Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

'Cause I was never told that I wasn't gonna get
The things I want the most
But people always say, "If it hasn't happened yet
Then maybe you should go"

-From California by Chappell Roan

Max feels infinite. He feels unstoppable. Like he's on the top of the world. The bass of the club pounds in his ears and thrums through his blood, hips swaying to the beat. He’s sandwiched between a writhing mob of sweaty bodies. Their breath, lips, tongues against his skin, every inch of him dripping with lasciviousness.

Hands grab, touch, and tease. His body language is loose, open. Aura practically screaming: touch me, touch me, touch me. He feels like a god. Like young Hercules in his prime.

Someone grabs him by the front of his mesh top, tugging him close and kissing him hard. They taste like juice and liquor, breath hot, tongue searching. Max kisses back, groping, grinding. Their bodies pressing together in a wall of muscle and heat in the dim light of the club.

God, he feels invincible. 

The fluorescent lights of the bathroom hum when another stranger—or maybe the same one who kissed him on the dance floor, Max is too blissed out to care—shoves him into a bathroom stall. The air smells sickly sweet. Human excrement mixed with deodorizer and cleaning solution. It’s almost oppressive the way it burns his nostrils and sticks in his lungs, but that thought is short lived when the stranger cups him through his pants. 

Max’s eyes close and he tips his head back, leaning his body against the graffitied beige wall. The bathroom stall rattles beneath his weight and it sends a thrill of fear down his spine. He clenches his stomach muscles and adjusts his stance. Putting more weight on his legs than on the wall to keep himself upright.

The stranger drops to their knees in front of him, pressing their cheek to Max's thigh. They press their mouth against his hardening cock, blowing hot air. 

Max moans, one of his hands rising to pet through the strangers hair. 

“God, Max, you’re so hot,” the stranger says, nuzzling their face into Max’s groin like they can’t get enough of him. 

Max’s eyes pop open. 

“You know me?” he asks, sounding confused.

The stranger looks up at him. They have tan skin and big brown eyes. Their lips are thick and wet like they’ve just licked them.

Max feels his cock jump at the sight.

“Yeah,” the stranger says, hands coming up to deftly undo the button and zip of Max’s pants. “Saw the announcement on Powerline’s instagram earlier. Lead dancer and choreographer for his world tour, right? Congratulations man.”

“Thanks,” Max answers, fighting back the urge to gloat about his achievements. He’s worked so hard for so long to get to this point in his career, but he knows they don’t care about that. All anyone ever cares about in this town is who you are, not the parts of yourself you sacrificed to get there.

The stranger tugs Max’s pants and boxers down, grinning up at him when his cock slides free, hard and practically throbbing. 

“The picture they used doesn’t do you justice.”

“Well, I’m not half naked and about to get my dick sucked by someone pretty in that picture,” Max smirks, tracing his thumb along the seam of the stranger’s lips.

“It’s certainly a good look on you,” the stranger says, moving their head to try and lick at the tip of Max’s cock.

“Ah, ah,” Max says, stilling them and craning down to reach into his pocket and pull out a condom.

The stranger watches with a raised eyebrow. 

“I’m just giving you head, man,” they say.

“Safety first,” Max responds, rolling the condom down his length. “Always.” Max presses his fingers beneath the stranger’s chin, leading their mouth back up toward his cock. “Even for mouth stuff.”

Max caresses the stranger’s cheek gently, watching their mouth open and their pink tongue dart out to taste the condom. They make a face, pulling back a little as they smack their lips.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” they say before leaning up again and swallowing down the entire length of him. 

Max sighs, leaning back against the rickety wall, letting his thoughts go blissfully blank.

Max wakes slowly.

There’s a pressure on his neck, his chest, his wrist, and distantly, he can hear someone talking. The cadence of their voice is fast-paced, like they’re panicked, but he can’t quite make out the words.

“—seatbelt—” someone is saying.

“—contact—” another voice responds back.

His thoughts are like syrup dripping down slowly. His body floats in the ether.

What the fuck did he take last night?

He’s usually so careful. Alcohol, MDMA, marijuana, occasional cocaine, but less now with the fentanyl problem. Maybe what he took last night was laced. He usually doesn't get this fucked up. 

“—on something?—”

Max feels strange. His consciousness climbs higher to the surface, a white light shining down on him. Blurry figures. The rumble of a moving vehicle. 

When did he leave the club?

He could’ve sworn he was still there.

His body doesn’t surface with him. It stays down below his consciousness. His arms feel numb, but his legs don’t feel like anything at all. Everything else just floats. 

“Are you with us, Max?” A stranger is asking.

His vision swims, but his ears start to work overtime. There’s suddenly so many sounds all at once. Beeping, rumbling, speaking, the sound of scissors and fabric, the tink, tink, tink of something being dropped into metal. 

Max opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a wordless groan. His throat burns with the force of it. 

“As here as you’re gonna be, I guess,” the stranger continues and Max tries to open his eyes. His vision is still blurry with black around the edges like he’s hit his head on something. 

What the fuck fucking happened?

He wants to ask, but he can’t get his mouth to cooperate with his head. God. He suddenly feels so tired. Whatever he took tonight is coming back to bite him in the fucking ass. He’s gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.

“Hey. Listen, bud,” the stranger says, “you’ve been i—”

Max drops off again. Consciousness abruptly fading back to white noise.

It feels strange.

Off.

He can't

quite—

Max surfaces again. The rumble of a moving vehicle is gone, replaced by a flurry of motion. Part of his body surfaces with him, stabbing pain flowing up and down his arms.

It feels almost like he’s being burned from the inside out. 

“—contact still isn’t answering—” someone is saying. Different voices than there were the first time. Or maybe he’s misremembering. 

“—searching his phone for mom or—”

“Dad,” Max rasps out, voice finally returning. “No mom, just dads.” His throat feels rough, like someone’s choked him just a little bit too hard.

Fuck.

What happened?

Pain flows through his arms, his chest, his abdomen then back up. Like the lights on a marquee. It goes around and around and around, but never past his waist. Maybe there’s a broken circuit somewhere. 

“You with us, sweetheart?” A soft feminine voice asks.

Max feels a gentle pressure on his arm. It sets off alarm bells beneath his skin. He hisses in pain. 

“Sorry,” The voice says, removing the pressure. “How long has it been since he’s had something for pain?”

Max can hear papers rustling. He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids are so heavy he can’t seem to get them unstuck from one another.

“About time for more, I’d say,” Someone else responds. 

Max feels confused. His thoughts are less sluggish now, but he still feels a thousand steps behind. 

“What happened?” Max asks. His words are a slow, sleepy drawl. His head is starting to ache, joining the circuit of the pain marquee. 

“—Honey, you—”

Max drifts again. Pain sparking beneath his skin and invading his senses. Everything fades to unintelligible sound. 

“—up to CT—”

“—his dad—”

“—finally on her way—”

“—emergency surgery—”

His head feels like the static between stations on the radio. Sometimes catching errant words that don’t make sense without the context surrounding them. 

He tunes in and out. Pain marquee flashing, flashing, flashing like an unread message until it isn’t.

Max wakes to someone holding his hand. His body floats, drifting like the current of the sea. He feels like paint being spilled into water, an impermanent and incomplete stain of pollution. 

“Max?” A familiar voice asks.

His chest rises. His innards move with each breath. Trembling inside of him like the interior of a water bed. 

“Christina,” Max practically sighs, his eyelids slowly opening. They feel heavy, stuck together like glue.  

He tries to move his hand to rub his eyes, but all it does is twitch uselessly at his side. Like something heavy is weighing down on his limbs, preventing him from moving.

Max makes a distressed sound, closing his eyes shut tighter. A beeping from somewhere in the room gets louder, faster. 

“Hey, baby, it’s okay,” Christina says, “You’re okay. You’re stable.”

Stable from what, he wants to ask, but he can’t quite stem the mounting panic flooding into his veins. 

Christina’s hand unwinds from his and he can hear her stand, shuffling through the space. A door opens.

“Nurse?” Christina is asking. “Or a doctor? Someone?”

Max’s heart races. He manages to squeeze his hands into fists. Everything feels stiff. Everything except

his legs

fuck 

he doesn’t think he can feel his legs.

He wrenches his eyes open, vision blurring in the sudden bright white light. Max tries to twist his head, roll over, something, but his body stays completely still. 

There’s a flurry of movement, several people entering the room all at once. This does nothing to resolve the mounting panic rising beneath his skin. 

“Mr. Goof, hey, it’s okay,” someone is saying. “It’s normal to feel a little out of sorts following surgery.”

Their face comes into view. A tall woman with dark skin and kind brown eyes. She’s wearing scrubs and a white lab coat with Dr. Kaneko stitched on the front. She places her hand on his arm.

Max barely feels the touch this time, but the comfort still registers. 

“What happened?” Max questions in a wrecked whisper. It’s the loudest he can get his volume to go.

Dr. Kaneko’s expression changes, the warmth and softness fading to surprise, grief, and finally stone. 

“Mr. Goof, you were in an accident.”

Max is in free-fall. The precarious foundation on which he built his life in LA crumbles from beneath him. Everything he’s worked for. Gone in an instant. 

All of

his dreams

turn to ash

on his tongue.

He becomes another washed up relic of the past. Chewed up and spit out by the City of Angels.

There is no coming back from this.

At first, despite the pain, despite the long road to recovery, Max tries. He stays in LA. He becomes reliant on his fiance. He tries to rely on his ever-shrinking friend group. 

Max forces himself to be optimistic. An incomplete spinal cord injury isn’t a death sentence. It’s the end of his career, sure, but he can still fall back on something else. He just needs to keep trying.

Max is desperate to hold onto the dying light of his dream. 

Until,

“Max, this is just too hard,” Christina says. She’s got tears in her eyes, watching as Max struggles to maneuver himself up out of their bed and into his wheelchair. 

It’s still a little new to him, but he’s trying. Sometimes he needs help. Anyone would.

Anyone.

Would.

“I can’t keep watching you like this. You used to be so independent. I,” she shudders and sobs, placing her face in her hands, “I feel like my life is on pause because of this. I can’t, Max. I’m going on tour again in three months and I just can’t.”

Until,

“You can’t even fuck me anymore,” Christina growls after a particularly harrowing argument. “You’re fucking broken, Max. What use are you to me like this?”

Until,

“We aren’t really looking for any seasonal help this year,” his old boss from the copy center he used to work at a long time ago between dancing gigs says. “You aren’t really, um, qualified to work here anyway.”

Until,

He doesn't go home for Thanksgiving.

He doesn't see his family for Christmas.

He avoids his father's phone calls like the plague.

Until,

“This is Adrienne with AWS, on a recorded line attempting to collect a medical debt—”

Until,

he just can’t keep trying anymore.

It’s the middle of the night in Ohio.

His dad picks up on the third ring.

“Maxie?”

“Dad.” His voice is the gasp of a death rattle. The sun setting into the ocean of the dreams he worked so hard for. Extinguishing the light. Until all that's left behind is nothing but a roaring black void.

“Come get me out of California.”

Chapter Text

The trees are barren, dead leaves decaying into mulch at their trunks, when Max and his father drive back into Ohio. U-Haul rattling unsettingly with every passing mile. 

For most of the drive, Max has felt run-down, defeated. Like he’s given up on something that used to be so fucking important to him with barely even so much as a fight.

He watches in silence

as the trees pass with barren branches

unadorned, but still alive at their core

he’d forgotten the way the seasons change

away from the evergreens

impermanence depicted as the passing of leaves

instead of people.

He's almost startled by the sense of absolute peace that washes over him. The rapid cadence of his heart slowing down to meet his Midwest roots. 

And for the first time, it feels good to be going home.

Max watches as his dad and pop unpack the U-Haul in his periphery while he sits on the front porch in his wheelchair, guilt heavy like lead in his stomach. His aunt and cousins aren't home just yet, but they'll be here soon to help set up one of the ground floor guest rooms as his. While he sits by uselessly, still healing from an accident that happened months ago. 

His dad’s new house hasn’t been retrofitted for his wheelchair yet. The three steps from the porch to the sidewalk that used to be so easy for him now insurmountable.

He

is a mess of a person

listening to the whistle of the winter wind

and the crunch of old snow beneath his dads' feet

as the sun dips lower

and lower

pulling with it his tears

wherein

he mourns the remnants of the life he never got to have

and 

the person he never got to become.

When his cousins arrive, Webby wordlessly hands him a beer from the fridge and sits with him on the porch in silence. Happy to let the boys do most of the work.

Her presence is calming. It’s nice to have someone there in his shadow, sitting on the porch swing and gazing out at the strangely captivating beauty of Ohio. It isn’t the same as the magnificence of California, it’s more understated, a place someone could only love if they buried their heart there.

Max thinks, watching his dads and cousins march in and out of the house like ants, helping him without complaint and cracking jokes, that this may well be where his heart resides. 

It’s a comforting thought. The same peace he felt when they passed the Welcome to Ohio sign on the highway washing over him once more. Making it feel like leaving California behind was somehow his choice. Like he simply loved Ohio too much to stay out west forever. 

“Do you think you’ll ever walk again?” Webby asks, drawing Max’s attention from the scenery to where she sits nursing her own drink; sparkling apple cider. 

The way she asks him this question—the question—isn’t cruel. She isn’t seeing him the way people saw him in LA. To Webby, he surmises, this is just a gateway into conversation. With a cousin she hasn’t seen in over a year. One who has very recently experienced an Incomplete Spinal Injury. 

“With a positive mindset and consistency,” Max begins, parroting his doctor from LA and every single article he came across on DuckDuckGo on the nights he would spend hours searching his condition, “many individuals are able to walk again after a spinal cord injury.”

“Not what I asked,” Webby says, standing up from the swing to come and stand next to Max. She puts her hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

Max looks up at her, setting his empty beer bottle down on the ground.

Webby is an odd duck. The long-lost daughter of his stepdad’s uncle. Raised under his roof by his housekeeper before any of them knew her family pedigree. 

His cousins have a million crazy stories just like that.

“What do you think, Max?” Webby asks. “Not your prognosis, not what your doctors have told you, not the stupid internet, you.”

Max huffs. He should’ve known Webby would’ve done her research before approaching him. Of all his cousins she’s arguably the most clever. With Huey being the only one of the triplets to give her a run for her money. 

“I think I probably shouldn’t be drinking beer considering the insane amount of painkillers I’m still on,” Max says with a shrug.

Cracking a joke

because

He

doesn’t want to talk about

the very real fear

that lives inside of him

and whispers 

clawing 

shrieking 

in a space too dark for any light to reach

that he will never come away from this

with any real dignity 

because he is so fucking tired of persevering

when he knows that all roads lead

here.

(to

nothing). 

He hears Webby gasp and he smirks up at her. She punches his shoulder then puts her hands on her hips, scowling.

“Maximilian Goof!” Webby chastises.

“Webbigail Vanderquack-McDuck,” he sasses back.

"You could've warned me!"

"Thought you would've been smarter."

"Augh!"

Webby stomps off with her arms crossed over her chest and Max can't help but smile. This is the most normal he’s felt in a long time. 

They all eat dinner together in the dining room. The table is small and square and Max’s wheelchair takes up most of the space. So Dewey, Webby, and Louie eat sitting on the floor. Leaving the table to him, his dads, Della, and Huey. It doesn’t diminish the sense of togetherness Max feels. 

Nor does it diminish the way his chest squeezes tight, watching these familial strangers, these people he left behind for California, accept him just like that. As if he were never gone at all. As if he didn't skip the last year's worth of holidays. As if he isn’t fundamentally different than the person they knew. 

He simply fits. Like a lost puzzle piece they’ve been missing.

“I’ll call the VA tomorrow to see if I can get you set up on my coverage,” his step-dad, Donald, says. His voice is scratchy and strained, almost impercievable in the wake of the laryngeal cancer he survived.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve aged out of that, pop,” Max says, taking another bite of pizza and chewing thoughtfully. “I think it cuts off at eighteen if you’re not in school. I’m twenty-three now.”

“We’ll figure something out,” his dad says, ever the optimist. “I set up an appointment for you with my general physician for this Friday, so we can start getting referrals for specialists.”

Max is nodding along. Happy to have someone else to worry about this aspect of his recovery for the time being. He’s so tired of everything being on his shoulders. It’s exhausting to have to set up appointments with practitioner after practitioner and see specialists and physical therapists on top of managing his day-to-day life. The constant stress of medical bills and low-level garbage insurance provided by the state kept him up at night. 

“What even happened?” Dewey butts in, interrupting the boring adult talk.

“Dewey!” Huey admonishes, giving Max an apologetic look. “Ignore him, you don’t have to answer.”

Max shrugs his shoulders, ignoring the pain it shoots down his back. He thinks maybe it’s time for him to take another pill, but he’s also trying to wean himself off of them.

“It’s okay,” Max says, pursing his lips. He runs his tongue along the back of his lip ring. A single stud stuck through his labret. “I uh, I don’t actually remember what happened. I woke up in the hospital and they told me I’d been in an accident. The details are really fuzzy. Apparently that’s normal.”

“The doctor didn’t tell you what happened?” Dewey presses. “Wouldn’t the paramedics on the scene have had a clue?”

“Hit and run,” Max responds, ignoring the wave of emotions that well up inside of him. A mix of rage and regret. “That’s what they said.”

Something flickers in Dewey’s eyes and Max already knows what he’s going to say before he says it.

“Do you think it could’ve been foul play?” he asks, gaze hardening. “From someone who wanted you out of the picture?”

His cousins always think like this. Like everything in the world has to have meaning. There has to be some sort of crazy lore or backstory. When sometimes, things just happen. 

“Nah,” Max says, trying his best to keep his spirits up. He hates thinking about this aspect of his accident. He doesn’t remember what happened because he was fucked up on drugs and honestly the gap in his memory haunts him to this day. “Sometimes things just happen, man. No rhyme, no reason. Just shit.”

Max stares down at the table, his second slice of pizza only half eaten. He doesn’t really have much of an appetite with the painkillers he’s on. And it isn’t like he’s burning as many calories as he used to. 

“I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

His dad’s new house is a far cry from the one he grew up in as a kid. It’s larger, sturdier, more family-oriented. With five bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a substantial backyard complete with an in-ground pool. He’s only been here a handful of times, so it’s still new to him. In that strange slightly eerie way where everything feels sort of familiar, but startlingly out of place. 

He’s sure he’ll remember this moment, wheeling himself across the hardwood floor of the den and into the bedroom his family prepared for him, feeling ever so slightly off. He’ll remember these anxious thoughts once he becomes more comfortable and wonder how he ever felt out of place in his family’s home. 

But

for now,

he is a stranger 

within the confines of these walls

and they are strangers right back to him.

“We tried to make it as homey as possible,” Della says from the doorway. She sounds nervous, but Della usually sounds nervous when dealing with the more emotional fare. 

She’s a decorated pilot in the U.S Air Force. Retired now, but in her prime she was on a decade-long undercover mission that separated her from her sons. Della never really came back the same after that. If you ask his stepdad Donald anyway. Now, she only flies private planes.

“Hard to do that with medical equipment,” Max laughs, giving Della a soft smile. He doesn’t really care how homey or presentable his room looks. As long as he can get in and out of his chair without issue, he’s happy. 

Back in LA, Christina would constantly complain about the lift handle he had to use to get in and out of bed. It’s certainly an unsightly thing, but he needs it. 

Della’s feelings of self-consciousness surrounding his new set up remind him of Christina in a way. Even though everyone has been incredibly accommodating and kind, barring Dewey’s side-bar at dinner, Max still has to remember that he’s different now; other. 

“We weren’t sure how you wanted things. We tried our best to make it work anyway.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Della. This is fine.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Della whispers.

Max lets her words wash over him. The same way he’s let everyone else’s grief wash over his skin, sticking to him like barnacles on the belly of a ship. Reminding him that he was something else before. Something better.

“I’m sorry too,” Max says, gaze settling on Della’s prosthetic leg. He knows Della means her words. He remembers how hard it was when she came back into the triplets’ lives missing a leg and all the emotional bits and bobs that made her human. 

Max had been a kid then. Watching his cousins, who mourned the loss of their mother before they were even a year old, come to terms with the stranger Della was in those days. How she had to cope with all the pieces of herself she lost to her country.

Of anyone else in this house, he knows Della has to be the only one who gets it. 

“If you need anything,” Della says and her words are so vehement, so visceral it feels like her heart is beating on the outside of her chest, tissue and sinew tangling with Max’s own. “Anything. Tell me. I’ll make it happen.”

Max closes his eyes, letting himself feel the weight of the past few weeks for the first time. How he had to pack up his life. Give up on his dream. Walk away from the only thing he’s ever really wanted.

“Sometimes,” Max begins, his voice barely above a whisper. He hasn’t had the courage to say this to anyone else, but he knows Della will understand. He knows he’s safe with her. “Even though it’s been months. I still keep thinking I’ll wake up and it’ll all have been a bad dream. Some stress-induced nightmare brought on by the tour. And I’ll have a good laugh about it. Tell Christina or one of the dancers in my company and it’ll just be some funny thing that happened. Some silly little nightmare that I survived.”

Tears are leaking down his face. Dripping onto his chin, then down his throat, catching on his shirt collar.

“But it isn’t a nightmare,” Max says, his gaze meeting Della’s and finding nothing but understanding and love in her eyes. “This is my life now. I’m never getting back everything I worked so hard for. I’ll never be that same person again. No matter how hard I work. No matter how much I want it.”

Della accepts his words, letting them settle in the space between them.

“I used to feel that way too,” Della admits, absently reaching down to rub at her knee where flesh gives way to silicone and metal. 

“How did you overcome it?” Max asks. “How did you move on?”

“It’s a long process, Max,” Della says, stepping forward to grab a box of tissues off of his new nightstand and hand it to him so he can dry his tears. “It’s different for everyone.”

Max hiccups and shudders, all of his pent up emotions loosening themselves in his chest at her words.

“You need to let yourself grieve first,” Della tells him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Give yourself time. Give yourself patience and understanding and love. Because you won’t be the same after this, Max. I’m not going to sugar coat it for you because I was so angry at everyone for sugar coating it for me. You won’t be the same, but being different isn’t so bad. There are other dreams. There are other things you can be.”

“I just want to be okay,” Max whimpers, turning his head to bury his face in Della’s forearm. His tears dripping and rolling down the leather of her pilot’s jacket.

“You will be,” Della promises, gathering him up in her arms as best she can with a wheelchair between them. “If there’s one thing I can promise you with my full chest, it's that one day you’re going to be just fine.”

Chapter Text

Max sleeps a lot more than he used to. The painkillers tend to wear him out, but it’s more than that. His body is failing him. Sleep helps with the pain, helps with the healing, but it’s frustrating when he used to be able to survive on four hours of sleep and an iced coffee.  

Now he’s lucky if he’s able to get out of bed at all most days. Rotting under his blankets for hours, body throbbing, or stabbing, or aching with pain. 

He feels betrayed by his limbs. Max is used to having full control over his body, being able to bend and twist and move in ways other people can only dream of. Now, he can barely move his legs at all. 

Max tries to remind himself of his progress. That a few months ago, his legs were completely useless. Cut off from his body, floating like paint in water. He tells himself that the fact he can sort of twitch and move them now is a testament to how hard he’s working to get his body back in shape.

Except,

this time last year he could do so much more. 

He was more.

His body was something beautiful then; 

now, 

his body feels like a cage

something to overcome

a cross to bear

shambling toward his execution

he is nothing like the beautiful thing he was.

“Mornin’, son,” his dad says once he finally peels himself out of bed to wheel out into the living room. 

It’s sometime around late afternoon. The house is mostly empty. His cousins are off at school, Aunt Della at work. The sun is still relatively high in the sky, light filtering in from the huge windows.

His dad is seated on the couch on the far side of the den watching the large TV on a low volume. It’s currently playing a commercial. Something about lawn care or pest management. Max can’t really hear what the voice over is saying.

“Why are you home?” Max asks, still a little sleepy. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Still have a week left on my leave of absence,” his dad says, leaning forward on the couch to grab the remote from the coffee table and mute the TV. “Figured I’d spend it at home with you.”

Max frowns, wheeling himself further into the room. The floor is nice and level. It feels solid and smooth beneath his wheels. Something Max has only just begun to appreciate.

“I’ll be fine on my own. It’s okay,” Max says, catching the way his father’s eyes start to shine with unshed tears. “Dad.”

“Just let me be here for you, Maxie,” his dad says, rubbing at his eyes when a few tears slip free.

“You’ve done so much already,” Max says. “You came to LA and packed up my whole place. You drove me all the way back here. It’s been weeks, dad. Don’t you miss having your own life? I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

His dad meets his gaze. They’re still too far apart to touch and absently Max finds himself moving closer.

“You’re my son, Max,” his dad says, giving him a watery smile, wiping his tears as they fall. “You are my life.”

“That’s so sad, dad,” Max laughs, trying to make a joke whilst wiping at his own eyes. He wheels himself the rest of the way, closing the distance between them and positioning his chair so he’s next to his dad at the side of the couch.

“Let me worry about what’s best for me, Maxie,” his dad says, reaching out to hold his hand. In a way he hasn’t since Max was a kid.

Max smiles down at their fingers. Letting his dad hold on to him for a few moments before popping the emotional bubble between them.

“Daaaad,” he complains, wrinkling his nose and shaking his hand free.

“Maaaax,” his dad says, mimicking his tone back at him. 

“What’re you watching anyway?” Max asks, changing the subject so they don't go deeper down the sadness route. 

“Some old western,” his dad responds, shrugging. 

His dad loves westerns. Max has never really seen the appeal. It’s usually just some shoot ‘em up bang bang machismo shit, but he guesses for whatever reason the genre resonates with his mild-mannered father.

Max settles his gaze on the TV, watching the commercials turn back over to the show. Men in cowboy hats riding horses appear on the screen.

“Are you hungry?” his dad asks after a few moments of watching the TV together in silence. “Del said I should probably ask before just assumin’. But you should probably eat something. ‘Sidering you’re on painkillers n’ all.”

Max laughs again, shaking his head. He ignores the stabbing pain in his stomach. Fear rising up like bile.

“Sure, dad, I’ll eat.”

“Any idea what you want?” 

“‘S lunch time. We could make sandwiches.”

“Sounds good to me, Maxie. Hope I have enough fixins.” His dad stands up from the couch, making his way toward the kitchen.

“You always do,” Max says, wheeling behind him. 

Making sandwiches with his dad feels like it always has. Like he’s a kid again. Sitting on the counter next to his dad, passing him cheeses and meats and condiments to make the greatest sandwich ever. 

He’d kick his feet against the cabinets. Stimming with joy and his dad would try his best to make Max laugh.

It’s a fond memory. One that makes Max ache for simpler times. 

But he can’t help but think he’s making new memories now. In the kitchen of his dad and pop’s house on the other side of the accident that’s uprooted him. Or, perhaps, re-rooted him? 

He thinks about what Della said last night. About how it’s okay to want other things. To be other things. Except he isn’t sure how to reconcile that with the grief he feels for the person he used to be.

He’s still mourning his career. His life. What he thought had always been his destiny. He really just had so much potential and it feels wasted now. 

Max feels like maybe he’s a waste of a life.

“How much does a chimney cost?” his dad asks, breaking him out of the spiral of negative thoughts he’s going on in his mind.

Max smirks fondly.

“I dunno dad, how much?” Max asks.

His dad beams at him, flashing his signature tooth gap. The very same one that Max inherited. 

“Nothing. It's on the house!” His dad shouts gleefully and the punchline is so basic and uninspired, but there's something about the way his dad erupts into giggles, snorting out a squeaky ahyuk! that has Max laughing too.

They eat in front of the television. Making commentary on the western his dad is watching. Poking fun at the over the top machismo and general heteronormative bullshit. 

It’s fun.

Max can’t even begin to explain how much he’s missed this. Just being with his dad. Existing in the same space. His dad has been such a light in his life for so long that it’s impossible for him to feel down when they’re together. He’ll always be grateful to him for that. 

“Where’s pop, by the way?” Max asks, finishing his sandwich and wiping his face with a napkin. 

“Went down to the VA,” his dad responds, picking up the remote and flipping through the channels. 

“I’m not sure I qualify for this insurance,” Max says. “I was looking it up on my phone last night. I’m not in school and I’m recently disabled. I would’ve had to have been disabled before I turned 18 for it to make sense. Or I’d have to be in school and I’ve been done with school for awhile.”

“Let us worry about that,” his dad says, patting him on the shoulder fondly. “If anyone can figure it out, it’s Donald.”

Max narrows his eyes a bit, wincing. His pop isn’t exactly great in social situations. He has a crazy temper, but maybe that’ll work out in his favor at the VA.

“My first appointment is tomorrow,” Max says. “It’ll probably take forever for coverage to kick in. I don’t want to bankrupt you and pop because of this. I can’t even make the payments on my previous debts. From the emergency room visit to the emergency surgery and physical therapy it’s so much.”

Max hates how expensive it’s been just for him to be able to move his limbs again. The surgery alone obliterated his savings. The American Healthcare System is a fucking joke and predatory as all hell.

“Max,” his dad says, voice low and gentle. He reaches out and takes Max’s hand in his, giving him a look. “All you need to worry about right now is healing. Let Don and I worry about everything else. The visit tomorrow isn’t going to cost much. Few hundred if that.”

“That’s only to get me started, dad,” Max argues. “That’s only the beginning of the care I’m going to need. This is—" Max sighs, hanging his head. "It’s hard.”

His dad shushes him, squeezing his hand a little harder.

“We went through this with Della too and with Donald, Max. We’re old hat at this now, aren’t we?”

“Della and Donald are both retired military, dad. I’m a dancer. I barely had health insurance when I was in California. I definitely don’t have it now.”

“You’re gonna be okay, son,” his dad comforts. “Everything is going to work out.”

“How?” Max asks. He’s filled with rage at the system. At himself for even being in the situation where he got injured in the first place. 

“If all else fails,” his dad says, their eyes locking. “There’s always Uncle Scrooge.”

That does nothing to help Max feel any better.

The waiting room for his dad’s doctor’s office is shockingly difficult to get to for someone in a wheelchair. Max is used to not being able to fit on public transit or having to go out of his way to find ways to cross the road, but he’s never had to struggle to get into a doctor’s office before. 

It’s almost embarrassing how much his dads have to help him into the building. The waiting room is so small, he takes up a massive corner of it. Him, his chair, and his dads. 

Max’s anxiety is through the roof. Watching other people try and crowd into the room, shooting him furtive glances when there’s very little spaces for them or their loved ones to sit.

His heart pounds uncomfortably in his chest and he just wants to fucking leave, but he needs to see this doctor so he can have access to the specialists he needs.

He probably could’ve gotten referrals from his team in LA for a dedicated team out here, but when he brought it up during one of his last appointments, he was told it would probably take months for that to happen. 

Max doesn't exactly have months. He can't take that much time away from physical therapy. Not when he's made so much progress.

He’s lucky he was even able to get in to see his dad’s primary care physician. Since seeing doctors is so fucking impossible these days apparently. He’s worried that he won’t be able to even find a team here. Who’s to say the doctor he’s about to see right now isn’t going to tell him the same thing his team in LA told him? That there simply aren’t enough doctors here. Or anywhere.

“Max Goof?” one of the nurses calls from a doorway next to reception. 

She scans the room, polite smile faltering when her eyes land on him. 

Max bites his cheek and holds his tongue. He’s used to people looking at him like that. Politeness fading to blank stares or pity. People always want to know what happened to him, how someone as young as him ended up like this. Like he’s some cautionary tale.

He’s sick of it, but he carries on. Enduring the pity.

His dads stay behind, sitting in the waiting room. Letting Max go back on his own. They discussed this beforehand. He wants to establish care by himself, but having them both there for moral support was acceptable and much-needed.

Max’s chair almost doesn’t fit through the doorway. It’s so narrow that his arms nearly brush the door frame when he wheels through. 

“I’m gonna tell you now,” the nurse says the second the door to the waiting area closes behind them. “We’re definitely not equipped to handle your condition here. If that’s what you’re looking for.”

Max gives her the most polite tight lipped smile he can muster.

“I’m just here for a referral,” he answers. “I didn’t expect a GP to be equipped to handle anything as advanced as a spinal injury.”

The nurse purses her lips, glaring down at him with a dismissive hum. Like she didn’t insult him first. Like she hasn’t just said something deeply upsetting.

Max faces forward and rolls his eyes. 

The nurse leads him to an exam room that’s roughly a ten by ten feet square. Like everything else in this god-forsaken clinic it takes some doing for Max to fit into.

“Do you think you can get up on the exam table?” The nurse asks.

“I don’t see why I would need to,” Max responds, arching an eyebrow at her. “I’m already sitting down.”

“The table is adjustable—”

“Funnily enough I don’t care,” Max bites back. “I’m fine here. Where I am.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Goof,” the nurse says with a sigh.

Max is used to this. Used to being treated like he’s a moron just because he’s in a wheelchair. But it’s still so new that he feels the sting of rejection each time it happens. Like he isn’t anything but a second-rate human being. However, it isn’t so new that rage doesn’t ignite beneath his skin, like a hornet’s nest waiting to be unleashed. 

The nurse goes over her regular intake questions. Asking him about sexual partners, what sort of diseases run in his family, the date of his injury, etcetera. Max answers each of them as clearly and as politely as he can. Despite his knowledge that this woman has already written him off. 

Then she leaves him alone in the room. 

Max pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s been awhile since he’s gone on social media to see the aftermath of his career crashing and burning. He turned off his notifications a few days into his injury. When the well-wishes transformed into something more sinister. People talking about him like he deserved to have his career end. For any number of reasons. Because he’s gay (he's bisexual), because he was cheating on his fiancee (he wasn’t), because he’s black, because his dancing has always sucked. All the things someone doesn’t need to be reading while trying to recover from a debilitating injury.

He hovers his thumb over the Instagram app icon. Wondering if maybe he should take a chance and check. Or perhaps he should check twitter. Or his email. Something that would connect him to the world beyond Ohio.

There’s a loud knock on the door before he can decide. 

Max barely has time to pocket his phone before the door is being pushed open and his father’s aging doctor enters the room with a clipboard. 

“Max Goof,” the old man is saying, voice wavering a bit. His eyes are still locked on the clipboard as he sets it down on the counter next to the sink right before he washes his hands. 

“Dr. Niehaus,” Max responds courteously. 

“What brings you in to see me today?” Dr. Niehaus asks, grabbing a paper towel from above the sink and drying his hands before putting on a pair of gloves.

“I was hoping to get a referral,” Max says, “For a specialist.”

“For?” Dr. Niehaus asks, finally glancing up from his clipboard toward the exam table, brow furrowing in confusion for a split second. Until he turns to see Max sat barely a few feet in front of him in a wheelchair. His eyes go a little wide then, lips pursing. “Ah.”

Max feels the ‘Ah’ in his fucking gut. The pity is somehow so much more of a gut punch coming from this old man that it was coming from the nurse. The way his aging bright blue eyes slowly drag over Max’s body, a frown settling on his thin turtle-esque lips. 

“My old golfing buddy has a son who is a neurosurgeon,” Dr. Niehaus says absently, glancing away from Max to scribble something down on his clipboard. 

“I’ve already had surgery,” Max responds. 

Dr. Niehaus glances up from his notes again, gaze catching on the wheels of Max’s chair. 

“These things are delicate,” he answers, pursing his lips. “His son also specializes in urology and neurology from what I’ve heard.”

He’d been working with a neurologist and a physical therapist back in LA, but he isn’t sure what a urologist is or how it ties into his condition.

“Why would I need a urologist?” Max asks, raising his eyebrow. 

Dr. Niehaus looks him over again. His gaze is so deeply unsettling it makes Max’s skin crawl.

“Says here you’re having issues with erectile dysfunction post injury,” Dr. Niehaus says and it’s so blunt, so matter-of-fact it makes heat rise in Max’s cheeks. “Has that been cleared up yet or is it ongoing?”

“Um,” Max’s voice shakes just a little. He doesn’t really want to talk about this. He’s sort of still traumatized from this being the thing that finally did in his relationship with Christina. Their relationship was by no means perfect. They had a lot of problems, but sex was the one thing that always seemed to work between them. Beyond that, Max doesn’t really have much else to offer. 

Dr. Niehaus arches a bushy white eyebrow at him. 

“It’s still ongoing,” Max says, voice soft as he stares down at the speckled white tile floor. 

“What’s that son?” Dr. Niehaus asks. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up. I’m hard of hearing in my old age.”

Max wants to fucking die.

“The erectile dysfunction is still ongoing,” Max says a little louder, glaring at Dr. Niehaus where he’s stood opposite him, scribbling things down on his clipboard.

Dr. Niehaus makes a soft tsking sound.

“Such a shame, young virile male like you.”

Max wants to fucking vomit, actually. This whole experience is making him miss his team in LA. Where none of them made comments about his goddamn virility and they actually made him feel like a real, human person.

“Might work in your favor, though,” Dr. Niehaus remarks, mumbling more to himself than to Max. “Might be able to get you in to see him earlier for urology than for neurology.”

“How long would the wait be?” Max asks. He’s hoping it’s within the next few weeks. He’d really love to start working on physical therapy again. 

“Few months, I figure,” Dr. Niehaus says like that isn’t a horrendous amount of time to wait to get back into PT. “Three to five at least.”  

“I was hoping to see someone sooner than that,” Max says, fists clenching in his lap.

“Specialists take time,” Dr. Niehaus says flippantly. “There is a doctor shortage, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Max answers, trying to keep his emotions in check. He can’t afford to be hostile to the doctor that’s supposed to be helping him establish care here. “I really need to continue my physical therapy.”

Dr. Niehaus sighs, looking over at him. His eyes are kind of milky, the color in them nowhere near as bright as it should be. He turns away from his clipboard, leaning against the counter.

“Was your prognosis positive?” He asks bluntly.

“It’s an incomplete spinal cord injury,” Max answers. “I already have some feeling back in my legs. Moving is a struggle, but I can. A few months ago I could barely move my arms.”

The doctor hums. 

“My grand niece is a physical therapist,” he says, “She works out of New York, but she might know someone from her program here. No promises, but I may be able to get you in to see someone in a few weeks.”

“Is that all it takes?” Max asks, feeling uncomfortable by the way this conversation is going. “Knowing people?”

He knows he should be grateful. It’s good his doctor knows people in specialties that can help him, but the way he’s going about this, like he’s cashing in favors to push Max up a list, is unsettling.

“That’s all life is, my boy,” Dr. Niehaus says. “You used to work in show biz. You’re familiar with quid pro quo, I bet.”

Max frowns. He’s plenty familiar with the underhanded practices of Hollywood. He just didn’t expect for the same shit to extend to other professions. Especially professions that are deemed high brow. Though, if Max were to hazard a guess, most high brow positions stand to benefit from this sort of arrangement.

“I’m familiar, sure,” Max answers, watching Dr. Niehaus as he crosses his arms over his chest and eyes Max again.

“When was the date of your last physical?” He asks and Max can’t help the way his stomach drops and his heart beats faster. 

He’s always been very good at seeing through these things.

“Few months ago back in LA at the start of my PT. Won’t need another for a good bit,” Max answers, trying to keep his voice even so he can maintain plausible deniability. 

Dr. Niehaus hums. 

“Your father is a good man,” he says. “Hard worker. He’s been my patient for years.”

Max has no idea what to say to this. He doesn’t know what this doctor is implying, but he hopes to God he never tried this shit with his dad.

“I’ll have one of my nurses set up appointments for you. Earliest dates. Are there any prescriptions you’re on that need refreshing?”

The ride home is silent. Max sits in the backseat with his face pressed against the cool window. He still feels flustered from his appointment. Maybe he’s looking just a little bit too much into it. His father’s doctor couldn’t have meant that the way he said it.

He’s been sexually repressed for months. It’s likely he’s seeing things that aren’t here.

Besides, elderly men are just weird like that sometimes. He’s worked with a lot of men like Dr. Niehaus in Hollywood. Eccentric and off-putting, but not necessarily dangerous. 

Still, he can’t believe that man called him virile. Max shivers with disgust. 

“How do you feel about Chicken and dumplings for dinner?” His dad asks from the front seat. “Used to be your favorite when you were a kid.”

Max smiles, lifting his head from the window.

“Still is,” he answers, meeting his dad’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t think I’ve had it made properly in a long time.”

His dad smiles at him, soft and slow.

“Well it’s a good thing you came home, isn’t it, Maxie?”

Max lets his father’s words wash over him. The circumstances of his return are far from ideal. The metaphorical medical hoops he’s going to have to jump through simply to maintain his treatment aren’t great.

But he cannot discount what leaving California has given him.

More time with the people he loves. Far away from the hustle and bustle of his old life. Away from the snakes that stalk the grasses of Los Angeles. Preying upon any pretty little thing that wants a chance at a career.

He’s safe here.

He’s loved.

Della is pacing back and forth in his bedroom. She looks pissed off. For good reason, Max supposes.

“He really told you it was going to take months?” Della asks. 

“Yep,” Max responds.

“You’re going to have to go months without a physical therapist and a neurologist in the very beginnings of your injury.”

“Yep.”

“I’m going to fucking kill that old geezer.”

Max laughs.

“Aunt Della it’s fine,” he says, trying to keep spirits light. “I’ll be alright.”

“You need to have access to healthcare, Max. It’s kind of crucial for having a spinal injury!”

“I know. And I will. Soon. Eventually. Sometime.”

“Soon, eventually, or sometime doesn’t fucking cut it!” Della is seething now, her fists clenched at her sides. “I swear to God I am going to hunt that man for sport.”

“Aunt Della, I swear. I’m going to be okay. It’s not like my injury is going anywhere. I’ve already had my surgery. I got new meds. I’ll make do.”

Della clicks her tongue, glaring at Max.

“I’m calling in some favors. I know some people at the VA who might know some people.”

Max groans.

“I literally told you it was fine.”

“Can you just let me be angry on your behalf, nephew?” Della asks, rolling her eyes. “That man was a total creep to you and also absolutely zero help. I think I’m allowed to be a bit peeved.”

“Yes, okay, you’re allowed, but you don’t have to go around calling in favors. What is with everyone promising to call in favors on my behalf. I feel like I’m still in LA and to be honest that’s a little triggering.” Max sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I dunno, I just remember Ohio as being more Salt of the Earth small town type vibes. Not anything at all like Cali with all their deadly vipers lurking in the grass.”

“I think maybe you’ve idealized Ohio because it’s where you grew up,” Della says, her voice soft. Kind. “And maybe it is like that. Salt of the Earth. Hard Working people. Whatever. That doesn’t eliminate it from corruption. Didn’t you pay attention in Sunday School? We’ve all sinned, Maxie. We’ve all fallen short of the glory of God.”

“I didn’t go to Sunday School,” Max snorts, shaking his head. “As if my gay ass dad would’ve let me set foot into a church. Besides, I thought you and pop grew up Catholic or something.”

“Psshaw,” Della says, rolling her eyes. “Not with Uncle Scrooge’s influence. Scotland’s been protestant since like the 1590s or something.”

“I just assumed all of Europe was catholic,” Max says with a shrug.

“You really need to brush up on your history then. Do you not remember Bloody Mary or any of that shit?”

“Aunt Della, I went to school for dance. I’m not even sure I took a history course and if I did I bet it was U.S based and not anything broader.”

Della rolls her eyes.

“Don’t try and distract me from being pissed about your shitty doctor's appointment. I’m still angry.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him.

“You’re allowed,” Max says. “But while you’re stewing, could you grab dad or pop for me? I still haven’t quite gotten the hang of showering and could use a little help.”

Della scoffs.

“I told them to get you a shower chair. It’ll make a load of difference,” Della grumbles, stomping over to Max’s door and swinging it open with more force that it requires. “But noooo, no one ever listens to Della. I swear to God I’m gonna start suing people.”

Max feels both suffocated and loved by his family. It’s nice to always have someone around when he needs help or he gets bored, but he also has exactly zero personal space. 

His cousins, Huey and Webby especially, have a habit of wandering into his room in the mornings before they go to school. Chattering to him about the most random things and waking him from a dead sleep. 

Then, usually Della will wander in with a cup of coffee and some toast, shooing his cousins out so she can take them to school. 

Followed by his dad or pop fussing over him to see if he needs anything.

It’s so starkly different from LA, it sort of warms his heart.

But

his cousins don’t seem to understand

that

there are days

when he is stormy

where his rage

builds beneath his skin

like a wave

until he can no longer

contain the anger

at the hand the world has dealt to him

where his love 

fades to conditional

where he feels like he deserves to be hurt

so he hurts others

and waits to be hurt in return.

Max struggles with keeping up the pretense. Biting his tongue when he’s jostled just a little too much by one of the triplets or Webby climbing into bed with him. They should be too old for this now. They should know better than to wrap their arms around his neck and hold him close.

They should let him deal with the nightmares on his own. 

There are days

where he cannot escape the melancholy

or the intense 

throbbing 

stabbing

aching

pain of losing who he was

his sadness building like thick mud

pulling him down, down, down

into the quicksand of his dark and dangerous thoughts

until he’s drowning beneath the weight of it

and he isn’t sure how to resurface.

Three weeks after his ill-fated appointment with Dr. Niehaus, Max gets his first phone call.

His first appointment with Dr. Rover is sort of eventful. He wheels into her office and finds himself face-to-face with probably the prettiest doctor he’s ever seen. 

She has light brown skin, gorgeous brown eyes, and long red hair. Her name, Roxanne Rover, is embroidered on the front of her scrubs with little sunflowers sewn on either side. It’s so cute it makes Max’s stomach flip. 

It’s been awhile since Max has been in the presence of someone so attractive. He’s embarrassingly breathless.

“Oh my God,” she squeals upon seeing him, placing her hands on either side of her face. “You’re Max Goof, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, his brain going delightfully numb beneath her attention. 

Next to him, he can practically feel how hard Della rolls her eyes. 

“I’m such a huge fan of your work,” Dr. Rover says, giggling brightly. “I saw you dance on stage at one of Powerline’s shows a few years ago. Honestly, transformative. The way you moved changed me as a person.”

“Oh, um,” Max laughs, wincing. “I don’t really do that anymore.”

Dr. Rover purses her lips and gives him a quick once over. 

“You could, though,” Dr. Rover says. “I’ve seen your history. Incomplete spinal cord injury. Decent results under your previous PT.”

Max shakes his head. 

“It won’t be the same. I won't have the same range of motion.”

“No,” Dr. Rover responds, “But you aren’t out of the game yet. Don’t sell yourself so short, Mr. Goof. With a lot of perseverance and—”

“A positive attitude? Consistency?” Max deadpans. “I’ve heard it all before.”

Dr. Rover puts her hands on her hips.

“I was gonna say with a little heart,” Dr. Rover says, sticking her tongue out at him. “You aren’t through yet! I’ll make sure of that.”

Max wilts a little under her admiration. Like a plant receiving too much sun. Dr. Rover is so pretty and so optimistic he can’t help but feel scorched, her sunniness chasing away the shadows he’s wrapped himself in for protection. 

Still,

he proceeds

he lets her take his hand

lead him both

frantically 

and

lovingly

into his own recovery

shedding his shadows one by one by one

until he’s blinded by the light.

“I like her,” Della says when they get back into the car after his first session.

The muscles of his arms are screaming. His legs feel like static. He’s covered in sweat.

“She seems like a total hardass, but in a bright sunshiny way,” Della continues, turning around in the front seat to smirk at him. “I think that might be exactly what you need.”

“If you say so,” Max sighs, but he finds himself reveling in the feeling of a good workout. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so well and truly exhausted from pushing his body to its natural limits.

“You just seem happier than you’ve been lately,” Della says, turning back around and twisting the key in the ignition. “I think you’ve really been missing the structure of this type of routine. I remember how hard you used to push yourself for dance. Always practicing, always working out, always pushing yourself. I know how important training like this is to you. And, I mean, it sort of helps that she’s easy on the eyes, huh?”

Max chokes on his own spit, coughing violently in the back seat.

“Aunt Della!”

“I saw how smitten you looked, baby Goof.” Della smirks at him in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t even try to lie to me.”

Max groans and buries his head in his hands. 

“Smitten is a strong word,” Max says. “I can recognize that she’s hot. I’m not blind, but she’s also my doctor. It would be weird.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, kiddo,” Della laughs, and Max raises his head from his hands just in time to catch her winking at him in the rear-view.

“Oh my God, please don’t tell me you’ve fucked one of your doctors,” Max groans again, gazing at Della in abject horror as she pulls from the hospital parking lot and back onto the main road.

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” Della says, laughing so hard she’s practically snorting. 

“I’m telling pop on you,” Max gripes, rubbing his temples. This is definitely information he wishes he was never privy to. 

“Donald already knows,” Della laughs. “You forget he’s been my brother a whole hell of a lot longer than he’s been your pop. It took him and your dad forever to get their shit together. Which means your pop and I got up to some shit when we were younger.”

Max covers his ears.

“La la la LA. I can’t hear you! I don’t wanna know!”

All Max can hear is the sound of Della cackling in response.

Dr. Rover is helping him stretch, pressing his knees up toward his chest until he’s almost breathless. The elasticity of it feels strange. Especially now that he’s gaining more strength in his legs. He has to deal with feeling a constant low-level soreness on top of sensation fading in and out. It’s a step in the right direction, but it adds a level of discomfort he isn’t ready to face yet.

It makes him ache for the past. Back when he didn’t have to worry about experiencing this type of not quite there, but always there pain. 

“I can’t believe you still don’t have a neurologist,” Dr. Rover says, releasing his legs and slowly letting them come back down when she catches the way he’s wincing and gritting his teeth in pain.

“Apparently they’re hard to come by,” Max grunts, panting a little when his legs lay flat on the mat beneath them. 

“Yeah, but they’re kind of important for these types of injuries,” Dr. Rover says. “You’d think they would try harder.”

She lets Max catch his breath for a moment. 

“You think you can do three more of these before we move on?” She asks, reaching for Max’s ankle to help him push his leg back up to bend at the knee. 

“Yeah,” Max says. “Hurts less than it did a few weeks ago. I can almost pull my legs up on my own.”

Dr. Rover smiles down at him, her pretty brown eyes dancing with pride.

“You’re such a good boy,” she tells him, voice gentle and kind. “You’re doing so well.”

Max’s heart beats just a little bit faster. He feels the tell-tale hurt of longing rise in his chest. Max wants to reach out and touch her, to wind her pretty red hair around his fingers. He wants to know what her lips feel like against his skin. 

God, 

he just

wants.

But,

he stares too long

gaze too intense

intent

on her lips

until

when he sees the hesitation

the way her eyes drift from

kind and open

to realization and

terrified understanding

he hesitates

tamps down on the emotion

bleeding steadily from his heart

and tries his best to save what is left of his dignity—

“Max, I um,” Dr. Rover starts.

Max can feel the way everything in his chest turns to ash. Poisoned by rejection. He’s so fucking embarrassed.

“Hey, no, you don’t have to say anything,” Max laughs self-consciously. “I’m sorry. That was really weird of me, it’s just. Been a lot of change. I’m uh. Shit.” 

He winces when he erupts into nervous laughter.

Dr. Rover’s eyes go a little wide, the sad, pitying look on her face fading into a gentle grin. She places her hand on his chest, laughing a little too. 

“I’m sorry,” Max gasps out again, trying to get his laughter under control. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Dr. Rover pats his chest fondly, shaking her head. 

“Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to try that with me, Mr. Goof,” she says, her brown eyes meeting his. “Doing PT tends to put people in very intimate positions.”

“You can just call me Max, y’know? When you call me Mr. Goof it makes me feel weird. Like I’m an old man or something.”

Dr. Rover tips her head back and laughs. 

“Jesus,” she says when she looks back down at him. “Fine, okay. If I’m gonna call you Max, though. You have to call me Roxanne.”

“Fair enough,” Max answers, moving to pull his legs back up and bend them at the knees without any help. “Dr. Roxanne.”

Roxanne beams at him and Max nearly sighs from the warmth that still settles in his chest at the sight of her. She’s so absolutely stunning and sweet and kind. But he knows when he has to leave well enough alone. 

Attraction isn’t something you can talk someone into. Not to mention, Max is her patient and she's his doctor. He shouldn’t even be thinking about her like this. 

It’s just been an embarrassingly long amount of time since he’s been around someone as pretty as her. Most of the time his days are spent with his dads, his aunt, and his cousins. He really should try and get out more. He just doesn’t want to feel like a burden on his family who are already doing absolutely everything for him. 

“Ready for the next round?” Roxanne asks, smiling down at him patiently. 

Max returns her smile and nods his head.

“Do your worst, I guess,” he laughs. 

“Don’t sound so put out,” Roxanne says, lightly slapping his knee. “It might hurt now, but I promise you’re getting better at this every single appointment. I’ve also been doing some research and I think we might even be able to incorporate dance into your PT. It won’t be the same level you were doing before, but I read a bunch of articles recently about how muscle memory can be really helpful in recovery and how dance can help speed the process along. Especially for people who were dancers in the past. It looks cool so far, we don’t have the majority of the equipment it would take, but—” She cuts herself off, glancing down at Max who is wincing up at her, panting for breath as she stretches his legs. 

“Oh, God,” she laughs, slowly letting go of his legs and easing them back to their previous position of being bent at the knees. “I’m sorry. I sort of went off on a tangent there.”

“No, it sounds awesome,” Max says, matching her enthusiasm. “I’d love to be able to at least feel like I’m dancing again. I’ve uh,” he wiggles his nose, trying to ignore the choked up feeling he gets, “I’ve really fucking missed it, actually.”

“Awesome,” Roxanne says, bending his knees up into his chest again. “We can’t do any of the spins or anything like that. We just don’t have the equipment for it. But we can do some of the more ballet oriented stuff. I know you weren’t really a ballet danc—”

“I’m classically trained,” Max grunts, taking a few deep breaths to get through the pain of the stretch. He’s so glad he only has one more left after this. Before they move on to something else. “I can do ballet. It’s been awhile, but I still remember the fundamentals.”

Roxanne beams down at him. God, she smiles so much. He loves how infectious her good mood is.

“I’ll see what I can drum up for next time. You’re so close to getting back on your feet. I can feel it.”

By the time he and pop get home from the hospital, the house is already bustling with people. His cousins are back from school, and his dad and Aunt Della are already back from work. 

His appointment ran a little long today. He managed to overexert himself a little and it took him awhile to shower and make it back out to his pop's car. As it stands, his muscles are still screaming. It gets both worse and better every time he goes to PT. Roxanne loves to push him just a little and he’s grateful for it.

He’s made a lot of progress with her in the past few weeks. She’s incredibly sweet, fun, and she likes to think outside of the box. A stark contrast from his physical therapist back in LA who tended to do things more by the book. 

Max finds himself thankful for Roxanne’s creativity. He feels better now than he has in a long time. 

“How’d physical therapy go?” Della asks the second his pop drags his wheelchair up the front steps leading to the porch. They’re still trying to figure out how to get a ramp installed, but Max finds he doesn’t mind being dragged up the stairs so much. A ramp would provide him with more freedom, but for now he’s content to stay indoors and only leave the house for PT appointments and special occasions. 

“Roxanne says—”

“Oh-ho,” Della interrupts, smirking at him from where she and Webby are planted on the porch swing. They're drinking glasses of iced tea. “You and Dr. Rover are on a first name basis now?”

Max chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“It’s not like that, trust me,” he says. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Della asks, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Nothing like that either,” Max says, shaking his head. “Roxanne is my doctor, y’know.”

“And I told you—”

“I know what you told me,” Max interrupts, waving his hands frantically to get Della to shut up. “I don’t wanna hear a repeat of that. And I’m definitely sure Webby doesn’t.”

Webby takes a long sip of her tea and shrugs.

“I’ve probably heard worse,” she says so matter-of-factually it makes Max wince a little. “Della doesn’t exactly know the difference between what’s kid-friendly and what isn’t.”

“Don’t I know it,” Max snorts.

Della clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes.

“Y’all two are no fun,” she grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah,” Max smirks, rolling his eyes. He turns to look at his pop who is watching the three of them with an amused expression. 

When Max meets his gaze, he catches his pop rolling his eyes too. 

“Keep the conversations kid appropriate, Del,” he chokes out. 

“Webby is practically an adult. Not to mention a certified genius.” Della argues.

“Still,” Max’s pop says with a shrug, patting Max on his shoulder gently before he walks forward to disappear into the house.

“God, both you and Donald have become such party poopers,” Della gripes. 

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check,” Max responds, wheeling up next to them. “Any more of that iced tea left?”

“There’s some in the kitchen,” Della responds. “Feel free to go get it yourself since you wanna be so rude today.”

“But Aunt Della,” Max coos, giving Della his best wounded puppy expression.

“Jiminy cricket,” Della gripes. “Fine, brat. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Love you too, auntie,” Max laughs, grinning after Della when she stands up and stomps her way into the kitchen. 

“How was school?” Max asks Webby when Della is out of earshot. 

“It’s school,” Webby says flatly.

“That good, huh?”

“I should’ve just tried to graduate early,” Webby sighs. “Public school in Ohio isn’t as challenging as the school we used to go to in Duckburg.”

Max frowns, turning his chair so he can face Webby a little better where she’s sat on the porch swing.

“Then why come out here?” Max asks. “Uncle Scrooge and your Grandma stayed in Duckburg, right? You could’ve stayed with them.”

Webby winces.

“As much as I love my granny and, I guess, my dad? Calling him that after calling him Mr. Scrooge for most of my life feels weird,” Webby sighs, pursing her lips and making a face. “Anyway, whatever. As much as I love my granny and Mr. Scrooge, I’d much rather be with people my own age. For a long time, before Donald and the boys came along, it was just me, Mr. Scrooge, and granny. I ended up making my own friends later, but after uh.”

Webby trails off here, wringing her hands in her lap. 

Max waits patiently for her to finish her thought. 

“After, Lena,” Webby shudders, her voice cracking. “My best friend. She disappeared. A few months before your dads got married. It, uh. I didn’t. Um. I didn’t take it well.”

Webby ducks her head to stare down at her lap. 

“That’s the main reason I moved here, I guess. To stay with the boys and, well, to get away from the shadow of Lena’s,” Webby clenches her eyes shut tight, fists curling in her lap. “Her disappearance. The cops weren’t doing anything about it. Kept saying she was just a teenage runaway. Like, I know she and her aunt had a terrible relationship, but she wouldn’t—” The emotions in Webby’s voice swell. Max can see tears welling on her lash line. “She wouldn’t have left me.”

Max reaches out and takes her hands, rubbing his thumb over her fingers.

“God,” Webby laughs, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload all that on you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Max says. “I asked.”

“I haven’t really spoken about this with anyone,” Webby admits. “The boys, Donald, and Della know because they were there when it happened, but I don’t think they really know how badly it screwed me up. I just, it’s hard to talk about it and remember her.”

Webby twists her hand in Max’s to lace their fingers together. 

“Dewey thinks it’s some kind of conspiracy. There have been a decent amount of disappearances in Duckburg over the years, but correlation doesn’t necessarily mean causation.”

“What do you think?” Max asks.

Webby shrugs.

“I try not to think too hard about it,” Webby answers. “At least not anymore. I don’t think it’s healthy for me to dwell on it. I can get weirdly obsessive over things and I don’t want this to become something that consumes me. Especially if it means I—” She cuts herself off, shuddering through an audible sob. “I—” She starts again, but she can’t even finish the sentence.

“You don’t have to say it,” Max whispers. “It’s okay, Webby.”

“I’m sorry,” Webby says again, laughing a little awkwardly. “You’re here suffering from a spinal injury and you’re in a wheelchair and you lost your whole livelihood and I’m crying over the disappearance of my best friend that happened almost three years ago now. God, Webby read the room.”

Max shakes his head.

“No,” he says, squeezing her hand a little tighter. “Trauma isn’t a competition, Webby. You've gone through something horrifying and difficult and so have I. Our hurts don’t outweigh each other, they both exist at the same time in the same space. You’re allowed to be sad. Just like I’m allowed that same sadness. I’m sorry you had to go through something so hard so young, y’know? Losing someone you love is never easy.”

Webby laughs wetly, smiling at him through her tears.

“When did you get so wise?” Della asks, stepping out onto the porch and shutting the front door behind her. She’s holding three newly refreshed iced teas and smiling sadly at the two of them.

Webby stands abruptly, rushing to Della’s side to help her with the drinks. 

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Della is saying with a laugh. Webby pries two of the glasses out from beneath her arm and hands one to Max before taking the other for herself and sitting back on the porch swing. 

“This family has a lot of trauma, I guess,” Max answers.

Della laughs, but it sounds a bit broken. 

“You can say that again,” Della says, raising her glass.

“But you probably shouldn’t,” Webby amends, raising her glass as well and clinking it with Della’s. 

Max raises his third, clinking with both of them before he finally takes a sip.

Sweet, sugary liquid washes over his tongue. After years on the West Cost, Max had almost forgotten what sweet tea tastes like. Thick and borderline bitter from the sheer amount of sugar. It almost tastes a little like poison.

Chapter Text

He finally gets the second call from his dad’s doctor’s office a few weeks later when he’s waiting to start PT. He’s a little early to meet Roxanne, but Della had an appointment in the same place, so they figured they’d kill two birds with one stone. Get both their appointments out of the way at relatively the same time. 

“You’ve reached Max Goof,” he answers.

“Is this Mr. Goof?” A woman on the other line asks. 

Max rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know why he bothers to answer his phone with his full name when the first question literally everyone asks is if it’s him. 

“Yes, speaking,” he says, waiting for her to get to the point. 

“Okay, hi,” she says brightly. “This is Teresa with Dr. Niehaus’s office. I’m calling to see if you’re still looking for a referral to a neurologist.”

“I am,” Max says. 

“That’s awesome!” Teresa responds so brightly that it makes Max wince. “Is it okay if I transfer you over to a separate medical office so you can speak to them about setting up your appointment?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome! Please hold.”

Hold music blasts through his phone and Max winces, holding it further away from his head while hastily turning down the volume. Just in time for one of the PT office nurses to wave him back. 

Max fumbles with his phone a bit nearly dropping it in his haste to move forward. He sets it in his lap, listening intently for someone to pick up on the other line while he follows the nurse. 

“Dr. Rover will be right with you,” she says, leaving him in one of the PT rooms.

Max nods at her and smiles politely, but he isn’t really paying attention to what she’s saying. He’s too busy waiting for the telltale click of a line picking up so he can finally set up an appointment with a neurologist.

He sits alone for a few minutes, staring down at the phone in his hand, watching the timer count higher and higher. The hold music is still playing and Max wonders why on Earth Dr. Niehaus’s office decided to call him to set up an appointment now if he was going to have to wait on hold for this long. 

The line picks up the second before Roxanne walks into the room.

“Max!” She says excitedly just as he raises his phone to his ear. He doesn't quite catch what they say and he gives Roxanne a wide-eyed apologetic look as she blinks at him in confusion.

"Just a second," he whispers, holding up a finger to Roxanne.

"Are you there?" someone asks over the phone.

“Yes. Sorry. Hello. Uh. I was transferred over from Dr. Niehaus’s office. I need to make an appointment with uh,” He trails off here, not having heard the name of the doctor's office he's calling. “A neurologist?”

The woman on the other line hums. 

“You said you’re being referred from Dr. Niehaus?” She asks.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“He’s only requested a referral for a urologist,” the woman responds.

Max glances awkwardly at Roxanne who is watching him silently from the doorway. Eyebrows raised.

“Uh. Right,” he says. “Um. Yeah. That would be me then.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Neurology and urology are two different things.”

“Yes, um.” Max wants to literally die. He wants the Earth to swallow him up completely so he doesn’t have to have this conversation in front of his physical therapist who he has spent months lusting after. “I’m certain.”

“Are you Max Goof?” The woman asks, “Notes from Dr. Niehaus says you’ve been struggling with erectile dysfunction.”

Max literally wishes someone would come into this room, take him out back, and shoot him because that would be less painful than this. 

“Yup,” Max says through clenched teeth, gripping his phone a little tighter.

“And how long have you bee—”

“Would it be possible for me to just set up the earliest appointment? I’d prefer to go over my medical history in office, if that’s all the same to you.” Max literally wishes he could fucking disappear.

“Of course, Mr. Goof. We’ve had a recent cancellation, so I’m able to get you in to see Dr. Uppercrust tomorrow at 4:40pm. Does that work for you?”

Max has no idea if that works at all. He’s been relying heavily on his family and he’s at the mercy of their schedules, but he’s so over this conversation he’ll agree to anything to get this woman off the phone. 

He can make it work probably.

“Yes, that works for me,” Max says. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Absolutely. Be sure to bring your insurance card and arrive at least 15 minutes early to fill out paperwork.”

“Sure,” Max says. “Thanks.”

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Goof.”

“Cool,” Max says and then hangs up, shoving his phone into his pocket and taking a deep breath to steady himself. 

“What was that about?” Roxanne asks.

Max winces. He’s pretty sure she could hear that entire conversation and he would really rather not relive the shame.

“Uh,” Max says, voice going a little high. He’s so fucking embarrassed over this. “Finally heard back from a neurologist?”

Roxanne jumps and claps her hands together.

“Max, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you! Finally!”

“Um, thanks,” Max says, laughing nervously.

“I know you’ve been waiting forever,” she says. “I can’t believe they got you set up in PT first. Seems kinda negligent, but I guess we do the best with the hand we’re dealt. Who do they have you set up with?”

“I don’t know,” Max says awkwardly. “I sort of just accepted the first one I could get. I immediately forgot their name the second the receptionist said it.”

"Then how are you supposed to know where to go?" Roxanne asks. "Is it here at the hospital or private practice?"

Max grimaces.

"I'll call them back later," he says. "Don't want to cut into any more of our appointment time."

“Well you'll have to tell me who you're seeing after your first appointment. I work with a lot of patients from neurologists in the area, so. I might have some inside information.”

“Or you could just tell me all the dirt you have on every doctor,” Max says, giving her a charming grin and waggling his eyebrows. “I’ve heard I’m a good listener. Especially where gossip is involved.”

Roxanne giggles, slapping at his chest playfully. 

“You’re so much different than I thought you’d be,” she admits. “I guess that’s kind of the thing with celebrities, huh?”

Max’s smile fades a bit.

“I was hardly a celebrity,” he says, voice soft. “I was sort of just the person standing in the background.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Roxanne argues. “You may have started as a background dancer, but you were meant for so much more.”

“That’s all I really aspired to be,” Max says, lips pursing. “A dancer. To dance.”

“And you achieved that,” Roxanne says with a gentle smile.

“Barely,” Max responds. He can feel his rage at having his career cut short rising up in him again. He hates thinking about this. He hates talking about it. There’s a reason he tries to downplay it or change the subject every time it comes up. 

“Not barely,” Roxanne tells him, invading his space a little so he’ll have to look up at her. “You were amazing. Transcendent.”

Max’s breath catches in his throat. His bottom lip wobbles.

“You were perfect, Max. You achieved that. You did it.”

“Roxanne I—” His voice wavers, breaking. 

“You were amazing,” she repeats, vehement. “Now it’s time for something else. Because you’re not finished yet, okay? You’re not. You’re going to do so much more.”

She puts her hands on his shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. 

Max has to duck his head from the intensity of the emotions that overtake him. Just from something as simple as someone giving him the same trite speech he’s heard from every single person in his life. From every doctor assigned to his case.

Except. This is the first time he actually feels like someone means it.

“Now,” Roxanne says, backing up a few steps and giving Max some much needed breathing room. “How much do you know about tap dancing? I’ve been reading some articles about how the motion of tap can help strengthen leg muscles following an ISCI.”

Max has been to hundreds of doctor's appointments since this whole thing started, but there's something different about this one. He's weirdly nervous.

With Roxanne he knows what to expect. She’s a physical therapist. Their appointments are usually going to involve some sort of exercise to strengthen his muscles and build him back up to walking. That’s familiar, that’s expected. He’s never actually gone to a urologist before.

He’s not sure he really wants to discuss his ongoing erectile issue. It’s horribly embarrassing. He really doesn’t want to have to talk about this at all. Ever. He was sort of just hoping it would work itself out with physical therapy and building his strength back up. No one in LA seemed overly concerned about it. Well, other than his fiancee, but Christina is an entirely different story. 

Similar to Roxanne’s office, this doctor’s office is part of the larger hospital complex in downtown Spoonerville. The waiting area is basic. With a few plush gray chairs, some larger black bench seats, and a few sea foam green arm chairs sprinkled in.

One of which Della is sitting in now. Shifting uncomfortably and grumbling under her breath.

“They make these chairs uncomfortable on purpose, I swear,” she grunts, crossing her arms over her chest in annoyance. 

“If you’re that uncomfortable, Del, why not switch to a different chair?” Max asks, glancing up from the paperwork he’s filling out.

“Maybe I want to be uncomfortable,” Della argues. “Ever think about that?”

Max rolls his eyes fondly. 

“Just move to one of the bench seats, they look more comfortable than the green ones.”

“And let the sea foam green chairs win? Never.” Della tries to keep a straight face, but breaks the second Max hits her with a deadpan look.

“We’re not even gonna be here that long, baby Goof,” Della says. “I’m fine suffering for a little bit.”

“You don’t know how long my appointment is going to be,” Max answers, turning back to his paperwork and trying to fill out as much as he can before he’s inevitably called back. “Could last longer than you think.”

“I think I’ve seen enough—” she raises her hands to do air quotes around the word, “—specialists—” before dropping them back to her side, “in my time to know you’re going to go back there, not utter a single word, be looked at for five seconds, and sent back to your physical therapist without so much as a hello.”

“If you say so,” Max shrugs.

“I know so,” Della answers.

Max raises his head again, meeting Della’s gaze and opening his mouth to respond when a nurse slips into the waiting room and calls his name.

He’s only halfway through his paperwork. He sighs and sets the clipboard down in his lap before wheeling himself over to where the nurse stands.

Her eyes rake over him with a bored expression. 

“Max Goof?” She asks.

“Yep,” Max responds.

“Follow me,” she says, turning on her heel and hitting the handicap button next to the door to leave it open for him. 

Max wheels quickly behind her. 

She takes him to probably the furthest exam room they have in the building. It’s so far that Max’s arms burn a little by the time they’re finished jetting through the damn halls.

“Here we are,” she says, motioning for him to go inside.

The room looks like any regular examination room. A bed, blood pressure monitor, a stool, a few chairs, and some various odds and ends that might assist in examining a patient. There are pictures of the nerve pathways of both the human body as well as diagrams of reproductive organs. Lest Max forget he’s here to talk about the fact that his dick doesn’t work like it’s supposed to.

“I can take your completed paperwork,” the nurse says, holding her hand out and gazing down pointedly at the clipboard in his lap.

“Oh, uh,” Max laughs sheepishly. “I haven't finished it yet.” 

The nurse frowns a little. Her expression going pinched. 

“Take your time,” she says, backing out of the room. “The doctor will be here shortly.”

“Um—” Max starts, but is swiftly cut off by the door clicking closed.

He grimaces. How the fuck is he supposed to get on the exam table without assistance. He’s pretty sure since he’s having an exam done today he should probably be on the table. Or something. 

Max glances around the room for anything to help him with his predicament. His legs are still too shaky to be reliable if he tries to stand and the table is ridiculously high. He’d have trouble getting his ass on that even before his accident. 

There’s nothing in the room that could possibly steady him. Not the blood pressure monitor stand, not any of the chairs, not even the counter. He thinks maybe if he stands from his chair using the bed as leverage he might be able to crawl onto the table?

Maybe he should just wait and see if another nurse comes in here. One that isn’t so angry with him maybe.

He should probably finish this stupid paperwork and stop worrying about an exam that hasn’t even started yet.

Max huffs and turns back to the clipboard, returning to filling out the frankly, confusing questions. 

Once he’s finally finished he tosses the clipboard onto the counter and waits. He wonders how long it’ll be before the doctor finally shows up.

If the time he spent on hold to get this appointment is any indication it’ll probably take fore—

The door swings open, and a man who could have only been conceived in a Grey’s Anatomy wet dream steps into the room. He has artfully styled shiny brown hair, light brown skin, a broad chest, and a sinfully cinched waist.

“Maximilian Goof,” He drawls, lips stretching slow around his name. He glances up from the chart he’s holding and pins Max with his gorgeous blue eyes. “Is that right?”

Max feels like an arrow has gone directly through his chest. His lips part, jaw dropping open.

The doctor arches one of his thick eyebrows. As if to say ‘well?’. 

“Uh-um,” Max says stupidly. “It’s Max, actually.”

“Max Goof, then,” the doctor says, stepping fully into the room and letting the door shut behind him. “I’m Dr. Uppercrust, as I’m sure you know.”

Max nods politely at him, even though he has absolutely no idea because he’s already forgotten his name twice. 

He definitely won’t forget it a third time. 

Dr. Uppercrust moves through the room gracefully. Stepping around the exam table to the sink to wash his hands. 

“What made you book a referral with a urologist?” He asks, drying his hands and picking back up Max’s chart.

“I’m, um,” Max’s cheeks heat up, eyes glued to his lap so he doesn’t have to look at Dr. Uppercrust’s obscenely attractive face. Who did he piss off in a past life to suffer this amount of embarrassment.

“Experiencing erectile dysfunction?” Dr. Uppercrust asks.

“Um, yeah,” Max answers.

“Most of the men who come to see me usually are,” the doctor says, making another note in Max’s chart before setting it down on the counter.

“I heard you’re also a neurologist?” Max asks with a self-conscious little shrug.

Dr. Uppercrust hums. 

“Indeed,” he says, giving Max a once over. And it’s the first time in a long time that someone’s done that to him and it hasn’t made him feel less than. 

In fact, he almost seems appreciative of how Max looks.

Max’s stomach flips with excitement. And

everything goes in slow motion.

His breath

his heart,

neurons firing slowly

Eyelids drooping low, eyes lidded,

glued to the man in front of him

gazing appreciatively right back

Watching with interest at

the way his lips move

how his teeth flash bright white

A vision

casting his gaze down

upon a lowly man.

“Spinal Cord Injury?” Dr. Uppercrust asks, snapping Max out of his open admiration. 

“Yeah.”

“Complete or incomplete?”

“Incomplete,” Max answers.

The doctor hums. Setting the chart down and washing his hands a second time before pulling on a pair of gloves. He walks around the exam table, moving to stand in front of Max before stopping and waiting. 

Max tips his head up to look at him.

It feels obscene.

How low he is. Practically on his knees.

Dr. Uppercrust stares down at him with a pointed expression. Arching one eyebrow when Max gazes right back up at him.

“Are you able to stand?” he asks.

“Sort of?” Max responds. “I still need support, but for the most part I can get up?”

“No one offered you assistance getting up on the table?” Dr. Uppercrust asks.

“Um, no,” Max says.

Dr. Uppercrust sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he says, sounding put out. “I apologize for their lack of care, but I need you on the table.”

“Ah,” Max responds. 

“So if you’ll just,” Dr. Uppercrust leans forward, further down into Max’s space. “Place your arms around my shoulders.”

“Wh-what?” Max asks, heart racing. 

“I can lift you myself,” Dr. Uppercrust says. “Arms around my shoulders.”

Max’s brain feels like it’s going to scramble and start bleeding out of his ears any second. His pulse practically throbs beneath his skin.

“Okay,” Max breathes out, wrapping his arms around Dr. Uppercrust’s shoulders.

“Hold tight,” Dr. Uppercrust says directly into Max’s ear.

He feels like he’s going to boil inside of his own skin. He can’t imagine what he must look like right now. Face flushed and eyes clenched tight. He wraps his arms just a little bit tighter around the doctor’s shoulders. 

Dr. Uppercrust grabs his knees, hoisting him up in one quick motion that makes Max yelp in surprise, grabbing Dr. Uppercrust’s lab coat for support, pulling their bodies flush together.

“Relax,” the doctor chuckles. “I’m not gonna drop you.”

What the fuck, Max thinks. His body feels like it’s on fire. Like a thousand tiny flames are licking every inch of his skin.

What the fuck.

The doctor lifts him as if he weighs nothing. Depositing him easily onto the exam table. He starts to pull back, body straightening, but halting when Max's arms prevent him from moving away. He falters for a moment, swaying before tilting his head to catch Max's gaze with a smirk.

“You have to let go of me so I can conduct my exam,” he says, giving Max an amused look.

“Oh!” Max says, releasing Dr. Uppercrust and leaning back a little on the table. “Sorry.”

“Happens all the time,” Dr. Uppercrust says, waving him off. 

Max winces.

“Does it really?”

“Do you want me to be truthful or polite?” Dr. Uppercrust asks. He’s still standing so close. Max can feel the soft tickle of his breath against his cheek. 

A shiver rolls down his spine.

Then.

He hisses in pain, his stupid traitorous cock finally twitching back to life now of all times.

Dr. Uppercrust takes a full step back, his gaze moving from Max’s face toward his lap.

Max stares at the doctor in abject terror. 

“Shit, uh,” he stammers.

Dr. Uppercrust narrows his eyes.

“Is that your first erection since the accident that caused your spinal injury?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Max says. Clenching his teeth. Of all the things he expected to feel when his dick finally started working again, this intense staticky pain isn’t one of them.

“Is it painful?” Dr. Uppercrust asks.

Max groans, clenching and unclenching his fists. Trying to calm his erratic breathing. 

“Yeah,” Max answers. “Wasn’t expecting this to hurt.”

“Let me see?” The doctor asks, his gaze rising from Max’s lap to meet his eyes again. “It’s not exactly supposed to hurt. Might be a sign of something more serious.”

“Let you see my dick?” Max asks.

Dr. Uppercrust gives him an unimpressed look.

“Your penis, yes,” he says sassily. “I am a urologist after all. It’s kind of my job.”

Max glares.

Another second of charged silence passes between them.

“Did you really come to a urologist thinking I wouldn’t do a penile exam?” Dr. Uppercrust asks. 

Max absolutely one hundred percent wishes he could perish on the spot.

“No?” Max says, but it comes out as more of a question than a definitive answer. 

“Do you need help removing your clothing?” Dr. Uppercrust asks. 

Max inhales sharply, his cock pulsing painfully at the sound of his doctor asking to fucking undress him. God, he’s been out of the game for too long if this is what does it for him now. 

“I can get them open, I’m just not sure I can get them down from this angle,” Max admits.

“Okay,” Dr. Uppercrust replies, taking a step back to give Max some space. Motioning for him to undo his pants. 

Max winces and follows instructions, undoing the front of his pants and trying to squeeze them down over his hips. 

“Uh, I think this is where I lose the thread,” he says.

Dr. Uppercrust nods, reaching forward and giving his jeans and boxers a solid tug, pulling them down over his hips in one fluid motion.

“Jesus, you’re good at that,” Max gasps.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Dr. Uppercrust says in a way that makes an excited shiver run down Max’s spine.

Because what the fuck does he mean by that? 

He gives the doctor a confused and pained look, but it goes largely ignored. 

Dr. Uppercrust’s full focus is on Max’s erection. 

“A little swollen, maybe a bit red,” He hums softly, reaching out his hand to move his cock gentl—

Max makes the most embarrassing guttural will-probably-haunt-his-nightmares-forever-because-this-has-to-be-the-worst-thing-that’s-ever-happened-to-him-in-his-fucking-life sound. His cock practically erupts the second Dr. Uppercrust’s fingertips brush the sensitive underside. Thick, sticky, ropes of cum shooting up so high some of them hit Dr. Uppercrust’s chin and drip down his throat to the collar of his lab coat. 

They both stare at each other in stunned silence. 

Dr. Uppercrust’s blue eyes are wide with shock. Chest heaving as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Holy shit. Fuck,” Max is panicking, looking for something to clean his cum off of his doctor’s literal face. He is mortified. He wishes he could fucking evaporate. “I’m so sor—”

Dr. Uppercrust lurches forward, grabbing Max’s jaw and smashing their mouths together. 

Max goes rigid under his touch, eyes going wide, brain not computing what’s happening until—

“Fuck,” Dr. Uppercrust gasps against his lips, pulling away. He wipes his face with his gloved hand. “What a fucking mess.”

He pushes Max’s legs up and over his shoulder forcefully. 

They lock eyes.

Max is still trying to catch up, figure out what the fuck just happened. 

“I’m nothing if not thorough,” Dr. Uppercrust says, rubbing Max’s cum between his fingers until his gloves are slick with it. He leans into him, slick fingers slipping between the cleft of his ass to find his anus. “I should be sure to check your prostate too.”

“W-what?” Max asks stupidly, squirming beneath the doctor’s fingers. 

“Relax,” he says, voice gentle, but tinged with danger. “Prostate exams are standard. I’ve done hundreds. I’ll take very good care of you.”

Max tenses, hands gripping at the paper covering the stuffed vinyl of the exam table. It shreds like tissue beneath his fingers. 

What the fuck, he thinks, clenches his eyes shut. What the fuck.

“Deep breath for me,” Dr. Uppercrust says, his fingers circling, massaging. 

Max takes a breath, filling his lungs with air until his head is almost dizzy with it. 

The doctor presses his finger in and Max’s breath punches out of his lungs. He tenses, squeezing around the doctor’s finger.

“Oh,” Dr. Uppercrust hums, sounding dangerously close to a moan. “You’re tight.”

Max digs his fingernails into the stuffed vinyl, shuddering beneath the doctor’s touch. 

“I don’t usually bottom,” Max answers, eyes opening to catch the self-satisfied, smug look on Dr. Uppercrust’s face.

“I guess for me you do,” he says, slipping his finger in just a little further, tracing light teasing circles around his prostate. 

“Oh, God,” Max pants, tipping his head back to try and catch his breath.

The doctor laughs, soft and breathless. 

“Are you praying to me?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of Max’s knee. His lips are feather-light.

Max can barely feel the press of them over the static, heart pounding in his chest. His stomach swoops dangerously at the implication of Dr. Uppercrust’s words. Max knows what he is. He can’t help but worship at the altar of false idols in the name of pleasure. 

It’s sacrilege in the best way. 

Beasts finding their way to one another under the dark banner of sin. 

“This isn’t like any prostate exam I’ve ever had,” Max quips, finally getting his wits back.

Dr. Uppercrust chuckles, quirking his finger and brushing against Max’s prostate directly.

“You’re twenty-three, Mr. Goof. I know for a fact you’ve never had a prostate exam. You have nothing to compare it to.”

“How would you know?” Max asks, lifting his head up to glare down at where Dr. Uppercrust stands, holding his legs.

Dr. Uppercrust smirks, pulling his finger almost all the way out, slipping two back in. 

“Feels pretty healthy to me,” The doctor says, massaging Max’s prostate in earnest. “Would’ve been no reason for someone to check.”

Max moans, falling back against the table again. He bears down on the doctor’s fingers, rocking his hips and chasing his pleasure as best he can given the position he’s in. He covers his mouth with his hand to silence the needy sounds he’s making. He doesn’t know how soundproof these rooms are and he’d hate to have someone overhear this.

Max is fairly certain it isn’t standard for a urologist to give an extended prostate massage. Except it’s been so long since anyone’s touched him, he can’t find it in himself to mind.

It feels good to be touched again. To be desired by someone he's desired back. 

Sex has always come easy for Max. The act of it is almost comforting in a way. Letting someone else have access to his body. To do with it what they will.

He’s missed this. Missed the feeling of someone else taking the reins, pushing him over the edge. 

Max’s cock is hard again, but it’s much less painful this time. 

The doctor’s fingers piston in and out of him, dragging heavily across his prostate with each thrust. His cock throbs with want, leaking so much precum and prostatic fluid that his thighs are wet with it.

“Jesus,” Max moans, moving his hand away from his mouth so he can catch his breath. He’s never had someone finger fuck him like this. It feels so fucking good. Every part of him is practically buzzing with pleasure. “Fuck.”

“If you need a name to moan, I prefer it be mine,” Dr. Uppercrust drawls. “Not a fan of Jesus taking credit for my hard work.”

“God,” Max groans.

“It’s Bradley, actually.”

Max groans again, lifting his head to glare at Bradley for the third time. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re annoying?”

Bradley makes a tsking sound. Pulling his fingers out of Max’s ass and taking a step back, releasing his legs and tugging his jeans and boxers off the rest of the way. 

“You should really be more grateful,” Bradley growls, tugging what looks like stirrups free from the side of the exam table. He shoves Max’s feet in them, spreading his legs open wide. 

