What about Maxwell and Jacobi and heartbreak?
“I fucked up,” Jacobi said.
Maxwell gave him a measuring look. “Yeah, you did,” she said.
“Gee, thanks.”
She snorted. “If you wanted unconditional sympathy you should have gone to someone else.”
“You could stand to sugar-coat things a bit,” Jacobi protested. He went around her into her apartment and headed straight for the kitchen.
“Did I invite you in?” she demanded, shutting the door.
“You didn’t tell me to go away.”
“I still might.”
“You still might,” he agreed. “Wait, you have alcohopops? Are you a teenager?”
“Bring your own crappy booze next time.”
Jacobi found some flavoured vodka, tried a sip, and choked. “You could at least make an effort.”
“I’ve got wine, like a civilised person. If you ask nicely.”
Jacobi groaned. “Please, Doctor Maxwell, pretty please, can I have a little of your wine? Just a bottle or two.”
“And you called me a teenager?” Maxwell poured them both glasses. “Here. So. Tell me about how you fucked things up with Klein.”
“It sounds like you already know.”
“I do know, because he messaged me. In case I felt honour-bound to side with you and never talk to him again or something.” She snorted.
“What did he say?”
“That’s none of your business. Any more.”
Jacobi dropped onto the couch and raked a hand through his hair. “I know. I know it’s my fault. But dammit –”
“Daniel.”
“I’m an idiot,” Jacobi said.
“Yeah.”
“An insensitive idiot.”
“Yeah.”
“An insensitive idiot who takes his boyfriend for granted and doesn’t make the effort to think about how his actions affect other people.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what Klein told me,” Maxwell said. “He did say he explained it to you, but he wasn’t sure if you were actually listening or whether you were too busy thinking up sarcastic comebacks to each point.”
Jacobi dropped his head onto the arm of the couch. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“He really did break up with me, didn’t he? For real.”
“Yes, he did,” Maxwell said. Gently.
“What can I do?”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you right now,” Maxwell said. “Give him time. He’ll either change his mind or he won’t.”
Jacobi groaned. “No,” he said. “What can I do right now?”
“Oh,” Maxwell said. She considered. “Drink more wine and play Battlefield 3 with me?”
“Sounds good,” Jacobi said. “Good talk.”
“As in, talking’s over now?” Maxwell asked, to confirm.
“Yep. Enough talking, time for some cathartic gun violence. And you could let me win. For once.”
“Earn it yourself,” Maxwell said. She tossed a controller to him. “Come on. Play.”
