Warning: Sadness ahead

Monday 6 June

Monty held Bobo to his chest one morning, drowsy still, closing his eyes. Perhaps he'd go back to sleep. Waylon's bed was soft and heated. He was sure the hounds were still asleep, too, in the living area... he'd brought them over, Waylon didn't mind.

He turned over, towards Waylon, and started. Waylon, already awake, was sobbing into his pillow, quietly. Frowning, Monty put a hand on his shoulder.

"Waylon? Why are you crying?" He yawned.

Waylon grunted, forced his head from the pillow, face red. But oddly, he smiled.

"Monty," he said, swallowing, "you... you were right."
"What?" Monty was bewildered. "About...?"

Waylon gestured with his hands. "I... I really am him. The other me, who you used to know. I... I think I met him, in my dream..."

"You did?" Monty rose an eyebrow. "Even though you don't remember any past life?"

Waylon nodded. "Yes, maybe what you told me about him and what happened yesterday, that did something to my subconscious... made it recall something. And I think that confirms I'm him, on top of everything else. I know it's dubious, I mean..." He scratched his hair, and sniffed. "But I think it was real."

"What did he look like, do you know?"

"Erm... he had the same hairstyle I do, excluding the fringe, I guess. And those glasses you showed me, the round ones."

"Mm... go on." Monty leaned forward.

"It was strange, talking to him, since he was... is... me. But he was so happy," Waylon continued, "to know that I can... be myself, without fear he had back then. That I haven't had to experience any sort of hatred for my identity, that I can... be with you..." His voice rose, cracked, and his lip trembled, before he gasped. He blinked, shedding more tears. "Oh, Monty..."

Monty leaned over, brought his hand to Waylon's face, touching a stray tear. "It's..." It's you. It's always been you.

He laughed, in some incredulity. "That's excellent." Monty let Waylon take him in his arms; he laid his own hands on Waylon's back, moving his fingers, sliding up to Waylon's neck. "I agree with... him, that is, you... It's wonderful, that you were reborn here..."
"So were you," Waylon said, "and we found each other again... well, I guess you found me again, even though that sounds really sappy..."

"I made the right decision, to search for you, hm?" Monty kissed Waylon's cheek. "And I did find you again, don't sell yourself short."

Waylon nodded. "I love you. I'm... I'm so lucky, to be here, with you." He kissed Monty's forehead.

"I love you, too." Monty snuggled against him, willing to stay in the warmth forever.

After heaving out of bed and showering, they sat down to breakfast, and fed the dogs.

"You know," Monty said, as they ate, "I had a dream like yours, some time ago."

"You talked with yourself from the old world?"

"Yes. Though it went differently than did yours, I think. Not quite the same atmosphere, and it occurred closer to my time in the old world."

"Do you remember what happened?"

Monty set his spoon down. "We talked about... you. It was before I'd told you how I felt. But I felt the same- I was falling in love. I don't remember most of it."

"Oh..." Waylon tilted his head, giving Monty a soft smile. "Even then?"

"Yes." Monty put his hand on Waylon's face, relaxing, moving down and slipping it over Waylon's unoccupied hand.

"Me too."

()

While Waylon worked on an article he was writing for something or other, Monty was sat in front of the tele-screen, playing with the augment settings, which projected the screen's content into the real environment. It could become life size, even, but that was too much for him. He adjusted the proportions, thinking about how far technology had come... and what was it that he'd used back then? A... tele-something, a predecessor. He couldn't even picture it. Oh, yes, a television. But what was a television, exactly? Monty scowled. He didn't recall. He thought maybe he'd had one as a child, long ago... But he decided it didn't matter; tele-screens were what he was used to.

Still, he opened his phone and searched for 'television', nodding at the image results; they'd had one of these when he'd been growing up in the early 21st century.

Did Waylon have any full immersion add-ons to his? If so, he hadn't mentioned it. Monty had some for his tele-screens. They heightened the experience, though they could be overwhelming, that was true, though it depended on the intensity settings. Maybe he'd ask if Waylon shopped on or at Ethernet, he probably did, everyone did, who wanted quality for their screens and such entertainment modules. They carried the best immersion add-ons he'd ever bought-

Digging his palms into the sofa, Monty shut the screen off, staring at the table. What the hell was happening? Why had he been so familiar with that train of thought, something that seemed like a string of unintelligible jargon? But did it really? No, not at all...
Pulling his knees to his chest, Monty sat still, part of him confounded. He didn't know what a... television was now, aside from a far-off memory of his childhood and from the internet? Was it because he hadn't seen one in so long? He thought he would've still remembered something more about it.

Why had concepts he'd never heard of surfaced, like 'immersion add-ons' and 'Ethernet'?