“For what?” Max asks. He tries to sound annoyed, but it comes out as slightly curious and mostly afraid. 

“I was going to get you off first, but I’ve decided I don’t care anymore,” Bradley says, stepping away from the table and tossing one of his gloves into the trash. 

He tugs open one of the drawers beneath the counter, pulling out what looks like a condom and a tube of lubricant. 

“You have condoms in here?” Max asks.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Mr. Goof,” Bradley drawls, rolling his eyes and settling back between his legs. He quickly unties the front of his scrubs, yanking them down and tearing open the condom wrapper with his teeth.

From the angle he's at, Max can't see much, but he can hear the sound of the condom being rolled down. Of lube being applied.

“What?” Max asks. “It's an honost question. I wasn’t expecti—”

He’s cut off by Bradley’s cock slamming home inside of him. His breath stutters followed by a deep, guttural moan he has to cover his mouth to smother. 

“Oh, God,” Max whimpers, heels pressing hard into the stirrups. He clenches around Bradley’s cock, the wind knocked out of him completely from the force of it.

Bradley places his now gloveless hand against Max’s throat, squeezing gently. Just enough to slightly cut off his airway.

“God isn’t going to help you here, Maximilian,” Bradley whispers, breath hot against the skin of Max’s chest. “Wrap your pretty lips around my name and maybe I’ll be merciful. Let you come again before I take what I’m owed.”

“What you’re owed?” Max chokes out.

“You came all over me, it’s only fair I return the favor,” Bradley smirks, picking up the pace of his thrusts.

The exam table rattles beneath Max’s back. Jostling his feet in the stirrups. 

“Y’telling me no one’s ever jizzed on you during an exam before?” Max presses, taking in a slow, choked out breath. Enjoying the way his head swims and his skin buzzes from Bradley just barely keeping a hand on his airway. 

“I will admit it’s happened on occasion.”

“Did you fuck them too?”

Bradley doesn’t answer at first. He moves his hand from Max’s throat, gripping one of Max’s legs at the knee and pushing it up into his chest to get a deeper angle.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, leaning over Max and fucking into him in the most delicious way. “Do you want me to tell you you’re special? That you’re the only patient I’ve fucked in this exam room? In this entire hospital?” 

He presses Max’s leg up into his chest higher until Max is wincing from the stretch of his muscles.

“Am I?” Max grunts, staring at Bradley’s face with half-lidded eyes. He's so close now that Max can smell his breath, a mixture of soy and plum sauce. Salty and sweet. 

Bradley ignores him, tracing his nose along the pulse point in Max's throat before sinking his teeth into the skin of his shoulder. 

“I bet I am,” Max babbles, breathless and gasping beneath Bradley’s touch. His cock is sandwiched between them now, brushing against the fabric of Bradley’s scrubs. The slow drag isn’t enough friction to get him off quickly, but it will given enough time. “I bet I’m the very first man you’ve fucked like this. Bet you couldn’t even resist, huh? Pretty thing like you fucking a—”

Bradley cuts him off, slapping his gloved hand over Max’s mouth. 

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He growls, glaring down at Max. The full intensity of his cold blue eyes makes Max shiver with excitement.

He shakes his head no, smirking beneath Bradley’s hand.

“Then I’ll fucking shut you up,” Bradley hisses, nostrils flaring. 

He hooks Max’s leg over his shoulder, leaning his body back a little to give him better balance. Then he slowly removes his hand from Max’s mouth.

“Gonna let me suck your cock?” Max asks, the second his lips can move again. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Bradley says, rolling his eyes and placing his gloveless hand over Max’s mouth. Moving the gloved one down between their bodies to grip at Max’s cock. 

Max’s eyes widen a little, tongue darting out to lick at Bradley’s palm. Daring him to do something that’s going to be worth his while.

“Licking isn’t going to work on me, Max,” Bradley says darkly, “I’m already covered in your fluids, what’s one more?”

Max shudders, eyes catching on where his cum is drying on Bradley’s skin. 

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” Bradley purrs, pressing his palm more insistently against Max’s mouth as he picks up the paces of his thrusts. “All hot and bothered because you marked me, hm? Like I’m something you can keep.”

Max doesn’t know this man well enough to want to keep him. They’re virtual strangers, but the deep timbre of his voice makes Max’s synapses go haywire. All of his pretty words tugging at the more base parts of Max’s brain. Until he’s so aroused, so completely wanton, that his moans can barely be snuffed out by Bradley’s palm against his lips. 

God, he’s not even sure the last time someone fucked him this good. Fuck, he’s not sure if he’s ever been fucked like this in his life. 

Bradley nudges Max’s shoulder, pushing his leg up higher until he hisses in pain. He ignores him, pulling his hips lower on the table so his thrusts can go deeper. Until Max is a writhing, drooling mess beneath him. 

Teasing words fade to low moans and soft gasps, thrusts falling out of cadence, their bodies rutting together like imperfect beasts.

When Bradley stops, pulling out of Max and removing his hand from his mouth, it's abrupt.

Max startles, eyes opening, head tipping up just in time to watch Bradley rip off his condom and take himself in hand. He jerks himself quickly, cock slick with lube and Max's spit.

"Wha—" Max's words die in his throat when Bradley's cum spills over his stomach and pelvis. Painting his skin, staking his claim.

Bradley's slick with sweat. Eyes screwed shut tight, cock still pulsing in his hand as he shudders, catching his breath. The hand he has on Max's own cock stills, fingers moving to grip the base and hold him tight. Preventing him from coming even if he wanted to.

Max's breath catches, his head falling back against the table, chin tipping up. He'd been so close to coming just from the sight of this gorgeous man painting him. It's almost painful to be denied now.

"Bradley," Max pants, jerking his hips upward to try and chase his own release.

"There it is," Bradley intones, releasing the choke hold he has on Max's cock and stroking him again in earnest. "That's my name."

Later, when Della asks him on the car ride home—

with his and Bradley's cum still drying on his abdomen,

wet and sticky

'something to remember me by'

he'd said

helping Max pull his clothes back on—

how his appointment went, he has no idea how to answer.

Still reeling. Confused. He answers the only way he knows how;

"Fine," he says when he catches the concerned look she's giving him in the rear-view. "It was fine."

Chapter Text

Max takes a shower.

Really it's more of a bath.

He refuses to let anyone help him.

To see the mess he let someone make of his body.

So.

He showers—

Bathes.

Then,

withdraws.

He doesn't really understand what happened. Max knows he was a willing participant. He'd even been enthusiastic at points, but mostly he'd been confused. He went to the doctor to establish care with a neurologist and currently he's not entirely sure that's what he accomplished.

The appointment had been for urology, but he isn't sure he established care for that either. He's not sure he needs to now, considering what happened during his appointment. He thinks, maybe he's cured,

but,

that doesn't seem

to make him any less

confused.

A knock on his bedroom door startles him from where he's spend most of the evening staring at the lamp on his computer desk. He twists around in his chair, catching sight of Louie standing in the doorway. His hands stuffed in the pockets of his favorite green hoodie.

Max arches an eyebrow at him.

"Dinner is ready," Louie tells him, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. He looks nervous.

Max doesn't understand why.

"If you want to come join us or whatever."

"Okay," Max says softly, turning back around in his chair, looking at the lamp once more. "I'll be right there."

"Um," Louie starts, Max's bedroom floor creaking beneath his feet at he steps into the room.

Max turns his head, catching a concerned look on Louie's face. He moves his chair, wheeling it so he can turn around to face him.

"Is something wrong?" Louie asks, "Did something happen?"

"No," Max says, brow furrowing. "Why would you think that?"

"You just," Louie sighs, frowning. "Usually you hang out in the living room with us while we do homework. Or you sit on the porch with Webby and Della. Something. Today you didn't do any of that. I was just wondering if maybe something happened at the doctor?"

Max ignores the worry in his words. How they stick heavily in Max's chest. He chooses instead to smirk at him, batting his eyelashes. Using humor to diffuse the situation. To deflect.

"Aw, Louie, did you miss me?"

Louie scoffs and rolls his eyes.

"No," he says. "You're just acting weird is all."

"Do you want me to give you a hug?" Max asks, wheeling across the room to where Louie still stands. Looking more and more annoyed.

"Do you need a hug?" Louie asks, turning Max's words back on him. He stands his ground, just inside of Max's doorway, watching with narrowed eyes as Max wheels closer.

"Actually, yeah," Max admits, locking his wheelchair and kicking the footrests to the side. He stands up and opens his arms to Louie who stares up at him in awe.

"You can stand?" Louie asks.

"Well, yeah," Max says with a laugh, ignoring the way his still weak legs tremble under the weight of his body. "Why do you think I've been going to physical therapy?"

"That's so freaking cool," Louie says, wrapping his arms around Max's waist and squeezing him probably a little too tight.

Max grits his teeth and ignores the pain.

"Think of all the grifts we could pull—"

"Uh, Louie," Max laughs, untangling himself from his cousin's arms and sitting himself back down in his chair. So out of breath he's practically panting. "I don't think I'll be able to pull off grifts with you anytime soon."

"Lame," Louie sighs. "And after I hugged you and everything."

"You mean after I hugged you," Max corrects. "Since you missed me doing homework with you, and Huey, and Dewey so much. Considering I'm so much older and wiser and cooler. My presence is basically a requirement."

"Man. Shut up. It's not like you even help."

"Then why did you miss me so much Louie-bear?" Max asks, voice sweet and airy like candyfloss.

"I regret coming to get you for dinner," Louie mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets once more. "See if I ever do it again."

Max rolls his eyes, huffing fondly.

"Yeah, yeah," he laughs.

Dinner is awkward.

Max makes it awkward.

He doesn't want to talk about his appointment. He rebuffs every question. Trying to explain that just because he doesn't want to talk about it that doesn't mean it's bad news. He's fine. He promises he's fine. There's just no news for now. He'll maybe know something soon, but he

doesn't want to dwell on it

with his family's eyes so close.

Watching.

He doesn't want his face to give him away

when their words conjure thoughts of

depravity.

Remembering the feelings of his doctor's hands

gloved and plunging

deep & narrow

inside of him—

"I'm being serious. Nothing really happened," Max says, finally putting an end to the constant questioning. "I have a follow up soon. And I see Roxanne next week. Everything is fine, there's nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure, Maxie?" His dad asks, visibly concerned. "We just know you waited awhile to even be able to see a neurologist. Something must've happened."

Max puffs up his cheeks, sighing heavily. He really needs to get them off of this line of questioning. He doesn't want to talk about it. He can't think until he's had more time to process what the fuck happened.

"Um. Today was actually a urology appointment."

A hush falls over the table.

Max pushes down the embarrassment he feels.

"Why would you need to see a—" Webby starts, earning herself a sharp look from Della. Startling her into silence.

"What's a urologist?" Dewey sees his opening and goes for it.

"It's a penis doctor," Louie says lewdly.

"Louie!" his pop admonishes.

Everyone around the table looks as mortified as Max feels. He guesses it's all out in the open now.

"But why would—"

"Dewey, please," Della sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Some matters are sensitive."

"So you can see why I wouldn't want to talk about it in front of my entire family," Max says pointedly. "Especially my little cousins."

"It's not the entire family," Huey says, shrugging. "We're actually missing quite a few peo—"

"It's an exaggeration, doofus," Louie says, elbowing his brother and sighing.

"Oh," Huey says, frowning.

"Louie don't call your brother a doofus," Della sighs again. She sounds over it. Long-suffering.

Max can't blame her.

"This is probably the weirdest dinner we've had since I got home," Max admits, pushing his mashed potatoes around his plate. He still hasn't really eaten much of his meal. He can't decide if he's hungry or not. He's too distracted by other thoughts.

Like whether or not today meant something.

Which is something he absolutely should not be dwelling on anywhere near one of his freakishly observant cousins. Lest they suss out what he's thinking by watching the minute changes in his facial expression. He would rather wheel himself into a killer algae infested lake than have to admit his doctor basically fucked him into the exam table after he prematurely ejaculated all over his face.

"I'm honestly kind of exhausted from today," Max admits, setting his fork down and wincing at his nearly full plate.

He half expects someone to say something. To make a comment about how he usually at least eats the majority of his meal. His body is still healing after all. He could use the calories.

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

Except no one does.

"Okay, son," his dad says with a nod and a slow smile.

"Do you want me to wrap up your plate and save it for your lunch tomorrow?" his pop asks, nodding to the half eaten mound of potatoes, broccoli, and chicken.

"Uh. Yeah," Max says, smiling at him. "Thanks pop."

"Good-night, Max," he says warmly.

"Good-night," Max says in return, backing away from the table and wheeling himself toward his bedroom.

A chorus of voices wishing their own good-nights following in his wake.

Max

Withdraws.

He sequesters—

hides, isolates,

goes

silent.

His thoughts are

erratic

sporadic

borderline

unwell.

He thinks maybe

he needs to figure out

if what happened to him is good

or bad

or

if he wants it to happen again

(he wants it to happen again)

(he really wants it to happen again)

(except he doesn't want to think about

what

the implications of wanting

something like this

to happen

again and

again and again and

again

would say

about

him).

Max is staring out of his bedroom window, watching the tall grass of the backyard sway back and forth in the gentle breeze.

He feels

conflicted.

He's never shied away from casual sex before. Back in California he was regularly propositioned. He has his choice of people. Max doesn't understand why this makes him feel so out of sorts.

It was abrupt. Startling, in a way, but not unwelcome. He enjoyed the attention. The way it made him feel.

Except

Now when he thinks back on it

He feels

Dirty

In a way.

Not like he wishes it hadn't happened, but

the fact he's glad it did

makes him feel

wrong

somehow.

Like maybe this is something he shouldn't want.

Maybe this is a person he shouldn't want.

But the problem is he does. It feels good to be wanted. Especially to be wanted by someone so unnecessarily attractive.

On some level, Max knows he looks good. His body is still toned, still solid and at least somewhat pliable.

but

he's different now

in a way he never was

his body folded over

sat in leather and metal and rubber wheels

bent in half—

All he's saying is—

he knows

it's difficult to see him beyond the chair

beyond his disability.

He's still living in the same body

albeit weaker

less defined

but

he's still a person

someone deserving of attention,

admiration,

love.

It feels good to have been acknowledged

(even if,

on some level,

he feels a little used;

he just

hopes

he isn't making this into something more than it ought to be.

After all,

he's nothing more than a body

a place to hang frustration,

a thing to mark.

An object of limited desire.

Single use plastic.

(he wants to be more, he wants it to happen again, he wants to feel this good again. he wants, he wants, he wants.)

(like a

fire

he burns).

There's a knock at his door that turns him away from the window, blanking his thoughts. He comes back to himself, desire and self-reflection momentarily forgotten.

His dad stands in the doorway looking sheepish, maybe a little forlorn.

Max already knows what this is about before he even opens his mouth.

It's almost been a week since his appointment. He's barely been out of his room except for to go to physical therapy. He barely speaks, barely eats at dinner.

Something is definitely wrong and everyone knows it.

Max doesn't really want to have this conversation, but he knows he has to.

He's had his time to wallow and process. Time enough to vilify and waste. Max needs to return to his routine. Go back to existing within his family. Instead of hiding in the shadows of this new house.

"Haven't seen much of ya all week," his dad says, taking Max's silence as permission for him to enter his bedroom.

The old floor creaks. Soft wood of the entryway dipping beneath his weight.

Max already has his speech prepared. Excuses on the tip of his tongue.

"Thought you might wanna go with me to the store," his dad says before he can open his mouth. "I know you haven't been gettin' out much since you've been back. It might be good for ya. Fresh air'n'all."

His dad's big brown eyes are pleading.

Max knows there's absolutely no way he'll be able to say no. He plasters a gentle smile to his lips, hoping it meets his eyes.

"Sounds good, dad," he says, "Let me shower and change. Then we'll go, yeah?"

The gentle smile his father gives him in return is almost heartbreaking in its intensity.

It makes Max's stomach twist with guilt. The knowledge that he's been avoiding this—his family who loves him, his family who would do anything for him—to dwell on a stupid sexual encounter makes him feel ill.

He needs to be better.

For them.

The small family-owned grocery store in downtown Spoonerville is exactly how Max remembers it. The smell, the products, the people; everything. It feels a bit like moving backward in time. Entering a part of his life before everything got so unruly. So complicated.

"Want me to hold the list?" Max asks, reaching his hand out when his dad moves to go grab a basket.

His dad glances down at him. Eyes moving from Max's outstretched hand to the two wheels of his chair.

Max knows exactly what he's thinking.

"I am capable of moving my wheels while holding a piece of paper," Max says with a laugh. "You don't have to worry so much about me, dad. Really."

"You're my son, Max. Worrying about you is all I ever do," his dad responds, but he hands Max the list without much fuss anyway.

"We need cereal next. The list says four different types, uh." Max gazes down at the shopping list, which is nearly as long as a full-length novel. Who knew buying food for a household of eight people would consist of so much.

"The boys and Webby like different things," his dad explains, expression going soft around the edges the same way it used to when Max was younger and he caught his dad gushing to his friends about him. The sense of pride and love his dad felt for him always showing in the gentle lines of his face.

The jealousy he feels for his cousins in this moment is palpable.

After everything.

Him fleeing to California.

Starting his own life.

Becoming his own person.

He and his father are practically strangers.

The softness, the love,

it's

still there, but different

he hasn't had depend on him

for years

to buy things like this

to worry about the types of things he likes

it feels uncomfortable

to,

after all this time

living with his dad being his and

his alone

to have to share him with others.

His dad has a whole life outside of him

where he worries about what type of cereal to buy

for the kids he inherited in his marriage.

Kids who already have a father figure

who

still have access to their mother

to

a life he sort of wishes he had

when he was their age.

And he has to tell himself,

while they move through the aisles,

picking favorites with such care

and such attention

that these children are

(and have been)

traumatized

and they deserve every ounce of love

his father pours into them

but he still finds himself scared

(terrified, really)

that his father's love isn't limitless.

And that,

after everything

there will be none left for him.

They're in an annoyingly narrow aisle, his father pulling a lever to release fresh, unground coffee beans into a bag, when someone tries to skirt around him. Their foot catches on his wheel, body lurching forward and stumbling. Shoes scuff the linoleum floor, squeaking loudly as the person tries to right themselves. Arms flailing, a soft 'oof' exhaling from their lips.

His dad turns over his shoulder, momentarily distracted from his task. The lever coming down harder in his hands, coffee beans overflowing and dropping down to the floor with a clatter. Followed by the crunch of someone's feet making contact, roasted beans breaking apart beneath their weight.

"Oh, Jesus," the person hisses, nearly skidding down the aisle on the beans trying to get their feet back underneath them.

Max winces, waiting for the moment they turn around and blame him for this. Where they tell him his chair takes up too much of the aisle and he really should wait at the end-cap so everyone else—all of the able bodied, normal people—are able to walk freely throughout the store.

Shoes only just stop squeaking,

beans pistoning off the bottoms of the shelves,

his dad making a choked sound and releasing the lever,

plastic snapping against itself when he hears a familiar voice;

"Goof?" The voice asks, deep and raspy. Almost booming.

His dad looks up, eyebrows arching in surprise.

Max is still frozen in his chair, anxiety and panic mounting.

"Pete," his dad answers, a tense, guarded smile stretching over his lips.

When Max was younger, his dad and Pete used to be reluctant friends. Neighbors, really. They enjoyed each other's company for the sake of the budding friendship between their two young sons.

A friendship Max took for granted when he went off to college.

So when he hears PJ's voice, soft and laced with pity and surprise whisper, "Max?"

He wishes his legs worked better than they do.

So he could run.

"Is that your boy?" Pete asks, skirting around the spilled beans to get a better look at Max.

He's facing the shelves, grocery list clutched tightly in his hand as he tries to come up with something witty or sarcastic to say. Something the old Max would've had already on the tip of his tongue.

All he feels now is shame. Embarrassment. The only words waiting to be free from his lips are an apology.

For tripping PJ.

For ending their friendship.

For fucking existing.

For fucking everything.

"Uh, hi," Max says instead of anything smart, witty, or apologetic. He raises his hand to wave, twisting in his chair to address Pete first and then

slowly

he turns to PJ.

He already knows what he'll see when he catches his gaze. The same pitying, confused look he always gets from the people who knew him before.

"You're back in Ohio?" PJ asks, their eyes meeting. There's confusion there, but the pity doesn't quite shine through in his expression. "Thought you moved to California."

Max blinks, surprised.

"Uh," he says, pursing his lips and motioning to the wheelchair he's currently residing in. "Had an accident. So I. Um. California didn't really work out as expected."

PJ's gaze moves from Max's face, as if taking in his chair for the first time. The blue and yellow painted metal. The black leather. The rubber footrests that keep his legs stable and steady.

"What happened?" Pete asks, volume a little lower, but Max can feel the brunt of his presence nonetheless.

Max hunches a little in his chair, sighing before he turns over his shoulder to meet Pete's gaze.

And

There it is

the pity—

"Hit and run," Max says and it's troubling how easily the words come now. When just a few months ago it was a struggle to speak about the tragedy that destroyed his life.

His livelihood.

His self-esteem.

And all manner of things pertaining to personhood.

"I was supposed to do a world tour with Powerline," Max says, forcing himself to smile through the bile that rises up in his throat.

This part never gets easier to talk about.

"It's crazy how fast things can change."

"Powerline? Really?" PJ asks

and

Max feels the world

drop out from beneath him

"That's so cool! Do you know him super well?"

The doors inside of himself

He closed the second he realized

he could no longer walk

blow open,

emotions tearing through him like slips of paper

slicing at sensitive flesh

death by a million cuts.

"Yeah, man," Max says, gripping his wheels and pushing himself forward and away, further down the aisle. "I used to."

He wants this conversation to end.

He wants it to be over.

Max feels like a volcano has erupted inside of him.

Like he's been caught up in an explosion somehow.

PJ follows.

Beans crunch, paper rustles, Pete curses under his breath. Shoes squeaking on the linoleum when he briefly loses his balance on the bean fragments strewn across the floor.

"Someone should go get an employee," Max says, setting his dad's grocery list in his lap so he can turn himself around, looking back at where his dad and Pete stand just a few feet away. "We can't leave a bunch of slippery coffee beans in the aisle like this."

"That's a good idea, son, I'll—"

Max shakes his head, eyes wide, teeth clenched.

"I'll go," he says, eyes begging,

pleading.

His father nods, conceding.

"Okay, Maxie," he says, grabbing another of the coffee bean bags and splitting his overfilled back into two.

Max turns gripping his wheels tight and wheeling away so fast he practically glides.

He can only just see PJ in his periphery, following.

Max sighs.

At the end of the aisle, he stops, looking up at PJ with an eyebrow raised.

"I can grab someone on my own," Max laughs, trying to stay lighthearted despite the emotions suffocating him from the inside out. "You don't need to help with this."

PJ frowns.

"I know," he says.

"Okay," Max answers, cutting him off when he opens his mouth to speak again. "I'll be right back."

He's moving again, turning down the next aisle and heading toward the front of the store.

Still,

PJ

follows.

Max inhales, lungs expanding in his chest as he tries desperately to retain some semblance of calm. He just needs a second. A

Moment

to himself.

He needs to school his expression

curb his hurt feelings

resituate the pieces of him this interaction

yanked

free.

Instead, he plasters on his best Hollywood smile. He faces forward, face contorting to the plastic mask he learned to wear in California. The one that makes everyone (think) know that he's fine.

He's fine.

He is

fine.

When they finally reach the registers, it's PJ who speaks before him.

Over him.

"Hey," Max says at the same time PJ says

"Excuse me."

The cashier's eyes are only drawn to PJ. To his large, domineering figure. Standing straight up on two legs. While her eyes skipping over Max completely. As if he were a ghost.

"How can I help?" she asks PJ and

only

PJ.

Max sits off to the side, forgotten and wasting while PJ and only PJ explains the situation.

He is nothing.

He is no one.

He is unperceived.

He wants to fucking scream

(He doesn't).

When the cashier walks away, giving Max's chair a wide berth, her eyes glued to the ground lest she accidentally look at him, Max turns to PJ.

"What's your deal, man?" he asks. Trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, but it's obvious some of the anger and resentment comes through by the confused and hurt look PJ gives him.

"What do you mean, what's my deal?" PJ asks.

"I said I could handle that and you just—" Max gestures vaguely to where the cashier used to be standing. "Took over."

"I was trying to help?" PJ says, but it sounds more like a question than an answer.

"Dude, I didn't need any help. I had it handled."

PJ frowns. An uncomfortable silence building between them while Max seethes and PJ watches him in silent contemplation.

"You're different than you used to be," PJ says.

"Losing the ability to walk tends to do that," Max snaps back.

"It's more than that, though," PJ says, ignoring Max's mounting irritability. "I guess maybe I remember the version of you that I knew and not whatever Hollywood chewed up and spit out."

Max gapes at him, eyes going wide. His chest constricts, lungs shriveling from the lack of air.

He feels like he's going to vomit.

The PJ he remembers was so soft-spoken and kind. Gentle.

"You've changed too," Max responds, distrust evident in his tone as he tries to drive a wedge between them. The barbs of PJ's words still stinging, embedded in the raw flesh of his emotions.

"People change, I guess," PJ says and it's so dismissive, so flippant, it sends Max reeling once more.

He feels like he's standing in the ocean, feet sinking deep into the sand as the water pulls it back out to sea. Body moving forward with the current of each wave.

"Cool," Max responds, deciding he's finished with this interaction. He just wants to finish shopping and go home. "Well, it was great talking to you. Let's do this again sometime."

He grabs his wheels and pushes himself toward.

"Hey, wait," PJ says, moving himself to stand in front of the path Max is taking. The literal only path he can take to escape and get back to his dad.

"What, PJ?" Max spits, voice laced with all of the venom he can muster.

PJ recoils, brow furrowing in confusion again. Like he hasn't been getting in Max's way and insulting him and—

"Dude, why are you so mad? I just wanna talk. Like, we used to be friends."

"Yeah," Max says, "Emphasis on used to be."

"You're the one who left y'know," PJ responds. "You don't get to be mad at me when you're the one who left."

Max blinks, lips curling back in a sneer.

"Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? You literally just undermined me, insulted me, tripped over my damn chair, I, fuck, just move out of my way." Max doesn't want to explain himself. He just wants to go home and lick his stupid wounds and move on.

Rot in his new life.

Confined to Ohio.

"I wasn't trying to insult you, Jesus," PJ hisses, burying his face in his hands. "I'm just trying to have a conversation with you Max, it's not my fault you're angry for no reason."

Max's breath quickens. Panting as he tries to keep his emotions under control.

"I think," Max says, voice wavering a little. He clenches his fists in his lap. The paper of his father's grocery list crinkling under his hands. "That I'm allowed to be a little angry. I said I could handle this and you stepped in. Then you essentially called me a has-been, I—"

"When did I call you a has-been? What the hell dude?"

"What Hollywood chewed up and spit out?" Max repeats pointedly.

"I was just trying to say you look like you've been through something dude!" PJ says, gesticulating wildly. "Not that you're, like, entire career is over."

"It is, though," Max says.

"What is?" PJ asks.

"My entire career. It is over."

PJ's gaze lands on Max's wheelchair again, jaw clenching tight.

"So, you're never going to walk again?"

"I'm sure I'll walk again," Max says, shaking his head. "I just won't. Um. I won't be able to dance on the same level I used to."

"Doesn't mean your career is over though, does it?"

"It kind of does, actually."

"How so?"

God, Max doesn't want to explain this to someone who doesn't understand the breakneck competition of the industry. The things he had to do to get where he was. The toll it took on his body.

He's tried to be polite. He really has, but PJ is almost worse than his little cousins on proper etiquette when it comes to conversations.

"Man, I don't want to talk about this," Max sighs, glaring down at the floor. "If you haven't noticed I'm still a bit traumatized from the whole being hit by a car thing. It didn't happen that long ago."

"Oh," PJ says.

"Yeah, so, if you'll excuse me, dude," Max says, grabbing his wheels and moving forward a little again. "I just wanna get back to my dad and finish this shopping trip so I can go home. It gets pretty exhausting when I'm out for too long."

"Right," PJ says, stepping out of Max's way. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," Max says, waving him off.

It isn't fine,

but

he's hoping after this they'll never have to see each other again.

They can go back to living separate lives.

Strangers

who used to be best friends.

When they make it back to the aisle, the beans have mostly been swept up. His dad apologizing profusely to the worker and being waved off with a gentle smile for his efforts.

"Happens all the time, Mr. Goof," she's saying, "It's okay."

His dad is frowning in response, looking like he's going to open his mouth again to continue his apology tour.

"Ready for what's next on the list?" Max asks instead, putting a stop to this conversation, effective immediately.

"Oh, Maxie!" his dad exclaims, clapping excitedly. "I finally found someone who can help us with installing a ramp to the porch so you can maneuver around the yard easier."

Max frowns.

He doesn't fucking like where this is going.

"Little PJ and I own a construction business," Pete says, smiling down at Max. "I told ol' Goof here we'd be happy to stop by and install a ramp. Free of charge. After all, what are old pals for?"

Max swallows down the rage and indignation. He swallows down the reminder to his father that Pete essentially boycotted his wedding because he got married to a man and they haven't been friends since then.

But

he knows the value that ramp would add.

To his life. To everyone's life in that house, really. So people don't have to keep dragging him up the damn stairs.

So.

He sucks it the fuck up. Plasters a smile onto his face and puts his best foot forward.

"Really?" He asks, voice pitched high; saccharine. "That's so awesome! Thank you, sir."

Pete practically beams under the attention, wrapping his arm around Max's dad and tugging him close into his side.

"Happy to do it, son," Pete responds, nodding at PJ where he's standing at the end of the aisle. "Looks like we're gonna be spending a lot more time together."

"Great," Max says, fake smiling so wide his lips begin to tremble.

"Great," PJ echoes, albeit a whole hell of a lot less enthusiastic.

This is going to fucking suck.

Chapter Text

He's barely left the locker room, the stench of residual body odor and mildew sticking to his hair and clothes, when Roxanne enters his line of sight. She's dancing back and forth on her feet, practically vibrating with excitement as she approaches.

"What?" He asks, a little confused by already returning her grin. He can't help it. Not when it comes to Roxanne. Her joy is infectious.

"Sooo," Roxanne begins, very nearly jumping up and down now. She can barely hide her excitement. "I may have called in a favor with a friend of mine and gotten this really really awesome suspended harness we can strap you into so you can dance."

Max blinks at her in surprise, lips parting.

"A what?" he asks.

"A harness!" Roxanne cries, motioning for him to follow her toward the back of the gym where there's a thick tarp hanging from the ceiling. "They're not done installing it yet, I think it might take a few weeks, but once we have it installed it's going to be so helpful. For you and for my other patients."

Roxanne pulls back the tarp a little, letting Max see the equipment laying on the ground just inside.

"I managed to score a few at cheap for the hospital, but you were totally my inspiration for reaching out about these, so I wanted to be sure I to—"

Max doesn't know what comes over him. He's suddenly overcome with emotion. So much so that he lurches forward in his chair, wrapping his arms around Roxanne's waist and hugging her as best he can from the awkward angle.

He presses his cheek against her side, choking back reactionary tears.

"Thank you," he whispers because what the fuck. This has got to be one of the nicest things someone has ever done for him.

Roxanne laughs, soft and sweet. She gently places her hand on the top of his head.

"Like I said," she tells him, "these harnesses are going to help so many of my patients. So, really, I should be thanking you for the inspiration."

Max releases her, wiping his wet eyes and runny nose on the back of his hand. He feels overwhelmed by Roxanne's kindness on the tail end of probably one of the most complicated weeks of his life.

Bradley

PJ

His family

Pete.

His stomach twists. Roils. Nausea rising up inside of him like the tide.

His feelings are still hurt from his encounter with PJ and Pete. His insides raw and writhing. Anger buzzing beneath his skin, wild hornets ready to strike.

This simple gesture of kindness quells it. Leeching out a little of his anger and self-hatred. Making it easier to breathe.

Max wonders if Roxanne knows. If she could tell from the brief chat they had in the hallway before he retreated to the locker room that he was having a terrible, shitty day.

From the way she's watching him, a serene smile on her face, he thinks maybe she does.

"For now," Roxanne says, patting him on the shoulder and drawing him out of his complicated thoughts, "We'll work with tap, ballet, and the parallel bar to build your strength up. So you'll be nice and ready for the ZeroG when it's available."

The afternoon sun shines through the trees, warming Max's skin as he, Webby, and Della enjoy their late-afternoon ritual of soaking up some much-needed Vitamin D. Their conversation has waned, the three of them sitting in silence as the summer sun slips lower and lower over.

Max stares down at the glass of sweet tea in his hand. Still mostly full from the refill Webby insisted he take. about a half hour ago. Condensation drips down the side of the glass and over his fingers. Droplets of water spilling down his wrist and onto his jeans.

It's quiet on their street. The soft titter of birds in the trees and distant sound of insects the only sounds he can hear.

Before coming back to Ohio, Max had almost forgotten how quiet the world could be. How genuinely serene.

Of course, the moment he's starting to get used to the beauty of serenity or whatnot, it's ruined by a massive Pete & Pete Pete construction truck appearing at the end of the driveway.

All three of their heads turn at the noise. The loud rumble of the engine and sickening churn of the switching gears is almost deafening in the quiet sanctuary of the neighborhood.

Max winces when the truck backfires and Della gasps, grabbing his hand and holding it in a vice grip. He tries his best to hold her hand back, but she's squeezing so hard he can feel his bones rub together.

His stomach churns.

"You should go inside," Max says gently, "I can handle this."

Della takes a deep breath, hand trembling where she has her death grip on Max's.

Max leans back, making eye contact with Webby who is watching Della with a gentle, patient expression. From this angle, Max can see she has a grip on Webby's hand as well and that Webby is taking it a whole hell of a lot better than he is.

Webby moves her gaze from Della to meet his and Max can see the sadness there. The understanding. The unrelenting patience and love.

"Help her inside?" Max mouths, watching out of the corner of his eye as Pete and PJ climb out of their construction truck.

Webby nods, standing and gently leading Della to stand with her.

Della blinks, taking another breath. Getting her legs underneath her.

"God, that was loud," she says, her trembling hand parting from Max's. She sounds exhausted, bone weary. The way she always sounds when she's reminded of being in a warzone.

"Yeah, it really was," Webby answers, leading Della toward the door.

Max watches them go, not so much as even glancing at PJ and Pete until Della and Webby disappear into the house.

"What's up, baby Goof?" Pete calls, waving at him from the yard.

"I thought y'all weren't coming until the weekend," Max calls back, already on guard from how they've upset the delicate balance of his household by being here.

"Had some time today," Pete says with a shrug, "Your old man didn't tell you?"

Max purses his lips, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

"Haven't spoken with him yet today," Max admits, pressing the lock screen on his phone to show his notifications.

Sure enough. He has three missed calls from his dad.

"Looks like he tried to call, though," Max says, holding up his phone and smiling at Pete apologetically.

Pete clicks his tongue.

"Goof should know better than to try and call. You kids and your newfangled technology. With texting messages and social media. Only way to get a'hold a'ya is through the interwebs these days."

Max rolls his eyes.

"I usually answer when he calls," Max responds, "Just didn't feel it vibrate."

Pete hums non-noncommittally, waving him off.

Max watches PJ unload fresh cut lumber from the back of the truck while Pete walks around the front porch taking pictures.

PJ wipes his forehead on the back of his hand, his thick gloves smearing dirt over his brow. Despite their initial rocky reorientation at the grocery store, Max can't help but smile just a little at the sight.

He turns in his chair, wheeling himself inside of the house, leaving the two Petes unsupervised for a moment. He grabs one of the cleaner kitchen towels and a few bottles of water from the fridge.

"Who are those guys?" Webby asks from the living room when he moves behind the couch and back toward the front door.

She's watching cartoons. Some show Louie and Dewey like, a sort of caped-crusader duck or something, but the boys are nowhere in sight.

"They're here to build a ramp," Max answers, "Guess dad and pop forgot to let everyone into the loop."

"No, I mean," Webby says, "We all knew someone was coming, but just. Seems like you know them already."

"Oh," Max says, staring down at the water bottles he's holding on his lap beneath his arm. The plastic has already started condensating from the heat. Bottles frosty. Droplets of water pooling and slipping down the sides.

"Could've sworn you met PJ," Max says, wracking his brain for any particular instance of when the two of them may have met.

"Your best friend from high school?" Webby asks.

Max looks up from the bottles in his lap to find Webby watching him with a curious expression.

"So, you have met?" he asks.

"No," Webby answers, "Before your dad and Donald got married I didn't get out of Duckburg much. You must be thinking of the boys."

"Maybe," Max says, but he honestly doesn't remember if the boys had the opportunity to meet PJ either. He guesses the only real opportunity they all would've had to talk was at the wedding and

well

that's sort of around the time everything went down hill for them.

"I've only ever heard about him from stories," Webby says, frowning. "And not good ones."

"PJ isn't all that bad," Max says, finding himself quick to defend his ex-best friend, even now. After everything.

"Oh?" Webby prompts, eyebrows arching.

"Yeah," Max answers, voice soft. "He was a great friend to me. For the majority of my life. Peej just—" he trails off, glancing toward the windows next to the front door that looks out into the yard where PJ has moved on from unloading lumber to measuring the side of the porch. "Has a really complicated relationship with his father."

Webby hums, drawing Max's attention back to her. She looks contemplative as she turns over his words.

"I can respect it," Webby says, staring down at her lap with a scowl. "I know a thing or two about complicated relationships with fathers."

Max has no idea what to say to that. His relationship with his own father has been strained at times, but never complicated. He's always known he was loved and wanted, even if he didn't always appreciate it.

"How's Della doing?" Max asks instead. Hoping Webby won't mind the change of subject.

"In her room with headphones on," Webby responds, looking positively relieved. "The boys are with her."

"But not you?"

"She isn't my mom," Webby responds with a shrug. "Felt like maybe it wasn't my place."

"I get it," Max says. "Sorry you had to handle it without me. Just figured it was a better option than leaving you alone with strangers."

"Aren't they old friends, though?" Webby asks.

"PJ is," Max responds, voice tense. "Pete isn't. At all. You and the boys should avoid him. He doesn't always have the best track record with kids. Took advantage of me and PJ a lot when we were younger."

Webby laughs a little.

"You don't need to worry about us so much, Max. We're used to dealing with scam artists and weirdos. Used to live in Duckburg with the richest man in the world, remember? We've seen our fair share of corruption."

"Still," Max says, "If you don't have to interact with him, don't."

Max is definitely still holding a grudge against Pete for what he said about his dad and his pop getting married. Stupid Bible thumping bullshit. He still remembers the look in his dad's eyes when his friend of literal decades called him the f-slur.

He doesn't know if he'll ever get past that sick, sinking feeling.

"Understood," Webby says with a nod, turning back to the TV and letting Max slip past her.

His hand is on the doorknob, fingers wrapped gingerly around the cool metal when he turns to look back at her.

"You'll be okay on your own?" Max asks.

"I'm fifteen, Max," Webby says, rolling her eyes. "I'm not exactly a child anymore. You're just as much of a mother hen as your dad."

"Okay, okay," Max says with a laugh. "I'll be outside if you need me."

Webby waves him off, her attention back on the TV once more, but Max can tell she's not really watching it. He feels a little bad leaving her alone especially with how emotionally charged things have been at the house lately.

But his dad would kill him if he didn't play at being a good host.

Webby will be fine on her own. She usually is.

Max sighs and pushes the door open, wheeling himself out into the warm sunlight.

"Yoo hoo, boys!" He calls in the most suggestively flamboyant voice he can muster, smirking when they both turn to him with twin looks of confusion. Max holds up the bottles of water. "It's not lemonade, but it'll quench ya."

When the sun begins to dip over the horizon, casting heavy shadows over the yard and bringing with it the scream of cicadas, Pete and PJ are still there. The air smells like fresh cut lumber and sweat with the acrid scent of gasoline mixed with flowers occasionally kicking up with the breeze.

They've made good progress, building the ramp to wrap around the side of the house closest to the driveway and up the side of the porch. All that's left is them cutting out the railing blocking the way.

Pete wipes the sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt and sighs.

"We'll have to cut tomorrow," he says, "We're losin' too much daylight to use heavy machinery comfortably."

Max nods, gazing out at where the sun slips further over the horizon. Painting the sky in pastel orange, purple, and pink.

"Sounds good," Max says, noncommittally. The sooner they leave, the faster he can get back to spending time with his family. Della is probably warming up leftovers by now to feed Webby and the boys.

"Yer dad not comin' home tonight?" Pete asks, curiosity apparently getting the better of him.

Max glances in Pete's direction. He's leaning against the side of the porch, trying to look nonchalant and ultimately failing. The downward turn of his lips and furrow of his brow giving him away.

"Which one?" Max asks because he can't help himself. He wants this jackass to acknowledge that he has two dads.

Pete's frown deepens and a few feet away, Max can see PJ shift uncomfortably.

"The one who raised you," Pete answers.

"Technically they both raised me," Max retorts. "Dad and pop have been friends since forever. Since long before you, even."

Max can't help the anger. The resentment. Venom builds beneath the surface of his skin, poisoning his words.

"Neither of them are home yet tonight?" Pete asks, raising his gaze to meet Max's.

His breath catches.

Anger waning.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Pete look so apologetic.

It feels like an olive branch, somehow.

Doesn't make Max any less wary, but

it does soften him to Pete's overbearing presence.

"No," Max says, the word oddly sticking in his throat. "Dad works late shift tonight and pop's off on an odd job. Neither of them'll be back until late."

"Just you and the kids tonight, then?" Pete asks.

"And Della," Max answers.

Confusion filters over Pete's face, brow scrunching up, eyes narrowing as he tries to place the name.

"Pop's twin sister. Mother of the boys?" Max explains. "Not sure if y'all ever met, but she lives here too."

"Full house then," Pete says and it sounds almost fond. His eyes look a little glassy when he glances up at the structure of the house, as if he's mentally counting the windows. "Goof always did want a big family."

Max's heart constricts in his chest. His eyes burn, throat going tight.

"Oh," he says like he's just had the wind knocked out of him.

Pete meets his gaze again, eyes shining in the dying light of the sun. His expression mirroring Max's, raw and open.

"I'm sorry, Baby Goof," he whispers, voice a low rumble like distant thunder.

Max takes a breath, letting his eyes close slowly, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"I know," Max says, "And thank you, but," his breathing shudders, heart aching, "I can't forgive you until he does, you know?"

He can't meet Pete's gaze, but he catches the way he nods his affirmation in his periphery.

"Not until they both do," Max amends.

"Yeah," Pete says, "I understand."

"We're having a barbecue on Saturday. Della is gonna break out the grill. Probably throw on a few steaks. I know it really isn't my place, or whatever, but since you and PJ were supposed to be here over the weekend to build this ramp, dad probably would'a charmed you into staying anyway. So. If you wanna make amends with dad and pop, I'd say coming to that would be a good place to start."

Pete smiles at him. Soft and slow and a little crooked.

"Thanks, kid," he says.

"Peej is invited too," Max responds, gaze moving from Pete to where PJ is still standing just behind him. "And Peg and Pistol if they're around."

Pete's smile fades a bit at the mention of his wife and daughter, but he doesn't otherwise correct Max. Neither does PJ who goes a little tense, gaze moving from Max's face to glare angrily down at the ground.

Max wonders what the story is there, but he doesn't push it.

"See y'all tomorrow to finish the job?" Max asks. "It'll probably just be me and Della around, but someone'll be here."

"Yeah," Pete responds. "Can probably come earlier tomorrow, if that's alright with you?"

"Sure," Max says, digging his phone out of his pocket. "Let me give you my number so you can call or text if you need me."

"Has it changed from when we were friends?" PJ asks, suddenly speaking up for pretty much the first time all day.

Max winces, laughing a little self-consciously.

"It's changed a bunch of times, actually. Product of becoming somewhat famous with a high profile fiance. You tend to go through a lot of phone numbers."

Max opens his phone settings, quickly pulling up the about section to view his number. He changed it when he left California. Felt right to switch back over to an Ohio area code.

"Y'ready?" he asks.

PJ holds up his phone and gives him a nod, quickly keying in the numbers as Max says them.

"Sounds like a Columbus area code," Pete remarks.

"Yeah, changed it when I got back. Don't really need the LA area code anymore, y'know? Not out here."

"Y'know," PJ begins, pursing his lips. "Bobby is gonna be visiting from New York for a few weeks. He's crashing on my couch. Cool if I invite him too?"

Max hasn't seen Bobby since Max left Spoonerville state to transfer to a performing arts college in LA at the end of his sophomore year. He's honestly a little surprised that Bobby and PJ have even kept in touch all these years.

"What's he up to these days?" Max asks, genuinely curious.

"Oh, man," PJ says with a laugh. "He's a serious audio engineer, dude. He's done music for everyone. I'm sure you'll hear some stories if I can bring him along."

"That's awesome," Max says, "Dewey and Louie'll probably enjoy that. The more the merrier. It'll be nice to catch up."

"Getting the band back together after all these years," PJ says wistfully.

"Lookin' forward to it," Max answers, finding that in spite of their rough restart, he actually is.

Max waits outside on the porch until he sees the headlights of Pete's truck disappear down the street. A flash of red in the distance.

The sun has fully dipped over the horizon, the world cast in silvery gray tones beneath the stars. The song of crickets rise to replace the cacophony of cicadas, and the lights of fireflies flash and dim like camera bulbs in the wild grass across the street.

Compared to California, Ohio feels so wild. Free. The air smells sweeter, more natural. Fragrant flowers mixed with the smell of fresh soil and dying leaves. Nothing at all like the diesel and piss stench he was accustomed to in LA.

It's serene out here. The days dripping slow like syrup. Rat race falling to the wayside, giving way to simpler things.

Ohio feels easy, in a way.

Like maybe this is what he needs.

A quiet life. Something soft.

Easygoing.

When he was a kid, the idea of that filled him with dread. He wanted to be so much more than the sum of his upbringing. Max was a dreamer then.

But what is he now?

That his dream has come and gone.

Who is he now?

Maybe he could want a gentle life. Get some mind-numbing job. Let his body rest, reset, heal. Maybe he could be that type of person.

The front door creaks open and Max turns his head, looking away from the yard to meet Dewey's hesitant gaze.

"Dinner's cold now," he says without preamble.

"Figured," Max responds. "I'm not really all that hungry anyway."

"Mom says you should eat," Dewey insists.

"Figured that too," Max answers.

Dewey rolls his eyes.

"I don't remember you being this sarcastic before you left for California," he remarks.

Max snorts out a laugh.

"I was probably going easy on you since you were such a baby then. Trust me when I say I have always been this way."

"Just come in for dinner before mom gets mad," Dewey sighs. "You know what she's like when you piss her off."

"Yeah, yeah," Max says, unlocking his wheels and turning his chair. "Terrifying just like pop."

Dewey moves to the side, pushing the front door open wider to allow Max better access.

"Do y'all ever catch fireflies?" Max asks as he wheels past.

"No?" Dewey responds, confusion evident on his face. "Why would we do that? They're bugs. They belong outside."

"You don't take them inside," Max explains, waiting while Dewey closes the door behind them. "You catch them in a jar and release them at the end of the night."

"Seems kind of mean," Dewey responds.

Mex tilts his head.

"How so?"

"Kinda pointless to catch them and keep them somewhere they don't belong, right? Even for a short period of time. That's gotta be stressful for the bugs."

Max hums.

"Never thought about it that way. That's actually kind of prof—"

"Besides, bugs are gross," Dewey interrupts, shuddering.

There it is, Max thinks to himself, smiling fondly when Dewey shakes his head in disgust and walks away.

"Nice of you to join us inside," Della says, smirking at him from next to the kitchen island once Dewey walks away.

"Yeah well," Max responds, "Forgot how peaceful nights can be in Ohio."

"We've spent plenty of nights outside," Della says, crossing from the kitchen to the dining table. "Dinner's cold now. I'll warm it up for you again."

"I am capable of warming up my own leftovers, y'know," Max says.

"Yeah, but I said I wanted to do it for you," Della answers, glaring at him. "It's okay to let people take care of you sometimes y'know."

"Sure, but I'm not really all that hungry."

"Yeah, I noticed you haven't been eating a whole hell of a lot lately."

Max bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't really want to have this conversation.

"It's pretty common to experience depression after injuries like this," Della continues, fixing Max a plate and sticking it into the microwave. "I'm not sure if Don's insurance will cover a shrink, but maybe you should start seeing someone."

"I'm not depressed," Max sighs.

"Could'a fooled me," Della responds, giving him a knowing look just as the microwave beeps.

"I just feel a little off," Max tries to clarify. "I'm not sure I need a whole therapist for this."

"Better to have it and not need it then need it and not have it," Della says, pulling his plate from the microwave and walking it back to the table. "Now, eat."

Max sighs, gazing at the table with apprehension.

"I'm serious Maximilian. You're still on a ton of painkillers, right? You want those suckers to eat away at the lining of your stomach? You really need to be eating a lot more than you are."

He pushes his wheels forward, passing Della to fit his chair into his space at their table. The table from his first night home has long-since been replaced by a much longer rectangular version where his chair and the rest of his defacto siblings can fit without anyone sitting on the floor. Except, now that he's eating at it alone, it feels sort of lonely.

"You want a beer?" Della asks, standing in front of the fridge once more.

"Weren't you just vilifying me for taking pain killers on an empty stomach? Now you want me to drink alcohol?" Max asks, laughing.

"Good point," Della laughs back. "You can drink one of the kids' capri suns, then."

"Fine," Max says.

"But I'm having a beer," Della remarks, making her way from the fridge to the table. She sits down across from Max, pushing the capri sun across the table toward him.

"You're not gonna put the little straw in for me?" Max asks.

"You're a grown ass man, you can put your own straw into the pouch," Della says, rolling her eyes.

"With how much you're trying to parent me, I would've thought you'd jump at the chance," Max says, picking up the pouch and easing the straw into the annoyingly hard to puncture hole.

"I'm not trying to parent you, Max," Della sighs. "I'm just saying I know how hard it is to be in these early days. I know what you're going through."

"I know," Max sighs, picking up his fork and pushing his food around his plate like he always seems to do these days.

Della reaches across the space between them, placing her hand over his.

"Max," She says, voice soft.

The kindness she has in her eyes is almost enough to

break him.

"I can't," Max whispers, the admission surprising even himself.

Della's hand squeezes his tighter.

"This is more than just the injury isn't it?" she asks.

Max lets his eyes slip closed.

Della has always been better at seeing through him than anyone else.

She breathes out his name.

Max's heart aches.

"Please, I don't," Max starts, his words dying in his throat. His mouth tastes like bile. He doesn't want

he doesn't

want—

"I won't force you," Della says. Her hand is hot on his skin, warm touch burning through his blood like a brand.

Max never wanted anyone to see this.

He never thought it would get to this point.

Or maybe

he hoped he left this part of him behind

when he stopped dancing.

The pressure for him to be perfect

beautiful

(half-

starved,

dehydrated)

erased.

But he should know better than anyone

that old habits die

hard.

Max sets his fork down, breath coming faster. None of the air catches in his lungs.

"Hey, hey," Della says, rubbing her thumb over his skin as a way to distract him from the influx of panic rising in his chest. "Deep breath, Max."

Max makes a broken sound, wrenching his hand back from Della's. He tries to move his chair back, forgetting he locked the fucking wheels. His hands slip on the metal, arms bumping against the table and sending his fork clattering to the wood floor in the process.

Della is watching him with wide eyes and Max knows, he

knows

she's trying to figure out where she went wrong.

What she could've possibly said to set him off.

And Max knows, he knows, he knows

what it was

but he doesn't want to admit it

because he would have to examine all of the pieces of himself

that he keeps tucked away

hidden

because it's easier to live

when the mess inside of him isn't

dragged out into the open

the raw bits of him

glittering in the bright light

of someone else's eyes.

He can't be picked apart

can't let someone else pull him up

and out

of the shattered, broken things

that make up his insides

the things he's done

the person he grew into

the pretty, wonderful, pieces of himself he

(carved out)

(burned away)

(lost)

in the process.

"Hey, you're okay," she says and Max feels like he wants to fucking scream.

"I know," he says, voice strained from his inability to inhale any substantial amount of air. "I'm fine. I'm sorry."

"Max you're not fine," Della hisses. "Something is going on with you."

"I have a debilitating spinal injury, Della," Max says with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "There's obviously something going on with me."

"It's more than that," Della responds. "There's something you're not saying."

"I don't have to tell you everything about my life. Some stuff is private."

"I'm not going to pressure you, Max," Della says, "But it just seems like this is hurting you."

"I am begging you to leave this be," Max answers.

"I can't," Della says, "I'm sorry, Max, but I can't."

"Please don't do this," Max whispers. "Don't push me to talk about it."

"I think it would help," Della responds. "To talk about it, I mean. To someone, at least. It doesn't have to be me."

Max turns his chair so he can face Della. The way she's watching him with such pity and compassion makes his insides curdle.

"No," Max argues. "I've been just fine this far. I have a handle on it."

"Obviously you don't if you're relapsing," Della counters.

"Oh my God," Max responds. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Max, please, there's something wrong. It's obviously upsetting you enough to engage in self ha—"

"Holy fuck, Della. You're not my therapist. You're not my mom. Stop trying to parent me! Can you please just drop it?"

"Sometimes it's easier if you share the burden. Lighten the load."

"You can't help with this," Max says. "You can't. Just. Stop."

Della opens her mouth again to speak, but Max inhales sharply, cutting her off.

"Aunt Della, please."

"Fine, Max, but if it gets worse I will intervene. And I think you should tell your dads. This could really hider your recovery."

"I know," Max says, "But please trust me when I say I have it handled."

"Okay," Della concedes. "Will you eat something now? You've barely eaten all day."

"Fine. Sure," Max says, turning his chair back and wheeling toward the table. "Gonna have to wash this fork first, though."

Della waves him off.

"Don't worry about it Baby Goof, I'll get you a new one. You just worry about chowing down."

Max laughs at that, but he still feels a little off-kilter. He hates when his issues are the focal point. All of his broken parts glittering in the light for everyone to see.

"Oh!" Della says suddenly, backtracking on her way into the kitchen. "Dr. Uppercrust's office called. There was a cancellation and they can fit you in tomorrow morning. I hope it's okay that I went ahead and set up the appointment."

Max inhales, breath shuddering out of him. Palms itchy with anxious sweat.

"Oh?" He asks, trying to sound nonchalant, but he doesn't miss the way his voice wavers. Heavy on his tongue.

"Yeah they want you to come in around 9, if that works." Della's voice fades a little as she walks from the dining room to the kitchen, rummaging through the silverware drawer to get Max another fork.

"Pete and PJ are coming back tomorrow afternoon," Max answers, feeling a million miles away. Like he's being sucked out with the tide. "As long as we're back before then."

"I think it'll give us plenty of time," Della says, handing Max his fork and taking her seat across from him at the table. "Though your last appointment did run a little on the longer side."

Max grits his teeth, staring down at his food. Trying not to think about the last time he'd been in Bradley's care.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Max says, gazing down at his food. He definitely doesn't want to eat now. The thought of food entering his system, wrapping around his thighs and hips. Filling his stomach. God he—

Max gags.

"Augh," he groans, leaning back from the table, the smell of food suddenly so atrocious, so foul h—

He gags again, bile rising in his throat. Body going cold.

"Max are you okay?" Della asks. She's standing again, face morphing in horror.

"I'm sor—" He gags again and he knows he needs to move, to go because next time he knows something is coming up with it. "Oh, fuck."

He grabs his wheels and heaves, pushing himself as fast as he can toward the kitchen sink. He barely makes it, frantically pushing himself high enough up from his chair to reach the sink basin, before he's vomiting, the sharp ammonia scent of it filling his nostrils, making him retch again.

Della is beside him, hand on his back, rubbing in gentle circles.

She's speaking, but Max can't make out her words. All he can hear over the rush of blood in his ears is the frantic tone of her voice.

He shivers, trembling above the sink basin. His muscles strain against the effort of trying to keep himself upright.

"Oh my God, Max. Jesus," Della says, when he's finished and he practically collapses into his wheelchair.

"Sorry," Max says again, wiping the drool from his mouth on the back of his hand. Thick strands of saliva stick to his skin and he winces, just narrowly avoiding gagging again.

"Are you okay?" Della asks, grabbing some paper towels to try and clean the mess off of his hand and face.

"'M fine," Max says, "I think maybe I'm not feeling well n' that's why I haven't really felt like eating all day."

Della hums softly, rubbing Max's back and staring at the clock on the kitchen wall behind his head.

"It's too late to call your doctor now, but maybe we should call first thing in the morning and cancel."

Max shakes his head, groaning when it causes a wave of dizziness and nausea to wash over him.

"No, it's fine. I think I just need to sleep and I'll feel better."

"Did you spend a little too much time out in the sun?" Della asks.

"Might just be some stomach bug one of the kids brought home," Max lies, learning forward to press his forehead against the cool granite counter top. "I should be fine by tomorrow. I just need to sleep it off."

"Okay," Della says. "But if you're still feeling bad when you wake up tomorrow then you definitely shouldn't go to your appointment."

Max grimaces.

"Trust me, I won't," he says, giving Della a look. "Now I need to go brush my teeth and clean up this mess. I'm disgusting."

"Do you need any help?" Della asks.

"I'm managing better, Aunt Della. I think I'll be alright."

"If you're sure," Della says.

"I'm sure," Max responds with a smile, unlocking his chair and turning his wheels so he can move toward his bedroom. "Good-night, Della. See you in the morning."

"Night, Max. Feel better."

And she sounds so worried.

So sincere.

That it makes his heart ache.

Knowing he's lying.

Come morning he'll only be worse.

This

is only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Max wakes to the sound of Della's voice. To the gentle jostling of her nudging his shoulder. He doesn't really remember going to sleep, but once he takes his evening pain pill he barely remembers anything.

"Wake up sleepy head," she says, her own voice still slightly rough from having just woken up. "Just saw the kids off to school. Your appointment is in a few hours."

Max groans, grimacing.

The telltale pain that's always there when he first wakes spreads and flares, his marquee of nerves blistering to life.

"God," Max groans, blinking his eyes open and reaching for the pill bottle on his bedside table. He picks it up, body practically screaming in pain and

finds it

empty.

His breath catches.

Stomach roiling.

"Fuck," he gasps out, staring down at the little orange bottle in his hands. Fingers trembling as they wrap around it, fist clenching.

"Oh crap," Della says, easing the bottle from his hand. "I'll grab some over the counter NSAIDs. Maybe you can get some more of these today from your new doc?"

Max takes a breath, biting his tongue so he won't snap at Della.

Except the shifting rivulets of pain traversing his nerve endings mixed with the sharp stabbing sensation of hunger and the gnawing ache in his head only serve to agitate his mounting rage.

He never wanted to become this person.

At the start of this, he remembers thinking he wouldn't

dare

end up another statistic

but here he is

staring at Della with clenched teeth and a bloodied tongue

bones grinding as he watches her leave

taking his empty pill bottle

(his solace)

(his salvation)

with her.

And he knows, as clear as this deep-seeded ache in his heart. Writhing vines, pulling him under

down into the depths of addiction

a familiar place he's been before

that he's failed to be any different.

His breath quickens, heart galloping forward in his chest. Like a herd of wild horses in the deserts of Joshua Tree. The pain aches intense, growing with each passing moment wherein he becomes more awake.

More aware of his body and all the ways that it can hurt.

He's practically panting by the time Della comes back, clutching four small blue pills in her hand.

"I know it's not as strong as what you're used to," she says, dropping the pills in his palm and handing him a cup of water, "but it's gonna have to work for now, okay?"

Max throws the pills back, swallowing them greedily. Washing them down with the cup of water.

"I should shower," Max says.

"Didn't you shower last night? Right before bed?"

Max pauses for a moment, knowing that him showering again probably wouldn't make sense. Not to Della, who doesn't have the whole picture.

The idea of going in to see Bradley with his body still musty from sleep makes his stomach curdle.

"I'm going to the doctor," Max says with a shrug. "Don't want to smell ripe, y'know?"

"I guess," Della says. "But it's not like you're getting strip searched, he'll probably just look at your surgical scars and talk about your progress in PT."

"He might have to lift me onto the table," Max responds, using his lift to help him move from his bed to his chair. "He did last time."

Della hums, pursing her lips.

"So this doctor. Is he maybe, uh, hot?" Della asks.

Max makes a choking noise.

"No!" He says, probably a little too forcefully for it to seem genuine. "Okay, yes. That's not what this is about. I swear."

"Really?" Della teases, wagging her eyebrows.

"He's my doctor, Della," Max says, rolling his eyes. He pushes his chair toward his dresser, busying himself by picking out some clothing for the day. A pair of gray sweatpants and a tight t-shirt. Something that he knows sends a pretty strong message.

One he wants to get across loud and clear.

"Interesting choice of outfit," Della says.

Max rolls his eyes.

"I'm hardly the first person to wear sweats and a t-shirt to a doctor's appointment, Aunt Della."

"Just saying both of those look pretty tight."

"Oh my, God," Max says, laughing. "It's literally just clothing. Something I know I'll be comfortable in."

"Mmmhm," Della says. "Sure."

Max rolls his eyes again, slipping past Della and into his ensuite.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I do need to take a shower."

"Meaning you need to get all pretty for your doctor," Della intones, teasing Max relentlessly.

Max tips his head back and groans.

"Can you just drop it?" He asks, shaking his head. "He's my doctor. It's not like anything is going to happen there."

Max's face sticks to the vinyl of the exam bed, Bradley's hand on the back of his neck, holding him down. Drool leaks from the side of his mouth, gathering beneath his cheek and chin as Bradley fucks him so hard the whole bed rattles.

His aching cock is still trapped inside of his gray sweatpants, leaking beads of precum into the fabric. Making it almost uncomfortably moist.

Behind him, Bradley is babbling. Random, errant things that Max can't quite follow. Too focused on the way the pleasure makes him fade. Gently erasing the pain and rage from this morning. Giving way to the new ache of longing.

Wanting to be used.

"You used to dance in these," Bradley growls in his ear, hand squeezing the back of his neck roughly with each thrust of his hips.

Max's eyes roll back in his head when Bradley pulls out almost completely, thrusts turning shallow, cock hammering against his prostate before he slams back in.

"W-what?" Max rasps, confused. Gasping beneath the onslaught of Bradley's thrusts. He hasn't danced in months.

"In your behind the scenes videos," Bradley continues, panting hard in his ear.

Max has no idea what he's saying. His thoughts are impermanent things lost to pleasure. The only thing he can focus on is the feeling of Bradley inside of him. One of Bradley's hand on the back of his neck, his other hand gripping Max's ass, pushing him open.

"You were so pretty in those," Bradley babbles. "Your body was pristine. A work of art. Something to admire."

Max's heart throbs, breath shuddering.

"Now I finally have my chance with you and all I get are scraps," Bradley grunts, slipping his fingers inside of Max's ass alongside his cock, stretching him open more without warning.

Max gasps, hands gripping the edge of the bed to steady himself.

"S-s," Max tries, the words dying in his throat when Bradley's fingers find his prostate, pressing hard.

"You're a far cry from what you used to be," Bradley says. "Letting me fuck you on this exam table like some touch-starved slut. God, I bet you'd let anyone fuck you right about now, huh?"

Max's cock is so hard it's throbbing. His rabbit-quick pulse practically thumping in his groin. Like every ounce of his blood is focused there and only there.

"Are you gonna be a good little cock slut and come on my fingers or do I need to grab your dick and wring an orgasm out of you the old fashioned way?" Bradley asks, nipping at the back of Max's ear, fingers twisting and rubbing, massaging his prostate with such intensity it makes Max see stars.

"Oh, fuck," Max groans, face twisting against the bed. Paper crinkling beneath his cheek as he buries his face in the vinyl to muffle his scream.

His cock spasms, cum painting the front of his sweats. Sticky and thick. He groans into the vinyl, whole body trembling and jerking as Bradley's fingers keep pressing inside of him. Milking him for all he's worth.

"Please," Max sobs, shuddering and trying to move away from Bradley's fingers. His legs don't quite have enough muscle to get away. "Bradley, please."

"Shh, shh," Bradley says, lips against the shell of his ear. "Trust me, okay? I'm your doctor, let me take care of you."

His fingers curl again and Max sobs and shudders, overstimulated.

"Please, I—"

Fingers press hard. Circling, massaging.

Max feels out of his mind.

"Bradley," he sobs, body convulsing, legs scrabbling for purchase beneath Bradley's weight. "Please, I—"

"Shut the fuck up," Bradley growls, hand gripping the back of Max's neck so hard, he knows without a doubt his fingertips are going to leave a bruise. "You hear me? You're in my exam room. On my table. You're going to lie there and you're going to fucking take what I give you, alright?"

Max chokes out a sob, pain radiating up and down his spine. Starting from where Bradley's inside of him and reverberating all the way up to the base of Max's skull.

"It hurts," Max begs. "Please, it hurts."

"Tell me to stop if you want me to stop then," Bradley commands. "Tell me no."

Max sucks in a breath, eyes clenching shut. Lips pressing against one another in a thin line as he tries to think. Tries to decide what he wants. What he needs.

"I'm not hearing a no," Bradley coos, finger fucking him in time with each hard thrust of his cock. "You must be enjoying yourself."

The pain ebbs, pleasure building back up as his spent cock grows hard again. The half-drying cum tacky and uncomfortable on his skin.

Max moans, broken and guttural.

"Yeah," Bradley whispers against his skin. "Yeah, there you are. I told you I know best, hm? All you had to do was endure a little pain for me for even more pleasure."

Bradley slips his fingers out of Max's ass, gripping his hips and roughly pulling him up and onto his knees. Making his back arch, chest against the table.

Max gasps in response, groaning from the sudden influx of pain radiating down his spine and into the backs of his legs.

"Fuck," he gasps, panting. The static feeling of sleepy dead nerves stirring beneath his skin like ants crawling over his flesh. Sinking their pincers into his skin until he's burning up from the force of their bites.

"Oh, did that hurt?" Bradley asks, forcing Max's back to bow harder. Sending shocks of pain down his spine. "Your ass looks gorgeous like this, by the way," Bradley continues, the hand on the back of Max's neck moving lower, trailing down the expanse of his back, fingertips tracing over his skin. Until he has both hands on Max's ass; gripping, spreading, squeezing.

"Always did like my men face down, ass up," Bradley muses, leaning forward a little to put more of his weight on Max. Thrusts going harder, more erratic. Making Max grunt and grit his teeth in return.

"Really?" Max asks, voice strained and breathless while he's trying desperately to tease. To meet Bradley blow for blow after all the embarrassing whimpering from earlier. Something to put them both back on more equal footing. "Would've pegged you for a bottom."

"Oh?" Bradley asks, fingers slipping around Max's waist, tracing slowly down his stomach to rest at the base of Max's cock. "I think you'll find I'm versatile."

"Yeah?" Max gasps, burying his face in the crook of his arm when Bradley picks up the pace again, hand wrapping around Max's cock in earnest.

"Not that I'd ever let you fuck me Maximilian," Bradley laughs, breath labored, body trembling as he approaches orgasm. "Perish the thought. Some nothing has-been like you? All you're good for is warming my cock. Taking it until I come."

Bradley squeezes Max hard, hand moving up and down his length. Skin sticking and dragging in a way that's almost painful.

"Wait," Max gasps, wincing when Bradley pumps him harder. "Please, I need—" He makes a punched out sound when Bradley shoves his fingers into his mouth. Nearly gagging as they glide over his tongue.

"The only thing you need is to let me fuck you," Bradley growls, slipping his fingers free from Max's lips. Slick with drool. He switches hands, engulfing Max's cock with his spit-slick fingers.

"Yes, yes, yes," Max gasps, the pain of skin dragging against skin replaced by the easy glide of spit against his cock. "Thank you, thank you," he almost sobs, sniveling grunts replaced by wanton moans.

"You're so weak," Bradley sighs, sinking his teeth into the skin of Max's side, just beneath his ribs. Tugging it between his teeth and branding his skin.

"Pathetic," he purrs when Max gasps. Seething and writhing beneath his touch. "Hurry up and cum so I don't have to fucking touch you anymore."

Max groans, clenching around Bradley's cock, hips twitching forward, bucking into his hand.

"I used to fantasize about you," Bradley says out of the blue, grip loosening, letting Max feel the slick slide of his fingers rather than the tight squeeze of his palm. "Dancing on stage. Drenched in sweat. Most people were watching the singers you danced behind, but you caught my eye. Taut muscles. Pretty, smooth skin."

Bradley traces his free hand up the scar on Max's back. Still pink and angry, stark against his dark skin.

His thrusts slow, cock seated inside of Max. Hips pressed flush. Bradley's hand moves quicker, thumb teasing the tip of Max's cock, pressing hard until he's leaking precum. Until the edge of Bradley's thumb is dipping inside of him, spreading him open.

"Ung," Max groans, trying to jerk away. The sharp burn of being pushed open almost too much. "Hurts."

"Everything I want to do to you hurts, doesn't it?" Bradley growls, biting Max's back again, just beneath his shoulder blade. Smirking against his skin when Max jerks away and whines. "Why can't you just lay there and look pretty, hm? Let me hurt you all the ways I want without whining so goddamn much."

Bradley grinds against Max's ass, thrusts shallow, cock buried deep inside him.

"I told you how to get me to stop, didn't I? All you need to do is tell me to no, Max. Tell me to stop and I'll stop."

Bradley traces his thumb through Max's slit and Max shudders, feeling it open beneath his fingertip. The sensation is strange, uncomfortable. He's never done urethral play before.

"Tell me to stop, Max," Bradley says, giving him the out of it wants it, thumb swirling. Cock pistoning in and out. His thrusts finally picking up pace again. "Tell me no."

Max feels overwhelmed. Heart hammering, face buried into the sticky vinyl of the table. Hands clenching the bed so tightly his body trembles from the effort.

"I'm waiting," Bradley chuckles. "C'mon, Max. You said it hurt, didn't you? So, tell me to stop."

Max shivers and bucks beneath him. The sensation of Bradley's fingers, squeezing, pressing, fucking driving him insane. He should say no. He should've said no at the start. Right when Bradley's gaze settled on him, eyes raking over him slow.

But God all Max wants is to be desired.

Even if it hurts, even if it's mean.

He just wants to feel wanted.

"Unless you like it when I hurt you," Bradley continues, easing his thumb from Max's slit and returning his hand to jacking him off with renewed interest. He sticks to the head of Max's cock, using the precum he siphoned out with his fingers as lube.

Max shudders, body bowing. He presses his hips back against Bradley's, trembling as he simultaneously tries to fuck himself on Bradley's cock and fuck into his hand.

"You do, don't you?" Bradley asks. "You want me to hurt you."

Bradley presses his thumb into Max's urethra again. Rougher. Deeper.

Max can't stop the broken, needy moan that escapes his lips. It hurts, but God he deserves it, doesn't he? He deserves to be hurt. Punished for wanting this. For encouraging it.

He doesn't even know this man. He's only ever seen him twice and both times have ended up like this. Lust so powerful he's stupid with it. Logical thought fading into want. Into desire. The need to have someone's hands on his body. In any way. In any capacity.

Even

if

it

hurts.

"Alright," Bradley says, touch suddenly turning gentle, fingers soft around his cock. He leans over Max, resting the full weight of his upper body along his back so he can press his cheek to the side of Max's head. Lips pressing against his temple. Breath panting against Max's cheek. "Time for you to cum for me, hm?"

"Go on," Bradley whispers, the sudden shift from torment to softness making Max's stomach flip.

Max sighs, the tension in his body relaxing. He raises his head, pressing his cheek to the side of Bradley's face.

"Will you beg for me?" Max asks.

"What?" Bradley asks. touch suddenly going rough again.

"Please?" Max whispers, voice slow and languid. Fucked out. "You want me to come for you? Beg for me. Wanna hear you beg."

"I don't have to let you cum," Bradley growls, snatching his hand away from Max's cock. So quickly that it bobs in the cold air of the exam room.

"Okay," Max hums, lowering his head again, resting his cheek against the table. The vinyl is slick with his drool and warm from his fevered skin. "Okay."

"Goddammit," Bradley hisses, hand returning to Max's cock. Touch gentle, fingers swift. "Please," Bradley begs into Max's ear.

"Please, what?" Max asks.

"What more do you want me to say, Max?"

"C'mon Bradley, the least you can do is call me baby. Beg me all sweet. Tell me how you can't get off until I do."

"You can be as cruel as you want. In your actions. With your words. But I see right through you," Max says, "You like giving me pleasure. You like making me feel good. You said you used to fantasize about me, right? Back when I was dancing on stage with musicians. The tours I did with Powerline. When my body was like chiseled marble, yeah? When I was on top of the world."

Bradley makes a punched out noise, hips bucking, cock slipping in and out as Max thrusts back against him as best he can given the awkward angle.

"I was a god to you then, right? An idol? Something you apparently couldn't touch. Not like how I am now. Beneath you, taking your cock like pretty little damaged goods. Hate to break it to you, baby, but I fucked everything that moved then too. I would let anyone touch me. You're not special because you get to fuck me now. I've always been lonely. I've always been touch-starved. It's how I fucking survived Hollywood."

Bradley is straining to hold on, Max can feel it. The way his cock is hardening inside of him, how his grip on Max's hip is tight enough to bruise. The slight tremble in his thighs.

"So, I think, the least you can do, is call me sweetly."

"You're not—" Bradley gasps, hips stuttering when Max clenches around him, pushing his hips back roughly.

"I'm not, what?" Max asks, "What is it, baby?" Max continues, sweetly.

"Baby," Bradley breathes, fingers tracing the underside of Max's cock, rhythm broken, unsteady, but still, it ignites something in him. "Baby."

"Oh," Max gasps and moans, orgasm hitting him full-force. His cock spasms, cum spilling out over his sweats and the wafer thin paper of the exam table. "Yes, God."

Max pants, fucking himself back on Bradley's cock while pleasure ripples through his body.

"C'mon, Bradley, you too," Max gasps. "You come too. Please, baby."

"Don't," Bradley gasps back, gripping Max's hips and fucking into him as hard as he can. "Don't call my baby. I need—"

"You want me to be mean to you?" Max asks, "You want me to call you pathetic? A waste of space?"

"Shut ah—" Bradley's thrusts go sharper, shallow. "Shut the fuck up."

"Noted," Max sighs, pressing his face into the bed again. Letting Bradley fuck him until he's

overstimulated

flesh hot

and flushed, practically

burning.

Bradley's cock

thick and long inside of him

and it hurts;

the way his legs buckle,

how his back bows,

the angle sending shock waves

down

his

spine

but he endures

keeping his mouth clamped shut,

letting Bradley get off inside of him

trying to pretend he isn't

by nature

a special case.

Max has fucked a lot of people in his life, but he's only been fucked by very few. The act of allowing someone entrance into his body is—

it's—

his eyelids flicker,

and—

he forces his thoughts to go blank

tears pricking at the edges of his eyes

he likes the pain,

but he can't handle

the hurt

no matter how much he deserves it.

Each thrust of Bradley's cock driving home inside of him.

The way his words rip him apart at the seams.

This is wrong,

he knows it is.

But he won't stop it.

(he can't)

Not when the feeling of Bradley coming undone, cock spasming inside of him, fingers gripping and bruising his thighs is so rapturous.

He likes the sensation of being fucked

by

him.

It makes him feel full

of something other than self-loathing

and regret.

When Bradley pulls out, Max feels bereft. Hollow.

Max wants to stay like this forever. On his hands and knees, Bradley buried deep inside him. He wants to be used and used and used because what else is he good for if not this?

What use is he if not a body to admire? Something to derive pleasure from.

A thing

created

for use by the public domain.

The aftermath is tricky.

Navigating from this back to doctor and patient.

People who are supposed to be virtual strangers.

No more than acquaintances at most.

"Are you experiencing any aches or pains you're particularly worried about?" Bradley asks, tucking himself back into his scrubs and pulling the drawstrings taut so they sit perfectly around his pretty waist.

"No," Max says, brain still soft and slow from his second orgasm and the feeling of having given his body to Bradley completely. As a thing to fuck. A mindless beast of pleasure.

"Your surgical scar scar is healing nicely," Bradley's fingers trace his spine again and Max jumps and shudders beneath his touch.

"Okay," Max says, pulling his shirt down and trying to twist on the bed so he can get up and back into his chair.

His knees buckle beneath his weight and he yelps, grabbing the edge of the bed and trying to keep himself upright.

"Easy there," Bradley says, grabbing Max around the waist and helping him to the edge of the bed as best he can. "Damn you really made a mess of things."

Bradley quickly rips the paper off the bed, throwing the soaked remains of it in the trash labeled "bio-hazard" before helping Max twist around and easing him into a sitting position.

"How's physical therapy going?"

"Fine. I uh. I'm on my feet a little better. Can't really walk far, but I can stand for a bit."

"Good," Bradley says. "That's progress."

"Yeah," Max answers, suddenly feeling supremely awkward.

He just had sex with his doctor for the second time and now they're having a conversation like nothing happened. It's sort of sick in a way.

"Is there anything you need from me?" Bradley asks. "Anything you haven't been able to get yet here for your recovery?"

"Pain killers," Max blurts.

Bradley blinks, lips parting.

"Pain killers?" he asks.

"Yes," Max answers. "Please. I ran out this morning. It's. I really need them."

Bradley purses his lips, nodding.

"Do you remember which kind?" he asks. "Or maybe you'd like a different kind. I uh," he laughs a little, sounding hollow, "I'll give you anything you'd like."

"I just need something stronger than over the counter, man," Max says. "I don't care otherwise. The pain is still a lot. I'm not taking as many as I was at the beginning, but it can get almost unbearable sometimes."

"Whatever you need," Bradley says with a nod.

Something has shifted between them and Max isn't quite sure what. Bradley's usual cool demeanor has morphed into something more submissive, almost simpering.

"Wait," Max says, the realization dawning on him.

Bradley watches him with a schooled expression and tired blue eyes.

"Do you think I'm trying to solicit drugs from you because," Max looks down at himself, looks at the mess of his sweatpants. The dark gray stain on the front that he has absolutely no way to explain to Della. "Because I let you fuck me?"

Max blinks, looking back up at Bradley's face. Watching the way his jaw tightens, teeth grinding.

"You think, I would fuck you in exchange for drugs?" Max asks, repeating his question in a different way.

"I figured it had to come up sometime. After all, isn't that how you survived Hollywood?" Bradley asks, throwing Max's earlier words back at him. The ones he used to make certain Bradley knew he wasn't special.

Max closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to steady the rage and indignation building up inside of him.

"This is the problem with doctors," Max seethes through clenched teeth, opening his eyes to glare at Bradley with as much intensity as he can muster. "I'm in actual pain, Dr. Uppercrust. I need actual pain medication to deal with it. Or did you forget I'm coming to you for a spinal injury and not for you to ogle me like I'm a piece of meat the second you walk through the exam room door."

Bradley sighs, eyes rolling.

"You don't have to go all sacrosanct on me," Bradley snaps. "I know you have a spinal injury. I know you must be in pain, but where I reside as a physician is in the camp of not prescribing opiates for pain. If you were my patient from the beginning, you wouldn't have been placed on them at all."

"You're barely my doctor now," Max says, returning Bradley's attitude back to him. "Just write me a script for oxy and I'll be out of your hair."

Bradley hums, giving Max an unimpressed look as he crosses the room to the computer.

"Do you want a muscle relaxant too?" he asks, angrily typing in his credentials and pulling up what Max can only describe as some sort of drug ordering hospital terminal.

"Surprise me," Max replies, tone biting.

"As you wish," Bradley responds with a bitchy little sigh, fingers tapping quickly at the keys.

"What happened to you?" Della asks when Max wheels himself back into the waiting room.

"What do you mean?" Max asks, glancing down at his lap where his printed prescriptions are very carefully hiding the cum stain on the front of his sweats.

"You're all sweaty and rumpled," Della remarks, gesturing at him vaguely.

Max chews the inside of his cheek.

"I dunno," Max says with a laugh, hoping Della will leave it at that so he can move on.

But when has Della ever known Della to leave well enough alone.

"Did something happen?" Della asks, putting her hand on his shoulder when he tries to wheel past her. "Did you fall? Or did—"

"I got on the exam table myself," Max lies, raising his gaze to meet Della's. "That took a minute. Could be why I'm all—" he makes a vague gesture to his body—"rumpled."

Della narrows her eyes.

"What?" Max asks, "The tables are really high up. They're basically my Everest right now."

"Alright, buddy," Della laughs, shaking her head. She releases Max's shoulder, letting him move forward, following him out of the waiting room. "Just wanna make sure they're treating you right. Last time you saw this doctor you sulked in your room for a week."

"Last time I saw him it was for erectile dysfunction," Mad clarifies.

"How's that going, by the way?" Della asks.

Max makes a choking sound.

"Like I would discuss that with you!" Max shouts, indignant.

Della clicks her tongue.

"I'm like your only friend, who else are you gonna talk about it with?"

"No one!" Max laughs. "Oh my God, Della it's embarrassing. I'd rather never mention it ever again. The fact that I had to talk about this at the dinner table once was enough."

"So you're still struggling. Got it," Della teases, walking ahead of Max to hold the door to the parking lot open.

"There is an automatic door button," Max gripes, rolling through the door and giving Della an unimpressed look.

"Quit your belly-aching and let me hold the door open for you," Della chides, rolling her eyes. "I like doing nice things for my poor nephew. It makes me feel like a good aunt."

"You're a terrible aunt," Max says, laughing at the affronted look Della gives him when he wheels past her. "A good aunt wouldn't ask me if my dick can get hard, Della. Like, why do you even want to know?"

"I care about your health, Max!" Della says, letting the door close loudly and falling into step beside him. "Sorry that I care and that I don't want my poor childless nephew to be impotent."

"So you want grand nephews is what you're saying," Max deadpans.

"Would it be too much to hope for a grand niece? Webby and I are fighting for our lives in the house with all you boys."

Max can't hold back his raucous laughing anymore, laughing so hard he can't help the high-pitched ahyuck sound that looses itself from his chest. Which, in turn, sets Della off, her own laughter sounding like a fork in caught the garbage disposal.

"Oh, fuck," Max says, laughing harder, ahyucking again. His ribs ache, stomach muscles straining. There are tears in his eyes. "Oh God, I haven't laughed like this in forever."

"Remember that the next time you call me a bad aunt," Della manages to choke out between bouts of laughter.

When they reach the car, Max refuses Della's help getting in.

"You were just complaining that the exam table was your Everest, but now you're suddenly okay with climbing into an SUV on your own?" Della asks, skeptical.

"Well I'm gonna have to learn how to do it sometime," Max answers with a shrug.

"Okay," Della says, taking a step back and gesturing for him to continue. "I'll be right here if you biff it."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Della," Max laughs, locking his wheels and gazing up at the too high seat of the SUV.

Fucking Hell.

The things he fucking gets himself into with this guy. The only reason he's doing this is so Della doesn't ask questions about the very obvious and large cum stain on the front of his sweats. There is absolutely no way he can explain that without actually telling her his doctor fucked him into the exam table until he cried.

And he really doubts that's going to go over well.

"I'm just saying don't bite off more than you can chew," Della says from behind him.

Max ignores her, taking a deep breath before folding up the papers from his lap and shoving them into his pocket. He moves his legs onto the ground and leaning forward to grip the edge of the car. He forces himself to a standing position, legs practically screaming under his weight. It's an uncomfortable feeling, nerves alight, but he manages.

He takes a deep breath, arms trembling as he holds himself up. He raises one of his legs, ignoring the way it feels almost like dead weight. The feeling of bugs crawling up and down his skin.

"You got it?" Della asks.

"Yeah," Max gasps, voice strained as he holds most of his weight on his arms. He pulls himself up, putting a minuscule amount of weight on the leg he's managed to get into the car so he can move the other up and inside as well. Max thanks every god he can think of in his head when he's knees don't buckle. "Luckily I still have pretty decent upper body strength. That's what we worked on first back in LA."

His thighs burn with the effort of holding himself up. Already strained from staying on his hands and knees for so long.

"Oh my God, Max, I'm so proud!" Della shouts from behind him. He can see her clapping her hands and punching the air in his periphery when he finally settles in the seat.

"First time," Max says, breathless. Laughing a little, in awe. "Holy shit. I can't believe I did it without falling."

"You're amazing, Baby Goof," Della says, appearing at his side to fold up his chair and place it in the back of the SUV. "You'll be back on your feet in no time."

Max laughs, chest still heaving from the effort.

"I don't know about all that," he says, "but it's nice to be a little more independent. I've missed being able to do things on my own, y'know?"

"Oh, I know," Della says, walking around to the driver's side of the car and opening the door.

Max leans out a little, pulling his door closed and letting the errant sounds of the parking lot fade to white noise.

"Don almost drove me insane with how much he coddled me after I got back, like, I love him, he's the best brother alive, but he makes an overbearing and overprotective caregiver."

A pause.

"Don't tell him I said that."

"I won't," Max laughs.

"Good," Della responds, turning on the car. "Now, do we need to stop by the pharmacy on the way home?"

"Yep," Max answers. "My legs are burning after that, so I'd like to get these filled ASAP."

"Ten-four," Della says, giving him a jaunty little salute.

When Max and Della finally get home, they find his dad awake and sleepily futzing around in the kitchen.

Pop is with him, arms slung around his waist, head resting against his dad's side. Too short to reach his shoulder.

They both look worse for wear, eyelids heavy with sleep, eyes bloodshot. Still recovering from their late night shifts.

"Good morning sleepy heads," Della says cheerfully, tossing her keys into the bowl next to the front door and waltzing into the kitchen. She plucks the coffee beans from his dad's hands, practically skipping toward the coffee grinder while his dad and pop watch on dumbly.

"Gosh, Della, I—" His dad starts to say, only to be waved off.

"I got this bro," Della beams, giving him a thumbs up as she fills the grinder. "Go spend some time with your poor neglected son before you have to go work another overnight shift from hell."

"I gotta change and take a show—" Max tries, but Della fixes him with a look.

"That's what, your third shower in less than 24 hours?" she asks, eyeing him suspiciously. "Don't tell me you're trying to avoid hanging out with your ol' dad and your ol' pop, Maxie? Thought you grew out of that shit in your teen years."

"What? No!" Max says, "I'm just sweaty and gross from climbing into the car. I'd like to change clothes at least."

He doesn't know how much longer he can keep hiding this cum stain. He's lucky Della hasn't noticed it yet because he really doesn't have it in him to explain himself.

"After you painstakingly picked that outfit specifically to see your doctor?" Della asks, giving him a teasing grin.

Max opens his mouth to retort, but she turns on the bean grinder, giving him the most shit-eating grin of all time.

He rolls his eyes, pushing his chair past the living area and toward his bedroom. He holds up a single finger at his dads, indicating that he'll just be a second. Really, he needs to get these sweats off as soon as possible.

Max can deal with the uncomfortable amount of tacky lube and dried semen on his skin later when Della isn't there to call him out.

He really should learn to be more discreet if he's going to keep having these types of appointments with Bradley. He's never really felt the need to hide sexual relationships in the past. He and Christina used to get off on it. Him coming home smelling like someone else's body. Her coming home with hickies sucked into her neck. It was healthy for them.

There's nothing healthy about this.

He takes a breath when he closes his door behind him, going to his dresser and quickly pulling out the first outfit he can get his hands on. A simple athletic shorts and t-shirt look. Something Della will probably also have a teasing comment about.

Max purses his lips and stares down at his semi-short athletic shorts. How this specific pair hugs his thighs a little. Showing off the expanse of his dark brown skin. Maybe next time he goes to see Bradley he should wear something like this.

He wonders if Bradley will sneak his fingers up the backs of his thighs. Tracing the sensitive skin there.

Max closes his eyes, sighing. He just got home from being railed into an exam table and he's already craving more. He wonders, and not for the first time, if maybe there are more people in this town he wouldn't mind getting a little handsy with.

So he isn't at Bradley's beck and call.

Max has always had a voracious sexual appetite. He misses it. The sensation of fucking someone. Of letting them fall to their knees in front of him. The power that comes from having his body worshiped.

He supposes those days are behind him now.

What with the wheelchair and all.

He moves from his chair to his bed to make undressing easier. Tugging off the offending cum-stained sweatpants and shoving them under his bed. He'll have to wash them himself later so nobody asks any embarrassing questions.

When he returns to the living room, Della has already started brewing coffee. The nutty aroma of it filling the shared living space and making Max's stomach growl loudly.

He clenches his eyes shut tight. The last thing he wants to do right now is eat. The idea of putting any amount of food in his body makes him feel physically ill actually.

He'd been having such a good day.

"Are you hungry, Maxie?" his dad asks from the dining table where he and pop are sitting, chatting idly with Della as she bustles around the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

"I'm making fried potatoes and eggs!" Della calls from the kitchen, "It's not a proper fry up, but it's quick enough. I can make you something quicker, though, Max. I know you didn't get a chance to eat last night."

"It's fine," Max says with a laugh, trying to ignore the way his stomach is already starting to churn at the thought of eating. "I can wait for potatoes and eggs."

"Are you sure, Max?" Pop asks, voice soft despite the scratchy quality of it.

"You didn't eat last night?" His dad asks next.

"It's not a big deal," Max says, "I wasn't feeling well. So I skipped dinner."

And lunch.

And breakfast.

But they don't need to know that.

He feels better when he doesn't eat.

The feeling of his stomach being empty makes him feel more in control.

It makes him feel pretty,

In a way.

Attractive.

More like the person he used to be before.

"Are you feeling okay now?" his dad asks, reaching out to press the back of his hand to Max's forehead. "You don't feel feverish."

"I think it was some twenty-four hour thing. It's passed now, I promise. I'm fine." Max gently bats his father's hand away, giving him a sheepish look. "I promise."

"If you're sure," his dad says, giving him a once over, lips purse in concentration. As if to check him for injuries.

Max feels guilty about how glad he is to have changed clothes before being exposed to this level os scrutiny.

"I'm sure," Max says.

"How did it go at the doctor?" His pop asks, yawning and blinking his eyes a little blearily. It's sort of funny how long it takes his dads to wake up after doing an overnight shift.

"Got some new prescriptions," Max says shrugging. "Talked about my recovery work in PT. I've actually made some progress."

"Max got onto the exam table by himself," Della brags from the kitchen. "And!" She continues, stepping away from the stove for a second to face everyone in the dining room, "He even got into the car by himself today!"

"That's great, Max!" His dad laughs, patting him on the shoulder.

"You'll be back on your feet in no time," his pop responds.

"Della said the exact same thing," Max laughs. "Sometimes I forget the two of you are twins until something like this happens. Your spooky twin telepathy."

Della clicks her tongue, waving a turner in his direction.

"It's not twin telepathy, Don's just never had an original thought in his life."

"Della!" Donald hisses, voice breaking.

Max has to muffle his startled giggle into his hand. He nearly breaks when he sees his dad do the same thing.

"What?" Della asks, turning around and heading back into the kitchen. "You're gonna sit there and tell me that I'm wrong?"

Max watches as his pop twists lower in his seat, crosses his arms over his broad chest and sulks.

The twin ahyucks that escape between their teeth is startling enough to send everyone into raucous laughter.

"I forgot you laughed just like your dad sometimes," his pop says, unbridled joy on his face, despite Della's teasing.

"You and Del laugh the same too," Max says between fits of giggles.

"We do not!" his pop shouts back, but there's no heat in it. Everyone already knows.

When Della brings the food to the table, Max's stomach lurches. The sight of it making his stomach twist. Saliva fills his mouth and he feels a powerful need to gag.

Max swallows, forcing a smile to his face.

"Thank you Della," Max says sweetly. Earning himself an eyeroll and a patronizing pat to his head.

"Just shut up and eat, alright?" Della says, returning to the kitchen briefly to grab her own plate and sit down at the table with Max and his dads.

"How long is this job you're on going for?" Della asks Donald, grabbing the habanero hot sauce from the center of the table and absolutely drowning her eggs in it.

"Four days," Donald answers, shaking his head when Della offers him the hot sauce. He reaches for something more mild, peppering it gently over his food before passing it to Max's dad. "Shouldn't overlap with your next job. That way someone's always here for the kids."

Della nods.

"Yeah, I've got another week before I'm back running freight, and don't forget next month I'm back in Duckburg for Uncle Scrooge's next expedition for three weeks."

Donald shovels potatoes into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"Do you think Webby will want to go?" He asks once he's swallowed down his food

An awkward hush falls over the table.

"It's been almost three years since she's seen him. Since she's been home," Max's dad says, staring down at his plate. He's still holding the hot sauce Donald handed him as if he can't decide whether or not he wants it on his plate.

Max feels strange overhearing this conversation. Like he's somehow been elevated from kid to adult without his knowledge. He knows he's in his mid-twenties, but he's hardly a caregiver. Not like his dads and Della.

He wonders if they agonize about him like this too.

"School is out this week," Della answers. "It could be part of their summer. Make a vacation out of it. Webby and the boys."

"I know the boys miss Uncle Scrooge," Pop points out. "He misses them too, even if he doesn't want to admit it."

Donald coughs gently, rubbing at his throat and sighing. He switches to sign language.

Max watches his hands move, fingers signing quickly as Della and his dad look on. The conversation moves on without him, context lost now that he can't follow the thread of what Donald is saying. He learned simple signs when he was younger, but out in California he never had to use them, so the only things he really remembers are how to finger spell his name and a few of the raunchier words.

None of which his pop is using now.

Max lowers his eyes, giving the actual adults in his life some privacy. He stares down at his plate of food. Crispy potatoes and almost perfect sunny side up eggs.

Della has always been an excellent cook. So he knows without a doubt this food is going to taste good. The same way he also knows potatoes and eggs aren't unhealthy foods. Logically, he knows they're full of nutrients his body needs. Potatoes in particular are rife with nutrients and they're not even that calorie dense.

He knows this.

He does.

Max picks up his fork.

His stomach aches, growling loudly, but thankfully not loud enough to distract the adults from their conversation.

He should eat. He's starting to feel vaguely nauseous and the pounding headache he's been nursing all day is becoming too strong to ignore.

Max loves the feeling of an empty stomach, but the other symptoms of withholding food from his body are irritating.

Though he knows, if he powers through, even those will go away after awhile. Or maybe he just gets better at ignoring the signals.

He stabs his fork through one of the potatoes. Raising it from the plate to his mouth. He rests it against his closed lips, letting the savory spiced smell of it fill his nostrils.

He can eat this.

He can.

Max lets his lips part, tongue darting out to taste. Flavor explodes on his tongue, the cajun spice mix salty and spicy and sweet. This is the first food he's let himself taste in awhile. His body is starving. He knows without a doubt he's going to wolf this down.

He shoves the first potato into his mouth. Then the second. Then two more before he's even finished chewing the first. He needs to slow down, but he's so fucking hungry.

Max knows he's going to hate himself for this later. When his stomach feels full and he has no outlet because he can't exactly exercise in this condition. He'll lay in bed or sit in his chair, panic rising in his chest and he'll feel disgusted with himself.

He already feels disgusted with himself now.

"Wow, Maxie, you must've been really hungry," his dad suddenly says, everyone turning to look at him while he's practically licking the runny yolk of his eggs off the plate.

"Ha, yeah," Max says, setting the plate down and straightening up in his chair. He knows his dad doesn't mean it in a negative way, but people commenting on him eating at all is a sore subject for him. The words wrap tightly around his chest, pulling taut, making him feel the powerful need to vomit. To get rid of the food he's just scarfed down. "Aunt Della's potatoes are the best. Forgot how much I loved them."

Della beams at him.

"There's more if you want more," she says, moving to stand. "I can grab you another plate."

"No, that's okay," Max says, stopping her before she can move any further. "That's fine. My stomach is still a little tender from yesterday so I don't want to overdo it."

He needs to leave the table so he can throw up.

Max can already feel it building in his stomach and chest. Can feel the saliva in his mouth rising, practically drowning his tongue.

"I uh," he laughs a little nervously, patting his stomach, trying to keep the vomit at bay even while he can practically feel it moving through his system. He doesn't want a repeat of yesterday. He doesn't think he could explain away vomiting in the kitchen sink two days in a row. "Have to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

Max unlocks his wheels and quickly moves back from the table. He feels the bile just there at the back of his throat, bubbling up to the surface with gaseous pressure. It feels like a burp, but he knows the second he tries to release that pressure, vomit will come with it.

"Do you need help?" His dad calls after him.

Max tips his head up and swallows. Trying to keep the puke at bay. His stomach roils, twisting uncomfortably.

"No! I'm good!" Max calls back, pushing himself into his bedroom and practically slamming the door behind him.

He makes it into his ensuite with just enough time to turn the sink on full blast and pull up the toilet seat before he's heaving up everything he just ate for lunch.

Max closes his eyes, trying not to look at the contents of the toilet bowl. He knows it's just going to make him retch more. The smell alone triggers his gag reflex. Tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

He hates when it gets like this. When it gets this bad. Usually he can hit the gym, shed the calories through exercise or forcing himself to do the same dance moves over and over and over and over again until his body aches and his feet bleed. Except he can't do that now. He has to confront this head on, which means the anxiety about eating is back. The vomiting is back. The constant fear of gaining weight is back.

It was better when his body wasn't being perceived. Now that it is, he can't reckon with the idea of someone (Bradley) seeing him as anything less than the perfect ideal. The way he always was on stage. Slender and lithe, muscles hiding just beneath the surface of his skin. Straining and protruding while he moved.

Max needs to be that.

He needs to be perfect more than he needs to be healthy.

When he's sure he's not going to vomit again, he moves to the sink, splashing the still-running water on his face and rinsing the bile from his mouth.

He refuses to look at his reflection in the mirror. He already knows what he looks like. Clammy and wet, eyes sunken and out of focus. Like there's something wrong with him.

Max grabs his toothbrush from the back of the sink, brushing his teeth. He takes special care to brush the disgusting bitter taste off his tongue.

He needs to join everyone out in the dining room and pretend like nothing happened. This will all go away if he ignores it for long enough. All he really needs is to be able to get back on his feet. To work out the way he used to back in LA. So he doesn't have to figure out a more creative way to stay empty.

His dads are in the living room when he gets back. Della is at the kitchen sink, washing dishes.

"Everything alright, son?" his dad asks when he appears in the doorway to his bedroom.

"Yeah, dad," Max answers with a gentle smile, wheeling his way over to the couch. "Sorry. Just ate too fast, I think."

He settles next to his dads, testing his arm on the edge of the couch and trying to make sense of what they're watching on TV. Looks like an old science fiction show with a multitude of cheesy looking practical effects and over-the-top acting.

"Do you and pop mind if I join you for whatever this is?" Max asks, motioning vaguely to the screen where some person in bug-like make up is currently getting electrocuted while an old man laughs manically. It'd be unsettling if it didn't look so hilarious. "Until y'all have to go to work, I mean. I know you two don't get to spend enough time alone together as it is, I don't want to impede on that."

His dad and Donald exchange looks.

"You're not impedin'! Not at all, Maxie," His dad says, leaning closer to the edge of the couch to place his hand over Max's, giving him a reassuring smile. "We love having you around."

"Thanks dad," Max says.

"If anyone's impeding," Donald starts, voice quiet, still strained from the earlier discussion about the kids, "It's Della."

"Hey!" Della shouts from the kitchen. "And after I made you and your man breakfast and coffee and everything. This is the thanks I get!"

"We never get a moment alone with her around," Donald whispers, glaring in Della's direction.

"If you wanted alone time you shouldn't have had kids!" Della shouts back.

"They're your kids!" Donald responds, voice raising to a choked-sounding yell.

"So!?" Della shouts back.

Max and his dad lock eyes, both grinning at the twins' antics.

His dad rolls his eyes fondly, mouthing "Watch this" to Max before abruptly pulling Donald into his side.

Donald makes a squawking sound, whatever he was yelling at Della muffled by his face being pressed directly into Max's dad's chest.

Max watches with amusement as Donald strains against his dad's chest, fighting the embrace for a moment before ultimately giving up and relaxing into it with a sigh.

They're so sickeningly cute and Max loves it.

He's so happy his dad is happy. Even if his life is beyond chaotic most of the time.

"Oh," Max says after a few beats of silence, in which Della goes back to the dishes and Donald wraps his arm around his father's waist, snuggling contentedly into his side. "I invited Pete and PJ to the cook out tomorrow and I think Bobby Zimmeruski might make an appearance too, I hope that's okay."

Donald raises his head, giving Max a surprised look before glancing up at his dad.

Della turns off the faucet.

"Dad?" Max prompts, when he's the only one who doesn't immediately react.

"Hm?" His dad asks, turning away from the TV to meet Max's gaze.

He doesn't look shocked or bothered at all.

"Is it okay that I invited Pete, PJ, and Bobby to the cookout tomorrow?" Max asks.

"Sure! The more the merrier. Probably would've invited Pete myself if I'd been around when he stopped by yesterday. They were supposed to be here tomorrow. We would've probably found a way to include them anyhow."

"It's just," Max starts, pursing his lips, "I know how weird everything has been between you two, but he seems genuinely apologetic about it. I don't know. I don't want to make things awkward."

"It won't be," his dad says, squeezing Donald even more tightly into his side and pressing a kiss to his forehead when he opens his mouth to protest. "I think Pete and I have a lot we need to talk about."

Chapter Text

Hours later, when his dads finally leave for work and Della leaves to pick up the kids, Max finally gets an opportunity to take a shower.

His body reeks of sex musk and Bradley's scent; sweat mixed with the sharpness of citrus and something sweet like coconut milk. It's a wonder no one smelled it on him.

His dried cum is tacky on his skin. The texture of it making his skin crawl. He's never had a partner leave him filthy like this. There was a sink in that room with them, there were things Bradley could've used to clean him off.

Yet;

here is the evidence of their coupling

written all over Max's skin.

Marked, in a way that

almost makes him hesitate to scrub clean

the sicker, more damaged part of his brain wondering if this is

the

last

time

he'll be claimed like this,

Until

his eyes settle on the budding bruise on his skin

nestled at the edge of his hip bone, where his waist meets his pelvis.

the shape of Bradley's mouth

burned into his flesh.

Max sighs,

a perverse sense of relief

flooding him

fingers brushing gingerly and

marveling at all the ways it feels tender beneath his touch

how his skin feels swollen, soft

and abused.

He presses his fingers down,

pushing

rougher, rougher and

letting his skin dip beneath his fingertips

feeling the throbbing ache of the bruise,

pulsing beneath his touch.

It feels good to hurt

when he's in control of it.

He lightens his touch, letting the throbbing pain ease

a dull ache left behind by the pressure

a remnant of Bradley's desire.

A desire that, apparently, has been going on for longer than he expected. It was strange to hear the way Bradley spoke of his past work. During their last encounter, he was under the impression that they were strangers. Neither knowing anything about the other, when in actuality, Bradley is a fan.

He's used to people knowing him in California, but in Ohio? He's not really a household name. He's only been dancing for a few years. Sure, he's had some major credits, a disgustingly famous fiancee, and he hit probably the biggest portion of his career right before everything came crashing down, but he was hardly popular.

Maybe on social media. Bradley did mention seeing Max's BTS videos.

Ones he used to fantasize about apparently.

What a weird thing to picture;

Someone using his dancing videos as masturbation fodder.

It should be embarrassing. Or gross, maybe, but all Max feels is flattered. That his obscenely attractive doctor found his body hot enough to pleasure himself to.

He wonders if maybe he can convince Bradley to tell him what videos specifically. He knows of at least a few where he wore the gray sweatpants from earlier today. He isn't above a little role play. Some rehashing of old outfits or scenarios.

It'd be a bit less flashy. Lower energy to be sure, but he sort of likes the idea of it.

Max finishes his shower, pulling himself up and out of the tub. Letting his legs bear a little of his weight as he moves to the toilet to catch his breath and pull on a pair of boxers. Before ultimately sliding back into his chair.

He wonders if maybe he should put back on the shorts and t-shirt from earlier so Della doesn't ask any questions about him changing again. But, he ultimately decides against it. Those clothes touched his gross sweaty skin and the idea of wearing them again kind of makes him want to hurl.

Not to mention they also reek of musk and sex and Bradley and it would be easier to explain a change of clothes than it would be to explain that. If he can help it, Max would really like to not discuss his sex life with anyone in his family. Ever. Della included, no matter how much he's come to lean on her in the past few months.

He's just wheeling back out into his bedroom, nearly nude save for the boxers settled low on his hips when there's a knock on his bedroom door. Followed by a wiggling of the doorknob.

Luckily he remembered to lock it before he got in the shower.

"Max?" Dewey asks on the other side of the door.

"Yeah, bud?" Max calls back.

"Are you gonna come sit with us at the table while we do homework?"

Max smiles at that, rolling his eyes fondly.

"Of course, man," Max answers. "I do it every night, don't I?"

"Not every night," Dewey corrects. "The last time you went and saw your penis doctor you—"

Max guffaws, srtartled by Dewey's crassness. He moves quickly through the space, or as quickly as he can in a wheelchair, pulling on a new pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

"Dewey, oh my God, don't call him that. He's a neurologist. Jesus."

Though, if Max is being entirely honest, penis doctor isn't exactly that far off.

"I thought you said he was a urologist."

"He's both, he's a dual or triple speciality or something. I forgot what Dr. Niehaus said," Max says.

"Can you open the door?" Dewey asks. "I feel really weird talking to you through it."

"Just a second, bud," Max says, laughing and shaking his head again. Pulling on a pair of socks before he pushes himself across the room to unlock the door.

"That's better," Dewey beams at him when he swings the door open. He bounces a little on the balls of his feet. "C'mon, mom is making snacks and Huey is helping Louie with his science homework."

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," Max says, pushing himself over the threshold of his bedroom and out into the shared living space. Following after Dewey as he returns to the dining room.

"Did you change clothes again?" Della asks the second she lays eyes on him.

Max grits his teeth.

"Yep," he says, deciding to own it. Head high, shoulders back, expression neutral. "Like I said earlier I was sweaty from the doctor. I needed a shower."

Della narrows her eyes, giving him a once over.

"You're just gonna get all sweaty again later when you have to sit on the porch and watch Pete and his son cut a hole in the railing for your new ramp," Della remarks. "It's hot out today."

"Then I guess I'll just have to take another shower," Max shrugs.

Della purses her lips.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" she asks him, point blank.

The dining room goes quiet as all the kids look up from their homework and stare directly at Max. Sensing the sudden change in atmosphere.

"What would I not be telling you?" Max asks, suddenly on guard. "I don't know what you're asking me."

"Just," Della sighs. "The last time you saw this doctor you got weird after your appointment too. Is there something you're not telling us? Did something happen?"

"No," Max says, his voice surprisingly even despite the rapid beating of his heart. The memories of what Bradley did to him creeping slowly on the edges of his mind.

"You didn't get any bad news? Something that might make us worry?"

"No," Max responds, shaking his head vehemently. "Nothing like that, Della. I promise."

"You'd tell us if something bad happened, right?" Della pushes, gazing down at Max with unbridled concern.

"Of course I would," Max lies.

"Was this the penis doctor again?" Louie asks suddenly, breaking the tension in the room. Sending Dewey and Webby into a fit of uncomfortable laughter. Followed by a surprised intake of breath from Huey.

Max closes his eyes and sighs.

"He's a neurologist," Max corrects through clenched teeth.

"I thought he was a urologist," Huey says.

"He's both, actually," Dewey answers for Max. "He's got multiple specials or something."

"Specialties," Max corrects.

"He sounds smart," Webby comments.

"I mean, he is a doctor," Louie deadpans.

"Not everyone who is a doctor is smart," Max says. If he's learned anything about the medical industry from having to rely on it this much it's that. Doctors can be downright stupid sometimes.

He grimaces a little when he remembers that even today he had to yell at Bradley for accusing him of sleeping with him for prescription pain killers.

Max is beginning to wonder how many other patients he's done shit like this with. And whether or not they fucked Bradley for drugs. Whether or not he took advantage of their addiction.

He hopes not,

but

he doesn't think it would change his feelings about Bradley if he did.

After the kids finish their homework, Della retreats to her room and the boys settle in front of the TV.

Max takes a deep breath and wheels himself toward the front door. PJ texted him not too long ago saying he and Pete were on their way. So he figured he can wait outside for them. It shouldn't take too long for them to cut a hole in the railing of the front porch.

At least, he hopes not.

"Mind if I join you outside?" Webby asks, tailing Max to the front door with two bottles of cream soda in hand.

"Webby, I'm not sure that's a great idea," Max answers.

He may have invited Pete and PJ to their cook out tomorrow, but he still doesn't trust Pete around kids. He's not the best role model and he doesn't want Webby walking away with hurt feelings like he often did when he was younger.

"And I'm not sure you sitting out on the porch alone for hours is a great idea either," Webby says, putting a hand on her hip and staring Max down.

He laughs, rolling his eyes at her antics.

"You're not gonna let this go are you?"

"Nope."

"Fine," Max relents with a sigh. "Come on."

"Nice of you to see it my way."

Max rolls his eyes, pulling open the front door and wheeling himself over the threshold with Webby hot on his wheels.

It doesn't take long for them to hear the rumble of Pete and PJ's truck rolling down the street. Webby only a few sips into her soda by the time they're rolling into the driveway.

Max's own soda is sitting on the porch next to his wheel. He isn't sure he wants to drink something so sweet when his body has been essentially revolting against all types of food lately.

Something he definitely doesn't want to exam any further than he already has.

He knows what this is and he knows he'll eventually get over it. Once he's back on his feet and he can find a better outlet through exercise. Maybe he can even start dancing again. Anything to keep these feelins of overwhemling fullness at bay.

He's gotten so used to his body feeling hungry, he can't stand the feeling of being full.

"Good evening, Baby Goof," Pete calls from the driveway where he and PJ are unloading tools from the back of the van.

"Evenin', Pete," Max calls back, giving him a polite wave.

"Good evening!" Webby calls as well, waving much more enthusiastically than Max had.

"Who have we here?" Pete asks, walking over and leaving PJ to unload the rest of the tools.

"I'm Webby," Webby replies with a wide, beaming smile. She stands up from where she'd been sitting on the swing to cross the porch and offer her hand to Pete to shake politely. "I live here with Max and my cousins."

Pete beams back at her, shaking her hand gently.

"I used to have a little girl about your age," Pete says, getting a faraway look in his eyes.

"Used to?" Webby asks, her voice suddenly going quiet.

"Yeah," Pete says, smiling wistfully, "He's off at college now. Spoonerville State."

"Oh," Webby says, realization dawning.

"Huh," Max says more to himself than anyone else. He guesses that's why there was some tension when he brought up Pistol yesterday when he invited them over for the cook out.

"It's wonderful to meet you Webby," Pete says far too kindly. More kind than Max ever remembers him being, at least.

"It's nice to meet you too, Mr. Pete."

They part ways and Webby returns back to Max's side, sitting down on the porch swing once more and taking another sip of her soda.

"I don't think he seems all that bad," Webby says under her breath so only Max can hear.

"Probably mellowed out in his old age," Max says. "Maybe having a queer kid softened him up a little."

"Maybe," Webby says, into her soda, the neck of the bottle distorting her voice.

"I wonder what the story is there," Max says. "It seemed tense when I brought Pistol up yesterday. I'm betting that wasn't exactly the smoothest transition."

"Maybe it's not any of our business," Webby surmises.

Max gives her a deadpan look and rolls his eyes.

"You're no fun. We can't at least speculate?"

"And you're nosy," Webby counters.

"The man told my dad he was going to hell on his wedding day," Max grumbles, irritated. "I think I'm allowed to be a little nosy about his cookie-cutter hetero family maybe falling apart."

"I don't think someone's family has to fall apart just because they have a trans kid, Max," Webby responds.

"That's not what I'm saying and you know it."

"Still, I don't feel comfortable gossiping about someone's kid."

"I bet he and Peg got divorced. That's why neither he nor PJ wanted to talk about Pistol or Peg yesterday."

"Max," Webby sighs, rolling her eyes.

"I'm just saying!" Max says. "All these straight people wanting to protect the sanctity of marriage or whatever and getting divorced. It's poetic, I think."

"Aren't you straight?" Webby asks.

Max turns to her, blinking in surprise.

"What?" he asks, flabbergasted.

"Your ex-fiance is a woman right? Christina? That famous singer?"

"Yeah?"

"Doesn't that mean you're straight?"

"Webby bisexuals exist," Max says, speaking slowly. "Pop dated Aunt Daisy for years before they split and he married my dad. Now Daisy is married to Aunt Selene."

"I know bisexuals exist," Webby grumbles, "I'm not an idiot, Max. You've just only dated women."

"No?" Max says, thinking back on it. "I absolutely haven't only dated women."

"Okay, so name one guy you've dated."

Max opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again.

"Oh fuck," he says, ignoring the discomfort welling in his chest. Thoughts turning a litle darker. Sinister things grabbing and choking and—

Then—

"Oh my God, Webby, I think you're right."

"So you are straight?"

"No, absolutely not. That's disgusting," Max corrects, tamping down his thoughts before he can think of a name. "You don't expressly have to date the same sex to be bisexual anyway, but. Jesus. Maybe I haven't dated any men."

"So how do you know if you're even attracted to men, then?" Webby asks.

"Uh," Max says, thoughts wandering to earlier when he let his literal doctor rail him into an exam table. "Well."

"Never mind," Webby says. "I don't actually want to know."

Max laughs, letting it chase away the darkness bubbling up inside of him. Latent things he still hasn't dealt with.

"Yeah, you probably don't."

"This is probably gonna be a little loud," Pete interrupts, approaching Max and Webby once he and PJ have their saw set up. "I've got some extra ear protection you two should probably wear while we work."

Pete hands them both bright red ear protection muffs.

"Thanks Mr. Pete," Webby says, putting her muffs over her ears and flashing him her signature overly sweet, adorable little grin.

Pete softens to her immediately and Max rolls his eyes, putting his own muffs over his ears and glaring out at the yard.

PJ hasn't spoken much since he got here, but he's always been the quiet type. The more shy one of Max's old friend group. But now it seems much more deliberate than it was in the past.

Like things are still awkward between them.

A weight neither of them can shake.

Max knows it probably has something to do with him bringing up Pistol and Peg yesterday or maybe PJ is still a little off after their altercation in the grocery store. Something neither of them have apologized for yet.

He doesn't exactly have time to bring it up right now, though.

PJ flips a switch and the saw in his hand roars to life, cutting through the wood of the railing with ease. Sawdust blows everywhere, the smell of musty wood carrying on the breeze.

Max winces against the onslaught of it, turning his chair so he can avoid breathing it in.

Webby follows suit, twisting on the swing and shielding her face with her arms.

When PJ's finished, the whole porch is bathed in sawdust.

Including Max and Webby.

They look at each other, eyes locking for a split second before they start laughing. Sound muffled by their ear protection.

"You look ridiculous!" Webby yells, pointing at Max's hair. "It's all in your hair!"

Max leans forward and shakes his head like a dog, sending sawdust flying all over the porch and Webby.

"Hey!" Webby shouts, laughing again and shaking her own hair onto Max.

"Quit sending sawdust everywhere!" Pete shouts, the saw finally quieting. "You don't wanna be breathing that in. It'll give you popcorn lung."

Max doesn't know why, but that just makes both him and Webby laugh harder.

Later, once Max and Webby have quieted down and Pete stops sending them furtive glances. Occasionally admonishing them for eschewing workplace safety, they finally finish the ramp.

"Go on and test it out," Pete says, motioning Max over toward the ramp once he and PJ are finished with their handiwork.

"Should be a smooth ride," PJ says, wiping his forehead and starting to pack up their equipment. Never taking a single moment to rest. Always moving like a shark. As if stopping for a moment would physically pain him.

"Anything's smoother than being hoisted up and down the stairs," Max laughs, trying to keep the mood light so he doesn't have to examine PJ's attitude too closely. He unlocks his wheels and pushes himself forward toward the ramp.

The porch is steep, so they had to build the ramp in two parts. One going directly toward the driveway and the other a sharp ninety degree turn that leads down to the grass.

Max pushes himself forward, wincing when the incline makes his wheels slip a little in his hands. He isn't expecting to be pulled forward so quickly, but he corrects just fine. Gripping his wheels a little tighter, easing himself into it so he doesn't go flying off the edge.

"How's it handle?" Pete asks, watching Max make it to the end of the first ramp and awkwardly turn to make it down the second.

"A little tight on the turn, but not anything I can't get used to after a few tries," Max says, making it to the end of the ramp and into the yard.

"We can widen the turn," PJ says, "Maybe round it out a little, I don't think we have enough wood with us for it today, but we'll be back tomorrow, right?"

"Y'all have already done enough," Max says politely, smiling down at his wheels touching the grass. He feels a strange sense of pride and freedom rise up in him. It feels good to be able to get into the yard by himself. On his own. Without help.

God.

He didn't know how badly he needed this until now.

"Nonsense," Pete says, "We can fix up the ramp tomorrow and I'll throw together a portable ramp for the back patio. Somethin' that can get you down those stairs and into the back yard so you don't have to wheel through the grass to the back gate."

Max blinks in surprise.

"How did you know about the patio?"

Pete shrugs.

"Pulled the plans for the place. Checked the Zillow listing. Wanted to be sure we got you all the help you needed to get around."

Max watches him in stunned silence.

Pete is so much different than he remembers. He's softer now, more agreeable. It's unsettling almost. As if everything he went through then had been with a different person.

Max turns his gaze toward PJ, arching an eyebrow at him. Hoping he still understands the look of genuine 'what the fuck'ery he's giving him.

PJ only shrugs, giving Max a sort of half-smile.

"Oh," Max says because he doesn't know what else to say in this situation.

Pete is no longer the boogeyman from Max's childhood. The Big Bad he and PJ had to fight against. Now he just sort of seems like someone's tired old dad and he finds that difficult to reconcile.

To separate the monster he remembers from when he was a kid to the somewhat decent, apologetic man he sees before him.

It sort of makes Max wonder what else he's missed out on all these years.

Chapter Text

The sunlight is still semi-golden, bathing his bedroom in rich, bright light. He's barely awake, lashes still fluttering, heart racing a bit at the sound of his bedroom door opening. He barely has time to even close his eyes again when Della slaps him in the face with a throw pillow.

"Della," Max groans, raising his arms and trying to fend her off when goes to strike him again, practically chortling at his misery.

"Maxie," she intones, fighting against his grip. "It's time to wake up."

"Christ. It's the ass crack of dawn, Della. I need to be asleep."

"It's almost eight-thirty," Della laughs, freeing herself from his grasp and striking him a few times in the chest with the pillow. "Hardly the ass crack of dawn, Max. It's time to wake up."

"Stop!" He shouts, laughing. Shoving her away as gently as he can. "Goddamn. I have a spinal injury. Where's the mercy? Besides, weren't you the one who told me I needed to sleep more to recover?"

"That was before you invited three extra people to the cook out without consulting any of us," Della quips, tossing the pillow on the floor and leaning menacingly over Max. Eyes narrowed.

"It's only three extra people," Max groans, rolling his eyes. "I don't see what the big deal is."

"Only," Della grumbles, pushing away from the bed and moving to throw open Max's curtains. Letting even more sunlight shine through his window directly into his sleep-sensitive eyes.

"Jesus," Max hisses, throwing his arms over his face to block out the sun.

"Up and at 'em, sunshine. I'm gonna show you what adding three more mouths to feed last minute is really gonna cost me. We're hitting up the butcher and then the Meijer and the nice bakery in town."

Max groans again, squinting at Della through his fingers.

"You're not gonna let me go back to sleep, are you?"

"Nope!" Della exclaims, clapping her hands together happily. "Think of it as us taking the time to bond!"

"I think we've bonded enough."

"Gee, Max. I dunno if that's true. Considering you knew I was grilling for this cook out and then neglected to tell me you invited three more people. One of whom is Pete Pete. And don't even get me started on your little pal Bobby."

"Dad said it was okay!"

"'Dad said it was okay'," Della Mocks, flipping him off and yanking the blankets off his bed. "C'mon. Get up. Gonna need a whole troth to feed the bottomless fucking pit that is Bobby Zimmeruski."

"Wait," Max says, pulling himself up into a sitting position. "You know Bobby?"

"Of course I do. He was one of your best friends for forever. The man eats like a horse, Max. I don't have nearly enough food for these three. So, if I have to suffer, you have to suffer."

"You're the worst," Max complains, but pulls himself from his bed and into his chair anyway. He's learned well to never piss off Della worse than she already is. A little sarcasm, sure, but never disobedience.

"I could argue you're the worst, dear nephew," Della quips, "Considering the predicament you've put me in."

"Oh big word, did you learn that one from Huey?"

"Contrary to popular belief I am actually intelligent, you know."

"You're a jock with a smart kid, you mean."

"Are you going to be insufferable like this all day?"

"Absolutely I am," Max answers. "What was it you said, if I have to suffer then you have to suffer?"

Della groans.

Max sticks his tongue out at her.

"Insufferable little brat."

"Weren't you just saying you were my best friend yesterday?"

"I'm the only person here around your age."

"Please!" Max guffaws, "The kids are closer to my age than you are."

"I'm younger than your dad! And Donald!"

"By like five minutes."

"That is the meanest thing you've ever said to me!"

"Why? Because it's true?"

"You used to be my favorite nephew and now I don't even know who you are anymore."

"I'm your only nephew, Aunt Della," Max laughs.

Della stops talking for a moment, eyes narrowing.

"That can't be right," she says, tapping her chin with her pointer finger as if deep in thought. "Are you really my only nephew?"

"Unless my dads have more kids or Daisy and Selene decide to have some kids or something then I'm it. I'm the only nephew you've got."

"Well that's not fair, Donald gets three nephews and I only have one."

"Tell my dads to have more kids then, I'm sure they'll love that."

"You're kinda a little shit in the morning, huh?"

"When my least favorite aunt drags me out of bed for a stupid reason, yeah."

Della rolls her eyes.

"Fine, I deserved that," she grumbles, smacking Max gently on the back of the head. "Hurry up and shower and get dressed so we can go. Butcher opens at nine and I like to get there early."

"I showered last night to get all the sawdust off me, I think I'll be alright."

"What about all your sleep musk or whatever excuse you used yesterday?"

"I don't think anyone is going to be lifting me up out of my chair today." Max says, rolling his eyes when Della gives him a knowing look.

"See, I knew that was about your hot doctor."

"It was about me feeling self-conscious about smelling bad when someone has to literally lift me out of my chair."

"Well he didn't even end up having to lift you did he?" Della counters.

"What do you mean, of course h—" Max stops talking immediately, his sleep addled brain finally catching up with his stupid, stupid mouth.

Della definitely does not need to hear just how his doctor lifted him out of his chair. Then flipped him onto his stomach and—

"Nuh-uh," Della says, interrupting his very impure thoughts, "That's not what you said yesterday. You said you got onto the table by yourself."

"I did," Max says, shaking his head to try and get his neurons to start firing correctly. He needs to keep his lies straight or this shit isn't going to work. "Sorry, I was just confused."

"No, see," Della starts, "You always get weird after you see that doctor. What's going on with you?"

"I've only seen him twice and I think I've earned the right to be a little unsettled after having to see a doctor about erectile dysfunction. I'm twenty-three, not sixty. I shouldn't be having issues like that. It's embarrassing!"

"The elderly don't have a monopoly on being disabled, Max," Della says, tone suddenly turning serious. "Anyone can be disabled at any age."

Max hums, nodding his head and conceding to her point.

If there's anything he's learned about disabilities from his experience of suddenly becoming disabled in his mid-twenties, it's that.

Della is waiting for him outside of the car by the time he finally finishes getting dressed and makes his way out into the yard.

"Thought you'd wait inside for me," Max says, taking the ramp from the porch into the yard. He squints in the light of the early morning sun shining directly through the trees.

"And miss the opportunity to see you use your ramp? Not a chance."

"You're so weird," Max laughs.

"If by weird you mean cool and fun, then I agree," Della quips haughtily, polishing her fingernails on the fabric of her shirt.

"By weird I mean weird," Max remarks, flipping Della off as he wheels himself to the passenger side back seat of her SUV.

"So what you're saying is you can suddenly put your wheelchair in the trunk without my help," Della teases.

"You're not in this to win any best aunt awards any time soon are you?" Max asks, opening the car door and pulling himself inside.

It's a little easier than yesterday. Now that his thighs aren't shaking and his muscles aren't spent from being fucked within an inch of his life.

"Maybe I wanna win a worst aunt award," Della says, coming over to the passenger side to pack up Max's wheelchair despite her bravado. "The aunt Razzies, if you will."

"I think you've already won that one," Max jokes, pulling his door shut and buckling his seat belt.

From the back of the car he can hear Della gasp, indignant.

"Honestly, living with all of you men is the worst. I swear. All you ever do is make fun of me. You and Donald are exactly the same. I'm tired of it."

She slams the trunk closed, stomping around to the driver's seat and pulling the door open.

"No, you're not," Max smirks when Della takes her place in the driver's seat.

"No, I'm not," Della echoes, grinning at Max stupidly in the rear view mirror.

The butcher is already packed by the time they arrive. It's barely two minutes past nine and the line is already out the door onto the street.

"It's always like this on Saturdays," Della sighs, setting Max's wheelchair next to the car and double checking that the wheels are locked before he tries to climb into it.

"Is this still the only butcher in town?" Max asks, slowly lowering himself from the SUV and into his chair.

"The only butcher worth their shit, yeah," Della responds, stepping out of the way as Max unlocks his wheels and backs away from the car so he can turn to face the sidewalk. Only to audibly groan when he sees the ramp to get up on the curb is almost two blocks down at the traffic light.

"Don't worry," Della says, patting Max's shoulder fondly. "I'll just lift you up onto the curb. No harm no foul."

"You sure you can lift me?" Max asks, eyeing the steepness of the curb suspiciously. "I might actually be able to stand for a bit while you hoist the chair up."

"But can you walk to it without support after that, Max?"

"Probably fucking not."

"Just let me lift you, bud. I'll be fine. I've taken you up the stairs back home at least once."

"That curb is higher than any of the steps up to the porch, Aunt Della."

"You'll be fine," Della deadpans. "I was in the Air Force, remember? I'm stronger than I look."

"You're also like four feet tall."

"I'm four feet ten inches, Maximilian Goof," Della huffs, stomping her foot. "Don't make me shorter than I actually am. Couldn't even make it into the Air Force if I was any shorter than that."

"Short people are always so sensitive," Max laughs.

"You're literally five-five," Della snaps. "You're barely taller than me."

"I'm five-seven, actually," Max corrects vehemently.

"Suuuure, sure," Della provokes, "And I'm five-one."

"Just pull me up over the curb," Max sighs, turning his chair around and pressing his wheels against the side of the curb. He crosses his arms over his chest and tries to give Della the best glare he can muster.

"You're probably gonna wanna hold on to the chair," Della says, stepping behind him and grabbing onto the handles. "The curb is pretty steep, I'd hate to dump you on the ground in front of all of these people. They might think I'm trying to abuse you or something."

Max glances back at the line of people in front of the butcher. He can tell that most of the people closest to them are trying very hard not to stare, but they're obviously watching.

He should be used to this by now. Especially with how obvious and weird it was in LA at the start, but it still irks him. Max hates being the uncomfortable side show person that people can barely look at. He's used to being ogled for his body, but in a more positive way. He rolls his eyes, gripping onto his chair and nodding to Della.

"Let me know if you feel like you're gonna fall," Della says.

"I think I can probably hold myself in the chair," Max responds. "At least I hope I can."

He grips the side of his chair a little harder, clenching the muscles in his thighs as Della starts to tug on the handles. His thighs still burn a little bit from yesterday, practically screaming against the full weight of his body as he presses his feet into the leg rests.

Della tugs hard and Max gasps, gripping onto his chair for dear life. He hates how terrifying this feels, the rush of dizziness and discombobulation that comes with being hoisted. Sort of feels like when he was a kid and rode a roller coaster for the first time, but somehow worse. Way worse.

Eventually, though, with only a minuscule amount of jostling, his chair makes it up and over the curb. Limbs burning in protest as he holds himself in place.

"You okay?" Della asks him once his chair is back on solid ground.

Max takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Yeah, I'm good," he says. "I'm alright."

"Good," Della says, sounding a little shaky herself. "Let's get in line before it gets any longer."

By now the line has grown from a few people at the front of the shop to a few shops down.

"People really like the butcher here, huh?" Max asks, sort of in awe of seeing something like this.

"Spoonerville isn't like LA, Maxie," Della laughs, pushing his chair forward so they can get into the back of the line. "We don't have vegans here."

"I'm sure you do," Max says, rolling his eyes.

"Not like in LA."

"When have you ever even spent that much time in LA?"

"I was in the Air Force, remember? I've traveled around this planet a whole hell of a lot more than you have, whipper-snapper," Della says, putting on a fake old man voice. "You only lived in LA for, what? three years? four?"

"Probably longer than you lived there," Max teases, "And there are meat eaters there too. There's meat eaters everywhere."

"Oh, I'm sure LA had plenty of meat eaters," Della quips, waggling her eyebrows at Max. "I'm sure you were one of them."

"Oh my God, Della, don't be gross," Max snorts.

"Am I wrong?"

"Did you know Webby thought I was straight?" Max asks, changing the subject.

"I mean, it's not surprising. The kids don't really know you that well and I'm pretty sure all your serious relationships have been with women," Della muses, keeping her voice low. "And it's not like you go around talking about your sexuality like you're some sort of beacon for the queer community."

"I have a pride flag in my Instagram bio," Max argues, swallowing down the fear, the uncertainty Della's comment brings. All of his serious relationships. All the ones high publicized, at least.

"Oh wow, a pride flag in your Instagram bio, how groundbreaking," Della deadpans, banter pulling him out of his thoughts. "Next you'll tell me you have he/him pronouns in it too."

"I use he/they pronouns, actually," Max corrects, pushing his wheels when the line begins to move.

"Really?" Della asks.

"Yeah," Max answers, shrugging. "Gender is stupid."

"Huh," Della says with a laugh. "Gender is stupid. You're right."

When they reach the front of the line, Max struggles to fit over the steep threshold and into the tiny store. The door is barely big enough for his chair and he and Della have to work together to get him inside.

He can hear a few people sigh impatiently behind them and he has to bite his tongue hard to keep from saying something.

Until;

"Don't act like we didn't see you standing out on the street, kid," a middle-aged balding man huffs behind them when he and Della finally get his chair inside. Most of the line has cleared in front of them by now, but there are still a few people waiting. "I don't know what your game is, boy, but if you think you're getting special treatment for being in a wheelchair, think again."

Max turns in his chair, facing the man. Rage building. Simmering beneath his skin.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Max asks. He's already on edge from how embarrassing it was to even get into the damn store. He doesn't need this today.

"I saw you standing out on the street," the man repeats, talking slower, as if Max is an idiot. "If you can stand why do you need a chair? You're obviously faking!"

Della turns around now, her eyes narrowing. Stepping between Max and the idiot barking at him.

"How about you mind your own business, jackass?" Della hisses.

"I don't know what kinda game you're play—"

"My nephew is disabled, moron," Della interrupts, raising her hands and cracking her knuckles. "So what if you saw him stand a little to get out of the car into his chair? Standing doesn't mean someone can walk, dipshit."

Max can see the anger rising in Della. The veins in her neck are poking out, her jaw clenching. Her over-protective mama bear side coming out.

"Well if he can stand then—"

"Then, what?" Della growls, stepping forward and into the man's space.

It's almost comical to watch. A thick, muscular 4'10 woman getting into the face of a balding middle-aged man who has at least a full foot on her if not more. And he's losing. He takes a step back, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

"It's none of your business, creep," Della continues, pressing a finger into the man's chest. "Why are you so obsessed with my nephew anyway. Why don't you shut your fucking mou—"

"Della Duck, is that you?" Someone calls from behind them, breaking up what could've very easily turned into a fist fight. Once Della gets going it's hard for her to stop.

"Janie!" Della exclaims, her voice going high and saccharine as she whirls around, a pleasant smile on her face.

The guy she'd just been accosting blinks in surprise, looking like he wants to open his mouth and say more. To bring Della's attention back to him.

"Man, just let it go," Max groans. "Not that it's any of your goddamn business, but I have a spinal injury. I'm in recovery. So yeah, I can stand, but I can't walk without support. And even if I could walk, I'd still need my chair. You're ignorant if you think people who use wheelchairs are all paraplegic. So how about you stop being an asshole, okay?"

Max turns his chair, not sparing the moron a second glance as he wheels over to where Della is very obviously flirting with a tall woman standing behind the counter. From the red splotches on her stark white apron, Max figures she's most likely the butcher.

"Max!" Della exclaims when he wheels himself next to her. She puts her hands on his shoulders, beaming up at Janie. "Come meet Janie. She's the butcher here."

"One of the butchers," Janie says, grinning at Max. "My dad owns the shop. I'm just following in his footsteps."

"She's amazing," Della says, sounding a little breathless.

"Oh, I'm sure," Max says, amusement evident in his tone. He's never gotten to see Della like this. So outwardly smitten with someone. He can't wait to tease her about it relentlessly.

Janie giggles, flipping a strand of her ash pink hair out of her face when it falls out of her hairnet.

"Della's been coming here for years," Janie says, turning to the meat case and already starting to grab a few choice meats without Della even saying what she wants.

"She did say you were the best butcher in town." Max says, smirking.

"We're the only butcher in town, Dels," Janie titters, "but I appreciate your compliment."

Della goes red in the face, ducking her head and pulling her silvery hair in front of her face.

When Janie finished gathering, weighing, and wrapping the various meats. More meat than Max has seen in one sitting since, well, ever, Della finally resurfaces from her hair.

"Oh, actually. Janie, could I get a few extra steaks and some lamb shanks? My nephew here decided to invite some extra people to our cook out, so." Della glares at him, but there's no real heat in it.

Max grins back at her.

"How come you've never invited me over for one of your shindigs?" Janie asks, grabbing some more steaks and wrapping them up before going back for the lamb shanks next.

Della makes a high pitched sound, mouth opening and closing while she tries to form words and failing miserably.

Janie arches a perfectly sculpted ash pink eyebrow at her.

"W-well," Della stutters, face flushing.

"If you pack up some of your faves with our order, you can feel free to stop by today," Max interrupts. Taking the reins from his useless lesbian aunt and hopefully salvaging this. "We would love to have you. Party's at 4, but it'll probably go all night. Oh! And bring your bikini."

"Max!" Della hisses under her breath.

"What?" Max asks, pretending like he isn't being a massive little shit to Della right now. "It doesn't have to be a bikini. If you're more comfortable with a one piece, bring a one piece. All I'm saying is we have a pool."

"I would be delighted to attend," Janie says with a grin, grabbing a lamb steak and putting it with the other cuts. "Is there anything you'd like me to bring? I make a decent macaroni salad."

"The only thing you need to bring is yourself," Max grins. "Della actually does all the cooking and she's kind of great at it."

Janie looks at Della and beams, taking their items and placing them into a bag before leading them over to the register.

"Is that so?" Janie asks, removing her gloves and ringing everything up.

"I'm only just okay at cooking," Della says nervously.

"Don't let her fool you, she's amazing at it. I swear if it weren't for Della I would've starved in that house ten times over," Max cuts in.

"Oh my God, Max, shut up," Della whispers through clenched teeth.

"You're gonna thank me later," Max says, giving Della his most shit eating grin.

"Let me give you my number, Della." Janie says, scribbling it down on the back of their receipt paper. "My phone is in the back, so be sure to text me so I can have yours too."

When they finally make it back out to the car, Della's face, ears, neck, and chest are flushed. Her tan skin blotchy with it.

"Max I am going to kill you," Della says, standing next to the passenger side door and watching him climb up into the car.

"For being a crazy good wing man and your favorite nephew? Doubt it."

"What am I even supposed to talk to her about? Did you ever think about that? She's coming to my house, Max. Where I live. Where my kids are!"

"Yeah and she'll probably be swimming in a pretty little two piece too, you're welcome," Max laughs.

"I didn't even think about that," Della says, leaning against the side of the car and clutching her chest. "Oh my God, I think I'm dying."

"You're not dying, you're just gay."

"Shut the fuck up, Max," Della groans, grabbing his chair and shoving it into the trunk. "You're helping me cook! Because now you've invited four extra people. I'm going to make you peel so many potatoes."

Max laughs, slamming his door shut.

"It's a small price to pay for your happiness, Della," he says when she climbs angrily into the driver's seat.

"You're so annoying," she tells him.

"I love you too," he says back.

By the time they make it home, everyone else in the house is awake. Sitting around the breakfast table eating Donald's famous omelets.

"Come help us bring the rest of the groceries in," Della says, flitting into the kitchen with nearly three bags full before heading back to the car.

Max wheels in behind her, setting his one bag on the counter before moving to sort everything and put it away. He'd be more of a hindrance than an asset in helping bring things in. Not to mention he's pretty sure this meat has been un-refrigerated for a little over an hour and that's hitting a little too close to the two hour limit for comfort.

"You're not coming back out to help?" Dewey asks, lingering at the edge of the kitchen, watching Max start to shove paper wrapped meat into the fridge.

"Nah, I can't really carry much and still wheel up the ramp, y'know?"

"I guess," Dewey says with a shrug.

"I'll start putting things away, this meat needs to get into the fridge A-S-A-P. And if you see the massive bag of potatoes Della bought, bring it directly to me. I've gotta start washing and peeling those as penance for inviting Della's crush from the butcher shop to the cook out."

"Wait. Back up. You invited Janie?" Dewey asks.

Max looks up from where he's still shoving meat into the fridge, arching an eyebrow at Dewey.

"You know Janie?"

"We all know Janie," Dewey says, rolling his eyes. "She's literally the coolest. She gives us candy when we go to the shop with mom. I can't believe she's coming here! I have to go tell Louie, Huey, and Webby."

"I'm surprised she hasn't been invit—" Max starts, but Dewey runs off before he can finish his thought.

Max rolls his eyes and turns back to the task at hand. Shoving the rest of the parcels into the fridge before moving on to the stuff they bought at the Meijer.

In the end, the massive sack of potatoes they bought are brought to him by Della herself.

"Alright, Maxie," Della says, clapping him on the back and dropping the potatoes in his lap. "Get to scrubbing and make sure they're actually clean. I'm talking spotless."

"Why do they need to be spotless if I'm just going to peel them?"

"Don't be gross, Max," Della says with a disgusted shudder. "Just do what I tell you and start scrubbing."

"Fine, fine," Max says, wheeling himself over to the sink. The counter is a little high for him, the lip of the sink pressing against his forearms as he tries to dump the potatoes in.

He turns to eye the cushion-backed wooden stools at the kitchen island. They're a little higher than his chair, but he's not sure he can get up on one without support.

"If you can stand at the sink, I'll move your chair and bring you one of the stools," Della says, catching him looking.

"I'm not sure I can get up that high without support," Max says, wincing.

"Then brace yourself on me," Della shrugs, rolling her eyes when Max gives her an incredulous look. "I got you over that steep curb earlier didn't I? When will you learn that I'm a lot stronger than I look? You really shouldn't underestimate me."

"Okay, Aunt Della," Max says, dumping the potatoes into the sink before unlocking his wheels and back up a bit to give himself room to stand.

He grabs the counter, fingers curling over the lip of the sink to hoist himself up. His legs wobble a little when he gets them underneath himself. This part of standing is always a little nerve wracking. Any time of movement without support is nerve wracking for him these days.

Della moves his chair, grabbing one of the stools from the island and pressing it into the back of his thighs. She reaches out her hand, letting him press against her palm to get some leverage.

Her arm wobbles a little beneath his touch at first, until she gets the pressure just right. Not to little, not too much and braces him to move up onto the stool.

Max lets out a shaky breath when he's finally seated.

"See? What did I tell you?" Della asks, clapping her hands together and beaming at Max. "I'm crazy strong."

Max laughs, shaking his head in awe.

"You really are something, Aunt Della," Max smirks, punching her lightly in the shoulder. "Thanks for all your help today."

"Yeah, yeah. Get to scrubbing potatoes, you owe me for how many of your friends I'm feeding today."

"Okay, okay, I'm scrubbing."

"Until they're spotless."

"Yeah, yeah."

"I'm serious, Max."

"I heard you! I'm doing it."

"Good."

Chapter Text

Max spends most of the day inside with Della. The kids and his dads weaving in and out of the house on their way to set up the yard. Cleaning off chairs and tables. Making sure the pool is clean. All the things Max used to complain about doing with his dad when he was younger.

Now that he's older, though.

Now that he can't

walk,

though.

he ignores the panicked feeling those thoughts evoke in him.

Stuffing his feelings

deep,

deep,

down.

he can worry about this later

when he isn't chopping potatoes at the kitchen island or

laughing awkwardly at a joke

or

ignoring the way his legs

scream under the weight of him

how his thighs

burn

or how his fingers slip

the grip of his hand tentative at best

how he's less of a person now somehow

stuck inside

helping Della

while everyone else—

everyone

else—

As the sun starts to set and the scream of the cicadas rises from the trees, guests finally start to arrive. It's well-past the start time, but if Max has learned anything from hosting cook outs, it's that you always give an earlier hour than the intended start.

Janie arrives first. A yellow bikini top peeking out from beneath her loose gray t-shirt.

Max gives Della a knowing look when he catches her ogling Janie's thighs in her sinfully short shorts.

Della flips him off from behind Janie's back as she's greeting the kids.

"Janie! I'm so excited you're here," Dewey says, grabbing her hand and dragging her through to the back yard. "You have to come outside and see the yard. We've spent all day setting it up and mom is going to start grilling soon."

"Okay, okay," Janie laughs, waving good-bye to Della as she stumbles after a very enthusiastic Dewey.

Louie, Huey, and Webby trail after them. Each talking over the other excitedly.

"Well, the kids really seem to love her," Max laughs, watching the five of them disappear into the back yard through the sliding glass door.

"They do, huh?" Della asks, a dopey, soft look on her face.

"I'm shocked you haven't invited her around before," Max says. "She seems to really like you."

Della turns to look at Max so fast he's surprised she doesn't get whiplash.

"What?" She asks.

"Don't act like you're so shocked," Max shrugs. "She was practically begging for an invite earlier. It's why I invited her."

Della stares at him blankly.

"Did you really not notice how hard she was flirting with you at the shop?" Max asks, eyebrows raised.

"What are you talking about?" Della asks.

"Oh my God, you're such a lesbian, I swear."

"Don't be homophobic, Max," Della sighs.

"I'm not being homophobic. You didn't even notice that Janie was literally flirting so hard with you she was seconds away from climbing the meat case to strip you naked in the store. If anyone is being homophobic, it's you."

"Janie doesn't think of me like that, we're just friends," Della says, rolling her eyes and turning back to the stove.

They've finished cooking almost everything with the exception of a few sides. The blackened Brussels are still in the oven and the bacon that's supposed to accompany them is currently frying on the stove.

"Oh my God," Max complains, tipping his head back in exasperation. "I was there, Della. I saw it with my own two eyes."

"I don't even know if she likes girls," Della sighs.

"She has pink hair!" Max shouts, "She has a star with the pansexual flag colors in it tattooed on the side of her neck. She was wearing Doc Martens, Della."

"Okay, but it's not like any of that means anything," Della groans, pushing the sizzling bacon around in the pan for something to do. "She could just be a really strong queer ally."

Max grabs one of the rolls off the table and lobs it at Della's head.

"Hey!" Della shouts. "Those are for dinner! We need every damn roll we can get since you've invited half of Spoonerville. Jesus Christ."

"I kind of hate you sometimes you know that?" Max snarks.

"What did I even do?" Della asks, clicking her tongue and turning back to the bacon. "I'm not the one throwing the damn bread."

"Oh my God, Della. No one, and I mean no one, is that dedicated to the queer community as an ally. She's definitely queer and she definitely likes you."

"What if she's just being friendly?"

"She's not," Max answers.

"She does work in customer service," Della argues.

"She was literally so rude to the guy behind us in line," Max responds.

"Okay, but that guy was an asshole."

"I mean, fair, but I can promise you that the service she gave you went above and beyond the service anyone else got. I was there. The simpering way she called your name? Gay. The way she called you Dels? Gay. Her entire everything? Gay, Della."

"Okay, but how do you know?"

"I just know, Della. Oh my God. Literally if she isn't gay and into you I will do a cartwheel right into the pool."

"Can you even do a cartwheel?"

"That's not the point!" Max exclaims, throwing his hands up in defeat. "The point is that I'm right. There is homosexuality afoot and—"

The doorbell rings, interrupting Max and spurring Della into action. She practically runs from the kitchen into the foyer.

Max rolls his eyes and wheels himself behind her.

"Pete," Della says with a smarmy grin when she yanks the front door open.

"Della," Pete says with a nod of acknowledgment. "PJ and I were wondering if you could unlock the back gate for us so we can bring in the ramp we made for the back patio without draggin' a mess through your nice house."

"Oh, sure," Della says, untying her apron and flinging it at Max. "Keep an eye on the bacon, Baby Goof, I'll be right back."

"Sure, whatever!" Max calls after her, laying the apron across his lap and wheeling himself back into the kitchen.

The bacon sizzles and pops in the pan, splashing oil all over the stove as it cooks. Max pokes it absently with the turner, hissing when some of the oil pops and gets on his hand.

He's a shit cook, he has no idea why Della even trusted him to be in the kitchen with her in the first place.

Other than

Well,

him not being able to be outside to help everyone else.

Max tries not to let that thought bother him. To let it fester and grow into an insurmountable fear, but

he can't

help it.

He can't help the way he feels left out,

usele—

"Hey man, is this where the party is?" Someone asks from behind him, interrupting his thoughts.

Max twists in his chair in surprise, his gaze falling on one other than Bobby Zimmeruski. Another one of the ghosts from his past.

Bobby is somehow taller than Max remembers him. With his ginger hair slicked back and shaved close on the sides. He's still sporting a pair of sunglasses, but he's graduated from ovals to heart shaped.

It's odd just how much it suits him.

Bobby makes a show of lowering his sunglasses down his nose, flashing his bright green eyes down at Max.

"Holy shit," he drawls, a slow smile spreading on his lips. "Maximilian motherfucking Goof."

"Bobby," Max laughs, backing his chair away from the oven to turn it around.

"Peej said you were back in town, but I didn't believe it," Bobby says, "Last I heard you were going on Powerline's international tour as lead choreo."

"Yeah, well, that didn't exactly work out," Max says, motioning to his chair and trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He hates having to relive this with every new person in his life.

The 'oh no, what happened?' and 'that's so sad' bullshit is getting old.

"Wow, that sucks man," Bobby says, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. "But shit. It's great to see you. You haven't been back to Spoonerville in a minute."

"Ha, yeah," Max says, gritting his teeth and waiting for the inevitable shoe to drop.

"You might wanna flip the bacon before it burns, man," Bobby says, putting his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans, letting them slip lower on his hips to reveal neon green swim trunks peeking between his pants and t-shirt.

"Smelling a little smoky in here."

Max wheels his chair back around, looking at the stove in a panic.

"I actually think it might be done," he says, moving the pan from the burner and tipping it and all of the goddamn bacon grease out on a paper plate stacked high with paper towels.

The grease sloshes over the sides, some of it pouring down the front of the cabinets and onto the front of Max's pants.

"Ow, fuck," Max hisses, arching up in his chair and grabbing his pants and pulling them down, tossing the offending garment onto the floor.

"Now, it's a party," Bobby laughs, earning him am annoyed glare from Max who is currently trying to figure out if he's permanently burned his knee.

"Not every day some sexy back up dancer strips in front of me," Bobby continues, waggling his eyebrows and lowering his sunglasses again. This time, a bit more seductively. "I'm just a lowly audio engineer, Maxie. Not much I can do to further your career, but if you're very, very sweet to me—"

"Bobby?" Max interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, honey bunny?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Alright," he says, stuffing his hands back in his pockets and rocking forward on the balls of his feet. "This is awkward."

"The party is in the back yard, dude," Max sighs, turning back toward the stove and checking the Brussels sprouts for something to do that isn't looking at Bobby's stupid face. "Go play with my cousins or something."

"Sweet," Bobby says, tramping through the house and into the back yard.

He passes Della on her way back in.

"Pete and PJ have your ramp set u—" She starts, stopping mid-sentence and tilting her head to the side, blinking at him in confusion. "Why aren't you wearing pants?"

Max sighs.

The removable ramp works surprisingly well to get Max from the back patio stairs and down into the yard. It's a little steeper than the front ramp, but he has more room to work with. So, when he veers forward a little too quickly onto the grass, he's got enough space to stop himself before he hits anything or dives face first into the pool.

Not to mention, he gets a rush. The same way he used to back when he was a kid and picked up skateboarding. There's nothing like the rush of dropping into a bowl or over the side of a well-sized ramp.

Once his wheels hit the grass for the first time, Max looks up to find everyone grinning at him and clapping.

Bobby whoops loudly, followed by several seconds of inappropriate wolf whistling that makes Max want to punch him directly in the trachea.

"Thanks for the ramp, Pete," Max calls out over Bobby's whistling, hands cupped over his mouth. Hoping Bobby will get the hint and shut the fuck up.

"This was all PJ, Baby Goof," Pete says. "I may've had the idea, but PJ here constructed the whole thing himself."

Pete claps PJ on the back, jostling him with such force the amber liquid of his beer spills a little over the sides of the bottle.

"Dad," PJ says, laughing awkwardly.

"He's kinda a genius when it comes to this stuff," Pete says proudly.

"Well, with a degree in structural engineering I would sure hope so," Bobby mumbles snarkily, taking a long pull of his own beer.

"Bobby," PJ hisses.

"What? I'm just saying," Bobby grumbles with a shrug, killing his beer and tossing the bottle into the recycling next to the patio.

"Structural engineers don't even really build anything it's more like design or whatever. It isn't as glamorous as it sounds," PJ quickly explains, laughing nervously.

"It sounds pretty glamorous," Huey pipes up. "I was thinking about structural engineering for myself once I finally make it to college. That or something in tech. I think I'd be good with computers, but I also like to work with my hands. It's not that structural engineers don't build things, it's—"

"Huey read the room for once in your life," Louie groans, tipping his head back and sighing.

"What?" Huey asks. "What'd I do wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Donald is quick to assure, putting his hands on Huey's shoulders and guiding him toward the pool.

"All I'm saying is, you could be doing a whole lot more than sticking around a town like this," Bobby says once all the kids have been ushered away and all the adults are standing around the grill engaged in awkward silence.

"Hey, Bobby?" Max asks.

"Yes, my love?" Bobby simpers.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Alright," Bobby says with a nod, turning on his heel and heading back toward the cooler to grab another beer.

"He's just as interesting as I remember," Della remarks, flipping one of the steaks and rolling her eyes.

"Yep," PJ sighs, taking a long pull of his beer as he stares blankly down at the grass. "Good thing he's only in town for a few days."

Max ends up in the pool chairs next to Bobby once everyone else starts to pair off after his dads and Pete slip inside to presumably have The Talk while they wait for Della to finish grilling. He locks the wheels on his chair and stands, careful not to spill his drink as he eases himself into one of the loungers so he can watch the kids play in the pool.

Dewey and Webby have started a game of Marco Polo that neither Louie nor Huey seem to have much interest in. Though Louie does occasionally try to mimic Dewey's voice and throw Webby off her game.

Which is pretty entertaining if you've been living without social media and hiding out from society for close to half a year.

Not that he's bitter. Or anything.

He's fine.

"So, like, what happened to you, man?" Bobby asks, turning away from the pool to look at Max. His eyebrows are raised, fingers greasy from picking at the appetizers Della already set out on the table.

Max closes his eyes.

He takes a deep breath.

"It was a hit and r—"

"I'm not talking about that," Bobby interrupts. "I already read the news articles about your accident. It was kind of a big deal, actually. Or, well, okay it was for people like me. I'm not sure how many fans you have, but there was coverage."

"What?"

"I mean, you weren't a low profile celebrity, bro," Bobby continues. "You have to understand that you were kind of a big deal. Especially for a back up dancer. You were literally engaged to one of the hottest singers ever. Practically best friends with Powerline and at least three of those starlets that work on the popular ass super hero films. You definitely were not small time."

"I—" Max starts, practically gaping at him. "What?"

"Dude, they covered you on Dateline and everything."

"Are you serious?"

"Bro, yes. I remember seeing that news piece and I was shocked."

"Then why did you act so surprised to see me?"

"Well, I mean. I didn't expect to see you back in Spoonerville. Like I said I didn't believe PJ when he told me you were back with your dads."

"Where else was I gonna go, man?"

"Figured you'd stay in Cali with that hottie of yours."

Max laughs bitterly.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Trouble in paradise?"

"She kicked me out because I couldn't perform sexually after I suffered a spinal injury," Max deadpans.

Bobby hisses like he's in pain.

"Damn, bro. That's cold."

"Yeah, so. I'm back here now. Where no one cares whether my dick words or not."

Max conveniently leaves out any mention of Bradley. Who would've probably cared about his dick whether or not they ended up fucking.

"You should probably see somebody about that though," Bobby suggests. "Wouldn't want it to quit working forever. That's no bueno."

Max laughs awkwardly.

"The situation is fixed now, believe me."

Bobby smirks at him.

"Believe you, huh? You gonna show me, man?"

"Working in the music industry has certainly made you a whole hell of a lot more crass, huh?" Max asks, sipping his jack and coke and avoiding Bobby's piercing gaze.

"Or maybe I've just always wanted to see the legendary Max Goof's dick," Bobby says, tone suddenly serious. Or, as serious as Bobby Zimmeruski can ever really be.

Max makes a choking noise, turning his head and gaping at Bobby.

"You can't be getting much action out here, man," Bobby says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. "I'd be happy to do you a solid."

"I'm good, actually," Max says, voice pitching a little higher. He cannot believe one of his childhood best friends is fully propositioning him for sex right now at his family cook out.

"Relax dude, I'm fucking joking," Bobby laughs, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses.

"Jesus Christ," Max hisses, letting out a breath. "You can't joke about shit like that. Oh my God."

"Why? Has it actually been awhile because dude. Spoonerville has some major hotties. Maybe not LA level hotties, but they're around."

"Don't I know it," Max says with a sigh.

"Like that tall woman with pink hair is pretty hot," Bobby says.

"Already spoken for," Max clarifies.

"Bummer," Bobby sighs. "Well, your aunt is pretty hot too."

"Jesus, Bobby! She's my aunt!"

"Yeah, your aunt, not mine."

"And she's a lesbian."

"Double bummer."

"Well, Pete's pretty single now. Maybe I'll see what he's up to. Could always become Peej's stepmom and force him to do something with his life."

"Dude, how high are you right now?"

"Dunno," Bobby says with a shrug.

"Pretty sure Pete's, like, still married to Peg, dude."

"They got divorced like two years ago, Max," Bobby laughs. "You're really out of the loop, huh?"

"Shit," Max says. He can't believe he was right about that when he brought it up with Webby yesterday. He feels kind of bad for joking about it now. "Guess I am."

"Pete and Peg broke up over Pistol," Bobby says. "When Pistol started transitioning, Peg was really against it. Kept pushing to send him off to some camp where they—" he raises his hands to put air quotes around the word, "'cure' gay kids or whatever."

"Wait. Peg?" Max asks, confused.

"Yeah. Peg," Bobby says. "I was kinda surprised about that too. Especially after Pete's epic meltdown at your dads' wedding. But y'know. People change."

"I guess," Max says.

"I think maybe because it was his own kid, he came around. Saw the light. You remember how much Pete absolutely adored Pistol, right? Well, adores, because y'know he still loves him. Like, they are best buds, my guy."

"Right."

"Anyway, after the divorce PJ moved back home from New York. Left me high and dry for a roommate. Could barely afford that tiny studio back then. It sucked, du—"

"Wait. Back up. You and PJ lived together in New York?"

"Yes, Max. Keep up," Bobby sighs, annoyed, "We graduated uni together. PJ did grad school. Got a pretty decent job at in Hoboken which wasn't a terrible commute from Astoria, even though it absolutely was. Then once everything went bonkers back here, he dropped everything and moved back to Spoonerville. Took me four months to find a roommate I wasn't terrified would kill me in my sleep."

"That. Uh. That sounds shitty man, I'm sorry."

"It was shitty," Bobby groans. "Not all of us can be overnight sensations like you. I broke my back trying to break into the music industry."

"I mean, Bobby, I was hardly an overnight sensation."

"You were in LA for less than four years before you were, essentially famous," Bobby says.

"I mean I did still have to work for it."

"Yes, yes, you worked hard. Danced until your feet bled. Whatever. All I'm saying is, I've been in New York for forever and I'm still just some no-name audio engineer with a dream."

"Uh—"

"I split my time between Brooklyn and Nashville at this point. It's exhausting."

"Have you tried your hand at California, maybe?"

"And sell out? No thanks."

Max sighs, leaning heavily into his lawn chair.

"I mean it's all well and good for you, Maxie. Dancers need LA to survive. That's not my scene, though."

"I mean, Broadway has a need for professional dancers if I recall," Max says, staring at the kids in the pool again and trying not to look at Bobby lest he strangle him for being such an irritating hipster.

"There's no money in Broadway," Bobby scoffs.

"Not much money in dancing in general," Max shrugs.

"You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself," Bobby says, "Four kids. A house. An in-ground pool."

Max rolls his eyes.

"Bobby I'm a washed up dancer with a career-ending injury living with my dads in Ohio. In case you haven't noticed, things aren't going great."

"All jokes aside," Bobby begins, suddenly turning absolutely serious. Not a hint of sarcastic drawl to his voice. "It's good to see you're already standing and moving a little bit."

"Could be doing more. It was an incomplete spinal injury, after all."

"Just take the compliment, Max," Bobby sighs. "A win is a fucking win, dude."

"Sure," Max says.

"Soon enough you'll be back out there. Riding the sunset back into California for your next big adventure."

Max is quiet for a moment, frowning as he watches his dads slip into the pool with the kids once they've reemerged from the house and Della calls out that it'll still be awhile on the meats.

Webby and Dewey shriek with delight when Donald and his dad join their game of Marco Polo.

Pete and PJ take a seat on the loungers a little closer to the pool. Deep in conversation as they watch with mild interest as everyone else plays.

And Max realizes, He hasn't really thought about what comes next. After he recovers. Once he's capable of doing things on his own again, but he definitely isn't sure whether or not he wants to leave.

His whole family is here.

His whole life is here now.

When California rejected him, Ohio welcomed him home with open arms.

This may as well be home.

For the rest of his life, really.

"Honestly, Bobby," Max says, "I think I might be all adventured out. Might be worth it to stay right here in Ohio with my dads. Retire young. Live a simple quiet life or whatever."

Bobby groans, grabbing his beer from the grass beside his chair and chugging it.

"Ohio is kinda where dreams go to die, man," Bobby says, burping loudly and leaning back in his lawn chair.

"Then why come back so often?" Max asks him, annoyed by his candor. "The way PJ tells it, it's like you're here all the time."

"It's between Brooklyn and Nashville," Bobby says with a shrug.

"It's really not, dude. Not Spoonerville, at least," Max says, watching Dewey show off his underwater hand stand for Donald and his dad who ooo and awe at him. "What's the real reason?"

Bobby exhales a puff of air.

"As a reminder, I guess," Bobby says.

Max turns to look at him, watching the way the rich orange light of the sun reflects on his shades.

"There's good people here," Bobby continues, "People who could've become something more, but chose a more quiet, simple life. Simple living."

He folds his hands over his stomach, turning his head just so until Max can see his own reflection in the heart shaped lenses.

"I come here to remind myself that I don't want that. I don't want a quiet life. That's why I left," Bobby pauses, letting his words linger. Letting them stir up a torrent of emotions in Max's chest before he continues, "I think that's why you left too. Don't get too comfortable here, Max. Don't let yourself get complacent in the mediocrity. You're good people, but you're not meant for here. It's gonna break your heart to stay."

"Jesus, Bobby," Max laughs, a little uncomfortable. "You're really laying it on thick, huh?"

Bobby lowers his shades, blinking at him. His eyes are bloodshot, a little out of focus.

"Why?" Bobby asks, "What'd I say?"

Max laughs again, this time in confused awe.

"Dude," Max says, leaning a little closer into Bobby's space. "What are you on?"

Bobby pushes his shades back up his nose, putting some distance between the two of them.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Bobby teases, self-satisfied smirk twitching on the edges of his lips.

"I would actually," Max says. "It's impossible to get anything good here. That's the thing I miss most about California sometimes, man. The legal marijuana."

"What I'm on certainly isn't legal," Bobby admits.

"Duh, dude," Max says, "Weed is literally illegal here."

"Weed has been recreationally legal in Ohio for like a year, man," Bobby says.

"Wait. What?" Max asks.

"Shocked none of your doctors have tried to prescribe it for pain," Bobby says with a shrug.

"Well, I'm only really seeing a PT, so I don't—" Max pauses, thoughts fading to Bradley for a moment before he shakes his head. He suppose he could try asking for that the next time they see each other. "Dude, wait. Don't try to change the subject. Weed is legal here? Like recreationally legal? Are you serious?"

"Of course I am. I don't joke about weed, Maximilian."

"Are there, like dispens—"

"Dinner time!" Della shouts, interrupting Max and causing a low-level stampede of people rushing toward the table to get their plates.

"No running near the pool!" Donald shouts as the kids scramble over the edge and start running in the direction of the table.

Max laughs at their antics fondly, moving to sit forward in his lounger so he can move back to his chair and go fix his plate.

"Need some help?" Bobby asks, casting a shadow over Max as he stands.

"Uh," Max says, shielding his eyes from the sun as he glances up at Bobby.

"This is just a thinly veiled excuse for me to lift you," Bobby says.

Max narrows his eyes.

Trying very hard not to think about Bradley and all the shit he seems to get himself into when he lets people lift him.

"Can you even lift that much?" Max asks. "I'm heavier than I look."

Bobby snorts and leans forward, expertly picking Max up in a bridal hold and smirking down at him.

"You weigh almost nothing," he says, depositing him neatly in his chair and pressing a messy kiss to Max's forehead.

Max scoffs and shoves Bobby playfully.

"Dude, knock it off."

"What? Not like you're getting any action with that broken dick of yours."

"I told you that the issue was fixed. I'm fine now."

"I didn't see any proof, so we'll have to agree to disagree."

"Why is everyone I know so disgusting," Max bemoans, rolling over to the table where Della has graciously already made him a plate.

He gives her a grateful smile. There's no way he would've been able to lean across the table to get any of the food. Not with how the chairs are placed and with everyone elbowing each other over the potato salad.

Max isn't sure he'll be able to eat

(anything)

everything, but he knows he'll have to try. He has a feeling that the reason Della fixed him a plate is because she's been continuing to keep an eye on him. A lot has happened since their argument in the dining room a few days ago, but Max knows Della hasn't forgotten about their discussion.

He doesn't think she's noticed he's started purging yet, but Max has been through this before. It's only a matter of time.

Max takes a seat at the head of the table—the only side that doesn't have a chair—and watches as everyone else clamors to make their plates before scrambling to their seats.

Max's dads sit on either side of him, followed by Della next to Donald, the triplets next to Della, PJ next to the triplets, and Pete at the opposite end of Max. Bobby sits across from PJ. Webby next to him and finally Janie next to Max's dad and across from Della.

It's a bit uneven, but they make it work.

"Thank you so much for making all of this food, Della," Janie says, beaming at her.

Her words are followed by a chorus of 'Thank you, Della' and 'Yeah, thanks mom' and then the sounds of ravenous chewing.

Max smiles to himself and shakes his head fondly at everyone surrounding him.

He stares down at his plate.

It seems less

insurmountable than yesterday.

Max feels maybe like his body has

earned

a bit of nourishment.

Muscles still straining,

screaming

aching

(from Friday, from Bradley, from—)

from pushing himself onto his feet.

Max picks up his fork.

"Aw, y'all, it's nothing." Della laughs, waving them off and blushing a little as she takes their priase. "And Max helped."

Everyone at the table turns to Max, a chorus of full-mouthed thank you's and half-chewed spittle following.

Max grimaces, wrinkling his nose.

"I just peeled potatoes," he says with a shrug.

Della rolls her eyes.

"Don't be so modest."

"Not being modest," Max shrugs, "I didn't really do much."

"I did see you flip some bacon," Bobby chimes in. "That's more than just peeling potatoes."

"You mean when I spilled grease all over my pants?"

"Oh! Is that why you were in your underwear when i came in from outside?" Della asks with her mouth full of potato salad. "I just thought you and your friend Bobby were up to something."

The entire table goes silent for a second, all eyes moving between Max and Bobby.

Max honestly wants to die. Why does every family dinner have to come back to his sex life? Isn't there anything else they can talk about?

"With the entire family in the back yard, Della?" Max groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Really?"

"I dunno, Max. You're young. Young people get away with things all the time."

"I'm sorry," Max says, laughing awkwardly. "I don't understand why every single family dinner needs to end with an indepth discussion of my sex life or lack thereof. I thought these types of things were supposed to be private."

"Not when you're trying to hook up with your friend in the kitchen," Louie says. "Dude, gross."

"We weren't!" Max exclaims. "I spilled grease on my pants and almost burned myself. That is literally all that happened."

"Don't deny our love, honey bunny," Bobby drawls, making kissy faces at Max. "I don't mind if your family knows."

"Oh my God, Bobby shut up," Max groans. "Nothing happened between us. Nothing is happening between me and anyone, actually. I'm still trying to get over the end of my engagement and also, oh right, losing my ability to walk."

Whatever is going on between him and Bradley definitely isn't any of their business. He'd hardly call it a relationship. They slept together twice and it sort of seems like Bradley's just using him for some sort of sick and twisted wish fulfillment.

He's okay with playing that part so long as it means someone is fucking him.

Besides, it's kind of nice to be desired for his body again.

"I was just joking man, jeez," Bobby laughs. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

Another hush falls over the table, this one punctuated with polite murmurs and chewing as everyone goes back to eating their food.

Max spears a potato on his fork and raises it to his mouth. He presses it against his lips, the taste of salt and vinegar and mayonnaise invading his tongue.

He can see Della watching him out of the corner of her eye.

So.

He opens his mouth and takes a bite.

Chews.

Swallows.

Puts on a show.

All the while thinking

he can rid himself of this later

in the dark quiet of his bathroom

with the faucet running.

After dinner, everyone breaks off into groups again.

The kids wait the allotted 30 minutes to get into the pool.

Donald and his dad perch on some of the lounge chairs with Pete, engaged in a riveting conversation about different types of wood.

Della and Janie disappear inside the house to 'clean up'.

Leaving PJ, Bobby, and Max alone.

It's awkward. The three of them sitting together for the first time since college. Straddling the line between childhood friends and complete strangers.

It makes Max think of the person he was before all of this.

Back when he, Bobby, and PJ were roommates and how the person he was then probably wouldn't have liked the person he is now.

In college, before he moved on to study dancing full time, he was loyal. Kind. Charming. Charismatic.

Now he just feels like he's nothing. Like all the parts of himself that made him redeemable, the hero of his own story, were burned out in favor of getting ahead. Of becoming The Next Big Thing.

The old Max would've known how to handle this. Meeting up with old friends after years apart. Struggling through a debilitating injury without falling back on old maladaptive coping mechanisms.

The person he is now has no fucking clue what he's doing.

"Soooo," Bobby says after the silence has gone on long enough to become oppressive. "Y'all wanna go smoke some weed behind the shed, or?"

"There are children here, Bobby," PJ sighs.

"They're like fifteen, Peej," Max laughs. "Hardly little kids. We were around their age when we got into smoking."

"I'm not gonna be the gateway to someone's illegal weed addiction," PJ scoffs.

"Bobby told me weed isn't illegal here anymore, actually," Max corrects.

"It is for children, Max," PJ sighs. "You can't legally smoke until you're like twenty-one."

"Well it's a good thing we're twenty-three, right?" Max asks, smirking.

PJ gives him an unimpressed look.

"C'mon, Peej. The shed is like at least a few hundred feet from the pool. No one'll know."

"I mean, I'll know," PJ says. "This is basically child endangerment."

"It's hardly child endangerment," Max laughs. "We're not doing anything to hurt them. They're fine hanging out in the pool with my dads."

"You don't have to smoke with us," Bobby says. "I might be in the biz, but I don't believe in peer pressure. You don't wanna smoke, you don't gotta smoke, babe."

"I wanna smoke," PJ says, lowering his voice. "I just don't know if I wanna do it behind the shed."

"Well we can't exactly do it out in the woods," Max says, motioning to his chair. "If you haven't noticed I'm not exactly equipped for rough terrain."

"I could always carry you again, honey bear," Bobby teases, giving Max a saucy wink. "And I'm sure PJ wouldn't mind dragging your chair along. Been a minute since I've smoked in the woods, could be fun."

"I'm not keen on being carried," Max says with a sigh, "but if it'll appease PJ's sense of morality when it comes to alleged child endangerment I'll allow it."

"Does everyone in LA talk like a hokey lawyer?" PJ teases, sticking his tongue out at Max when Max gapes at him.

"Moving back to Spoonerville made you mean, man," Bobby laughs, turning to walk toward the gate to the front yard. "Wish you woulda stayed in Astoria with me."

PJ frowns, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his jeans and following after Bobby with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I don't mind being back home. My dad's changed a lot. For the better. It's kinda nice having a relationship with him now."

Max wheels himself through the grass behind them. The ground is mostly level back here because of the pool, but the fence gate opens to a pretty steep hill.

"Glad you and your dad have a good relationship now or whatever," Bobby says, reaching the edge of the yard. "Doesn't mean you had to give up on your dream, though."

"Maybe I have a new dream now, Bobby. Did you ever think of that?" PJ snaps.

Bobby sighs, shoulders slumped.

"Whatever, man," he says, placing his hand on the fence.

"No, not whatever," PJ starts, ignoring the way Bobby's shoulders tense up again, knuckles going white as he pulls the back gate open. "It's my life, Bobby."

Bobby ignores him, gazing out at the steep hill that leads to the front yard.

"Huh," he says before he turns around to look at Max, eyebrows arched over the rim of his glasses. "Can you make the hill or does one of us have to spot you?"

By the time they make it into the woods, the sun has set completely over the horizon. So they don't end up making it too deep into the trees with PJ hauling Max's chair and Bobby carrying Max over the annoying amount of large rocks that surround the roadside in front of the woods.

"Are you sure I'm not too heavy?" Max asks Bobby for the millionth time as they make their way through the trees to somewhat even ground.

"You weigh practically nothing, Max," Bobby says. He doesn't sound winded. He's barely even breathing heavy.

"You're stronger than I remember," Max comments.

"That turn you on, baby?" Bobby teases, rolling his eyes a little to show he's joking, but it still makes Max's thoughts go there. If he's being honest, it does turn him on a little, but if he's being extra honest he isn't thinking about Bobby at all. He's thinking about Bradley and the times he lifted him into his arms.

How easily he could lift Max from his chair.

The light woodsy scent of his deodorant invading his nose.

It's barely been two days and he already misses him. He's already craving his touch. Rough hands and rougher words.

"I think we're far enough past the road that no one is gonna spot us," PJ says, placing Max's wheelchair on the ground as gently as he can.

"Where we can't peer pressure any unsuspecting teenagers, you mean?" Bobby asks, smirking at PJ and still holding onto Max.

"Dude could you put me down?" Max asks.

"I'm gonna need some light to do that, bro," Bobby says. "Dark as fuck out here."

"Maybe if you didn't wear sunglasses everywhere," PJ grumbles, pulling his phone out of his pocket and shining it onto Max's chair to give them better visibility.

"You know I have light sensitivity issues," Bobby argues, leaning over to deposit Max into his chair.

"It's pitch black out here, Bobby. What light are you being sensitive to?" PJ gripes.

"Can we stop bitching at each other and smoke?" Max asks. "I wanna make it back in time to catch Janie and Della making out in the kitchen so I can be super annoying about it for the next decade."

"You care way too much about your aunt's love life," Bobby laughs.

"You're the one who asked me if she was single earlier," Max reminds him.

"Gross, dude, that's his aunt!" PJ hisses.

"Yeah his aunt, not mine," Bobby says, defending himself. "And they're not even blood related. So there's like no rules against Max and Della gettin' busy is that's what they want."

Max makes a fake retching sound.

"Dude," he groans.

"What?" Bobby asks, pulling a small metal case out of his pocket, flipping it open and pulling out a nice looking lighter and a blunt.

"Della's a lesbian," Max says. "I told you that earlier I'm pretty sure."

"Is the only thing keeping you from fucking your aunt that she likes women?" Bobby asks.

"No!" Max shouts, laughing. "Bobby, what the fuck? How are you even weirder than I remember?"

"Show Biz changes you, man," Bobby says. "You've changed too. You're like a million times sluttier than I remember."

Max gasps, indignant.

"How have I even been remotely slutty in the past two hours!?"

"You did take off your pants in the kitchen," PJ chuckles, watching Bobby as he lights the joint and takes the first pull.

"I spilled bacon grease on them!"

"Likely story," Bobby says, passing the joint off to PJ who takes a long pull.

"You were there," Max sighs. "You literally saw me spill grease on my pants right before I took them off."

"Strangely I wasn't looking at your pants," Bobby says, shrugging. "I didn't see shit. Just one second you were clothed and the next second you weren't."

"I hate both of you," Max says, taking the joint when PJ passes it to him. "I'm so glad I'm back in Ohio so I can smoke in the woods with two people who keep accusing me of wanting to fuck my aunt. Pretty sure this is the Midwest, guys. Not the deep south."

"People fuck their cousins and aunts in the Midwest all the time," Bobby says. "I think it has to do with all the corn."

"Corn doesn't make you commit incest, Bobby," Max laughs, choking and coughing a little on his exhale. His eyes water and his throat burns. It's been a minute since he's gotten his hands on weed.

"Then where do the children of the corn come from, hm?" Bobby asks when Max passes to him.

"I'm pretty sure they're aliens?" Max responds.

"With that freakish white hair and those blue eyes? Looks like classic inbreeding to me."

"Bro half my family has platinum blonde hair," Mad deadpans.

Bobby takes a hit off the blunt then opens his mouth to speak.

"I swear to God if you call my family inbred I'll kill you," Max snaps.

"I was going to blame it on colonization, actually. Not inbreeding. If there was inbreeding at all it was the European side. I'm just gonna say it, I don't really trust Scrooge McDuck."

"You've never even met my Uncle Scrooge." Max rolls his eyes. "He's not that bad. He bought my dads their house as a wedding gift and everything."

"He's a billionaire, Max. All billionaires are bad," PJ says, taking the joint from between Bobby's fingers and taking another drag.

"He's, like, for sure murdered people," Bobby says, leaning against one of the larger trees and crossing his legs at the ankles to get more comfortable.

Max doesn't even try to argue that point. Because for all he knows his uncle has murdered people. If not directly than definitely indirectly. Cutting corners. Buying into capitalist ideals. Pulling himself up by snapping the bootstraps of all the other people he stepped on to get to the top.

PJ passes the joint back to him and Max takes his hit. Breathing in the floral earthy taste of the high notes, grimacing a little when he's hit with the low notes of burnt grass and distant skunk.

"What, not gonna stand up for your Great Uncle Scrooge?" Bobby asks.

"Nah," Max laughs, taking another hit before passing. "That man has definitely killed before. You can see it in his eyes."

"Weren't you just saying he wasn't all that bad?" PJ asks.

"I mean, he doesn't suck to me, but I'm someone he knows and probably cares about. He can be pretty shitty to people who aren't family. Hell, he can be shitty to family too. I remember how terrible he was to Donald after Della went MIA. I was just a kid then, but I remember the yelling. It wasn't pretty."

"Then we should thank our lucky stars that unhinged geezer didn't end your pop's life that day."

Max rolls his eyes.

"Since he's such a hardened killer and a—"

"Bobby, you're the one who accused him of murder in the first place. I was just agreeing with you."

"You're not supposed to agree, you're supposed to debate me."

"I'm not debating you on the moral compass of the obscenely wealthy. I saw enough of that shit in LA to know that they're all corrupt. Even at the multi-millionaire level. I shudder to think what they're doing at a level like a hundred times more powerful than that."

"Damn," Bobby says, finishing the joint and killing the roach. "That's fucking deep, man."

When they get back to the house, they don't bother going through the back yard. Max is fucking blitzed to hell and back. He and PJ can't stop giggling and Bobby is, well, Bobby. As in, he seems completely unfazed.

"Can I put you down now?" Bobby asks when they've made it all the way back to the front porch.

"I thought you liked carrying me," Max coos, squeezing Bobby's face with the hand that isn't wound around his shoulders. "You said I was your honey bear and everything."

Max presses sloppy kisses to Bobby's cheek.

"This is what I meant when I said you're at least a hundred times more slutty now than you were in college," Bobby sighs, practically dropping Max in his chair the second PJ puts it onto the front porch.

"You're the one who's been hitting on me all night, Bobby," Max says, tilting his head to the side and giving Bobby a worried look. "Thought you might want some of that attention returned."

"Too little too late," Bobby says. "Got my eyes set on your aunt now, Maximilian."

Max laughs and rolls his eyes.

"Well, don't come crying to me when she breaks your heart, Bobby. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that she's a lesbian."

PJ sighs and opens the front door, holding it so Max can wheel inside first.

"Can the two of you stop fighting over Max's aunt, it's—"

PJ goes silent, his eyes widening minutely as Max moves to pass him in his chair.

Max follows his gaze, smirking when it lands on Della sitting on the counter furiously making out with Janie.

"I fucking knew it," Max chuckles, keeping his voice low. Though from the way they're pressed together Max figures Dewey could set off a bomb in the living room and neither of them would've noticed.

"Tripled bummer," Bobby says.

"Maybe we should go through the gate and back into the yard," PJ suggests. "So we don't interrupt anything."

"Nah, it's fine," Max says, wheeling into the foyer and then into the living room.

Bobby and PJ exchange glances and reluctantly follow.

"Hey Della!" Max shouts, throwing one of the miniature basketballs one of the kids left in the living room earlier. It hits Della's arm and she and Janie jump apart, chests heaving.

"Max!" PJ admonishes, surprised by Max's audacity.

"What, Max?" Della hisses through clenched teeth.

"The guys and I are gonna go out back and swim. Maybe you and Janie would like to join us? Cool off a little?" Max asks smoothly, giving Della the most shit-eating grin he can muster.

"You're such a little shit, you know that?" Della asks, sliding off the counter and onto the floor with Janie's help.

"You love me," Max smirks, turning his head to nod at Janie. "Take good care of her, will ya? She's kinda neurotic but—"

Della whips the ball Max threw at her back at him. It hits him square in the jaw and after a few moments of stunned silence, everyone erupts into raucous laughter.

God.

It's good to be home.

Chapter Text

Max has only just emerged from the locker room when Roxanne startles him by grabbing his hands and pulling him up and out of his chair. She's so excited she doesn't even give him time to lock his wheels and his chair skids across the floor behind him as he stands.

"I made sure you would be the first person to try this," Roxanne says practically vibrating out of her skin. She's dragging him as quickly as she can on wobbly legs across the PT gym toward the newly installed ZeroG harness. "I had to literally fight a few of the other PTs, but since you're the one who gave me the idea it's only right you get to be the first one."

Max laughs awkwardly, trying desperately to keep his feet under him. Even when the effort leaves him so short of breath he can barely speak.

"I would've been fine not being the first. I'm just happy it's here at all," he says, putting more of his weight on Roxanne as he shuffles across the floor.

Truth be told, he's excited too and more than just a little bit touched. He hasn't been able to stand up and dance for nearly half a year. Something that used to be so integral to his day to day life pushed by the wayside for his recovery.

"Nonsense," Roxanne says, laughing and practically skipping while walking backwards. Making Max stumble through a few of his steps, but she manages to keep him upright. In balance. "We've even amassed a small audience. I hope that's okay."

She nods toward where a few of the regular patients and some of the other physical therapists and nurses have gathered next to the harness. Max recognizes a few of them, but doesn't really remember any of their names. He's always been kind of shit with names.

"I used to perform in sold out stadiums," Max says, giving Roxanne an amused look. "I think I'll be okay with a few people watching."

"I'm just making sure, hot shot," Roxanne laughs. "It's been a minute since you've been on stage. Wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Honestly, I think it'll make me feel more normal," Max answers, waving at his audience as their get closer. His legs wobble a bit, but Roxanne is quick to steady him.

"Keep your hands in mine," Roxanne says, "You're getting better at being on your feet, but you're not hands free just yet. Your adoring public will understand."

"Yeah, yeah," Max laughs, squeezing Roxanne's hands a little tighter, giving her a sheepish, knowing smile.

Once Roxanne gets him strapped into the harness, she finally lets him go. His body sags a little and for a moment it feels like he's falling. Like the whole thing might come down on top of him.

He yelps, legs wobbling and slipping a little while he tries to get himself steady.

Roxanne grabs his hand, squeezing his fingers reassuringly.

"Hey, Max, it's okay," she says, helping him get his feet back under him. "Keep your legs straight. Keep your feet under you. You're not gonna fall, I promise. This bad boy holds up to five hundred pounds. It's got you. I've got you."

"Thanks, Roxanne," Max says a bit breathlessly, grimacing a little when he forces his still weak legs to try and support his weight. He pushes on the floor, bobbing up and down in the harness a little.

"You got this," Roxanne says, letting go of his hands again and letting him test out his own legs without her help.

Max takes a few steps, keeping his legs under him this time. He still feels a little panicked when the harness gives a little beneath his weight, making it feel like any wrong step will send him plummeting to the floor, but his apprehension eases with each forward motion.

"There you go," Roxanne encourages, "You just gotta trust the harness. It'll carry you."

Max takes a breath, shuffling his feet under him and taking in the bright and hopeful eyes of his 'adoring' public. He should give them something to really appreciate. The harness is holding, Roxanne is nearby. He feels almost a little weightless.

The same way he always used to when he was dancing.

He could lose himself in the momentum

Feet rising,

rising,

rising,

off the floor

in jumps and leaps that made him feel

almost as if he were flying

mired in pixie dust.

He could do that now

he could do it again—

Max takes a breath

and

he moves.

His body feels like his own again

moving with him instead of

against

the tide,

Max breathes

lungs expanding, arms outstretched

the sinking feeling in his stomach dissipates

and he's flying

his step work is shoddy at best, his movements clumsy, the harness pulling and dipping and bouncing with every motion, but

he's flying

he's flying

and it feels

incredible.

Like,

maybe this isn't it for him.

Maybe there's still more

after this

more for him to grab onto

other than the long stretch of mediocre

nothing ahead of him

it feels like

a promise that he could be

something

again

He takes a shot at a spin, one of his legs coming up, the other staying firmly planted on the ground. His foot slips a little on the floor, throwing off the smoothness of the motion, but he still manages to hold a full rotation. Albeit a bit of an unattractive one.

When he makes the full rotation, his gaze ping-pongs around the crowd for a moment. Their polite clapping warming a place inside of him he didn't know he still had.

Then,

His gaze settles on someone at the back of the room, leaning against the wall next to the exit door.

Dr. Uppercrust.

Max's heart skips, stuttering in his chest.

Bradley's gorgeous blue eyes are directly on him, the edges of his lips ticked upward in an appreciative smile.

And it almost feels like

magic

the way their eyes meet over the crowd.

Bradley nods to him, acknowledging the tether between them and letting his gaze rake over Max's body one last time before slipping through the doorway and back into the hall. As if he were never there.

Max's knees give.

Shaky like a newborn lamb.

Both the harness and Roxanne catch him before he can fall.

When Max finishes his work out, Roxanne brings his chair from where they left it at the entryway to the gym and he returns to the locker room with a familiar ache in his limbs. He feels lighter than he has in months, happier too.

Like his life has been fundamentally changed by a piece of medical equipment.

He wheels into the showers with a change of clothing, locks his chair and moves to stand. His legs ache a little when he puts pressure on them, but he ignores it, pulling his sweat-soaked shorts down his legs.

PT always takes a lot out of him and he likes to shower off the sweat before he climbs back into Della's car. Mostly because the showers here are well-equipped for people with disabilities. That way he doesn't have to essentially crawl on the floor to get in and out of the bath if he wants to take a shower alone.

Wet floors and people with physical ailments don't mix well, after all.

Max uses the pull bar to steady himself as he steps into the stall, drawing the curtain behind him. He lets his shorts fall around his ankles and sets his change of clothes on one of the benches farthest from the actual shower room to keep them dry.

He's halfway through tugging his shirt off over his head when the curtain whips open behind him. Startling him enough to make him jump, body curling in on itself to hide his nudity.

"Hey, man this stall is ta—"

Max is cut off by someone turning him around and pinning him against the freezing cold tile wall.

Max gasps, trying to arch away from the tile, gripping into the shoulders of the man who shoved him in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright.

"Bradley," Max gasps when he's stopped panicking enough to meet Bradley's gaze.

He's watching him like he wants to devour him.

And—

Oh God, Max thinks, heart hammering against his ribs, cock perking up with interest. Della has already been waiting for over an hour.

Bradley leans forward, whispering Max's name against his skin, tongue darting out to taste his throat.

And Max suddenly forgets all about Della.

"Looked so hot out there dancing," Bradley whispers, grazing his teeth gently over Max's neck before sinking his teeth into his skin.

Max covers his mouth with his hand, muffling the sharp gasp and wanton moan that escapes when Bradley bites him.

"Almost took you right there in the harness," Bradley babbles, voice low as he strips Max's shirt over his head.

"'M sure my audience would've appreciated that," Max whispers, voice strained when Bradley traces his tongue along his clavicle.

"You're covered in sweat," Bradley groans, licking up the side of Max's throat again.

"That turns you on?" Max asks.

Bradley stills for a moment, pulling away to gaze down at Max with his haunting blue eyes.

"Don't ask stupid questions," he growls, reaching one of his hands up and pressing it against Max's neck. The touch is gentle for now. A warning.

"What if I like asking stupid questions?" Max asks, ever defiant.

Bradley squeezes his throat tighter and Max makes a soft choking noise. He tips his head back, letting it rest against the wall as the dizzy static feeling of being choked fills his head.

"Look at you," Bradley practically purrs, teeth grazing the line of Max's jaw. "Such a good little slut. Letting me do whatever I want."

"We should turn the shower on if you're going to keep talking," Max chokes out, words uneven.

"Scared someone will catch us, Goof?" Bradley drawls, kissing the spot just below his ear.

Max shivers at the touch, gripping at Bradley's shoulders when his knees buckle.

Bradley releases his throat in favor of holding Max up, arms winding around his waist, pulling their bodies flush.

The smooth fabric of Bradley's scrubs feels amazing against his flushed skin.

"I'm not the one breaking the rules," Max whispers, turning his head to press his mouth to Bradley's ear. His hair smells like fragrant flowers blossoming in spring. "I think you stand to lose more by being caught in here than I do."

"Not when I'm helping a patient shower," Bradley mumbles, licking another trail down Max's neck and then down over his shoulder. Tasting his sweat.

It should be disgusting, but

God.

The idea of this man being so hot and bothered over Max being sweaty from dancing is almost ungodly in the way that thought turns him on. Cock jumping to life in his boxers, throbbing at the thought of Bradley's tongue tasting every fucking inch of him.

"Hate to break it to you, Brad," Max taunts, "But you licking my body clean isn't exactly sanitary. Nor is it helping me shower."

Bradley's hand comes up to grip his throat again, shoving Max's head back against the wall with enough force to make his vision swim.

"My name is Bradley," he whispers harshly into Max's ear. "Not, Brad."

"What if I want to call you Brad?" Max asks, voice like spun sugar.

Bradley's fingers dig into the sides of his throat. Fingernails cutting half-moons into his flesh.

Max takes a shuddering breath, exhaling on a moan when Bradley's short fingernails dig deeper into his skin.

"You're not the one with all the power here," Bradley growls, catching Max's bottom lip between his teeth. He lessens his grip on Max's throat, tracing his index finger over the jut of his Adam's Apple.

"Oh?" Max whispers, shivering a little when the minute movement of his mouth pulls at the skin of lips still stuck between Bradley's teeth. Teeth that sink deeper into his flesh bordering on breaking the skin.

Bradley releases him, running his tongue over the indentations he's left behind. Painting Max's skin with saliva.

"I could walk away," Bradley threatens, "I could leave you here just like this."

He releases Max's throat, tracing his hand slow down his chest and over his abdomen. His touch leaving goosebumps on Max's skin.

"Who else would want you?" Bradley asks, fingertips dipping into the waistband of Max's boxers. He teases the sensitive skin there, humming appreciatively when Max shivers and bucks beneath him. "Broken as you are."

Max inhales sharply when Bradley's fingers trail lower, tracing the outline of his already aching cock through his boxers. It jumps beneath his hand, chasing his feather-light touch.

"You should be worshiping me," Bradley continues, stepping a little further back from the wall, his arms circling Max's waist once more to keep him upright. "Begging me on your knees."

He kicks Max's legs out from beneath him and Max gasps, gripping the front of Bradley's scrubs. He looks at Bradley's face in shock, legs dangling beneath him, muscles spasming as he tries to keep himself upright.

"Kneel," Bradley growls into his ear, using his grip on Max's waist to ease him down onto his knees on the cold floor of the shower.

The fabric of Bradley's scrubs slips slowly through Max's fingers as he allows himself to be set on his knees. His face mere inches away from Bradley's hard cock.

"There you go, pretty thing," Bradley drawls, tipping Max's chin up with his fingers. "Time to do what you were made for and suck my cock."

Max feels shame and arousal in equal measure. Eyes widening as Bradley gazes down at him, a dangerous grin on his lips.

He's never had someone treat him like this before. Never been on the other side of being degraded. It's almost sick how much it excites him.

It's one thing for him to think of himself as a tool. Something to be used to derive pleasure from, but to be seen that way by someone else?

Beads of precum gather at the tip of his cock, oozing out an uncomfortable amount of wetness on the fabric of his boxers.

Bradley leads his face closer to his cock slowly until his nose brushes the front of his scrub pants.

He can smell the musky scent of Bradley's arousal. Can feel the way his cock twitches beneath the gentle press of his nose to Bradley's shaft.

Max hesitates, his gaze going back up to meet Bradley's.

"You do know how to suck cock, right?" Bradley asks, blue eyes flashing as he smirks. He raises his hand from beneath Max's chin, pressing his thumb to the seam of his lips. "Or do you need me to show you?"

Max parts his lips around Bradley's thumb, letting him push it inside his mouth.

"You have such pretty lips," Bradley says, pressing his thumb down hard against Max's tongue until he gags. Bradley tuts gently, moving his thumb out to paint Max's lips with his own spit. "Overactive gag reflex. What a shame."

Max's face goes hot, fingernails digging into the skin of his knees.

He feels ashamed, he is ashamed. It's a strange feeling, the sense inadequacy bubbling up in him at the thought of not being able to choke down Bradley's cock.

God,

he—

Bradley gently pets his fingers over the top of Max's head. He moves his hand almost tentatively through Max's natural curls, watching his face for any sort of reaction.

Max sighs, tipping his head down and leaning into Bradley's touch.

"You can pull my hair," Max whispers, giving Bradley all the permission he needs to take full control again.

Bradley's fingernails dig into his scalp, tugging Max's face forward until it's pressed to Bradley's cock. It twitches beneath his cheek and Bradley sighs in pleasure when Max turns his head to breathe warm air against him.

Max nuzzles him, tracing the outline of Bradley's cock with his nose, his lips, his cheek. The smell of him is so intoxicating. Deep and musky like the smell of sin.

"How long are you going to tease?" Bradley asks, fingers going tight in his hair again, pulling his head back until Max has no choice but to meet his gaze. "Suck me off. Now."

Max looks up at him, a slow smile worming its way over his lips.

"Make me," he says, watching with vague apprehension and excitement when Bradley's eyes flutter closed and his grin goes sharp.

Bradley takes a breath, leaning down and grabbing Max beneath his armpits, hoisting him up into a standing position.

Max yelps, pain shooting up his legs as he tries to get his feet underneath him.

"Such a filthy mouth, hm?" Bradley asks, practically dragging Max into the shower stall and depositing him onto one of the benches beneath the spray. He turns the water on full blast.

Max gasps when the frigid water hits him, his body trembling in the bone chilling cold. He stares as Bradley steps out of the stall, eyes narrowed as he watches Max shiver and gasp with cold.

"Maybe it's time you learn some manners," Bradley coos, stripping off his clothes until he's standing completely naked in front of Max.

His body is like a wet dream. Broad chest, tapered waist, strong, muscular thighs, and a long thick cock.

"I'm enjoying this so far!" he says, despite the cold water beating down on him and the fact that he's trembling from the cold and from being manhandled.

"I'm sure," Bradley says, rolling his eyes and stepping into the shower just as the water starts to heat up. He pulls the curtain closed behind him, leaning against the tile wall just out of Max's reach.

His hand circles his cock, stroking it slowly. Bringing his foreskin up and stretching it back down until he's fully hard.

Max watches with rapt attention, his own cock twitching with desire in his now drenched boxers.

"Aren't you gonna come closer?" Max asks, gaze rising from Bradley's cock to look at his face.

Bradley is watching him with a cool expression. The edges of his lips turning upward into a smug grin.

"Take off your boxers," he commands, voice sharp.

Max winces and complies with his request, putting some weight on his legs to lift his hips. The wet fabric sticks to his skin and he sighs, trying desperately to get them down his thighs and expose himself to Bradley.

"Did you hear me?" Bradley asks, "I told you to take them off."

"They're wet," Max snaps. "I'm trying t—"

Bradley steps to him, practically ripping the offending fabric off of his legs.

"You have an excuse for everything don't you?" he asks, grabbing Max's chin and wrenching his head up so he can look into his eyes. "Why can't you just do as your told?"

Max opens his mouth to reply, but Bradley readjusts his hand to squeeze Max's jaw, forcing his mouth open.

"That question was rhetorical, Mr. Goof," Bradley growls, squeezing his face so hard the tender flesh of his cheeks aches where it's pressed into his teeth. "My aim is to shut you up, not to have you start yapping more."

He releases Max's face, hand going back to his cock.

Max opens his mouth again, meeting Bradley's gaze and waiting patiently for him to slide his cock inside.

Bradley hums, stroking his cock slowly with one hand as he uses the other to press his thumb against Max's tongue. He makes him to gag again, forcing his jaw to stay open even as Max tries to close it.

Saliva wells up in his mouth and he gasps, gagging again when Bradley shoves his fingers into Max's mouth to gather it.

"I don't think you're good enough to suck my cock," Bradley tells him, switching hands so he can use Max's spit to jerk himself off.

Max gives him an irritated look. Bradley is the one who accosted him in the bathroom. He's the one who initiated this.

"Don't give me that look," Bradley snaps, grabbing Max's chin again and holding him in place as he draws the head of his cock over the apple of his cheek. Bradley's precum mixed with his own spin spreading over his flesh like a brand.

"I gave you an opportunity to be good and you defied me," Bradley continues, voice low and authoritative. "Why should I reward you for bad behavior?"

Max rolls his eyes.

"Like sucking your dick would be a reward," he says.

Bradley's eyebrows raise, his blue eyes darkening like a stormy sea. He grabs Max's hair and wrenches his head back until his body bows upward and his neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle.

Max groans, breath quickening. Water from the shower slips into his mouth and nose and he winces as his nasal passages and throat begin to burn.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you beggars shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, Maximilian?" Bradley drawls, loosening his hold on Max's hair minutely to tip his face down far enough that he's not going to drown from the onslaught of water. "I'm doing you a favor here. Letting you pleasure me."

Max coughs, gagging again when water runs from the back of his throat out of his mouth and nose.

"I thought you said you used to fantasize about me," Max rasps, ever defiant, throat raw from choking. "Sounds like I'm the one doing you a favor."

Bradley tightens his fist in Max's hair, growling in disgust.

Max hisses, wincing when he feels tears well up on his lash line. His nose runs down over his mouth, snot mixing with spit and water.

"What?" Max asks, coughing again and letting more water run from his throat over his teeth and dribble down his chin. "You don't want to feel my mouth on you? Don't wanna force me to take your cock all the way down my throat? C'mon Bradley, you've gotta have some fucked up fantasy about choking me on your dick. A lot of the guys I fucked back in LA did. You're not special."

Max tips his head back a little, finally taking in the look on Bradley's face once he can breathe without feeling water in the back of his throat.

Bradley is seething, his teeth bared and clenched tight. There's a vein popping in the side of his neck. He looks like he could snap any second.

Max has him right where he wants him.

"That's what you want, right?" Max continues, tone simpering. He licks his lips, letting his gaze travel slowly over Bradley's body down to where his cock stands at attention. Hard and practically throbbing. "For me to tell you you're special? That no one has ever fucked me like you do?"

Bradley's breath quickens, chest heaving with the force of his rage.

"Come on, baby," Max coos, "Use your words. Tell me what you wanna do to me. Tell me what my punishment is."

He leans forward, fighting against Bradley's hold on his hair to lick precum of the tip of Bradley's cock.

Bradley hisses in surprise.

"I'd be surprised if you actually got me to choke," Max teases, flicking his gaze back from from Bradley's cock to his face. He smirks when he finds Bradley grinding his teeth in frustration. "That'd certainly make you special."

Max lets his mouth fall open as far as it'll go. Gazing up at Bradley expectantly. Tongue mere inches from his cock.

Bradley gazes down it him with all the cool indifference he can muster.

"Come on, baby," Max bites, leaning as far forward as he can with Bradley's death grip on his hair. "Isn't that what you want? To feel special?"

"Shut the fuck up," Bradley seethes, short fingernails digging into his scalp.

Max laughs.

"I meant it when I told you to make me."

Bradley shoves Max back on the bench until his head is flush with the tile wall. It's an awkward position, Max leaning at a diagonal with his neck bent at a right angle.

His head throbs when Bradley releases his hair and he sighs in relief.

Only for it to be short lived when Bradley straddles his body and kneels on the bench in front of him, the head of his cock pressed roughly to the seam of his lips.

His hands slip into his hair again, tugging at his roots until Max gasps.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Bradley asks, shoving his cock into Max's mouth. Past his lips, over his tongue, and into the back of his throat.

Max chokes and gags, eyes watering.

"What's the matter, Maximilian?" Bradley asks, "bit off a little more than you can chew?"

Max struggles to breathe, taking sharp, short breaths in through his nose as Bradley fucks his throat. Cock sliding wetly in and out of his mouth, drawing saliva and tears down his face.

"Look at the mess I've made of you," Bradley coos, easing his grip on Max's hair to pet gently over his head. His thrusts his cock again, chuckling when Max gags and spasms, groaning around his length. "You talk a big game, but you can't take it, huh?"

Max looks up at him, eye blurred with tears, nose running down over his lips onto Bradley's cock so he tastes his own snot on every thrust.

"You want me to show you how a real man sucks cock?" Bradley asks, a sinister grin stretching over his lips.

Max groans and tries to swallow, throat spasming around Bradley and making him gag again. His stomach roils, body trembling.

Bradley grabs Max's hand, bringing it up to his lips. Slowly, he eases his cock out of Max's throat and lets it sit, heavy and waiting on on his tongue.

"Eyes on me," Bradley commands, wiping Max's tears away with his free hand to clear his blurry vision. "Watch and learn."

He parts his lips, tongue coming out to taste the tip of Max's finger.

Max takes a deep breath, filling his burning lungs while he has the chance. His eyes slip closed as he breathes, body relaxing.

Until he feels a sharp slap against his cheek.

"I said eyes on me, Max," Bradley growls, the hand that slapped him slipping down to grip his throat. Cutting off his airway yet again, getting his attention. "I'm trying to teach you a lesson."

Max makes an frustrated sound around Bradley's cock, lips tightening around the shaft as he makes a huffing noise through his nose.

"Cock got your tongue?" Bradley teases, thrusting into Max's mouth shallowly, tip slipping wetly across Max's tongue. The sharp, salty taste of his precum filling Max's mouth.

Max doesn't think he has ever wanted to fight someone more.

"Stop looking at me like that," Bradley admonishes, "and pay attention."

He licks the tip of Max's finger again, letting it slide across the flat of his tongue. Then, slowly, he spreads his lips, taking the tip of Max's middle finger into his mouth, tongue slipping inside with it.

Max moans around Bradley's cock, his own tongue moving against the underside of Bradley's shaft.

"Ah," Bradley sighs contentedly, releasing Max's finger from his mouth if only for a moment to give him praise. "Look at you, already learning."

Max takes a sharp breath through his nose, tension draining out of his muscles as he relaxes into Bradley's touch.

His lips wrap around his finger again. Tongue circling and teasing the tip until Max is shivering beneath him, forgotten cock hard and wanting. It jerks with every gentle lap of Bradley’s tongue along Max's finger. Aching with lust.

Bradley glances back at his embarrassingly hard cock, but doesn't release his finger. Instead, he takes it deeper, forcing Max's other fingers to bend and give him more room.

He lets Max's digit hit the back of his throat before he pulls almost all the way back. His tongue returns, teasing the tip of Max's finger in a circular motion interspersed with gentle suction. Easing him back in to being swallowed whole.

Not once does Bradley gag. He barely even looks like he's struggling.

"See? Easy." Bradley says when he pulls off, moving Max's spit slicked hand down between his legs to caress his own cock. He moves Max's hand up and down, watching with rapt attention as he helps Max stroke himself. His lips curl into a smirk when Max shudders, mouth tightening around the head of Bradley's cock, limbs trembling as he gets closer to release.

Max's hips buck up into his and Bradley's joined hands. Straining his neck and bringing Bradley's cock deeper again. He chokes, moaning around Bradley's shaft. His eyes roll back in his head as he tries and fails to fill his lungs with air around the protrusion in his throat.

"Still not getting it, are you?" Bradley asks, releasing Max's cock and adjusting himself so his own rests against Max's tongue again. Giving him the space to breathe, if only for a moment.

Max's cock throbs in the steamy air of the shower as he glares up at Bradley, trying to swallow around him again. His throat spasms uselessly, spit leaking out over his lips and down his chin. It's one thing to do that with a finger. It's an entirely different thing to choke down someone's dick.

"I need you to be a good boy and take my cock like you promised," Bradley smirks, pulling out of Max's mouth for a moment to let him take a break as Bradley readjusts their position. "After you begged me so pretty."

"I didn't beg—" Max starts to say, earning him a swift slap to his cheek. A hand on his throat, squeezing gently as a reminder.

Max shudders, locking eyes with Bradley as he gazes down at him with disdain.

"This has gone on long enough, don't you think?" Bradley asks, voice low and dangerous.

Max bites tongue, warm water flowing over his skin and into his eyes as they watch each other in silence.

He doesn't utter another word.

Bradley eases Max lower on the bench until he's nearly hanging off, feet flat on the floor. His legs tremble where they're forced to hold more of his weight, his back screaming in protest from the awkward angle. Water streams across his face and he clenches his eyes shut, blessedly still able to breathe under the onslaught.

"Be a good boy," Bradley says, caressing Max's cheek gently when he winces and hisses in pain. "I know you have some strength left in you. You're doing so well in your recovery."

Bradley leans back, eyes glued to Max's face as he twists to stroke his hand up and down Max's thigh. Massaging one gently before twisting to give the other side the same treatment.

The sudden gentleness is jarring. It makes Max's breath catch and his body relax beneath Bradley.

"There we go," Bradley whispers, straightening up and burying his hand in Max's hair once more. This time the touch is soft, fingers massaging his scalp gently. He spreads his legs wider over Max's chest, lowering himself to fit the new position.

"This is a kindness you don't deserve," Bradley tells him, pulling a little tighter on his hair to bring his head up, Max's lips kissing the head of Bradley's cock. "But I'm going to hurt you, Maximilian. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," Max answers, mouth sliding open, tongue slipping free to taste.

"Okay," Bradley says, easing his cock into Max's mouth slowly, pulling on Max's hair until his nose is pressed flush against his pubic mound.

Max gags, spit leaking from his mouth. Tears welling in his eyes. The water washes each away, cleansing his skin as Bradley makes a mess of him. Sweeping away the evidence of their sin.

"Touch yourself while I use you," Bradley commands, nudging Max's arm with his knee after a particularly harrowing thrust that makes Max taste bile in the back of his throat. A sob escaping his lips.

Max does as he's bid, arm snaking around Bradley's thigh to grip his forgotten cock. He doesn't have any fight left in him to argue.

His body and brain blissfully numb from the violent way Bradley fucks him. Cock heavy and thick on his tongue.

"Yeah, that's it," Bradley babbles, bracing himself against the shower wall as Max moans like a whore around his cock. Fucking his mouth as Max chokes, struggling to get air into his lungs between every thrust. "My good boy."

Max feels his balls tighten, stomach muscles clenching. His legs tremble, toes curling against the shower mat beneath his feet.

"Stop," Bradley commands, chuckling at Max's confused look as he releases his cock.

He gazes up at Bradley as best he can through the tears and water stuck in his lashes. Breath coming short through his nose. Throat raw from being fucked.

"See?" Bradley asks, moaning when he pushes his cock down Max's throat again, fingernails scraping over his scalp in a way that's almost soothing. "You can be good. You do know how to listen."

Max groans, fingers digging into Bradley's thigh for something to touch that isn't himself. He was so close. He just needed a little bit more.

Tears well in his eyes, snot pouring from his nose and down over his lips. It catches on Bradley's cock, the salty bitter taste of it mixing with the flavor of Bradley on his tongue. He gags again, body spasming from the force of it. His stomach roils. His lungs burn.

"Touch yourself again," Bradley whispers, ignoring the way Max writhes beneath him. How he tries to pull off his cock even while Bradley keeps forcing it down his throat.

Max's hand finds his dick again, stroking himself at Bradley's command. He tries to breathe calmly through his nose, snot plugging up his nasal passages. Bubbles blowing from his nostrils on the exhale.

Max is afraid.

He feels fear well up inside of him with every tug of Bradley's fingers in his hair. With every thrust of his hips, cock burying itself deep in Max's throat. He can barely breathe, tears pouring down his face as he struggles to take the abuse.

He quickens his pace on his cock. Hand moving to meet the cadence of Bradley's thrusts into his mnouth.

Max sniffles, gagging when it draws more snot into his throat as he tries to get some air into his lungs. He groans around Bradley's cock, brow furrowing when he feels his orgasm just there under the surface of his skin. It won't take mu—

"Stop," Bradley commands.

His hand stills, reluctantly releasing his cock and resting once more on Bradley's thigh. Max opens his eyes, practically sobbing from the loss of his own touch. He feels wrecked.

"Good boy," Bradley coos, thrusts going quicker. The muscles of his thighs tensing under Max's hands. "So good."

Max's thoughts turn to static, eyes half open and gazing up through the blur of tears at Bradley's face.

His jaw aches, throat scratchy and raw like he's been swallowing knives of flame, but

he thinks

maybe it's worth it

for this moment

to feel so used

but so irrevocably wanted.

Bradley's gaze is like flame licking him from the inside out. There's no coldness in the way he looks at him now.

There's desire,

pride,

an undercurrent of boyish mischief

every time he bids Max "touch yourself"

then "stop"

like a game of red light, green light

edging himself

ever closer to the finish line.

Max is broken

in

A sense of euphoria creeping on the edges of his psyche

The blue flame of desire in Bradley's eyes

He's

"Stop," Bradley whispers

and Max's hand

falters

it falls to the wayside

Body throbbing with an ache

the roaring numbness of pleasure can't quite chase away

Please

He wants to beg

Mouth still stuffed full

Fucking please

"Keep your mouth open," Bradley commands

Freeing his cock from between Max's teeth

Max gags, body shuddering

Gasping

For

Breath.

Spittle and bile and phlegm

And all number of

Vile things

Drag out of him

But

He keeps his mouth stretched wide

Tongue protruding

Waiting

For—

Bradley takes himself in hand, the slick sound of him stroking his cock with Max's fluids filling the shower stall.

It should be disgusting, but all it does is make Max ache with want.

Please he wants to beg, but if he moves his lips he knows he'll vomit.

And so

He

Waits

Until he hears the broken moan of Bradley coming

tastes the bitterness of semen coat his outstretched tongue and

Fall across his chin, cheeks, throat.

Until he is painted in the fluids of desire and

"Swallow," Bradley commands, releasing his hair and letting his head fall back against the bench.

Max pulls in his tongue, closes mouth and

Swallows

Down

Everything

Then

Wrenches, writhes, twists

Between Bradley's thighs and

Vomits

Over the side of the bench

White foam and green bile from the empty contents of his stomach

Slowly washing away and down the drain of the shower

"Disgusting," Bradley says, standing up and rinsing himself off.

Then,

"Where's your towel?"

Max raises his head to look at Bradley in confusion. Cock still throbbing between his legs.

Bradley watches him in silence, eyes devoid of the warmth of his desire. Replace by their natural coldness. Scorched earth frozen over by decades of permafrost.

"Did you think I would take care of you?" Bradley asks, coming over to the bench to drag Max up into a sitting position so he can lean in close. "After you defied me? Begged for my cum and squandered it down the drain?"

"Please," Max whispers, desperate. His throat burns.

"It's too late for please now, baby," Bradley spits, voice harsh as his hand grips Max's jaw, their faces mere inches from one another. "I want you to leave this shower wanting. Aching for me. Until I consume every one of your thoughts. I want you hard. I want you miserable. Ruined. Do you hear me?"

Max's breath quickens, embarrassing tears welling in his eyes. He's so hard it hurts. So hard he might go insane if he cant—

"Answer me, Max," Bradley growls, long fingers squeezing his jaw tight, fingernails biting into his flesh. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes," Max answers. The word is hard to push out, voice hoarse from his ruined throat.

"And then when you're alone in your bed tonight," Bradley continues, pressing his lips to the shell of Max's ear, "I want you to call my office. I want you to dial extension six-five-zero-one. Then if and only if I answer will you be allowed to pleasure yourself to completion."

Max whimpers, whole body shivering.

"I want you at my mercy," Bradley whispers, hand slipping from his jaw to trace feather light over Max's chest.

Down his abdomen.

Until his fingertips brush his

swollen

aching

cock.

Max gasps and sobs, bucking up haphazardly into Bradley's touch.

Please, he thinks, but doesn't say.

Please.

