pomegranate seeds
Pairing: MCxMax Warnings: Language; non-graphic injury; panic attack Summary: It’s hard to live a fairy tale when you don’t believe in them, and when you can’t stand your supposed one true love. But either star-crossed lovers will find piece, or the fruit will rot and leave them in ruins.
chapter four: the bond
Then he heard a song, which was so charming that he stood still and listened. It was Rapunzel, who in her solitude passed her time in letting her sweet voice resound. The king's son wanted to climb up to her, and looked for the door of the tower, but none was to be found.
It’s just past midnight in the quiet Ayer household.
A whisk smacking against a metal bowl sets the tempo as Beryl growls, “That idiot Warren.”
At least it would be quiet if the short brunette were not in the kitchen right now, angrily whisking eggs in with the rest of her liquid ingredients, pretending they’re the face of a certain football player. She sets the bowl onto the counter with a huff, the whisk still in her hand as she places her fists on her hips, glaring at the ingredients set out before her. Unfortunately, these sugar cookies might come out a little worse for wear considering the eggs aren’t the only ingredients to have suffered her wraith.
She holds her fiery frustration a moment longer before releasing it with a resigned sigh, closing her eyes and letting her hands drop to her sides, not even minding the whisk hitting her leg, ignoring the sensation of leftover whipped egg touching her skin (because that’s the absolute least of her worries).
Really, Beryl is sure she’s hit a new low; one for the record books, one that leaves her standing in an oversized t-shirt in her kitchen making sugar cookies late at night for no reason other than she needs to either destroy or create something to release the energy she’s kept pent up all week. Her eyes open and she’s still in the kitchen, she’s still got egg on her thigh, and she’s still pissed.
“Hand-mixer,” she mutters to herself, throwing the whisk into the sink and attempting to throw her thoughts on blond jerks down the garbage disposal. A moment later she’s found the hand-mixer in the cupboard and sets to work mixing the dry and wet ingredients together, attacking the bowl with the mixer, growling under her breath, “Not like he’d be much help anyway.”
But as much as she’s convincing herself that she doesn’t need Max to get to the bottom of this, it’s hard to ignore that her search so far has proved fruitless and the dreams are getting worse and her week has been awful. So no, he wouldn’t be much of a help, but he could have at least been a comfort.
“Great,” she whispers to herself, turning off the hand-mixer and looking into her bowl of dough with a frown, “Max Warren is my best comfort; I’m doomed.”
She spoons balls of dough onto cookie sheets in silence, trying to sort through her feelings for the boy that have now grown complicated, and decides to abandon that endeavor by the time she sets two trays of sugar cookies in the oven, setting the timer and beginning cleaning.
Her hands scrub on instinct, cleaning the bowls in the sink and setting them to dry, allowing her thoughts to wander. She hasn’t seen a hair or heard a word from Max for a week, and while that thought alone should bring a smile to her face, it only makes her brows furrow because somehow that’s made everything worse.
The tattoo comes to mind. Every once in a while, she can feel its presence; it’s more of a weight than a pain, a reminder that it exists, that it’s in her skin. Not like she really needs to be reminded when she looks at it every morning, checking to see if it’s still there, disappointed every time it is. She swears it’s been changing, though – one less leaf, three less seeds, a slight sagging of the fruit, as if aging – and while it wouldn’t entirely surprise her, she can’t find any sort of explanation for it and so prefers to live in denial.
Then the dreams have gotten more vivid, if that were possible. Now she can make out faces and distinct features of the pairs that run through them, although she never remembers them when she wakes up but sometimes she swears she knows them, like old friends she’s lost touch with. Not only that, but they’ve taken over her daydreams, too, and more than once she’s spaced out in the middle of a conversation, prompting several of her friends to question if she’s been getting enough sleep.
She sighs as she grabs the last and largest bowl with one hand, her sponge in the other. It’s heavier than she thought it would be, so much so that she looks down to see what could possibly be weighing it down.
Pomegranates.
It’s full of the fruit, cut open and looking ripe, on the verge of going rotten.
