Chapter Text
Liberty High’s one and only Clay Jensen finds himself outside on a cold autumn day, messing with the sleeves of his study hoodie as a chill wind blows past, sending a chill down his spine and causing him to shiver silently. Standing around, watching, biding his time until he inevitably had to go home was part of his routine; procrastinating the unavoidable interrogation he’d get from his parents when he got home. “How was school, Clay? How are you doing, Clay? Are you still taking your meds, Clay?” Another part of his routine after the tapes Hannah Baker made surrounding her suicide became public. It pushed him to the brink more than his own high school did, not that he would ever tell his parents that.
Today, Clay’s lollygagging a little bit more than usual. He’d already sent a quick text to his parents explaining he was going to be home late and didn’t bother checking their responses, his gaze focused ahead of him, onto the bleachers surrounding the baseball field, gaze intently fixed on the lone figure wearing a hoodie darker than his own, buying their own time. His mind honed in on the obvious signs of self-isolation, hunched shoulders, and low hanging head. His instincts, the ones protective over anyone else who was going through any sort of struggle, screamed at him that something was wrong. His brain said walk away, his heart said go and help. Clay Jensen, though one of Liberty High’s best and brightest, rarely listened to his brain. Before he knew it, he was walking towards the lone figure, chiding himself for getting involved. He didn’t even know who this person was, for pete sake!
But then again, when Hannah was struggling, nobody helped her, even when she asked for it.
If he could prevent that. If he could have prevented Hannah from committing suicide, an irrevocable decision that ultimately changed Liberty High and every single member of the student body for good, then maybe he’d be happier. Maybe Hannah’s friends would be happier too. That’s what he saw when he looked at this person: Someone who had friends, who had reasons to keep going on. Someone with a life that didn’t need throwing away. Even if this person wasn’t in any sort of trouble, he could never live with himself if he didn’t at least check.
Before he knew it, he’d arrived at the other end of the bleacher, still watching the person. Now that he was closer, he could make out more details. Their jeans were dirtied and a few cuts and holes running down them despite the frigid weather. Their knee was bouncing rapidly, up-down, up-down, up-down, and every so often they would rub their nose or sniff as if they had been crying before Clay showed up. He took a deep breath before he asked the big question, the question nobody wants to answer truthfully.
“Hey,” he said softly, a practiced, soft, concerned frown on his face, “are you okay?”
The figure jumped and turned, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from widening as the pair of them stared each other down. Sandy brown hair, fair skin, and deep brown eyes belonging to Montgomery de la Cruz–one of Liberty High’s most popular jocks and most notorious bullies–pierced his soul, his face streaked with tears and the whites of his eyes red and puffy from crying. There was a palpable silence between the two. Clay didn’t know what to think. His immediate reaction was revulsion, for it was a well-known fact that Clay Jensen did not like Montgomery de la Cruz. But there was a mixture of pity, curiosity, and dare he say worry at the sight of Monty’s tear-stained face. It was as if a switch had flipped, and a single, oft-repeated phrase echoed in his mind: “Bullies are bullies because of their own insecurities. They may be going through problems of their own,” he remembered from a lesson in his youth. Now here he was, with a bully crying in front of him. The small, minute voice in his head that told him to leave was quieted. He found himself wanting to help.
No sooner than the thought crossed his mind that Montgomery–Monty, for short–had stood up and grabbed his backpack, slinging it hastily around his shoulder and was swiftly exiting the situation. The movement jostled Clay into action, and he called out, “Hey! Wait!” With an outstretched hand, despite the problem of being several feet away from Monty and having no hope of grabbing onto him. For a split second, as the words left his mouth, Clay saw hesitation in Monty’s body, and he thought maybe, just maybe, Monty would turn around. Unfortunately, there was no such luck. Monty all but ran away from Clay, even tripping over himself as he hopped down from the bleachers in the process. Part of Clay wanted to give chase, but Monty had a head start and was much more athletic than Clay could ever hope to be. With surprising speed, Clay watched as Monty ran off towards the parking lot, but lost sight of him as he rounded the building. Plus, Monty had a car; Clay only had his trusty bicycle. There was no hope of ever catching up to him.
