✺ : my muse protecting yours from a sleaze at the club.
striker had never been one to enjoy the club scene. her gave a valiant effort back when his reputation depended on how many photos of his perfect smile surfaced after a night spend around new york’s richest and most influential young faces. now it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, especially not in NEW ORLEANS. it’s the closest he’s gotten to something normal in a long time.
still, there’s something so clearly, painfully missing. it’s evident when he watches monty — pitifully, maybe, but WHAT ELSE in this goddamn place is interest enough to watch ? its evident in the way he keeps his back to a wall near the outer edge of the crowed, gaze dutifully fixed on monty where he stands in the midst of it all, entertaining anyone lucky enough to enter his orbit in such close range.
monty is the sun — brilliant, blinding, so fucking warm — and striker lingers at the edge of his solar system, dark and cold.
sometimes this tendency does nothing but cut him deep, forces him to watch monty turn his most charming smiles and lingers touches on someone that isn’t him. sometimes it’s too much and all striker can do is slip quietly through the crowd and disappear, unnoticed. but, sometimes, it proves useful. like tonight, now, as he catches sight of someone watching monty with a gaze that’s too predatory, like he’s something to eat. striker HATES it.
he’s spent enough time trying to figure monty out — trying to pick up on the distinctions between what’s real and what isn’t — to know that the look on his face is something tinged with discomfort and that’s all striker needs to push himself off the wall and start weaving his way through the crowd.
usually he takes his time getting from place to place, unafraid of making someone else wait for him. this time, it’s like a race against the goddamn clock. he’s unapologetically shoving past people out of his way with squared shoulders, eyes fixed and unwavering on monty ahead of him, not slowing until he’s close enough to wind a VERY visible arm around monty’s waist.
it’s a risk, being so outwardly touchy with monty in public, especially when he doesn’t know WHO is in the crowd, ready to snap a photo and distribute it to whatever tabloid would pay the most. he doesn’t care. it doesn’t matter. “ hi sweetheart, ” he practically COOS, curling a finger through the belt loop of monty’s pants when he feels the onlooker’s gaze drop to where his hand rests, pulling him closer for good measure. “ sorry about that. you know how my boss is. but i told him i’m out with YOU tonight so he shouldn’t be bothering me anymore. i’m all — ” before he has to go any further, the SLEAZE turns and leaves them with a rather undignified scoff. striker reluctantly eases his grip on monty, returning his hand to his own side. “ you okay ? want me to stick around ? just to make sure he doesn’t bother you anymore. ”
⌛ : the voicemail my muse leaves on your phone when your muse hasn’t been heard from for the fifth night this week.
it’s been TEN MONTHS since striker kim met monty chamberlain — forty-six weeks, three hundred twenty-something days — and not ONCE, in all of that time, did monty EVER go this long without contacting him.
he knows monty, he knows monty like the back of his GODDAMN HAND. he knows the way that he likes to be read to, with his head in striker’s lap if he bats his eyelashes at him enough to get him to agree. he knows that monty’s favorite place in the world is his kitchen of his summer house in spain, he’s lost track of how many times monty’s dragged his fingers across his arm, calling him MI AMOR and promising to take him there. he knows that monty’s favorite color is seafoam green, he knows the pattern of his freckles on his cheeks, he knows his favorite drink.
he knows that monty would never go five days without answering his messages. he would never go five days without answering his calls. he would never go five days without letting striker know where he was.
the first day was spent with thinking that monty hates him, that something went wrong, that he did something wrong. he couldn’t figure out what he did for the life of him but he figured that he needed SPACE. striker could give that to him, he could do that.
the second day was considerably more alarming, the fear only heightened by the fact that monty didn’t answer the door when he knocked.
the third day was when the missing person’s report went out, the moment that the forty-eight hour mark was reached.
the fourth day was searching high and low and every fucking corner of the fucking city for something, ANYTHING, but to no avail.
the fifth day was when he packed his bags and started the trip back to new york, rushing to get a ticket on the soonest possible flight back into the city, unable to think of any answer to this beside DAGGER.
it isn’t until he gets to the airport, standing outside of his gate with only a couple of minutes until boarding, that he dials monty’s number AGAIN. it goes straight to voicemail — he’s lost track of how many times this has happened in the last five days, but this time he decides to leave a voicemail.
