Something is wrong with Alex
Montag frowned while melting butter on a pan. Alex was a lousy liar so it was easy to notice him behaving weirdly. Something was bothering him. Montag bit his lip and thought about the situation, they were comfortable having sexy fun and Alex decided to stop abruptly. Maybe he got scared, maybe he thought they were going to fuck and panicked. Montag had to talk with him about it.
The pasta was being served when Alex exited the bathroom. Montag smiled at him trying to look reassuring and called him over. Alex sat on the counter stool and thanked him without making eye contact. Montag thought they were over that awkward stage.
"What's wrong?"
"Hmmm?" He still wasn't looking up
"Babe" Montag took his hand and squeezed it "Did I do something to make you uncomfortable?"
Alex blushed and slipped his hand away. This wasn't okay. Montag was getting pissed. He'd never given Alex any reason to think he couldn't talk about what bothered him, he was getting offended by his distancing. He took Alex's face in his hands and forced him to maintain eye contact.
"It's too embarrassing"
The soft whisper cooled his temper immediately. Alex was flustered and frightened. Montag walked around the counter to hug him. Alex released a shivering breath and clutched his shirt on the back. Montag felt the warm wetness of his tears on the skin of his neck.
"Whatever it is you can tell me or if it's too much we can discuss it another day"
"Another day, please" the teary muffled voice twisted at Montag's heart
"It's okay, whenever you want. Just don't distance yourself, I'll wait as much as you need"
"How are you so perfect?"
Those out-of-pocket words broke the tension. Montag laughed and patted Alex on the head urging him to eat. After finishing lunch, Montag sat on the couch and made Alex lay his head on his thighs to brush his wet hair softly.
"When Andrea said you were 100% Colombian, I couldn't believe it. I thought you were too white; I must admit I know nothing about your country"
"Don't worry, we had to deal with it growing up. We're technically white, but our cultural background isn't European so it makes Americans' minds glitch. Latinos come in all colors"
"Do you miss your country?"
"I was born in Miami and I've only traveled to Colombia twice. It's kinda difficult to miss it if I don't know it"
"Do you speak Spanish?"
"Fluently. My mom insisted we learned it. She also paid for private Colombian history classes. She said we couldn't let our culture be diluted by distance"
"My mom also made me take language lessons, even though she couldn't afford them"
"Maybe she wanted you to have greater opportunities in life"
"You're always trying to find the good in people" Montag pinched Alex's nose and kissed his forehead "My mom wanted me to learn German because of my dad"
"How so?"
Alex's voice sounded too interested and the desire to know more about him was stamped in his expression. Montag knew that sharing his life story was dangerous. He didn't want pity nor he wanted intimacy. But he was so tired of carrying the burden by himself, he just wanted someone to listen without judgment. He decided he would stop as soon as Alex's expression made him uncomfortable. This wasn't the first time he was glad Alex's face was an open book.
"Do you know what bpd is?"
"The personality disorder?" Alex sat up "It's a disorder belonging to the cluster b of personality disorders, it's characterized by an intense fear of abandonment, unstable relationships and manipulative behaviors"
"Jesus, you're way too clinical" Montag laughed "But yes, that one. My mom had it."
"That must've been hard. Did she get treatment?"
"From what I know she was diagnosed in her late teens and she never got therapy. She was quite impulsive and when she was 20, she decided to study music under Matteo Becker's tutelage"
"I'm sorry, I don't know anything about music. I don't know who that is"
"He's a famous pianist and conductor in Germany. It's an open secret that he'll teach you under two conditions: you're either extremely talented or extremely beautiful"
Montag stood up and started pacing the loft. Alex was surprisingly quiet, he probably felt how important it was for him to be free to talk. Any interruptions might make him stop. For years Montag avoided the topic, the social services' therapists tried everything to make him open up, but he didn't trust anyone. Eventually everyone gave up on him.
"My mom grew up in an upper middle class Mormon family in Utah and got obsessed with learning piano. She wanted to be famous. I read her diary and she wrote like those teenagers who hate small towns and dream about living in a big city"
For several minutes Montag kept on walking without talking, then he went to his bed and crawled underneath it to grab a suitcase. It was dusty and worn out. That suitcase contained everything he had from his mother. He opened it and took out a picture. He returned to the sofa and handed the photo to Alex.
"Is this…?"