Clay suddenly found it odd that chasing Monty down was even on the table for Clay. By all accounts, Clay hated Montgomery de la Cruz. He had no reason, no obligation to chase him down and make sure he was okay. So why did he even want to?
_____________________________________________________________________________________
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” Echoed Monty’s mind as he all but sprinted to his car and locked the door.
Of all the fucking people to catch Monty during one of his episodes, it just had to be Clay fucking Jensen. Of any possible student, Clay motherfucking Jensen, for whatever goddamn reason, stayed at Liberty High after school and saw him crying in his safe spot. Nobody was supposed to see him. That’s why it’s a safe fucking spot! “FUCK!”
Hands shaking, Monty reached for the car keys, not even checking to see if Clay had bothered to follow him, holding back tears brought on by panic. It dawned on him that he didn’t know where to go. He couldn’t go home. Well, he could, but by God that did not mean he wanted to. He just had to hope Estela was okay. Dad rarely got mad at her, thankfully. But rarities aren’t impossible, just, well…rare. The thought of his dad hitting her ever again filled him with rage and sadness, but he could not go home. Bryce’s, maybe? Yeah, fuck that, not like this. Not now. He’d be better off driving his car off the pier on the other side of town than letting Bryce see him like this. He had to pick somewhere to go, rather than just–
His thoughts were interrupted as he took in his surroundings. The last thing Monty remembered was grabbing his keys, but he didn’t recall turning the car on. He didn’t recall pulling out of the school lot. He didn’t remember driving past the Baker’s old pharmacy or pulling into Monet’s parking lot. Why was he even fucking at Monet’s? He hardly ever went here, other than with his teammates whenever they wanted to hang out or something. Nevertheless, Monty turned his car off, finding it laughably odd that wanting to conserve gas right now was at the top of his list. Monty sat there in silence, all-too aware of how public it was. Too public. A random passerby or even someone he knew could show up and catch him.
That did nothing to stop the tears from spilling once more with a newfound ferocity. He leaned back in the seat of his well-worn out car, flipping it down so he could lay down and cover his face with his hands. Maybe he could just make it look like he was sleeping. “Yeah, right, that’ll totally work you fucking moron.” A voice in his head scolded menacingly, and he coughed sadly as the words bounced around his head. “Moron. Fag. Idiot. Bitch. Useless.” He let the guilt and anger fester once more, letting it rip at him, figuratively tear him to shreds. The sooner he gave himself into it the sooner the episode would end. He still didn’t know where he was gonna go, but at least he’d stop crying. Once his mind was clear, he’d decide where to go, and that would be that.
But this episode seemed to last longer than any of the other ones. Maybe because his mind, though it raced between thoughts of self-worthlessness and self-hatred, kept circling back to the moment Monty locked eyes with Clay Jensen at the bleachers, and the thoughts would begin anew. Why oh why did it have to be Clay Jensen there this afternoon? If he had to be caught, he’d have picked literally anyone else, even Tyler Down. Just not fucking Clay.
Though Monty knew he was a giant bully, he had never picked on Clay Jensen. Clay was one of those kids that just faded into the background, but Monty had always noticed him. He’d get jealous of his friendship with Tony Padilla, another Hispanic gay man, and covet what they had with each other. Not a single soul on Earth knew Monty was gay, and he intended to keep it that way until the day he died. Not his dad, not his sister, not even his best friends could ever find out he was gay. He’d deny it, to others and to himself, but he knew the truth. He hated it. He hated having a crush on the tall nerdy kid at the back of the room, and as much as he wanted to deny any thought of it, he knew in his heart that Clay was the one for him. He also knew it was why he never picked on Clay. A lifetime of living with his father taught him that he could never, ever hurt the ones he loved. Hell, maybe he should; maybe by beating the shit out of Clay, he could force the feelings down. Start hurting the love to drive the love away.