“hi. i don’t know where you are... or if you’re okay or...” he clears his throat, already unable to form the words that he wants to say. “i’m going to new york, i don’t know if that’s where you are or if i’m losing my goddamn mind but i... FUCK. monty, i’m so sorry. i’m SO sorry. i’m coming, okay? i’m going to come and i’m going to figure this out and i’m going to find you, i swear to fucking god. and if dagger touches one GODDAMN hair on your head then i’ll kill him. i will.” he has to stop then, for a moment, taking a deep breath as he hears the voice over the intercom signal that it’s time for him to board. only a few hours and he’ll be in new york. all he can hope is that he isn’t too late. “i don’t know if you’ll hear this first or if i’ll get to this first but... please be okay. please, please be okay.”
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── in a reflex, jace LAUGHS. maybe monty asks it as a joke, and so he handles it like one at first ; often will he play up his mysteriousness just for it’s own sake, for the enjoyment of it, and monty’s reaction isn’t exactly unheard of. like he’s got a secret, jace smiles, passes the bottle back between them. the whiskey monty brought is the irresponsible sort of expensive, and jace can’t turn down such an indulgence, even if it’s a rarity for him.
“ what ? like, my real name ? jace is actually pretty close, you know. just a nickname of the real thing. ” his tolerance for alcohol leaves something to be desired, and it’s taken only a few swigs for him to grow CLOUDY, words smearing into each other as he speaks. it would have been better to act as if he hadn’t heard. often that’s what he’ll do, when pushed at something he didn’t care to ANSWER for. the alcohol has left his usual deflections confused, however, and he’d responded before he could think not to. motioning for the bottle to be returned, jace shrugs before he takes a drink, recoiling slightly at the taste of it and coughing when it burns its way down.
he’s somewhat thankful for the whiskey, then, an easy escape path of blame for the itch at the back of his throat, the urge to keep talking when usually that's the most he’ll offer. maybe neither of them will even remember much once they’d sobered ; he can HOPE. jace wishes monty would say something else, laugh it off with him, pretend like he hadn’t asked, but he doesn’t--- and so his thoughts stay caught on that track, chasing itself in circles. who are you, really ?
he’s tired. it’s fallen past the middle of the night and has veered towards early morning, back at whatever fancy hotel monty had for a few days. with the windows open beside him, he stretches his legs where he’s come to sit on the floor, sighing in the dark of the room they’d come CRASHING back to. a respite after an evening of tearing racetracks all over the city below. up high enough off the street it’s quieter, and monty isn’t offering him much help, apparently refusing a lifeline of conversation change while jace toys with a loose thread at his knee.
“ NOBODY, i guess. ” he laughs, again, but it’s staler now, resigned. “ i don’t know. ” the room is blurring, and he can’t think straight, he’s not used to this kind of uncertainty ; usually he just acts, just does. against his better judgement, he takes another drink. his better judgement rarely puts up much of a FIGHT, anyway. “ doesn’t matter. ”
[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 8:20 PM ] i miss you too[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 8:26 PM ] you can come over if you want[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 8:31 PM ] i want you to come stay here[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 8:34 PM ] please,
⁇ — a DRUNK text.
[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 3:14 AM ] that guy is looking at you like you’re a piece of meat [ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 3:15 AM ] you can do better yo u know that?
✿ — a SUGGESTIVE text.
[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 4:42 PM ] i think it’s time i tell you that i actually can swim [ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 4:43 PM ] sorry for lying but pool parties aren’t my scene[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 4:44 PM ] but if you’re ever looking for company some other time…
@ — a SCARED text.
[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 10:06 PM ] can you just be a little more fucking careful in the city?[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 10:06 PM ] you don’t know what kind of people are out there[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 10:07 PM ] jesus fucking christ monty
& — a LOVING text.
[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 10:31 AM ] hey make sure you’re decent in 5 minutes okay?[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 10:32 AM ] this breakfast place fucked up my order[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 10:32 AM ] gave me coffee and bagels for two[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 10:33 AM ] weird right?
♀ — a HEARTBREAKING text.
[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 11:56 PM ] can you please just fuck off for one night[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 11:56 PM ] i’m not in the mood to play whatever game this is[ 𝐗𝐈𝐏𝐕𝐅 (𝐅𝐒𝐅𝐉) — 11:57 PM ] you have plenty of other people who will.