No, they weren't unknown to him. He didn't understand why they'd come into his head now, but they made sense, more sense than a television... some old version of a tele-screen.

"Hey."

Monty jumped. "Hello." He shifted back into a sitting position.

"Something wrong?" Waylon came to sit beside him. "Sorry if I scared you. I finished most of the article, so I thought I'd take a break."

"I'm fine." Monty didn't know how to tell Waylon about what he'd just experienced.

Waylon accepted his answer. "Oh, could you do me a favour?" he asked.

"What is it?"

"I was wondering, if you could tell me about some things from our old lives? If it wouldn't be too much trouble. Since I had that dream, I've been curious."

"I can try." Monty crossed his legs, nervous for what games his mind would play now.

"Okay, uh... what was it like only driving on the ground?"

"Oh, I didn't usually drive myself," Monty said, "I had one car I used the most, I might've had others... and you as my... personal assistant drove me about."

"Huh... so I was your chauffeur also?" Waylon chuckled.

"I suppose." Monty frowned. "I don't remember which kind of car I had... it was an older model..." All he could think of were the few vintage cars in his garage, besides the normal flying ones. Normal? Yes, normal. "Anyhow... I don't remember very well what it was like, either...likely because it's been ages since then." The same excuse he'd used for the television.

"That makes sense...Was I, er, a good assistant to you?"

"A good assistant?" Monty repeated, "you were excellent...I couldn't have had anyone better." He stopped, feeling as if he'd said similar words before. Somewhere, he'd-

He'd said it to Waylon in the old world, as he'd lay dying. He didn't know what he'd said, but it had been very similar... he had a feeling.

Monty, in a rush of emotion, turned and wrapped his arms around Waylon, not daring to let go.
"Monty?"

Monty kissed him on the mouth, warm and slightly wet, Waylon complying enthusiastically. Moving, Monty propped himself against Waylon's middle, dangling his legs, with Waylon's arms circling his body.

"Are you alright?" Waylon asked.

"Yes, I just... remembered something as I was responding to you, and it upset me."

"Was it something I said?"

"No, not at all." Monty sighed. "A bit unrelated, but it just occurred to me; I think there was one time, I needed a blood transfusion... and you, of course, volunteered... but instead it was some boy who matched my blood type, the son of one of my employees, I don't recall anything more specific." He thought. "And another time, I went to... Canada, I think, to get some specific tincture for you, because you were ill... there are countless things I could recount to you, but..." Monty closed his eyes. "They aren't as clear anymore," he mumbled. "Memories of those days come and go at whim, it seems." It was odd, that he wasn't able to recollect more specifics, or more in general.

"You went to Canada just to get medicine for me?"

"Mm." Monty leaned his head back on Waylon's shoulder. "But, I apologise for the lack of detail."

"It's okay. What you're telling me is more than I would've known otherwise." Waylon shrugged.

Still, Monty wondered why he couldn't recall... it seemed like at once, a cavalcade of selective amnesia had swept over his mind, removing specificities. He could remember perfectly well other things... what was wrong with him?

()

After lunch, Waylon asked Monty to stay a moment, and returned to the table bearing two slices of decadent chocolate cake.

"Oh, my..."

"It's chocolate with rose-vanilla buttercream... there's layers of almond marzipan, rose petal jam, and fudge ganache," Waylon announced.

Monty's eyes widened, taking in the sight. "You made this, I assume?"

Waylon set one plate in front of him. "Yes, I was trying some new things. I tasted it and I thought it was good enough to share with you." His eyes reached Monty's as he sat down.

Monty dug his fork into the cake, and let the flavours settle on his tongue, moaning slightly. "I'm glad you have, you've outdone yourself, my dear."

Waylon blushed, his face turning a similar colour as the frosting on the cake. "Thank you."

"So, er, you liked it?" Waylon asked when they'd finished.

"I loved it." Monty smiled. "I wasn't expecting it, either."

"Well, I know you like sweets." Waylon sent their plates into the dish cleaner. "And I like to cook. When is your birthday, did you tell me? I'll have to make something to your specifications."

"I don't know if I did... it's the 15th of September. And yours is in... December..." Which day, though?

"Mm-hm, December 25."
"Ah, yes, how could I have forgotten? It was the same before, I think..."
"It's always been the same, I guess."

"Some things are." Monty nodded. Of course, Serum, which he had been happy to take a less active position in, was different than-

Where had he worked before? In his old life?

When I owned the... What was it?

When Waylon was my assistant, at the...?

I was in charge of someplace... but where?

He knew he'd ran some major business, but when he tried to picture it in his mind, there was a blank mass, as if it had been removed. It occurred no matter how much he tried to concentrate.

"Monty?"