“He’d never hate you more than you hate yourself,” another sinister voice in his head assured him. He was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe through tears and sobs he choked into silence, for fear of getting gawked at by total strangers walking on the sidewalk. So public, so visible. Why the fuck was he even here? For the life of him, he couldn’t come up with an answer. He hated being here. Again; so public, so visible. The last thing he wanted was to be seen, so why on God’s green Earth was he sitting at one of the main hubs for the town? “Get up, drive away, get the fuck outta here,” he told himself, yet his body remained still. Why couldn’t he just listen to himself?
Monty didn’t know how long the vicious cycle of hating himself, thinking about Clay, regretting his actions, and wanting to hide himself away from the world lasted, but when he finally took a shaky breath and uncovered his eyes, the sky was purple. Cloudless. Soothing. He reached up and grabbed the rearview mirror, staring at himself, taking stock of the destruction his episode had wreaked. His eyes looked so red they may as well have been bloodshot. He’d been crying so much he could see the trails of tears long dried falling down his face, landing on his hoodie where he could see the spots they had landed. At least it was over.
Monty gathered his nerve and checked his phone, seeing what had started this episode in the first place. Five missed calls from his father had turned into seven or eight when he checked his phone just before the end of the school day. There were two more from Estela, and his gut wrenched with guilt at leaving her ignored. He hadn’t even realized she called. Was she okay? Was she hurt? Hastily, he entered the passcode to his phone–Estela’s name when converted to numbers–and decided to text her rather than call her, not trusting his own voice not to sound hoarse or even start crying again.
Monty:
Hey u ok? I didnt see u call earlier
🌟:
yeah, am good. just wanted to tell you dad fell asleep.
A wave of relief washed over Monty as he read the text, letting his hand drop to his chest as he took in a deep sigh, allowing himself to feel a sense of calm enter his body. So, he could go home after all, thank God. His phone vibrated again; another text. He quickly brought it up to his face.
🌟:
hbu? i know you only don’t answer when something’s wrong.
He couldn't help but chuckle proudly. They knew each other so well. Well, at least some things. His calmness was quickly replaced with a sense of dread. A voice said, “Don’t tell her. You’ll only burden her with your problems.” Another voice, “She’s the only one who can help you. Please tell her.” The first voice pleaded, “She’s too good for you. She can’t know.”
Monty:
Yeah sorry. Im good but I lost my phone
A shitty excuse, and he knew it, but he also knew he couldn’t tell her the truth. Of anyone in his crap life, Estela may have been the one person he couldn’t live without. If he lost her because of...what he was and what he was going through...
🌟:
okay. dads on the porch so you should go thru the back when you get home.
Monty:
Gotcha. 👍
🌟:
💖
Monty smiled at the response, letting his arms drift back down to his chest as he slid his phone into the pocket of his hoodie. He should go home soon, he thought to himself, but now that everything was serene for the moment, something was stopping him. It wasn’t a sudden hunger or thirst for anything Monet’s had to offer, nor a call or text from his father warning him he was awake again. It was a strange sense of…enjoyment? Contentedness, maybe? The silence was calming, and staring at the sky through the sunroof of his beatdown old Mazda offered him an odd sense of peace. Something he wasn’t used to, especially after…Hannah and her tapes. He’d listened to them–who the hell hadn’t–and was relieved to learn he hadn’t been one of her reasons. Not that he recalled a specific event between them, but still.
But Bryce. Monty couldn’t believe it. Monty had always known Bryce as the kind soul who offered him food and a place to stay on days or weeks. The kind soul who was occasionally an asshole but carefully apologized afterwards. His brother on and off the football field; his best friend. He’d denied it, of course, but…there was some nagging sense of suspicion. Bryce once mentioned a “clubhouse” in passing, but as far as he knew it was in the dugout and only members of the baseball team were allowed in. Plus, you know…being gay means rating girls on how sexy they are has no appeal to him. He’d offer a well-practiced response when questioned about it, but never took an active role in objectifying women like that. Some people thought he had taken part in creating “The Hot List” that Hannah Baker had been on. He remembered chuckling at the idea.
