while. Not much has changed, I see.” Their eyes darted around the walls of the main floor. The wedding photos of Deborah and Theodore adorned one of the walls, and another was lined with printed photographs that Monty knew hid holes that were punched through drywall.
His eyes shifted to the staircase, behind which he remembered framed picture day photos and pictures of “happy” family moments. The frames were gone, it seemed, replaced by a bare wall with lighter grey squares where the pictures once hung.
The pit in his stomach grew deeper.
“When did those come down?” They nodded to the wall.
Deborah attempted to call out Monty’s deadname.
“Pretty recently, I’d imagine. The holes aren’t even patched yet.” They continued interrupting.
Deborah’s voice was getting louder, more agitated as she tried again to call out.
“And where would you take me for our little conversation? I imagine my room is an office or a home gym at this point. And I doubt you want me sitting on your bed!” They chuckled.
Deb’s eyes were wide with anger. Her neck contracted with every breath and clung to her collarbones. A trembling finger pointed in Monty’s direction as the slow tilt of her head seemed to say “ watch it, young lady.”
He leaned closer with wide, taunting eyes, “ Wouldn’t want you catching something. ”
Deborah lost control. She screamed at Monty, her face red and contorted in anger.
“RACHEL–”
“MONTY,” he screamed back, his voice shuddering.
Deborah’s hand raised quickly in Monty’s periphery, too fast for them to stop. It came down towards their face before being very rapidly halted by a large, brown, scared hand gripping her wrist.
“It. Is. Monty. ” With every growl from behind his teeth, Dean’s hand brought Deborah’s arm further away from Monty’s still face. Her eyes met Dean’s angered expression and her arm went limp, her eyes widened in fear. He tentatively let her go but maintained eye contact.
Monty was frozen still. To the untrained eye it may have seemed like he was not afraid of Deborah’s strike, but the absent look behind his eyes would tell you otherwise.
“Thank you for the invitation, Deborah, but I think we’ll be going now,” Dean straightened up and lightly touched Monty on the shoulder, “C’mon, babe.”
A blink and a swallow, twenty four paces to the door and approximately three trillion beats of his heart and they were outside, the large black door feeling ever so much smaller than before.
And in a second they were in Dean’s car, Monty in the passenger’s seat with their hands tucked between their thighs. They stared at their feet, the chunky black platforms on the soiled floor mat morphing into pink light-up Skechers on a bright green lawn.
And suddenly it’s Sunday after church, the sky is bright blue and their dress is supposed to be white. But mom’s yelling because it’s green and brown, because it’s stained and it was just washed and why can’t you keep anything clean for more than two seconds. And dad’s in the parking lot talking to the pastor’s wife that comes over when mom’s not home, lighting a cigarette that he won’t stomp out before the ride home. And mom keeps yelling about how she never should have had kids and how she needs to keep praying that they’ll be a good girl and find a good husband and start a nice family. And now mom’s crying in the church parking lot, screaming at the top of her lungs because she does so much for this family and all she ever does is give and–
“Monty!” Dean called, his hand soft and warm on Monty’s trembling thigh. He was in the car – Dean’s car – with platforms on the dirty mat, cargo pants shuffling audibly as their legs shook.
Their breathing was shaky and shallow, more inhales than exhales as warm tears ran down their cheeks.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean’s voice was quiet and soft, the anger from earlier gone without a trace. His eyebrows slanted upwards, distorting the scar on the right side of his face. “Where’d you go? Where were you?”
Trembling hands pulled out a phone from one of the cargo pockets. His thumbs were moving on their own even before he started typing. Monty typed on a blank note document:
church, dress, yelling
Their vision was shaking from the amount of tears forming in their eyes, but a gentle thumb began wiping the falling ones away. Monty typed again in the note before showing it to Dean:
home
Dean’s bed was warm. His bare chest was warmer. Monty lied curled up into Dean’s chest, tears dried yet still sniffling. Both of Dean’s larger arms were wrapped around the smaller man, rubbing up and down his spine and playing with the longest part of his green and pink mullet.
“You feelin’ any better, angel?” The vibration through his chest made Monty shiver, but he buried his face into the cleavage between Dean’s pecs. Dean chuckled, a deep hearty laugh that made his fat belly jump. He leaned his head down to kiss Monty atop their head, pressing his lips to the mess of green hair.
Monty hummed a bit, lifting their head with a lazy smile and puckering their lips in a cartoonish kiss gesture. Laughing again, Dean obliged his boyfriend. Their lips met and Monty smiled into the kiss before deepening it, parting their own lips and licking at Dean’s. He moaned into his partner’s mouth and adjusted his grip on their body, wrapping his right arm around their waist and placing his left hand on their cheek.
When Monty broke the kiss, they bit their lip nervously and ran their fingers along Dean’s chest, drawing small circles over tawny brown.
“I had an idea,” they eventually said, avoiding Dean’s lowered gaze, “and, like, feel free to say no cause it’s kinda weird.”
Dean’s hand found its way back to Monty’s cheek, thumb grazing where tears had previously fallen. They leaned toward the soft touch and found themself melting.
“Based on that kiss I assume it has something to do with sex?” Monty laughed, not in dismissal of what Dean had said, but rather in confirmation.
“Yeah,” he chuckled out before clearing his throat, “uh, would you be okay with, like.” They paused, request on the tip of their tongue but so far down their throat it may as well have been swallowed. It wasn’t unreasonable, he thought, but it’s not like it was pleasant, either. And if Dean said no, they knew that they could find some sort of compromise that they could pretend scratched the itch but, in reality, only left them wanting it more .
They raised their eyes, pleading through their eyebrows, “Could you hit me?”
“Excuse me?” Dean chuckled, shock evident in his voice.
“Like while we fuck, could you hit me?” Monty repeated, trying his best to be nonchalant even though his voice cracked halfway through. Dean was just staring at them, eyes wide and face slowly becoming darker while his ears visibly became redder. He stuttered a bit and stumbled over his words, making Monty wonder if it was a bad idea to ask at all.
“I – like full hitting? Or like slapping? Cause that’s a big difference, babe, I don’t think I could give you a black eye while I’m inside you.”
“Like. Like slapping. Or.” Was he really about to say it? Fuck it, right? “Maybe just, like, spanking?” Dean looked pensive, an expression Monty rarely saw because Dean didn’t really think hard about things.
“I don’t think this is a conversation to be having while laying down,” he eventually said, “You think we can move to the table, maybe have some dinner?”
“Yeah, okay,” Monty replied, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips.