Monty had been at his father's annual Christmas Party, which means Monty has been absolutely miserable.
There's nothing he dislikes more than being in the same room as his father, and it only gets worse when they have guest they're meant to impress. It means that Monty is in his finest attire, still tight and starchy from being new. Mother is wearing a fine gown, her belly big with pregnancy, and appears to be gossiping with some of the other ladies in attendance while Father keeps a watchful eye on her. That baby, Monty thinks, is their saving grace, and his fucking doom.
He hopes it's a girl. Just to spite his father for not getting another, better heir.
Monty's been tight-smiled and polite conversation all night, doing what he can to stay out of his father's earshot. He's prone to saying the wrong thing, and saying the wrong thing in front of Father will earn him quite the repercussion when the evening is over. Felicity, it seems, has found herself a nice hiding spot, and Monty's envious of it. If Percy were here, he'd at least have some reprieve from the tense festivities. His aunt and uncle are here, across the room with a group of other couples, but Percy had suddenly taken ill and was laid up in bed.
He'll have to go visit, after this. Just so he can bitch and moan to someone who will listen.
But the night's far from over, and Monty needs a break now. If he has to talk to one more stuffy, white-haired earl about London's current political affairs, he's going to go upstairs and pitch himself off the balcony. He excuses himself as politely as possible from his current conversation, and skirts around the room to the double doors leading out into the garden. He pushes through, dragging in a deep breath of cold wintry air, and opens his eyes.
Turning on his heels, he finds not the doors to home, but a set of doors leading into a rustic wooden tavern. He turns again, just to make sure the courtyard is just as unfamiliar as it was moments ago, and it is. It's not unfriendly, though, with all sorts of guests strewn about, and twinkling lights in every bush and barren tree. Somebody presses a glass of something into his hand (brandy, he realizes, once he gets a wiff of it), and they're gone before he can even see if they're a man or woman.
Not that it matters to him, of course.
His question of where am I? to the nearest passerby, doesn't get him the straightest answer, but it does earn him an admiring, lingering look. So, Monty decides fuck it. He'll figure out where he is tomorrow. Tonight, he'll drink and enjoy the time away from his father.
He finds himself another glass before he ends up a little further away from the crowds, and somehow there's some sort of pastry in his hand. He pops it into his mouth, washing it down with a quick drink as he wanders, kicking up snow with his feet. It's the childish laughter that has him turning, and a very interesting looking man that has him coming over. And it's the bright sprouting of fall-colored leaves that has him stopping in his tracks, staring with a rather dumb-founded expression.
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There's nothing he dislikes more than being in the same room as his father, and it only gets worse when they have guest they're meant to impress. It means that Monty is in his finest attire, still tight and starchy from being new. Mother is wearing a fine gown, her belly big with pregnancy, and appears to be gossiping with some of the other ladies in attendance while Father keeps a watchful eye on her. That baby, Monty thinks, is their saving grace, and his fucking doom.
He hopes it's a girl. Just to spite his father for not getting another, better heir.
Monty's been tight-smiled and polite conversation all night, doing what he can to stay out of his father's earshot. He's prone to saying the wrong thing, and saying the wrong thing in front of Father will earn him quite the repercussion when the evening is over. Felicity, it seems, has found herself a nice hiding spot, and Monty's envious of it. If Percy were here, he'd at least have some reprieve from the tense festivities. His aunt and uncle are here, across the room with a group of other couples, but Percy had suddenly taken ill and was laid up in bed.
He'll have to go visit, after this. Just so he can bitch and moan to someone who will listen.
But the night's far from over, and Monty needs a break now. If he has to talk to one more stuffy, white-haired earl about London's current political affairs, he's going to go upstairs and pitch himself off the balcony. He excuses himself as politely as possible from his current conversation, and skirts around the room to the double doors leading out into the garden. He pushes through, dragging in a deep breath of cold wintry air, and opens his eyes.
Turning on his heels, he finds not the doors to home, but a set of doors leading into a rustic wooden tavern. He turns again, just to make sure the courtyard is just as unfamiliar as it was moments ago, and it is. It's not unfriendly, though, with all sorts of guests strewn about, and twinkling lights in every bush and barren tree. Somebody presses a glass of something into his hand (brandy, he realizes, once he gets a wiff of it), and they're gone before he can even see if they're a man or woman.
Not that it matters to him, of course.
His question of where am I? to the nearest passerby, doesn't get him the straightest answer, but it does earn him an admiring, lingering look. So, Monty decides fuck it. He'll figure out where he is tomorrow. Tonight, he'll drink and enjoy the time away from his father.
He finds himself another glass before he ends up a little further away from the crowds, and somehow there's some sort of pastry in his hand. He pops it into his mouth, washing it down with a quick drink as he wanders, kicking up snow with his feet. It's the childish laughter that has him turning, and a very interesting looking man that has him coming over. And it's the bright sprouting of fall-colored leaves that has him stopping in his tracks, staring with a rather dumb-founded expression.
It's not his finest moment, by far.