She lets out a mangled curse as she drops the bowl and sponge into the sink, her eyes wide with panic and her hands go to her mouth as her stomach sinks. No, she thinks as her mouth becomes acidic and her pulse goes wild, This freaky shit is not allowed to happen in my house. Not when I’ve been avoiding Warren, not when I still haven’t found an answer after hours of research. But even when it’s obscured by the sink, she can see the outlines of a pomegranate peeking from the bowl and taunting her, just out of reach like everything else in her life right now.
Realizing what a cacophony of noise she’s unleashed in the kitchen, she looks over to the archway to the rest of the house, pausing and holding her breath, releasing it once she realizes she’s at least managed to still not wake her parents (and that’s a small mercy because she has no idea how she would explain why she just screamed to either of them).
Swallowing the knot of anxiety in her throat, she turns to look back at the sink and face the fruit, only to find that the bowl is now empty. Her lips part in shock and she steps forward, lifting the bowl and looking around the sink, at the counter, on the floor, and finding no trace of a pomegranate. She sets the bowl back in the sink, her eyes wide and dazed as she pounds away at the last of her sanity. None of this is possible. Did she just imagine it? Maybe it’s all finally gotten to her. But just what “it” is she still doesn’t have the faintest clue, but it’s having a very real effect on the rest of her life and that’s what leaves her shaking.
She vaguely registers the ding of the timer and without a thought she opens the oven and reaches down for the first tray of cookies.
And immediately she cries out in pain and retracts her hand, realizing that in her trance she’s foregone getting some sort of potholder and instead just grabbed hot metal with her bare hand. She mutters four-letter words under her breath as she feels the burn forming on the fingers of her right hand, even as she runs cold water over them. It does nothing to soothe the pain, nor the new storm of questions that take over her mind.
One particularly bitter thought stands out amongst the rest as she hisses, “And I bet he’s just sleeping like a baby, forgetting all about what happened.”
“Fuck!”
Max sits up in bed, grabbing his right hand as pain shoots through his fingers. He has no idea what’s happened; he’d fallen asleep an hour ago, but now he stumbles through his dark room, his vision blurry without his contacts (that he certainly won’t be putting in now at 12:16 am), and his mind too focused on the ache in his hand to bother grabbing his glasses.
He figures he must have slept on it wrong, but that would leave a bruise at worst, not this searing fire on his fingertips. There’s a chance he smacked it on something in his sleep, but what on earth would cause him to punch something so hard? It’s the best explanation he has though as he stumbles into his bathroom in the hope that cold water will help.
When he turns on the bathroom lights (and after he’s temporarily blinded further from the stark shift of darkness to light), he stares at his hand, his confusion nearly enough to forget the pain altogether.
“A burn?” he thinks out loud, finally snapping out of his reverie to turn on the cold water and thrust his hand under, thankful for the small relief it offers, “How the hell did I burn my hand? And in my sleep?”
There’s no way it can be right, but the blond struggles to find an explanation as he stares at his right hand, stares at the burn he can’t explain. He feels a weight on the back of his shoulder blade, right where a tattoo he also can’t explain is.
He turns off the water and goes back to bed, refusing to stay up a moment longer, to think about a certain brunette a moment longer and the words he cut her off with.
We keep on staying as far away from each other as possible, and nothing else will happen.
And he goes to sleep repeating the mantra, willing himself to believe it and ignore the pain of the burn on his hand that proves it all wrong.
They first meet in the orchard, under a tree ripe and flourishing with fruit. Her cheeks are as flushed and brilliant as the apples, her eyes are twinkling in the light of the spring sun. His face is tanned and fresh as the dew, his smile is as gentle as the morning breeze.
“You seem lost.”
“And so do you.”
They laugh and step closer together.
“What are you doing here alone?”
“Looking for trouble.”
“You’ve found it.”
He bows like a knight but grins like a sinner, and she bites her smirk to keep it from growing into a giggle, because she’s utterly charmed by the street cat in front of her, but something within her knows none of this can end well – something in her knows it has never ended well for them.
“I was told not to talk to strangers.”
“I don’t think we’ll be strangers for long.”
They were never strangers to begin with.
“Beryl?”
“Huh?” The girl snaps her head up, out of another vivid daydream she never realized she fell into, disoriented, as though she’s stepped out of another time.
