1200 words, Max/Daniel, University AU
Previous Part, or read on AO3!
⚠️ contains themes of abus3 proceed with care ⚠️
“Het spijt me heel erg, papa.”
“Im sorry”
His own voice quivers so gently it breaks off a piece of his own heart. It wavers through the cold until it reaches where Jos is standing, face red with anger. His fist is balled by his side, the other clenching the tabletop with white knuckles. Max is shivering, the wind outside only picking up harder as he tries his best not to show his distress.
Never show weakness.
“Jij verdomde waardeloze jongen, je bent net als je moeder, een vuile hoer.”
“You fucking worthless boy, you are just like your mother, a filthy whore.”
His words crack across the room like a whip, sharp where they sting in Max’s chest. He avoids looking at his father’s eyes, refuses to make contact for fear of what he might see. It only makes his anger brew deeper, Max can hear his footsteps echo over the sound of his own heart, thudding in time. He braces himself for the impact, but it never comes.
“Max! I was loading up a new track and-”
Everything freezes around him, slow motion as he turns to see Charles. Max his face twists from confusion to fear, and then rage, something dangerous flashing across the 12 year old’s green eyes.
The air is tense where Max waits, helpless to the situation as he watches Jos lower his hand. The silence stretches endlessly as he grabs his keys from the table, both boys watching him leave out the front door with a slam. It floods the room with cold air and the second the door shuts Max’s knees go weak, sliding his back down the wall until he meets the coolness of the tile floor. Charles is over him in seconds, his eyes darting between the scene helplessly until he settles on pulling Max to his chest. Max doesn't even register that he is crying, not until the wet sensation tickles his neck and Charles begins to apologise profusely in french.
That night Max packs a bag, fills it with everything he can, most of the things in his room feel tainted, so it isn't much that he takes. He leaves the posters of cars on his walls, the karting trophies, his first medal, the only thing he does take from the wall is a faded picture of his mum. He presses it to his chest momentarily before tucking it safely away in his bag. He wants so badly to take their cat, Victoria begging him to smuggle the creature into Charles’ dad’s car, Max has to explain that the kitty can't come with them, and Charles tries to cheer her up by showing her pictures of his dog. It doesn't immediately stop her tears, but it seems to sate her enough for the time being.
It's the last time he ever sees his house. The next few months spent with social workers and people who are desperate to tear him and Victoria apart, placement homes filled with odd smells and mean kids. Max is pretty used to the foster process by the time he is 15, 3 years of being rehomed, 3 years of new introductions and empty promises.
Charles’ family is more than happy for Max and Victoria to stay with them forever, but feeding them all quickly becomes a struggle, and while they never say it, Max can tell they are relieved when he announces they are going to seek out a placement house.
GP, is introduced to Max the same way all the other parents are, the social worker offers him the sofa as the taller man sits opposite him. She does some brief introductions, says a name Max won't remember, has no need to, before straightening out her skirt and leaving them to ‘get to know each other’. It makes Max roll his eyes.
He knows what they have probably told this guy, that he isn't just shy, that Max is mean, rude, ignorant, that he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. Max is well aware he is labeled as a difficult case, he knows his file is twice the size of the normal kids. It's curious to him that this guy hasn't left already, and it dawns on Max that he must be one of the fix-it types.
Thats okay, even they will return him once they see how fucked up he really is.
“Hi Max, you can call me GP.”
GP
He rolls the name around in his mouth before giving a noncommittal nod.
“You can call me Max.”
The man seems somewhat amused with Max, raising his eyebrows with a smirk,
“Just Max?”
“Just Max.”
“Its nice to meet you then, just Max.”
So this guy thinks he is funny. Max scrunches up his nose, and locates the nearest clock, perches over the opposite doorway. He watches the seconds tick.
“Ive heard lots about you,”
And that sets Max farther off on the wrong foot, because what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? ‘Yeah, my mom died and my dad beat the shit out of me and now I hate everyone?’.
“Dont people like you have wives?”
It's the first thing he can think of to spit out, he sees the wedding band on the man’s hand, eyes returning to his face as he waits to gauge his response.
“They do typically, yes, but my wife is recently passed.”
And there is something about the calm way that he says it, infinite patience as Max watches him from across the table, it stirs something in him. Something grossly like sympathy.
“I hope that isn't an issue?”
And Max softens, shakes his head before the woman returns to the room, ushering him out so Victoria can have her turn. And GP offers him a smile as he leaves, a smile that feels different from every other one. For a moment Max lets his walls down, lets himself hope.
Later on it makes him angry, how easy it was to deconstruct his reservations towards the man, he vows to never let it happen again. Except 2 months later he is sitting in a room too nicely furnished for someone like him, eating dinner in a kitchen void of anger, living in a home without any threat of violence.
-
“Maxxxx, my wonderful, wonderful Max!”
Max groans at the sound of Charles’ shrill voice beside his ear, he keeps his door unlocked for the most part. Unbothered with finding the key every time he decides to venture out, however this marks the third consecutive time Charles has broken in in the last hour and max is convinced he might just lose it.
“What is it?”
“Always so blunt, have a little whimsy.”
“I can't have whimsy around you Leclerc. What the fuck even is whimsy?”
“None of your worries mon cher, now, econ?”
And Charles has the largest green puppy eyes Max cant say no, so he shuts his laptop with a resolute thud. Pushing away from his desk so his chair spins slightly.
“Fine, fine.”
It makes Charles absolutely glow, and Max feels his chest heat slightly, following close behind as they make their way to the common room. Yes, he is very lucky to have met Charles, even if he is most definitely one of the most annoying people on earth.
The rough draft/first half of my montage for creative writing
The scrape of plastic against asphalt runs shrilly through the air, filling it, drowning out even the hum of cars on the main street. Your laugh barely caries over the noise; it resonates with joy. Joy in the sound waves, woven in tightly with naiveté and youth. But I don’t know that yet, I don’t hear it. All I know is that friendships can be made quickly and that I’m finding this entire situation utterly hilarious.
The moment we spotted the tv on the sidewalk we knew what to do; we had to drag it up to my house. Sure, I already had a tv, and sure, this thing was as vintage as it was useless, but neither of us had backpacks that day and we had more time than we knew what to do with.
Eleven. What a beautiful age, perched on the precipice of puberty, finding excitement in everything. So there we were, one-week-old friends, dragging the old tv by the cord through backyards, across roads, up hills. You’re in the lead, poised, on a mission, your waist-length blonde gleaming in the afternoon sun. I’m content to follow, my steps still primed with paranoid caution that has yet to dissipate from an overly protected upbringing. Spring peaks its head between the naked branches and encourages our exploits.
I let your cigarette smoke gather in a mist around my shoulders. It’s the only thing that’s protecting me from you; from having to look you in the eyes and see your hatred, the loathing that you carry in the depths of your pupils, the down-turned smirk of distrust that lines your once crease-less face.
Days like today make me question which of us is the crazy one.
You spit on the concrete in front of me, and it spreads out, yellow, stretching disgusting arms of saliva, nicotine, and sunflower seed remnants towards me. I don’t even cringe this time. I’m used to it. It took me three years of devotion, but I don’t try anymore, don’t react. I care, but I keep my eyes glazed over.
“Fuck.” So poignant you are, my friend. You release the angry word and it stampedes forward, I watch its shadow disappear around the corner, and we’re quiet once more. It’s summer and we have nowhere to go, in a literal and figurative sense.
Have I told you that I love you? No, not today. Today is reserved for passive aggression and stolen glances. It’s at the point where we no longer simply catalyze each others’ sadness, but perversely observe it. When one head is down turned, the other is craning for a look. It’s like a car crash; violent but irresistible for spectators.
“Fuck,” I agree. We sit in silence for a few minutes before walking back towards your house, knowing that we’ll have less to say when we get there and that you’re out of cigarettes.
The world of night becomes instantaneously illuminated, every detail vivid, and then descends back into an impenetrable darkness. We’re both screaming, unaware of time, space, of ourselves. The summer heat carries us forward, rationale gone, bodies frenzied. There is no reason to be running, we are barefoot and the asphalt is rough, but we run. The 3 am lightening storm tolerates our transcending of day-time etiquette.
“Meri don’t go into Mass Ave!” The second you turn the corner my instinct kicks in; police won’t take too kindly to two girls, clad in bathing suits, running shrieking through the streets. You turn back long enough to stick out your tongue, and the storm provides a perfectly timed spotlight. But the gesture is your only defiance. You slow down, begin to run backwards, and it’s electrifying. The town is in black and white but your eyes are blue. For a moment I stop breathing; what are we?
The thought escapes into the night as we walk back to your house, drenched in warm rain and thinking about the comfort of bed. We fail to notice how each other’s presence is more important. It’s only the first week of summer and no one’s home to yell at us for our foray into the night. We take each other for granted tonight, but it’s ok, because time is endless.
Oh god I don’t have time. Red. Red, everything’s red. Drenched. Soaked. Fuck, is this all yours? How can such a small body have so much blood; how can such a small body lack so much blood? Oh my god, I should call the police. The ambulance. Fuck, your dad’s gonna kill you. I guess it doesn’t matter, you got there first.
The phone feels like ice against my face, your hand feels like ice against my hand. Fuck, are you even breathing? I slap you; a groan. Good. Good, no bad. Fuck. “Hello, yes, I have an emergency, my friend’s losing a lot of blood..” Is that my voice? It can’t be, so steady, so calm. If anything it’s tired, fatigued with the suddenness of the situation, the unexpected emergency.
But it is expected. You’ve been threatening for days now. I thought it was a ploy for attention. So did everyone. “As fast as you can, please!” The whites of your eyes; is that the last I’ll see of you? I wrap your wrists in a t-shirt, but it bleeds through immediately. I tie off your upper arm with a hair band, and that slows it a bit. Not enough; the floor looks like it’s been painted. The sirens. Red. Red like your arms. Blue. Blue like your eyes. Time never existed.
“She’s bipolar?” My mom’s look is dripping condescension. “Ya, but, whatever, it’s ok.” I hate talking about you to her. She doesn’t get it. You’re my best friend. It doesn’t matter if you can get a little crazy sometimes. I mean, how boring would it be if your temperament was consistent? Like mine. I’m so boring, so bland in comparison to your eccentricities. Usually I can wave off this topic, but she's walked head-first into a screaming match. She doesn't get it; in two hours or so, everything will be normal again. It always is.
"I think I want you to spend less time with her," my mother continues. "I just...I just don't feel...comftorable. With...people..like her." I'm discusted; how can she write you off so easily? She doesn't know how quick you are to laugh. How many nights we've spent talking about the nature of the universe. How many days we spent wandering through the streets. How much time has been claimed in both our names. "She's my best friend mom." I leave the room and feel her discontentment stamped on the back of my head.