"That's my mom. Theresa Welsh"
The picture showed a strikingly beautiful woman sitting on a piano stool. She had long black hair and big green eyes with a mischievous look on them, her button nose tilted upwards and her full lips smiling. She looked so full of life and extremely young.
"You're her clone"
"I'll take that as a compliment. As you can see, she was gorgeous but so painfully average at piano. Becker took her under his wing because he wanted to fuck her and growing in a big Mormon family where she played the role of dutiful eldest daughter helping raise her siblings without getting an ounce of affection, plus her bpd, she fell like an easy prey"
"Oh, no"
"Oh, yes. My father is a disgusting man. He took advantage of her and when she got pregnant and refused to abort me, he just abandoned her. She was deprived of love and he used her and I hate that his blood runs through my veins"
The feeling of Alex's thumbs on his cheeks made Montag realize he was crying. He felt like a sentimental idiot, crying about stuff that couldn't be changed. His mother was dead, she'd been dead for years and no amount of tears was going to bring her back. Montag didn't want to look up at Alex's face, he didn't want to see the pity.
"Love, look at me"
Alex's voice was gentle but commanding. Despite his internal turmoil, the pet name made Montag's heart tumble. He looked up at Alex's eyes and didn't see pity, those warm hazel eyes held compassion and understanding. Alex wasn't crying nor was he uttering useless condolences that made him nauseous. Montag swallowed the knot in his throat and continued his story.
"When she came back to America my grandparents tried to force her to give me up for adoption to a married Mormon couple, this is still the standard practice for unwanted pregnancies in the Mormon church. She refused, she loved my dad and she wanted to keep me and convince him to marry her. They disowned her."
"Did she come here?"
"She thought New York would be more welcoming for a struggling artist. She got two jobs and taught piano on the side. She gave birth to me and kept on working. She named me after the main character of Becker's favorite book. She was constantly sending him pictures and letters. She gave me piano lessons and when I got too good for her to teach me, she was so excited because she thought Becker would finally pay attention" he sighed "Of course he didn't."
Alex was fidgeting with his hands, his knee shaking fast. Montag could relate. He also felt restless. He'd never told anyone his mother's tragic story. On his most cynical days he judged her stupidity and damned her for giving birth to him, she could have aborted him and her story might've been different.
"Your father sounds like a psychopath"
"He probably is."
Alex grabbed his hands and squeezed tightly. Montag sniffled and smiled at him. Alex still didn't show pity, he was just there, supporting him. Montag hugged him and buried his face on his neck. His sweet scent calming his altered nerves.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Just keep listening," his voice almost unintelligible against Alex's skin "When I was 10, a day before turning 11, I came home from choir. I often found my mom drinking cheap wine and listening to Becker's concerts on repeat but that day the apartment was silent. I was excited because I got a solo for the summer concert and I wanted to tell her. My mom was my best friend and I loved her so much"
His voice broke and Alex brushed his hair. The slow pace of his hand relaxed Montag enough to take deep breaths and push himself to continue. He licked his lips and kissed Alex's neck, touching him was a way of grounding himself in the present.
"She always told me it was us against the world. She begged me to never leave her and she said I was her most precious treasure. I did everything for her, I was a model child, good grades, every possible extracurricular, I cooked and cleaned for her and learned to sew to maintain my clothes in good condition."
Montag's sobs were the only thing breaking the silence of the apartment. He was probably making Alex uncomfortable, but he didn't want to stop. The cathartic feeling he was experiencing was purifying. Alex was the perfect listener. Calm and unaffected.
"That day I didn't find her in the living room so I thought maybe she was taking a nap and I walked into her room. She was dangling from the ceiling fan. I can still picture her face all purple with bloodshot eyes. Her pants were wet and the pungent smell of urine filled the room. I panicked and screamed so loud the neighbors came to check on me and found me tugging at her feet"
Montag was gripping Alex's shirt on the back to the point of almost ripping the fabric. Every time he remembered that day all the doubts and questions returned. He didn't want to hate his mother but it was so difficult.
"She was supposed to love me and protect me. Mothers are supposed to love unconditionally so maybe she didn't love me. Maybe I wasn't enough to love. Theresa, who fell in love with a fucking psychopath, couldn't love her son enough to stay with him"
He broke down crying and collapsed against Alex's chest. His tears and snot wetting his shirt, his hands clutching tightly at his back. Montag could feel the gentle pats of Alex on his head, his fingers against his skull trancing random paths on his skin. His vision turned black and he lost consciousness.