But he couldn't yet pay Waylon attention. He walked backwards into the wall, holding his head in his hands. It was happening again, his inability to recall, as it had in their little conversation earlier. What was it... what...

"I... I can't remember," he whispered, swallowing, "why can't I... it's happening again."

"What is?"

Monty shut his eyes. Was he actually losing his memory? No, he was still sharp- it was just these specific things, and all from his old life... his recollections of it were shrinking, and now he had to confront it. It must have been happening ever since he'd destroyed the glasses a few days ago, it had been gradual, yes, things he'd brushed off... but an onslaught of amnesia was taking over him.

"Monty?"

Monty gripped Waylon's arms. "Wh... where did I... what did I do, as a profession, in my other life? I told you, tell me, you must!"

Waylon blinked, startled. "You... you mean the nuclear power plant? That's what you told me, I think..."

Oh,of course, the plant. How could he have forgotten? "The plant... yes..." Heshook his head. Repeating it in his mind, though, didn't make it more concrete;it felt like a new concept, not a recollection. The blank mass didn't reshapeitself into clarity. "But it still doesn't ring a bell. I think I'm losing mymemory, I must be. I've been forgetting, but only relating to my past life.That's what was happening before, when I couldn't remember specifics of eventsI was trying to relay."
Waylon looked thoughtful; his brow furrowed. "That... makes sense, I guess... I'm sorry, though. It must be really scary, to be losing things you should remember. It would be for me."

"I think I'm remembering other things, in place of my original memories," Monty continued, his voice shaking, "it's a peculiar process. I.... perhaps I ought to start writing down what I still remember now, so I can refer back, even when I don't truly remember anymore..." He frowned. "But yes, I'm afraid... I don't want to lose myself." He stared at the floor.

Waylon's hand touched his shoulder, and pulled him into a hug. "You won't lose yourself."

"How do you know that? My memories are being replaced, and who knows how much I've already forgotten completely? And..." Monty looked up at him. "What about all the memories I still have of you- the old you?" His breathing quickened, tears staining Waylon's clothes. "I don't want to forget those." He felt like he was flailing helplessly at sea, stalling his drowning, prolonging his sinking into the abysses.

"Hey," Waylon murmured, holding him close, "it'll be alright. I'm here for you."

Monty hung his head, sniffing. "I know. I'm just... I'm scared."

Waylon traced Monty's cheekbone. "I know you are. I am too, for you. But you could write some of it down, right? Would that help?"

"Maybe. I don't know where to start, though... do you have paper and a pen? Or don't those things exist here?"

Waylon chuckled. "I have an analogue pen or two... and an old journal I barely wrote in. Would that be good?"

"Yes, quite."

"And..."
"Yes?"

"When I said you won't lose yourself, I meant that even though you're losing your individual memories- and I wish you weren't- it doesn't mean you'll lose your identity." He studied Monty. "I don't remember anything from back then, but I'm still me, right?"
"Oh, yes, of course..."

"And you're still the same person, you're still Monty, and you will be."

"I... I suppose, even though I feel contrary..."

Waylon was right, in a way. Monty would still be himself. But he was so afraid. He was going to lose a part of himself, an entire life, as another one took its place.

()

Monty stared at what he'd just written, tapping the pen on the paper. It felt good to hold a real pen and write by hand instead of using a holograph.

Overview

I am Charles Montgomery Burns.
I was born on the 15th of September 2009 19??

I left my parents to live with my grandfather Colonel Wain-? Burns at an early age as heir to family fortune.

I went to Yale for schooling; met Nigel ?? English fellow-

I despise(d) Father my grandfather. He formed me in the vision of ruthlessness and greed that carried me to success in the Springfield nuclear power plant- yet I wasn't a carbon copy of him.

Waylon Smithers Sr was my assistant, creator of Serum (not yet) and dear friend- died by way of a horrible accident.

His son Waylon Jr- I told him his father died in the Amazon(?) to protect him; later apologised. He became my assistant in his twenties, much different from his father. Ultimately he was very fond of me- in love. Cared for me in every way, shape, and form through the years until the second horrible accident- what was it I told Waylon? A street collision- truck- hospital- his last words to tell me he loved me-

Here the paper was stained with teardrops.

At the plant(?), I had many employees; watched the throngs of dunderheads come in each morning- via wall of telescreens television screens- much different than those here, don't remember what they looked like. Notables were in one section.... 7(?) including Sampson Simpson... Carl? Simpson was awful. Once he was my temporary assistant while Waylon was on vacation to ?? that I sent him on.

Monty sighed, unhappy with the amount of question marks he'd had to scrawl in lieu of information, and the things he'd crossed out. He couldn't do anything about it, except what he already was doing. He set the journal and pen on Waylon's side table and leaned back on the sofa. His mind felt fried.

"How's it going?"

Waylon, showered and clad in loungewear, emerged from the hall.

Monty threw up his hands. "It discourages me, but I ought to continue," he said, "if I want to preserve anything. It's not going as well as I might've wanted. I should've started it earlier." He huffed. "Far too many question marks, now."

Waylon took a seat beside him. His hand flitted over the side of Monty's face, stroking it. Monty watched his eyes move, casting warm depth. He leaned over, Waylon's hand sliding down his neck, lingered on his collar, before sliding around to Monty's opposite shoulder. Monty relaxed, then reached for the journal again; Waylon grabbed it for him. Monty returned to the page he'd been writing on, staring at it again, wondering if Waylon were reading it too. Hovering the pen over the blank space, he glanced up.

"I'm not reading it," Waylon said, "I mean, I can if you want, I'd love to see what you write down, but I won't otherwise. They're your memories."

"I'll share them with you. I'd like you to see it." Monty brushed his fingers on Waylon's neck, his face, leaving a trail of blush. He turned back to the journal, and struck the paper with ink, detailing as best he could memories as they came through his mind, fleeting and sporadic, out of chronological order and melded into each other, most likely. Adventures of his youth, shenanigans at the plant, tandem bicycles, minutiae of his manor; one of many failed dates. He even threw in a few sketches, though he had no way of judging their accuracy. He was saddened to see the question marks and need to cross out phrases go on, creating more fragments, but he knew they would be there. This was all he could do.

"Why did I destroy the glasses?" he muttered, "what purpose did that serve, besides robbing me of my memory?" Monty groaned, holding the pen in his hand.

"You said they didn't belong here," Waylon said softly, "but you do. You don't want to go back there, right?"
Monty shook his head. "No, never. But I wish I could retain my memory..." He sighed. "There's nothing to do about it now, except this." He pointed with the pen to the journal page. "I suppose I had to get rid of them, and they'd already been broken. But..." His shoulders slumped. It didn't make things easier, to know that.

"I'm sorry." Waylon reached over a hand to stroke Monty's hair. Monty succumbed, and leaned into the touch, making his pain a little more bearable.

Fractals shaped his mind, twisting and breaking apart, showering his thoughts in clusters of memory that he hastened to record before they flickered out forever.

Monty knew that, even after he recorded all he could, reading it over wouldn't instantly spark any remembrance. It would feel like a dream, that he could scarcely recall.

It terrified him, to think the life he knew that he'd lived before would be swept away as if it hadn't happened, besides what he could write down, and even then...

Did it matter, would it make a difference to spend time writing everything he could? As frustrated and afraid as he was with the circumstances and his departing memories, he had to continue. But that didn't mean it didn't fatigue him, and he had to pause, all the while knowing that valuable information was slipping away out of his head into emptiness.

He took pauses for bare minimum amounts of time, anxious to get what he could onto the page, and went to bed afraid of what was being taken away from him while he slept. A few nights he forced himself to stay awake longer than he should've, wanting to extract everything possible before it disappeared. His eyelids weighed down on him, and his head slumped, but he couldn't rest, even when his brain and body were exhausted of energy and, seemingly, of memory he hadn't already written down. He stared at the blank page, willing himself to write something meaningful. There had to be more.

One night, the pen he was using leaked some ink onto the page and his hands. Monty clenched his fists to keep himself from exclaiming aloud in frustration, which only spread the ink over his skin, but that would come off. The ink that had spilled onto the paper wouldn't, and it had spilled over something he'd written the night before. Now he'd never know what the content was. And he had to find a new writing utensil. Even a pencil. But before he could look for one, his head drooped onto the desk and he fell asleep, waking up a few hours later with a sore neck, and he shuffled off to bed afterwards, disappointed, but craving comfort.

Monty did his best to keep his state from Waylon, who nevertheless gazed at him in more concern. To cover the shadows under his eyes, Monty borrowed Waylon's concealer, which helped, and he found tablets in a sort of medicine cabinet that stimulated energy, to decrease his fatigue. It took a toll on him, though, and he couldn't focus on anything, but was hyper-aware and lucid of everything, and he became angry easily, apologising afterwards, discontent with his own behaviour.

Not long after he'd begun the tablets, Waylon sat him down and gently demanded to know what was happening, "besides the fact you're losing your memories of the old world?"

"I know you're struggling," he said, "and this is a really hard time for you, and I'm here if you need me; I want to help. But, Monty..." Waylon furrowed his brow, his eyes red, and touched Monty's stray hair, tucking it behind his ear. "You've been coming to bed later than usual, and that's fine on its own, if you want to stay up longer, but I don't think that's the whole story."

Monty pouted, and regarded Waylon in some disdain. Waylon added, "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But my concealer container is almost empty, and... you left the energy stimulants out on the counter this morning."

"I did...?" Monty frowned. "How foolish..."

Waylon sighed. "How many have you been taking?"

"One a day, that's what it said on the label." Monty crossed his arms. "For about the past three days."

"But you're only supposed to take them every few days, and even then..." Waylon scratched his hair. "What you've been experiencing are side effects of taking them too often."
"I know that."
"But why have you been forcing yourself into this? I don't understand."

Monty scratched away some of the concealer under his eye, revealing the dark half-circle there, a sight to Waylon's clear dismay. "I've stayed awake longer in attempt to record as many memories as possible for myself... because I feared losing them while I was asleep."

"Oh, Monty..." Waylon moved to give him a hug. He embraced Monty tightly, holding him around the middle. Monty lowered his head to touch Waylon's chest. "I didn't know."

"I hadn't wanted for you to know," Monty murmured, "but I've exhausted my capacity to hide it."

Saturday 11 June

In place of the growing cavities, new remembrances shaped and filled his mind as days went on and became another, transporting Monty into a strange limbo. Bits and pieces of working at Serum, Waylon Sr, people who were his acquaintances, his first time piloting a car...

No, he thought, no, these aren't mine, this isn't me... but it is!

Monty sank down onto the sofa, pressing his hands to his head, then passed his fingers down to wipe his eyes of tears. He was overwhelmed and frightened.

To his left was a warm touch, making him shiver as the sofa dipped next to him. Monty shuffled to its source, lifting his face to Waylon's, his brow hung. He dropped his head to his own chest, his hands over Waylon, sliding down, pooled in his lap. Soon Waylon's shirt was stained and wet, as Monty cried, fatigued and scared. He was actively losing a part of himself, and he couldn't do anything about it.

Waylon stroked his hair, made repetitive caresses, instilling some calm in Monty, who eventually ceased his tears, not able to continue. He only stared at Waylon's shirt, then the sofa, numb and aching.

"I... I'm losing more," he croaked, "soon they'll be completely gone..." Waylon didn't ask what he was talking about. Monty continued, "And all these new things, now..." He leaned his head under Waylon's chin, closing his eyes. "It's too much..."

"I know." Waylon sighed, causing a slight rumble next to Monty against him. "You deserve to relax."

Monty didn't respond.

"Do you... want to go lay down with me for a while?" Waylon asked.

"In bed?"

"Yeah, it's more comfortable than the sofa. I'm a little tired, myself, too." He yawned.

Monty tilted his head in agreement, let Waylon guide him into the bedroom. He crawled under the heated duvet and into Waylon's loose grasp, shuddering despite the comfort. He craved Waylon's touch and tried to focus on that, closing his eyes again, anxiety slowly numbed with the warmth and his increasing drowsiness. Waylon's hands surrounded him, keeping him safe, and Monty drifted off.

()

With his knees to his chest, Monty was sat on the chair perpendicular to the sofa, staring out of Waylon's glass wall sometime later. He turned to face the floor instead, closing his eyes. He liked the quiet, but the increasing silence of his former memory disparaged him, and he knotted his hands together. Every happy occasion he'd experienced in that life, everything he held close to his heart- its substance would all be gone, and replaced, never to be remembered again. That being said, his more miserable memories would receive the same treatment, but he hoped his new memory might have a reprieve in that department.

Monty almost snorted. His 'new memory'. Soon it would be his only memory. He didn't know what would come, how he might change because of it, once it took over entirely. His new memories would still be his, but of a Monty who had grown up differently, he assumed, who may have had similar or parallel experiences, but ultimately, they weren't the same.

He mourned for the losses he'd already gone through, and could only wait for more. But he could spend that waiting time reflecting, processing, and he could offer his head and his heavy heart time to grieve. Everything was moving and changing too quickly, out of his control.

"Hey..."
Monty didn't acknowledge the greeting.

"Um, I... I just wanted you to know," Waylon's voice said, "I know this is a really hard time for you, and I'm sorry. I'll do anything I can to make you feel more comfortable here, I..."

Monty lifted his head, his eyes lidded and the circles under his eyes prominent. At least they had been when he'd glanced in a mirror on his way to the living room. "Waylon..."

"... I can't imagine what's happening in your head, or how it feels, but..."
"Waylon, please, I..." Monty exhaled, conjuring his strength to respond, and Waylon stopped speaking. "...I need some time alone. Let me grieve."

"Oh." Waylon nodded. "Of course. Take as much time as you need. I... I'll be here."

Monty didn't watch him leave, only blinked at the apartment door in front of him. He had to get out of here. He was stifled inside, crowding his emotions.