The stage manager of the fall play, a Senior named Quinn, raises a brow, their face relaxing into a laugh as they tell the girl, “We’re on break. There are snacks in the green room.”
“Right. Thanks,” Beryl nods, watching Quinn walk back to their makeshift station in the theater, no doubt going through the changed blocking of this run of Act 1. She sighs, standing and stretching before making her way backstage, realizing that in the short time between her exit and the end of the act, she’s felt like she’s lived through an entire lifetime.
The rest of the cast of New Haven’s fall mainstage show is already back here, chatting or snacking or going over lines. Beryl joins them with a distracted smile, grabbing a granola bar and heading over to where Payton is sitting, chatting to a group of Freshmen who look as nervous as usual.
Payton beams, turning back to the three girls as she cheers, “Beryl will tell you guys, and you’ll have to trust her because she’s being doing theater here every year.”
“Trust me with what?” the girl asks as she takes a bite of her granola bar, looking between one of her best friends and the three tittering girls.
The blonde of the trio rats her friend out as she blurts, “Sunny said the M-word on-stage during the party scene.”
The small Korean girl’s eyes widen as she argues, “I didn’t know what to talk about while we were supposed to be gossiping so I just started talking about what you read in English classes here and –“
“And nothing’s going to happen,” Payton soothes, placing a reassuring hand on the girl’s arm while her friends look less than convinced.
Beryl lets out a chuckle, and gives the girl a wink as she tells her, “Well, unlike Payton, I do believe in it, but nothing catastrophic will happen. You’ll probably just have a little bad luck today in rehearsal, but unless you have sage or rosemary to burn and feel like doing a couple laps around the theater, you’ll just have to stick it out.”
“I forgot you’re superstitious,” Payton faux-groans, throwing in a pout for good measure. “That probably wasn’t much of a comfort for the Freshmen.”
The third girl, a tall transfer student from South Africa asks with a shake in her voice, “But nothing horrible will happen? Because I’ve heard stories about people dying over this.”
Beryl and Payton exchange a knowing look before Beryl takes a final bite of her granola bar and explains, “Well, it depends on the ghosts you have in the theater. We only have two here and they’re both friendly, so I doubt they’ll do anything besides mess with you a little.”
“We have ghosts here?” the blonde whispers, the trio now looking sufficiently creeped out.
But before they can bolt or interrogate the upperclassmen further, Quinn appears in the doorway and announces, “Finish up your snacks and then places for the top of Act 1.”
“Thank you places,” comes the chorus of the cast as they begin to shuffle out of the room and to the stage. The trio of Freshmen share a final nervous look before scurrying ahead, whispering amongst themselves and nearly running into a wall from how distracted they are by their own nerves.
Payton follows after Beryl, both of them getting into place for their grand entrance halfway through the first scene. “You don’t think we scared them too badly, do you?” Payton whispers as the scene unfolds, the two girls watching from the wings as their friends try to practice blocking with set pieces they don’t yet have and reading lines that aren’t nearly memorized yet.
Beryl shakes her head, giving her friend a cheeky grin as she holds out her arm for her to take, their entrance upon them as they begin to walk out of the wings, the brunette laughing, “We’re doing a turn-of-the-century romantic comedy, not Spiderman the Musical; what’s the worst that’s going to happen?”
Max can still feel the burn on his right hand, and his fingers twitch as he gets into position for the next practice play. He crouches but his mind stays high above him, in a daydream that he can’t shake himself out of that only leads him to question just what happened last night. No matter how hard he pushes it to the back of his mind, he can’t shake the feeling that it has something to do with a certain girl he’s avoided for a week.
“Hut!” His body is on auto-pilot as he feels the football being passed to him and stands, automatically jogging back and to the left. It’s nothing, he assures himself, even as he can feel the tattoo on his shoulder blade, just like he can feel the burn in his hand, It doesn’t have anything to do with her. But what if it is? Did I get a burn because I haven’t seen her, as a punishment sort of thing? That would be pretty random though. Maybe it has to do with us being connected? Ugh, great, I’m thinking about this when I know for a fact that –
All of his thoughts and breath are knocked out of him by a powerful tackle, one that sends the football flying out of his hands and his body crashing onto the turf. He struggles to breathe, short gasps escaping him as he keeps his mind as calm as possible. Give it a minute, he thinks to himself, You’re okay, just give it a minute.