He muttered aloud to himself, rubbing his head, “Jesus Christ, Bryce…did you really…” “Rape two girls?” He finished mentally, angered, flabbergasted…just downright shocked. He kept wanting to tell himself Bryce could never do such a thing, and always felt he had betrayed Bryce when he couldn’t do it. Jesus, he had a sister! Next year, she was coming to Liberty High! He couldn’t let Bryce get near her. Not after everything, not after the tapes became public. His protectiveness over the one spot of brightness in his life couldn’t be blotted out by any means, not while Monty still had breath in his body.
Startling him, his phone vibrated in his pocket, causing him to jump. A call. His dad? Was he awake already? It had only been a few minutes ago that he had texted Estela, he couldn’t be awake now. Not when the episode was in its ending phase, not when he was climbing back up from the dark pit of his own self-pity. He felt more tears prickle his eyes at the mere thought of it being his father on the other end. “Not today,” he thought, “not now.”
His hand shaking with timidity, Monty reluctantly wrapped his fingers around his phone and dragged it out of his pocket. The screen merely read “blocked number.” Normally, numbers are blocked for good reason, but Monty somehow finds it within himself to answer. Probably because of the wave of relief that washes over him when he sees it isn’t his dad, combined with a toxic mixture of curiosity over who it is and his depressive episode still working its way through his mind. He slides his finger across, and surprises himself with a forcibly smooth, “Hello?”
“Holy shit, dude, you actually answered.” Came Justin Foley’s voice on the other end. He suddenly remembered; he had blocked Justin after the trial. When he testified against Bryce. Why had he done that? “To stay on Bryce’s side,” he knew. He didn’t want to be on his side. He hated being on his side. But he felt he owed Bryce something for all the loyalty he had shown him. For being there when nobody else was, for providing a home away from home when his actual home was unsafe.
“What do you want, Foley? Now isn’t a good time to be bothering me,” he threatened, still surprised at the smoothness in his voice.
“Monty, man. Clay texted me he saw you. Then I realized your car’s been sitting outside for more than half an hour.” Justin explained placatingly. Monty vaguely recalled their budding friendship, and groaned inwardly, rubbing his forehead in annoyance. Jesus, why would Clay do that? He realized, likely, to check up on him. “That’s why you’re in love with that moron,” he thought to himself.
Justin’s voice echoed through the phone again, Monty only realizing he hadn’t bothered to respond, “Hello? You there?”
“Push them away. They don’t actually care. It’s out of necessity. You’re better off dead to them.”
“Clay didn’t see shit, alright? Why’s he running his mouth about seein’ me?”
Justin sighed on the other end, “Dude, you might be an asshat, but I can still tell when you’re upset.”
“He doesn’t care. None of them do. You’re helping Bryce. They hate him, and they hate you, too. You can hear it in their voices.”
“I am not upset. Clay’s a fuckin’ bitch, and so are you.”
“Is this about your dad?” Justin deadpanned on the other line.
“Hang up. Drive away. Better yet, drive into oncoming traffic, faggot-ass bitch.”
“You don’t know shit, Foley. Deal with your fucking dad first before coming to me and talking about mine, asshole! Oh, wait, that’s right; he left you with your DRUGGED UP, SLUTTY EXCUSE FOR A MOTHER!” He yelled, but didn’t hang up, waiting to see Justin’s response.
Justin was silent for a long moment. Monty waited for him to say something, anything, with bated breath. “...I was just trying to help, asshole. Clay said he was worried about you. You wanna pull this shit with someone who doesn't give a fuck? Fine. Tell your dad I said hey.” The line cut off soon after.
"Good. You’re nothing. You don’t deserve to be helped. You deserve to have the shit beat out of you. Go home and take it. You deserve it. Wake your dad up and let him know you deserve it.”
When Montgomery de la Cruz got home that evening, he made sure Estela was asleep before waking his father from a drunken slumber, with a message that an old friend of his said hello.