()

The late afternoon was clear, but not obnoxiously bright; Monty stepped onto the trail, leaning his head back to take in the treetops. As he walked in deeper, the world became only trees and the path he tread, sunlight poring through the foliage, no other people about. Monty went slowly, in no hurry; he stopped to touch the bark of a tree, or leaves hanging off branches next to him.

He didn't want to think about his future. He didn't want to think at all, but to allow himself space to indulge in mourning, exercising the grief he held. Grief for what, and who, he'd lost, what he was actively losing, and particular grief for the loss of his memories of the old world's Waylon, all that had been left of his previous incarnation.

'What about all the memories I have of you- the old you?', he had asked Waylon, tearfully, 'I don't want to forget those!'

He came to a forked path, one side keeping with the bordering forest, and the other much brighter, with clouds of light in the distance. Curious, Monty approached it, the path arriving at a bend that expanded into a wide glen. Thick grass and wildflowers populated the earth, along with some trees, that sprouted closer to the uneven perimeter of woods. Monty watched a robin fly across the landscape, a quiet wind fluttering his hair like the bird's wings.

By the closest tree in Monty's foreground, there was a sign board reading: Wilson Foster Meadow- South Entrance. Under it was a bench.

Monty stared at the sign, and then the meadow, an unwarranted reluctance in the recesses of his mind confusing him. Something bad had happened in a meadow, or a park... not too long ago.

He stopped. The park was where it had all begun, in the old world... moments before disaster, they'd... Waylon had made to cross the street... and then he was gone.

Monty shivered, crossing his arms, chilled. He sniffed, a hacked sob escaping him. Waylon, so trusting and loyal, had only wanted to please Monty, and then he'd...

Eyes wracked with tears, Monty cried, at some points silent and others not, by himself, at the meadow's entrance. He touched the sign, his hand trembling, and lifted his head, feeling the soft breeze across his stained face. Monty rested his forehead against the flat, vertical surface of the signboard, his eyelids flickering close to shut, and then into light sleep as he eased his body onto the bench sat beneath the sign.

"Monty."

Monty gasped. He was still sat on the bench, but he wasn't alone.

Old world Waylon, with his round glasses and bowtie, approached Monty and took a seat next to him. His form flickered some, and if Monty looked too long in one area, it would disappear.

Still, Monty's mouth hung open. "H-how are you here?" He swallowed, touching Waylon's hand.

Waylon smiled, and took Monty's hand, rubbed his thumb over it, his expression tender. "I'm not really here, Monty."

Monty tried to keep the trembling from his voice. "Oh, of course not... you're... you're dead." He sniffed, unable to keep himself composed.

"I'll always be here." He touched Monty's chest, sending a flare of heat through Monty's body. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Monty pursed his lips, his vision blurry. "I'm sorry, Waylon. You shouldn't be... dead."

"You still have me, you know. He may not remember being me, but..." Waylon touched Monty's cheek. "That's okay."

Monty leaned into his touch. "I know. You... you visited him, in his dream, didn't you?"
"I was there, yes... I couldn't stay for long, but... it was nice. You know..." Waylon gazed at him. "You're so beautiful, you always have been..." Monty chuckled despite himself. Waylon pressed his lips to Monty's cheek, giving him a light kiss. "I'm happy that I still get to be with you, as him."

"Me too."

Waylon squeezed Monty's hand. "I have to go soon, Monty."

Monty's throat was in staccato, his eyes wet. "No, just a bit longer... you just got here!" He knew perfectly well old world Waylon was dead, and in reality gone- but Monty didn't want him to leave. He moved closer, exclaiming when Waylon didn't feel quite so solid as he should've- his form flickered again, as if an old film on a broken reel. "What's happening to you?"

Waylon gave a small, sad smile. "I told you, I can't stay, this is a dream. You... you have to let me go, Monty."

"What?" Monty stopped breathing. "No!" He wiped his face, trying to hold onto any part of Waylon he could.

'Don't fight it,' another voice, seeming his own, said. 'This is a part of the process.'

"It'll be okay, I promise," Waylon said.

"I don't want to forget you!" Monty sobbed, and cried in anguish, unable to feel Waylon, his hand moving through Waylon as if he were a hologram. "I can't..."

I don't want to say goodbye again.

"It'll be okay," Waylon repeated. His form became fainter, against the bitter rhythm of Monty's chest heaving in agony. "I love you."

Monty, his knees digging into the bench, reached out in vain to Waylon. "I love you... please..." he choked. "Waylon... come back..."

But Waylon was gone.

Curling into himself, Monty's cries echoed in his mind, becoming stagnated and desperate, disparaged, wails.