“Shit!” the football player on top of him hisses, quickly scrambling to his feet. The tackle came from a burly Junior by the name of Ignacio, who now looks mortified and quickly takes off his helmet, looking down at the quarterback as he manages to stutter out, “Dude, I’m so sorry, really, I just – you didn’t pass, and I thought –“
Max manages to throw a small series of rude gestures at the boy that simultaneously let him know he’s fine and he’s going to return the favor the second he isn’t gasping for breath. Ignacio bites his lip and nods, running over to the group of players that have gathered a few yards away, keeping an eye on their star player as he lays on the turf, wheezing.
Stupid, he chides himself, finally feeling his diaphragm come back to life and allowing him to sit up slowly, removing his helmet and taking deep breaths, I can’t let her distract me. None of this should be distracting me.
“Damn Ignacio, that was some tackle,” a linebacker chuckles humorlessly, letting out a low whistle. Max listens to the group’s conversation but keeps his eyes on the turf in front of him, glaring.
“Yeah, you’re getting good man.”
“Too bad Warren’s going to murder you for it.”
“Honestly, dude should just be thankful; can you imagine what would have happened if he were any smaller?”
“That would have destroyed him!”
He feels the burn on his hand and the knot in his stomach, but he pushes them aside as he stands and puts his helmet back on because there’s no way that would be possible, and even if it is, it isn’t his fault.
But he can’t get rid of the nervous lump in his throat and the feeling that something is going horribly wrong at a different high school.
“Beryl!”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, she just,” Payton cries, cutting herself off and trying to keep her own breathing steady as she watches her best friend crumple next to her, collapsing onto the ground with wide eyes and short gasps that do nothing but steal the air from her lungs. “She just fell! Beryl?”
The other students on stage whisper with fearful and concerned looks, some trying to get closer and others not able to look. Their drama teacher and director, Ms. Therman, and Quinn are quick to get on stage, clearing the premise and giving the small brunette space to breathe, making all the other students except Payton go backstage for a minute.
Ms. Therman turns to her stage manager as she orders calmly, “Quinn, get a water bottle and see if the nurse is still on campus. Don’t call her, but we might need her.”
They nod and head off, leaving Payton to stare in fear as Beryl’s breathing continues short, shaky, and scratching. Ms. Therman looks at the girl’s eyes, asking in a hushed tone, “Beryl? Can you hear me? Please nod if you can.”
The brunette doesn’t quite manage to as her eyes become glazed over and she feels her body shaking and her mind racing. I’m dying, she thinks, and the tears in her eyes release without her ever realizing as she feels herself suffocating.
“What’s happening?”
“I think she got the wind knocked out of her somehow,” the young drama teacher tells Payton, explaining, “But it looks like she’s having a panic attack. Do you know if she’s had one before?”
“She said she used to have them a lot growing up, but I don’t think she’s had any recently, at least not for the past few months,” Payton explains, slowly and carefully reaching her hand out for Beryl’s right, noting the burn as she gently holds her hand. The prep looks over at their drama teacher, hesitantly telling her, “I know how to help calm her down.”
Ms. Therman nods and stands, giving the two girls space while keeping her eyes intently on them, watching as Payton takes both of Beryl’s hands, giving them a light squeeze as she whispers, “Beryl? I’m right here. You’re okay.”
I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can feel myself dying
“You’re in the auditorium. You’re okay.”
What’s happening oh god I don’t want to die but I am
“The wind got knocked out of you but you’ll be able to breathe normally in a minute. You’re okay.”
Payton’s here it’s okay but I’m still suffocating
“You’re going to be just fine.”
And even when her body lets her breathe once more, her mind is trapped and she can feel the burn and tattoo weigh down on her. Beryl sits up, Payton shifting with her but keeping her hold on her hands, grounding her as the girl stops shaking but continues to be unresponsive, her breathing ragged and her eyes wild.
“Everything is okay.”
But now she’s sure that it isn’t.
*takes a long time to post the next chapter of an mcxmax fic* *no hint of mcxmax in the chapter* ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Tfw ignoring your problems makes them worse