for the best friend and most chaotic member of the garbage gang @kazxmp
The throbbing headache that pounds to the beat of the hammer grows more painful by the minute, and it is exactly then that he decides that he's not going to put up with this anymore.
To be fair, he has been advised to stay somewhere else and there was ample warning about the noise, but this is just ridiculous. When nothing is being hammered, it's being drilled and when nothing is being drilled, something is beeping or some godforsaken machine mimics the sound of a plane engine right outside his window.
He doesn't know whether they're repairing a busted pipe, installing a new streetlamp, repaving the whole street or just playing some potentially deadly joke on him. At some point, he'd lost enough will to live to give a shit about it.
All he knows is that he has to get away from the building before he's going to snap.
Or, at least, he plans to.
There is nothing polite or timid about the way his fist bangs against the door in a poor excuse for a knock. But there doesn't have to be any of it. Because he doesn't have to be polite or timid around this particular apartment's resident anyway. In fact, he might find himself at the receiving end of a sucker punch if he'd start behaving friendly, and he would neither question nor contest it.
“Kaz, open the door, or I'll find another way in.” Despite the threat they present, his words come out in a sing-song, as if to minimize the severity of it. Maxim is sure that his best friend knows him well enough to recognize that he will find another way in, if he loses his patience. It’s a trait of their friendship that might seem fucked up to others, but is strangely unsurprising to either of them.
The cup feels warm against his palm, and he actively fights the temptation to sneak a sip. But he can’t. It’s not for him. And it’s not for Kaz either. In fact, it’s for the one who’s likely in there—the one Maxim owes an apology to for stealing away the tattoo artist for a night.