Sat on the bench, in the same position he'd fallen asleep, Monty stared ahead, devastated. It had only been a dream, but... it had been like he was saying goodbye all over again, reliving that horrible day, which felt more and more fuzzy in his brain. Still, 'seeing' Waylon again, like that...

He blinked, not surprised at the wet tinging his skin, as he brought his hand to his eyes. Monty sniffed.

He thought he felt a warmth, source invisible, settle over his shaking hand, brush his cheek, and ruffle his hair, gently; then it was gone, a whisper on the wind.

()

Monty returned to the looped path, feeling numb from his visceral dream. He bit his lip, and rubbed his pounding head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

But... why was he holding back? There was no reason to. He was allowed to let go, and embrace his necessary catharsis. The perpetrating pains he held over himself were too much to carry anymore.

It'll be okay, dream-Waylon had told him.

Monty released his fight, and trembled, taking one step after another, setting himself onto a second bench. The initial crying turned into heaving sobs and interludes of gasps for air. He bent forward, covering his face in his hands, tears soaking his palms.

But water drops fell on his head and arms and knees that couldn't have come from his tears. Sniffling, Monty slid a finger across his eyes, as the drizzling rain slid onto him, seeped in his hair and bare skin, the rain repelled by his water-proof clothing. He stared up, leaning his head back, at the grey tinged sun shower beyond the dappled canopy of leaves and branches. Spots of light and rain touched his skin as his tears fell freely alongside.

Monty closed his eyes, unbothered, and let the rain wash over him, soaking into his pores. Standing, he stepped back onto the path, its surface absorbing the water. Monty, a bit chilled, but otherwise not discontent, walked further, the rain becoming once again a drizzle, slowing down. At last, the sun took more precedence, and Monty floated on refreshing, cathartic calm that accepted his grief and opened to his head and heart.

He cried again, though not as intensely as earlier, tears on his cheeks as he walked. As he turned around and went back towards Waylon's apartment, his pace was slow, uninhibited by any awaiting excitement that might have hurried his gait.

He'd remarked on liminal spaces a few times since he'd woken in this world, in-between, transitory places, and such was his mind in its state of revision, coming closer each moment to the other side beyond transit. He hoped he might be happy there.

()

Waylon wasn't in the front vicinity when Monty let himself inside the apartment. He slipped out of his shoes and retrieved a glass of water, leaning on the counter in the kitchen as he drank it in increments.
He felt better than he had earlier, after his cathartic walk. He'd been able to release, in some capacity at least, his fears, despair, his anger. They all still convalesced within him, as one cathartic walk wouldn't make the feelings vanish, but it had helped. And Waylon would help, too. Monty had needed the time alone with himself, but just as much or perhaps more he needed time with Waylon. He didn't know if Waylon were out somewhere right now, or continuing to give Monty space.

In wait, Monty sat on the sofa, the hounds coming to his feet and demanding his attention after he'd only given them a scratch behind the ears when he'd walked inside. Monty tended to the dogs, stroking and scratching their fur deliberately, his motions slow and thoughtful.

"I used to have many of your siblings when I lived in the old world," he told them, "not technically your siblings, I suppose, but they were employed as my hounds, like you... I can't remember their names, though..." He frowned. He wasn't surprised, but it disquieted him a little, despite everything he'd gone through already and the walk he'd just taken to relieve some of these feelings.

"Monty?"

Monty started. Waylon was there, in front of the hall, as if he'd just manifested. Monty lifted his eyes to Waylon's. A part of him wanted to jump up and give Waylon a hug, but he sat still. He felt a mess.

"How are you?" Waylon asked, cautiously. He didn't make to walk over and sit down, seeming to treat Monty as if he were made of glass, which was irritating. He couldn't see himself without a mirror, but tried to soften his features anyway, loosening the tension in the muscles.

"I'm alright." He crossed his legs and sat back, hoping the gesture was inviting. He wanted, needed Waylon right now.

"Did you have a good walk?" Waylon scratched his head. "I think it rained a little, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did, but I didn't mind." Still, Waylon had only moved forward some. What is he doing? "I found it soothing, mostly; though..." He tapped his foot.

"Though what?"

"I'll tell you. What have you been up to?"

"Well, er, after you left, I watched something, not for long, and then I worked on that article... I had some food, and I went back to work on it, and then I heard you come in."

Monty nodded, frustrated with Waylon's stoic position. "Have you... finished the article?"

"Yes, mostly. Er..."

Monty huffed. "Come on, man, aren't you going to sit down with me?" he finally blurted, "I'm not so fragile! I want you here."

Waylon blinked, surprised. "Oh, um, I'm sorry. I..."

"I want you close to me," Monty said, and patted the sofa, "I spent enough time alone, for now. Come."

Waylon obliged, and sat, his gaze apologetic. Monty scooted over, placing his arms around Waylon's side; Waylon's arm reached out to embrace and pull him even closer. "That's better."

"I'm sorry," Waylon repeated, "I... I guess I didn't know how to approach you, I didn't want to make you more upset... I didn't know if you still wanted to be by yourself."

Monty sighed. "If that were the case, I would've already asked you to leave me alone for longer."

"I guess that's true."

"I love you." Monty murmured the words into Waylon's shirt.

"I love you, too." Waylon kissed Monty's hair. "I'm glad I get to be a part of your life."

"Of course... I am as well."

"I guess that..." Waylon seemed pensive. "I mean that also, I'm happy you let me in, so you don't have to swallow your pain and be alone with it, especially recently."
Monty looked up at him. "Oh... yes, well, I wanted to let you in, as it were. I hid any pain from you before... but I don't want to be alone, now." Or ever.

"You aren't." Waylon gave him another kiss. "And I'm here for you, always."

"Mm..."

"And, er, what... what did you mean, before, if you want to tell me? Did something happen while you were outside?" Waylon studied him.

"Oh... I just... I had a dream, about him- you." Monty closed his eyes.

"Oh..."

"He said it was time for me to let go... to let go of him, and to move forward, but I... it was difficult, even though he was telling me it'd be alright. I was... in such despair..." His breath hitched, his stomach in knots. "I spent much of my time outside in tears, coming to grips with my grief, but... I think it was most difficult to say goodbye to him- again- and to what memories I had... the ones that'll keep fading." He sniffled, and looked blankly at his lap. "It's all so fleeting."

In response, Waylon adjusted their positions, taking Monty into his arms to hold, and ran his hand through Monty's hair, coercing him to lay his head against Waylon's heart. He was safe here. Waylon wasn't going anywhere.

Monty spoke again. "I... I wish I could keep my memories of the past, and that you remembered it all, too, along with having our knowledge of the present... but we can't. And I chose to destroy the glasses- and my old memories- in exchange for a life with you, here..."

"Do you wish you'd... done something differently?" Waylon's voice was hesitant.

"No. I've no regrets about it." He gave a light kiss to Waylon's encircling hand, picking it up with his own. "This is where I want to be."

()

Monty, on the sofa later after dinner, started at Waylon's entrance into the main area of the apartment. Under his arm, Waylon carried a rolled-up blanket.

"What's that for?"

"Hm?"
"The blanket."

"Well..." Waylon adjusted his grip. "I hope me pulling this out from my closet wasn't in vain. Do you want to come outside with me?"

"For what?" Monty glanced out the window wall. "It's dark out."

"I thought... it might be relaxing, if we watched the stars together, and er, the blanket is for us to lay on. It's a really clear night." Waylon smiled. "Of course, we don't have to, but..."

"Stargazing?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if I did that before, in the old life... I can't remember." Monty stood. "But, whatever I have done, in either life, I haven't watched the stars with you." He reached out his hand and brushed Waylon's cheek. "Let's go."

()

Instead of taking Waylon's car to the observation field, Waylon introduced Monty to the train system, which he was starting to remember. People used cars and sometimes buses if they didn't own cars, which many people didn't, to get around in the air. The cross-country train system introduced in the late 21st century had eliminated the need for cars on the ground. There were national and local lines; Waylon said that the observation field was easier to access by train, especially since it had no parking in the vicinity.

On the correct train, Waylon slid in first, and Monty was sat next to him. He leaned on Waylon's shoulder, and crossed his legs. Though Monty wasn't fond of public transportation, he found he didn't mind the ride, with Waylon's arm around him, and the sky outside pulsating with lights from the city, here hiding most of the stars. It was quiet, and there weren't many passengers, either.

Waylon led Monty from the station and up a flight of stairs, from where they took an uphill path to a wide, open field, an astronomical observatory on the horizon. Monty glanced at the sky and the bold patches of stars, but didn't linger on it, not wanting to 'spoil' the view for himself.

To Monty's surprise, there were a few other people about, doing the same thing they were, apparently. They trekked a bit further before Waylon laid the blanket on a flat surface and sat, his form illuminated by the blue of his phone. He waited for Monty to sit and turned it off, then eased himself down.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Mm..."

Waylon's hand slid towards Monty's, waiting, and Monty grasped it, pulling himself closer to Waylon on the blanket, feeling grounded and safe under the wide, dark sky with its myriad of twinkling lights, his head bent next to Waylon's. He'd gazed at the same sky, the same moon and most of the same stars, in the old world, and so had Waylon, but never beside each other. And now they were under it, together again, in a capacity that Monty wouldn't trade for anything.