"Yes," Bradley purrs, turning his head so he can capture Max's lips with his own. Tongue slipping into his open mouth. Tasting the wreck he made of him.

He presses his thumb into the head of Max's cock, sucking his tongue into his mouth when Max gasps again, whimpering and

pleading

in broken

little words

tongue caught in the thrall of a beast.

Bradley's hand moves, fingers wrapping around Max's cock. Stroking gently, limp wristed.

And

it's everything he wants

But

"Stop," he whispers, pulling away from their kiss. Panting rancid breath into Bradley's face.

"Don't you want to finish?" Bradley teases, hand stilling, but still staying loosely wrapped around his cock.

Max sighs, leaning forward to press his forehead against Bradley's.

"That's not—" he swallows, trying to ease the rasping burn of his throat. "That's not what you said you wanted."

Bradley's hand moves away from Max's cock up to caress his face. Fingers sticky with precum.

"My good boy," Bradley coos, tone saccarine. He tips his head up to press a gentle kiss to the crown of Max's head.

It's infantalizing. Ridiculous. It should make rage well up in Max's chest, but he

can't find any anger within himself

when the gentle press of Bradley's kiss

to the top of his head

feels like and olive branch to

a love

he does not deserve

and cannot keep.

He watches Bradley walk away, leaving behind the ruined mess of him. Shower still running, the warmth of the water leeching back out from having been on too long.

Max has no idea how long he's been in here.

Time floats in his periphery when Bradley has his attention.

Shit, he thinks, pumping soap from the shower dispenser into his hand and scrubbing himself clean. Washing away the evidence of Bradley's lust.

Of his own.

Still,

he leaves feeling unclean.

Vile things accumulating just beneath the surface of his skin irreparably staining him.

His skin reeks of Bradley when he finally finds his way back out to the waiting room. The towel he's shoved haphazardly into the bag on the back of his chair positively drenched in the water from their bodies. Saturated in the mix of their scents.

"Took longer than usual this time, hm?" Della asks, pulling out one of her headphones and glancing up from her phone at Max. Her nose wrinkling slightly as she takes in the state of him.

He's still mostly wet from the shower, his hair probably doing something insane because he hadn't planned on washing it or having someone use it as leverage to fuck his throat today.

"Did something happen?" Della asks. She pulls out her other headphone, wrapping them around her phone and shoving both of them in her pocket.

"Fell in the shower," Max rasps, wincing at the fucked out sound of his voice.

Della blinks in surprise.

"With all of the bars and benches and safety measures?" Della asks.

Max shrugs, not trusting his voice to talk about it.

"Did you get punched in the throat on the way down?" she asks, moving closer to him to inspect his skin. "I think I can already see a bruise forming."

Max is lucky enough that his skin is too dark for Della to actually tell. Because he wouldn't be surprised if there's a bruise the shape of Bradley's hand wrapped around his throat like a collar.

"Jesus, you look bad," Della remarks, reaching out to touch Max's cheek. She traces her finger down the side of his face, likely following the line of a different bruise. One from where Bradley's fingers dug into his skin.

"Are you sure you don't wanna see someone before we go?"

Max shakes his head.

"I'm fine," he says while his throat feels so fucking raw he can taste blood. He resists the urge to raise his hands and rub it. Max knows that isn't going to help and it'll only serve make Della more suspicious than she already is.

Della winces, giving him a concerned look.

"Are you absolutely sure?" She presses, "We're at a hospital. So. If you want someone to check you out, I think we're in the right place."

"I—" Max starts, coughing into his elbow and ignoring the metallic taste that spills over his tongue before he swallows it back down. "I'm alright. Just wanna go home."

"Okay, bud," Della says, moving out of his way so they can start the trek out to the car. "But if you aren't feeling better in a few days I really think you should come back."

"Okay," Max agrees.

He has no intention of returning. He doesn't want to have to explain to anyone what happened to him. He definitely doesn't want to have to explain how much he fucking liked it. How he'd begged for it even while he knew he'd never deep throated anyone before and his gag reflex is ruined from years of binging and purging.

Max knew this would hurt him and he wanted it anyway. He likes the way it scared him. How it made him afraid. Bradley is a stranger. Max has no way of knowing if he'll be kind. If he'll stop when he sees he's gone too far.

The thought twists his stomach. These are things he shouldn't want. Things he hasn't wanted in the past, but

things change;

Max definitely has

in ways he

never imagined;

in ways he never

wanted.

When they reach the car and Della opens his door, Max sits for a moment. Testing his legs. They still ache from where Bradley bent him at a weird angle. Pushing a lot of his weight onto his legs from the bench.

"Can you help me get into the car?" Max asks, shame creeping up and tangling in his lungs.

Della nods wordlessly, helping him without judgement or complaint. As if Max hadn't been helping himself in and out of the car for over a week.

He should be able to do this on his own even with the state his body is in. Except here he is. Needing help again. Max digs his fingernails into the skin of his knees when he's finally up in his seat.

He's so angry with himself. That he could backslide on recovery so easily.

Next to him, Della frowns, reaching her hand up to place it over Max's. She eases his fingernails out of his skin, taking her hand into her own.

"Max," she says, voice soft like it is when she comforts her boys from their nightmares.

He doesn't look at her. He can't. Instead he stares at the back of the seat in front of him, willing himself to take deep, even breaths.

"Recovery isn't linear. You're going to have good days and bad days."

Max swallows, ignoring the way it makes his throat burn.

"Don't let the bad days control you," Della soothes, giving his hand a little squeeze.

Max takes a breath and nods his head. He finally turns to look at Della, nearly tearing up at the hopeful smile she's giving him.

"I know what you're going through," she says. "I know how hard this is."

Max swallows, wincing when it makes his throat ache.

"Falling can be traumatic," Della tells him, watching the way the hand she isn't holding comes up to rub at the front of his throat. It does nothing to lessen the ache. "It's natural you'd need help, Max. It's okay."

"Thanks, Aunt Della," Max whispers, letting her words wash over him like the tide. They don't do much to make him feel better. Especially considering he didn't actually fall. This is something more self-inflicted.

But,

he does take the comfort for what it is.

Della is the only person other than maybe his pop that understand what it's like to go through something like this. To lose ones sense of self so completely.

Max wonders if Della ever did things like this too.

Let people hurt her so she could feel

normal, human.

Alive.

When they get home the house is quiet. His dad is back on normal shift, Donald is out on a job, and the kids are still at school.

The second he's through the front door, Max heads for the kitchen. He tries not to make it obvious, not with Della right on his wheels, but his throat still burns. He desperately needs cold water to soothe it.

Max isn't sure it'll help, but he needs to do something to rid himself of the disgusting bitter taste of vomit mixed with cum. The thought of knowing the taste is still there alone is enough to make make him want to puke again.

Max pulls open the fridge, pretending to look over everything they have inside. He can feel Della's eyes on him and he's self-conscious. Despite the fact that drinking water is a totally normal thing to do and he's usually thirsty when they get home from PT.

Now Max feels like every single one of his choices is being measured. Like picking up a bottle of water from the fridge is the wrong choice.

"Are you hungry?" Della asks once he's picked up the bottle anyway, unscrewing the plastic top and raising it to his lips.

Max drinks before he answers. The second the water hits his tongue, the coolness of it swishing around his mouth, he winces at the prospect of swallowing.

Still, her forced the water down his throat. Wincing when it aches, scratching like sandpaper.

He can feel Della's eyes on him as he drains the entire bottle. Not taking a single breath until it's empty. It feels like fire inside of him, but it quenches something too.

Max grabs another bottle from the fridge before back up and closing the door.

"You should probably eat something since you didn't have breakfast," Della suggests, following Max from the kitchen into the living room when he doesn't answer her question.

"I'm not really hungry," Max responds. His stomach aches, hunger pains insistent, but Max ignores it. His throat hurts too much to eat anything anyway.

"Max," Della says in a warning tone.

"My throat hurts," Max tells her, rubbing at it again gently before taking another sip of water. He plays up the wincing for good measure, but it feels less horrible than it did at the beginning. "I hit my neck on the bench on the way down. Water is a struggle. It hurts to talk. I'm not sure I could handle food."

He keeps his back turned to Della, not wanting her to see his face. He still feels wrecked from his most recent experience with Bradley. His lips feel swollen, his hair is a fucking mess. He tried to clean himself up as much as he could in the locker room, but he knows he has to look horrifying.

"I could make you a smoothie," Della offers. "I'll even put kale in it."

"Do we have kale?" Max laughs, wincing when it hurts his throat.

"No, but I can get kale. I just want to make sure you eat, okay?"

This time, Max turns around. He can see the worry etched in Della's features. It has to be hard for her to watch him deteriorate like this, he thinks. From the top of the world to living in a room stuffed with medical equipment in his dad's house.

It's been a long time since he's been around people who actually see him as a person instead of an object, a thing to make them money.

Max really needs to get better at hiding this. He's lucky the only person to look a little too closely so far has been Della, but if his dads catch on it's over.

"I think there's a smoothie place in downtown Spoonerville," Max offers, rubbing the front of his throat as he talks. It's soothing, but only in the sense that it distracts him from the burn by irritating the bruise that's already forming. "They probably have kale smoothies."

"Right," Della says. "We can just go there. No sense in buying a whole thing of kale no one else is going to eat."

"They do have pre-frozen kale and pre-frozen smoothie mixes with kale in them," Max smirks.

"Well, I don't know," Della sighs, throwing up her hands. "I don't drink smoothies. I'm not into that health food shit."

"I literally saw you eat a salad two nights ago."

"Eating a single salad doesn't make me a health nut," Della laughs. "I just like to follow the food pyramid and eat a vegetable every once and awhile. Not gonna go out of my way to go veg or vegan or whatever the hell else is trendy."

"And yet you're willing to make kale smoothies," Max teases.

"Just go get in the car, asshole," Della gripes. "Let's go to the smoothie place before I have to go pick up the kids from school."

Max doesn't particularly want to leave again. Nor does he particularly want a smoothie, but he could use the distraction. It's taking everything in him right now not to retreat to his bedroom and call Bradley.

He wants to hear Bradley's voice. Wants Bradley to hear his. To listen to the raspy ruined state he left him in. He wonders how much Bradley would like that. To know he fucked his throat so raw he can taste blood and Max is still coming back for more.

BUT

It's barely been an hour since he left the hospital. Max assumes by the instructions Bradley gave him, that he wants him to call after hours. It'd be awkward to call while the office is still open. Especially considering Bradley takes patients until roughly six-thirty in the evening. Then he has to factor in the placement of his bedroom and how close it is to the living room because he's almost certain he's going to be vocal. Or as vocal as he can be with a fucked out throat.

"You headed to the car or?" Della asks, interrupting Max's salacious thoughts.

"Oh, right," Max answers, laughing a little self-consciously. He pushes his chair forward, making his way from the living room and back toward the front door. It's kind of annoying to leave again just as soon as they got back home, but he's doing this to assuage Della's fears that he's struggling with food.

"Did you hit your head too?" Della asks. "Head injuries can be serious, Max. Maybe you should've seen someone while you were there!"

"No, sorry, I just got distracted thinking about something else," Max explains. "I got to dance again at PT today and It was kind of amazing."

"Wait, really?" Della asks, suddenly excited.

"Yeah!" Max says, turning over his shoulder where he's just finished opening the front door. "Roxanne got these ZeroG harnesses from a different hospital and it supports you while you move. It kind of feels like you're going to fall at first, but once you get the hang of it, I swear it feels like flying."

"That's amazing," Della says, sounding breathless. "There's nothing else in the whole wide world like that feeling y'know."

"Flying?" Max asks.

"Being able to do the thing you love most," Della answers, stepping into the open doorway behind him. "Don't let anyone or anything take that from you."

At half past eight, after enduring hours of his dads and cousins and aunt futzing over him, asking if he's okay, and trying to get a closer look at the bruising on his throat Max finally retreats back to his bedroom.

His dads and Della are still on the couch watching TV with the kids sprawled out on the floor in front of them. Each doing a separate activity, but all ultimately distracted.

Is it the best idea for him to crawl into bed and call Bradley right now? No. Can he stand another second of waiting to call? Also no.

So, he's willing to take the risk.

Max locks his bedroom door, busying himself with preparing anything he might need before crawling into bed. Lube from the bathroom. Kleenex from the floor beside his bed. He moves the waste basket three times at least. Stalling a little longer before the anticipation becomes too much to ignore.

He flips off the light and parks his chair beside the bed, placing his phone on his bedside table. Max grabs the LIFT?, hoisting himself onto the mattress. He takes his time getting comfortable. Pulling the blanket over his legs, adjusting and readjusting his simple bedclothes; a pair of blue boxer briefs and a soft white tank top.

When he's finally settled and picks up his phone, the time reads 8:35pm. He sighs heavily, rolling his eyes. So much for trying to buy himself more time. He was hoping it was closer to 9 so he wouldn't seem so desperate, but he's just going to have to seem desperate at this point.

There's nothing else for him to do and he definitely doesn't want to go back out into the shared living space. He's had enough of everyone fawning over him and asking every five seconds if he's okay.

That's done. Especially since there's only so many ways Max can politely tell someone to fuck off before he wants to rip his hair out. He almost told everyone the truth to get them off his back.

But he doesn't think anyone in his family would take kindly to the knowledge he willingly let someone fuck him so hard his throat bled. Or that he enjoyed the feeling of someone choking him until their fingertips left bruises on his throat.

He thinks,

maybe,

that people expect more of him than that

to be so willfully degraded

wouldn't be 'like him'

a deviation from the image

crafted for him over the years

of someone strong,

unshakable.

A thing that neither bends nor breaks.

a pillar of unfaltering sanctity

sacred, inviolable, sacrosanct.

When,

reality is always so much stranger than fiction.

He is a monument to sin,

an obelisk of blasphemy.

Wayward and crooked,

supplicating his own suffering

for

a single ounce of pleasure

he is willingly and

joyously

complicit in his

fall

from grace.

He wouldn't have lasted a single day in the Garden of Eden.

Not when he knows this apple tastes so sweet.

Max picks up his phone, putting his wireless earbuds into his ears, and dials the number to Bradley's office.

"Thank you for calling the offices of Dr. Len, Dr. Aldebaun, Dr. Chakwas, and Dr. Uppercrust, at this time our practice is currently closed. If you are experiencing a medical emergency please hang up and dial nine-one-one," The automated voice says, droning on and on about business hours while Max listens, heart hammering in his chest with anticipation.

"If you know your party's extension—"

Max doesn't even wait for the machine to finish the sentence before he's punching in the number Bradley gave him so hard his fingernails clack against the screen.

It rings

Max's breath catches in his throat, anticipation spreading over his skin. Goosebumps rising on his flesh.

once

He taps his free hand nervously against his leg, pins and needles sparking like downed power lines beneath his fingertips.

twice

He exhales, body shuddering. Anxiety builds in his gut, stomach aching. Twisting itself into knots.

thrice

Max is pleading now. Thoughts whispering please, please, please, please in his head. He wants this he needs it.

quarce

And it feels like he's running out of time. Like maybe he isn't good enough. Maybe letting Bradley take what he wanted, use him was—

The line crackles to life and Max feels all of the tension in his body break. His muscles relax, his hand stills, a relieved sigh escapes his lungs.

"Calling it an early night?" Bradley drawls in lieu of saying hello.

Max's heart practically melts in his chest at the sound of his voice, gently setting the phone to the side. Letting it rest on his bed next to his hip.

"Yeah, well," Max rasps, "I've had a pretty exhausting day."

"Sounds like it," Bradley answers. Max can practically hear his smarmy smile in his tone.

"Physical therapy can be pretty exhausting, Roxanne is pretty tough," Max smirks.

"Dr. Rover?" Bradley asks, voice tense. "I'd hardly say she's tough."

"Oh, yeah?" Max asks. "She's pretty tough on me. I get plenty sore with every session."

"I thought some time to sit with your thoughts would've taught you a lesson about being so mouthy," Bradley snaps, irritated. "Here I thought you were going to be a good boy for me."

"Well, I never promised to be good, did I?" Max goads.

Bradley hums, sucking his teeth in irritation.

"Tell me, Maximilian," Bradley begins, voice going low, authoritative. "Have you already touched yourself?"

"No," Max whispers, a shiver of anticipation zipping down his spine.

"Oh, good," Bradley purrs, "Because I think since you're so intent on being a naughty thing, I should make you suffer a little more. Wait a little longer. Shouldn't I?"

And it's like Bradley's words flip a switch in his brain.

Lips parting and begging, "Please," before he can think of anything else.

"Begging won't work on me," Bradley hums, sounding bored.

"It has before," Max reminds him.

"Getting cheeky again, are we?" Bradley asks. A dangerous edge to his voice. "Just because I'm not there doesn't mean I can't still punish you, Max. I don't have to stay on the line and listen to you touch yourself. I can think of a hundred things more interesting I'd rather be doing than this, actually."

"Yet you picked up the phone." It's a risk, he knows, but it's a risk he has to take. "I think you like it when I push back. When I'm a bit bratty."

"Oh?" Bradley asks, amusement evident in his tone.

"You don't strike me as someone who likes easy," Max chuckles. "You like a bit of a challenge, don't you, baby?"

"And you're the authority on what I like now, are you?"

"I'm your fantasy, aren't I?" Max whispers, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. "The epitome of everything you want to fuck. You had to have known before this how mouthy I am, right? Or did you imagine me in other ways?"

"I watched your videos on mute," Bradley answers. "No use hearing you mouth off when all I wanted was a quick, obedient fuck."

"Is that right?" Max asks. "Do you want me to be quiet now? Let you tell me exactly what to do while I do it?"

"How will I know you're doing it if you're silent?"

"I can moan for you, baby, if that's what you want. Someone obedient to work your fantasies out on. I can be your little fuck doll."

Bradley's breath hitches, a long, low moan escaping his lips.

"I want you to talk to me," Bradley says. "I like how raspy your voice sounds. Like someone fucked you so good you can't talk."

"Oh, Bradley," Max says, saccharine. "The fact that I can still form words already means that I've had better."

"You're such a nasty little thing, aren't you?" Bradley drawls, amused. "One second you're so willing to be my obedient little fuck doll and now you're telling me I don't fuck you well enough?" He scoffs and Max can practically hear his eyes rolling. "You think you can do better?"

"Absolutely, I can," Max admits, no hesitation.

Bradley hums.

"Then tell me, Maximilian," Bradley says, voice low and sultry in a way that sends shivers down Max's spine. "What would you do to me if I were there in your bed and willing?"

Max's eyes flutter closed, breath shuddering as he exhales. His spine feels molten, cock so hard it's throbbing.

"You have the type of body that deserves to be worshiped," Max begins, stomach somersaulting when he hears Bradley's breath catch. "I'd lay you down and worship at the altar of your divine. Touch you soft and sweetly because I don't think anyone ever has. All you know is hurt, but I want to show you a sweeter kind of torture, Bradley. I want to take my time with you. Touch every inch of your skin with my fingertips until you're shaking with want beneath me. Until you're begging for me to turn you over and fuck you. Because gentleness can be just as sharp a knife as pain if you use it right."

"Is that what you want?" Bradley whispers, voice trembling. Breath heavy. "For me to touch you sweetly?"

"This isn't about me, Bradley. This is about you. What I would do to give you pleasure."

Bradley moans through the line and Max grimaces when he feels his cock jump in response. He's so hard it almost hurts. Just at the thought of stroking Bradley's smooth skin with his fingers.

"What else, then?" Bradley asks, breathless.

"Are you touching yourself?" Max queries, grinning at the thought.

"Consider it your punishment for being such a brat earlier," Bradley says, static coming through the line as he presumably resituates.

"Sounds more like a reward to me," Max chuckles. "Getting to hear your pretty moans while I tell you in detail all the dirty things I wanna do to you? Hardly a punishment."

"Is it painful how hard you are right now?" Bradley asks, tone cutting and cool like steel. "Bet you're throbbing. Bet you can feel the quickness of your pulse jumping in your skin. Begging to be touched. I bet you're almost wild for it. Do you remember what my hands felt like on you earlier, baby?" He spits the pet name like it's poison and Max hates the way his cock throbs with want. "How I wrapped my hand around your pretty cock and stroked you slow. Until you told me to stop. I would've let you come then. You're a fucking idiot for not taking mercy when it was offered to you."

"Then I wouldn't have you on the phone breathing sweet things into my ear, would I?" Max hums. "Wouldn't get to hear how hot you sound when you lose your edge. I know what you want, princess. I know how you want me to fuck you. You can tell me all you want how your fantasies involved pinning me down and hurting me, sinking your teeth into my skin until I bleed. You can whisper your cruel words in my ear while you fuck my throat out. But I know what you are. You're a needy little slut who wants me to open you up with my tongue and fuck you sweetly with your legs over my shoulders until you come all over my chest. You want someone who sees you, Bradley. Someone who who will look down at you with unbridled adoration while you come apart."

Silence, Bradley's words cease. Punctuated by heavy breath and the crackle static then a gentle, distant sob.

"Are you gonna come for me, baby?" Max asks, his voice is gentle, indulgent. "Bet you looks so pretty right now. Pink lips parted around my name. Hand moving faster, chasing your orgasm. God, what I wouldn't give to see you. Are you close?"

"Yes," Bradley gasps.

"Bet you're gonna come any second. So hard you see stars."

"Yes," Bradley whimpers, keening, "Yes, Max, yes."

"Hey, Bradley?" Max asks.

"Hm?"

"Stop."

Bradley makes a strangled sound. Static coming over the line followed by a thump as the phone drops from his grasp.

"What the fuck, Goof," Bradley hisses. His voice sounds far away and Max cannot help the sinister little giggle that worms its way free at the sound of his struggle.

"Good boy," Max sing-songs.

"You're evil," Bradley pants. "You're a fucking—"

"Hey, baby, shh," Max whispers, trying to calm Bradley down.

"I was so close," Bradley growls.

"Hey. Shh. It's alright. I just want you to come with me, okay?" Max says, tone simpering. "And you haven't given me permission to touch myself yet."

"That's not how this goes," Bradley snaps.

"Please, princess?" Max begs. "Wanna make you feel so good."

"Then make me feel good. Your pleasure doesn't matter here. Me getting off has nothing to do with you."

"Doesn't it?" Max asks. "Won't it make your orgasm so much sweeter to know I got off with you? Wanna come inside your pretty ass until you're leaking."

"Fuck," Bradley hisses.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Touch yourself then," Bradley snaps.

"Doesn't sound like you want me to, Brad."

"What, do you want me to beg?"

Max smirks, pulling his boxers down to sit just below his balls. Easing his cock free from the uncomfortably moist fabric.

"If you feel so inclined as to beg I wouldn't be opposed to it."

"Go fuck yourself."

"That doesn't sound like begging, sweetheart."

"Your nicknames are disgusting and I don't have to sit here and take this."

"Oh, Bradley," Max chuckles, leaning over to his bed side table and squeezing lube over his fingers. "If you don't want to get off with me, all you have to do is hang up. I won't be offended if you don't want to hear me moan your name. I already have permission."

"And if I rescind my permission?"

"I might not have it in me to obey."

"Tell me what it feels like."

"Like I'm so hard I can barely concentrate. All I can think about is gripping your thigh and putting your leg over my shoulder so I can slide inside of you. The way you'd sigh, still trying to be so prim and proper. A pretty picture beneath me at the start until I fuck it out of you."

"Go on then, pretty boy," Bradley drawls. "Fuck it out of me."

"Touch yourself," Max breathes, wrapping his lubed up hand around his cock. "Go slow for me. Want you to savor it."

"What if I want you to fuck me faster?" Bradley asks. "All this teasing and you still want to fuck me slow?"

"You're so pretty, baby, I don't wanna mess you up just yet. Wanna watch that gorgeous face of yours. See your pretty pink lips part. Moan for me. C'mon, Bradley. Let me hear the sounds you make."

Bradley moans. Smooth and alluring.

Max's cock twitches in his hand and he can almost feel the squeeze of Bradley around him. Buried deep in the warm heat of his body.

"Are you gonna fuck me faster now, Max?" Bradley asks, voice strained. "Wanna come on your smooth skin. Wanna lick it off you."

"Oh my God," Max gasps, losing his rhythm. His gentle, slow strokes becoming more frenzied.

"Yeah, you like that don't you?" Bradley chuckles. "My tongue on your body. Debasing myself to lick you clean. You want me to be a simpering little thing, hm? Take your gentle torture and accept your cock like a good bottom."

"Will you?" Max asks, pulse ringing in his ears as he gets closer to release. The slick wet sound of lube squelching with each stroke of his hand. "Please? I want to come inside you. I'm so close, Bradley, please."

"Listen to you begging for it," Bradley laughs. "Even in your fantasies I'm in control. You say I need someone to see me? Fuck me like the pretty dream you paint me out to be. That's hilarious, Max. You and I both know I'm a nightmare."

"Please," Max gasps, half out of his mind.

"Please."

Thumb pressing to the head of his cock. He's so turned on he's practically leaking precum.

"Baby, please." He wants to cum, he needs—

"Stop," Bradley commands and Max has to cover his mouth to muffle the frustrated scream emanating from somewhere deep in his chest.

His whole body aches. Throat raw again from screaming. Angry tears burn in his eyes as he trembles with rage.

"Bradley," he gasps out when he finally gets his emotions under control enough not to yell.

"Oh, I'm sorry, lover," Bradley practically giggles. "Were you close?"

Max takes a shuddering breath. Tears slipping free from his lash line.

"Bradley," he practically sobs, whimpering.

"Are you crying?" Bradley asks, tittering. "Have I pushed you to your limit?"

"Please," Max begs and he sounds so broken it makes his heart ache.

"Wish I could taste your tears," Bradley sighs, "Don't think I didn't notice how you cried for me today. When I fucked your throat raw. What a pretty little ruin you make."

Max's breath is ragged, fingers digging into his thighs as he tries to hold on. To listen to Bradley's words without touching himself. He rolls his hips, oversensitive cock bobbing in the heated air of his bedroom. Even something so simple as air moving over the surface of his skin makes him feel like he's coming undone.

"Do you have a toy?" Bradley asks. "Something you can insert? I want you to come with something inside you so you'll remember your place. The next time you try to tell me I'm the one who wants to be fucked. I want you to remember that feeling. You're my fuck doll, Maximilian. Not the other way around."

"Fingers," Max responds, down to one word answers as he tries to reckon with the pain of his arousal. Fuck it might actually hurt worse than his first erection after impotence.

"That's all?" Bradley scoffs. "I'll have to get you something better, but fingers will do for now."

Max shudders, moaning at the prospect of Bradley using a toy on him. Of buying him something for a future encounter.

"See?" Bradley teases, "Already moaning at the thought of me putting something inside of you. Sounds to me like you're the one with the desire to be fucked. And not sweetly. You want me to hurt you, Maximilian and I am willing to provide."

"Please."

"Can you get on your knees for me or is that too difficult?"

Max pants out a shaky breath as he resituates. Using his lift to pull himself onto his knees.

"So eager," Bradley muses. "Are you on your knees for me now?"

"Yes."

"Put your pillow between your legs."

Max does this without question. Twisting around so quickly pain zips down his spine and his breath catches. He blinks his eyes shut, hating the wet feeling of tears still stuck to his eyelashes.

He takes a deep breath to stave off the pain and shoves his pillow between his thighs. Wincing when the cool fabric of his satin pillow case brushes the underside of his dick.

"Still with me?" Bradley asks.

"Yes."

"And is your pillow between your legs?"

"Yes."

Bradley chuckles, low and breathy.

"I should edge you more often, baby. You're so obedient right now. Bet all you want is to come."

Max's heart beats uncomfortably in his chest. Throbbing in time with the painful pulse of his cock.

"Please," he gasps, words still failing him. All his thoughts focused solely on Bradley's commands. Anything to get him closer to finishing. So he doesn't have to feel this ache.

"God, I love it when you're obedient," Bradley moans, making Max's toes curl. "My good boy."

Max swallows hard, letting the sultry, lustful praise bathe his skin in goosebumps. Pulse throbbing in his cock.

"Now I want you to open yourself up. When you come I want at least three fingers inside you, do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Start with one," Bradley commands.

Max sighs, eyes fluttering closed. He traces his hand over his hip and down his back. Fingers settling in the cleft of his ass. They're still sticky and wet from the lube he used to jerk himself off.

Gently, he presses the first finger in. He doesn't bother with massaging himself open or trying to go slow. He's too far gone for that.

The angle is a little awkward, forcing Max's back to bow a little and he leans back, bearing down on his finger as he pushes it deeper.

"One," Max whispers when he slips it inside completely.

"Spread your legs until your balls touch your pillow," Bradley says. "Can they go that wide? Or is that too much of a stretch for you."

Max scoffs at the condescension in his tone. He used to spread his legs much wider than this.

"Oh is your bratty side returning?" Bradley asks following Max's scoff, "Do I need to go back to edging you until you cry again?"

Max grimaces at his tone. Nose wrinkling in irritation.

"No," Max answers, keeping it to the one word answers in a breathy tone like Bradley seems to like.

"Good boy," Bradley praises. "Second finger."

Max pulls his first finger all the way out, slipping the second one in beside it. It's a bit of a stretch, but he opens easily. His balls drag along the fabric of his pillowcase as he pumps his fingers in and out.

"Feels good," Max drawls, voice slow and syrupy.

"I want you to use your other hand to drag your pillow up until its touching your cock. Want you to fuck yourself against it."

Max moans, back arching more as his hips stutter out a broken rhythm. Thoughts drifting as he becomes a live wire of sensation.

"Want you to think about riding me," Bradley tells him and distantly Max thinks he can hear the wet squelch of Bradley's hand moving against his own cock.

It sends shivers down his spine.

"Yeah, just like that," Bradley moans. "Fuck me like you mean it, baby."

"Please," Max begs, cock leaking on his pillow. Leaving wet marks, stark against the satin. "Bradley, please."

"Love it when you beg for me," Bradley says, breathless. Soft, needy noises escaping his throat as he touches himself. "Tell me what you're begging for. Maybe I'll give it to you."

Max sobs, fingers curling inside of him. His cock twitches, the touch of his pillow almost too much to bear.

"Let me cum, Bradley, please. Let me cum. I've been so good. Please, please."

"Listen to you," Bradley chuckles. Voice pitching higher, breathier and Max can almost see him in his mind's eye. Breathless and panting, sweat beading on his forehead. The way it always does when he gets close. "How badly do you want it? Tell me."

"I want it so bad," Max whines, dignity slipping away as he gives in to Bradley's control. "So bad. So bad. Please, I. I can't keep—" his rhythm falters, so close it's almost painful. He clenches around his fingers, keening and trying to keep himself under control. "Please, Bradley. Please. Oh God, please."

"Third finger," Bradley gasps and Max almost loses his load at the words alone.

He pulls his first two fingers out and practically slams the third back in with them. It stings a little, but it's nothing compared to the ache in his entire body. The desire to cum so intense he swears he can feel it in the depths of his soul.

"Tell me, tell me, tell me, please," Max gasps, completely out of his mind. His pulse is throbbing, blood hot like fire beneath his skin. "Tell me. Tell me. Tell me."

"You want it bad, huh?" Bradley asks, voice strained.

"Bradley, Bradley," Max pants. His throat feels raw and distantly he's aware he's being far too loud for the shared house he lives in. He'll be embarrassed about it later, but for now every single thought in his stupid, simple head is just, "Bradley."

"Wanna cum inside you, Max," Bradley moans. "Let me cum inside you?"

"Yes," Max gasps, dropping the pillow down to his bed and spreading his legs wider. Fucking it like a man possessed, fingers pumping in and out of him. "Yes, yes, yes. Please, please. Bradley. Please. Fill me up. Please. I want it."

"Fuck. You sound like such a pretty slut for me right now, baby," Bradley drawls, laughing meanly. Max can hear the sticky sounds of Bradley's hand moving faster. "Want me to fill you up so bad. Bet you'd take every drop."

"Want it. Want all of it," Max echoes. Sobbing, "Please."

He's half bent over the bed at this point, thighs shaking and burning from the effort.

"Can't keep," he's panting, breath ragged, "can't keep going, please I. Oh, fuck. I—"

"Go ahead and cum for me, Max," Bradley whispers. "Love the way you clench around my cock. Love how tight your ass is."

Max comes so hard it's the glass breaking. Like reality shattering around him. He has to bite down on his forearm to muffle the guttural scream that threatens to dislodge his esophagus. Semen spills over his pillowcase, onto his sheets, some even going so far as to stain the blanket at the foot of his bed. Max watches, teeth buried deep in his skin to muffle his sounds, hips still rolling forward.

Over the phone Bradley gasps and sighs, almost insouciant, in direct opposition with Max's perfervidity.

And

even with the mess he's made,

Max doesn't feel done.

Hips still moving,

arm falling away from his mouth.

teeth marks in his skin.

so deep, blood bubbles to

the surface.

Oh, God.

chasing—

his (breath),

God.

"Fuck" he's gasping

"Fuck" a litany

"Fuck" unremitting,

incessant,

unrestrained.

He's still so hard. Cock throbbing, pulsing with his first orgasm.

Max hisses with pain and pleasure, his oversensitive cock aching as he redoubles his efforts. Chasing the second orgasm that's just there. Just beneath the surface of his skin.

"Fuck, Bradley, I'm—"

"A second one, really?" Bradley sounds like a mixture of surprise and delighted. "Good to see you still have some of that dancer stamina. I'll have to take it for a test drive. Go on and cum for me again, Goof. Wanna hear those pretty noises. Like someone's strangling the pleasure out of you."

Max whines, keening as he bunches up the pillow beneath him. Semen smearing across his skin, still wet from his first orgasm. He fucks into it harder, gripping the edge so tightly he swears he can feel it ripping.

He sounds like a bitch in heat, noises he's never made in his life escaping his lips. He prays to God that no one in the living room can hear him. Fucking his pillow like his life depends on it while his goddamn neurologist listens on the other line.

It's absurd when he thinks about it. Like the plot to some heavy-handed erotic novel.

"God, you sound like a whore," Bradley laughs. "Is this what you sound like when you don't have to be quiet for me? Like a needy little slut that needs to be choked?"

Max makes a punched-out sound, freeing his fingers from his ass as he collapses down onto his bed. Cock spasming, cum leaking between him and the pillow. Making his abdomen sticky and wet.

He presses his face hard into his mattress. Hands clenching into fists in the fabric of his sheets. He groans, gasping for air. Trying to get himself under control.

"Oh God, oh God," he gasps into his sheets. His whole body trembling, static pain shooting through his limbs. His fingers hurt from how hard he was gripping his pillow. He tries to flex them, wincing when they cramp and lock up.

He rolls into his side, pillow slipping from between his thighs and flopping to the bed. His stomach is practically drenched in cum and he winces. Max doesn't even want to know how disgusting his pillow is. He's not even sure turning it over is going to save it now.

"Still with me?" Bradley asks and Max rolls his eyes at the amusement in his tone.

"Yes," Max responds.

"Sounds like you were enjoying yourself."

"Don't let it go to your head," Max grumbles.

"A double orgasm? Oh, I'm definitely letting that go to my head. Got you so hot and bothered you came twice within a matter of minutes. With nothing but my words. Loved your desperate little noises. God, what I wouldn't give to hear you make those sounds while I'm inside of you."

"Sounds like you're the one still hot and bothered, Brad."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't shorten my name. It's Bradley. Not Brad."

"I think I'll call you whatever I like, actually. Since you seem so keen on calling me Maximilian. And slut. And whore."

"Don't forget brat," Bradley amends.

Max rolls his eyes.

"Whatever you say, Brad."

Bradley chuckles.

"It is, isn't it?"

And before Max can say anything else, Bradley whispers almost threateningly into the line, "See you again soon, Maximilian."

Before hanging up.

Max lays in his soiled bedclothes for a moment longer, heart rate quickening at the implication.

Soon, he thinks, terrified and delighted in equal measure. Soon.

Chapter Text

Max wakes to the sound of his phone ringing and he groans, cracking one of his eyes open, letting it adjust to the silvery glow of predawn as he groans again.

Who the fuck could be calling him this early?

He grabs his phone from the bedside table and barks "What?" into the receiver without checking the caller ID. Honestly, he doesn't care who it is. They need to learn some goddamn manners.

"Do you still know how to play the violin?" Bobby's irritating drawl carries through the line.

"Bobby, what the fuck," Max growls, irritated. "It's like five in the morning, why the fuck are you calling me about violin at this hour?"

"Do you know how to play or not?"

"Sure," Max says. "In theory. It's been a few years. Was a bit focused on dance and well, losing the ability to walk and everything."

"Cool, cool," Bobby says. "I need you to be in Nashville, like, yesterday."

Max blinks, sitting up in his bed and wincing at the ache in his spine from sitting up too quickly.

"What? Bobby, I can't just fucking come to Nashville. I'm disabled. I'm in a wheelchair if you remember. You had to literally carry me into the woods to smoke!"

"Don't let your disability define you, Maxie," Bobby encourages. "'Sides, people in wheelchairs travel all the time."

"Yeah, and their chairs get lost on the trip. I can't afford a new chair, Bobby."

"What if I can guarantee you a private flight?"

"Why do you need me there anyway? There's no other violinists anywhere in the entire Nashville area?"

"Not any I trust."

"What does that even mean, dude? You trust me? We've had like one conversation for ten minutes in the past five years. You haven't even heard me play. What if I suck? Like I said, it's been a few years."

"Semantics. It's like riding a bike."

"I don't even know if I can read music anymore."

"Doesn't matter."

"I don't have a violin, Bobby."

"We've got one here."

"Dude, no."

"Already booked your flight," Bobby says, "No use fighting it now."

"I could just go back to sleep and not get on the flight."

"I think you'll find that to be puhh-retty difficult," Bobby chuckles.

Max arches his eyebrow, lips pursing.

"What the fuck do you mean by that?" he asks. "What did you do?"

"I'll leave you to it," Bobby intones. "See you soon, Maxie."

It's the second time that phrase has been uttered to him in less than twenty-four hours. Except, it's much less sexy, far more threatening, and infinitely more annoying when Bobby says it.

"Wait," Max says, "What the f—"

The line goes dead, phone beeping annoyingly in his ear.

Max groans, lowering his phone and staring at the screen until Bobby's name disappears.

"If this motherfucking idiot really thinks I'm about to drop everything and go to Nashville he's dumber than I even remember."

Max tosses his phone down onto the mattress next to him and rolls away from it, throwing his blanket over his face and trying to get some more sleep.

It's not even ten minutes later when he hears his doorknob twist, catching on the lock.

"Max?" Della asks from the hallway, knocking lightly on his door. "Is there a reason your friend Bobby has called me eighteen times then sent me eight hundred dollars on Venmo to fly you to Nashville?"

Max flops on his back and groans loudly at the ceiling.

"He does know private flights cost more than that, right?"

Max pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not some taxi service," Della continues ranting in the hallway. "Planes are expensive. Tell him he needs to get me a plane to fly and add at least two grand to the eight hundred he's sent if he wants me to even consider going to the airport. How'd he even get my number anyway?"

"Because he's fucking insane, Della, I don't know."

"Why does he even need you in Nashville? It's five o'clock in the morning."

"I don't know."

"He just texted me a picture of a private plane at the Columbus airport."

Max groans again.

"For a little guy, he sure is pushy, huh?"

"You're not even five feet tall and you're calling Bobby little?" Max asks. "Funny."

"Shut the fuck up and get out of bed," Della laughs. "If I'm flying you to Nashville at this godforsaken hour we're getting Waffle House first."

"I told him I wasn't going," Max complains. "I don't even know why he wants me there or for how long. I have shit going on y'know?"

"You just saw Dr. Rover yesterday, you've got a few days before you have to go back. Why not go? You've been cooped up for a while now."

"Because I'm literally in a wheelchair and every single time I go outside it's like dealing with something akin to the seventh circle of hell?"

"Semantics. I'll go with you. It'll be like having a girl's trip."

"You and Bobby are exactly the same person, I swear to God."

"Being mean to me isn't going to get you out of this. I'll even wake Webby. See if she wants to go."

"Doesn't Webby have school?"

"It's mid-May, school ended like a week ago."

"Is that why it feels like they never leave now?"

"Pack a few changes of clothes."

"Della, no. I won't give in to Bobby's whims."

"I'm gonna wake everyone up. Impromptu family vacation on your little friend's dime."

"Della, oh my God."

"Chop, chop, Max! Time is money and I charge by the hour. I'm gonna exploit your friend for so much money."

"Hey! Kids! Max's friend is funding a trip for all of us to go to Nashville! The only catch is we have to leave in the next ten minutes and I have no idea how long we'll be gone for!"

Max buries his face in his hands.

"I fucking hate this family," he grumbles into his fingers.

Two hours later when Max and his cousins are still half-asleep despite the trip to Waffle House and he's watching them sink into the plush seats of their shockingly luxurious private plane, Max thinks maybe this trip won't be so bad.

Della helps him into his seat before she disappears into the cockpit to prepare for their flight. They stow his wheelchair in the cabin. He's surprised to find that as big as it feels when he's trying to maneuver around tight spaces, it easily fits tucked behind one of the seats.

The plane is already lively despite the general exhaustion shared between himself and his cousins. It doesn't feel quite like a full family vacation, considering his dads had to stay behind, their work schedules preventing them from taking a vacation, but he hopes they have a good time regardless.

He knows his dads will. Huge house without any kids or Della around? Max is sure they'll find plenty to get up to while they're gone.

"Why're we going to Nashville anyway?" Huey asks sleepily.

Max narrows his eyes, brows raising.

"You got on a plane without knowing why we're going?"

Huey blinks up at him and shrugs.

"When we lived with Uncle Scrooge we'd travel all the time. Going on a random trip with Mom feels like second nature, I guess?"

"Sure," Max says. As if that's a normal thing for his cousins to say.

"I kind of miss it. The adventures we took back in Duckburg. You can learn a lot more being immersed in cultures than you do reading about them in a book," Huey says, smiling fondly about the memory. "Lots to miss."

"You could always go back," Max says. "Live in Duckburg again."

Huey frowns, lips pursing.

"I'm barely sixteen, Max," he says, buckling his seat belt and getting more comfortable in his seat. "I'm essentially still just a kid. I want to be with my mom. Where she goes, I go."

"Take your seats, everyone," Della calls from the intercom. "There's one flight attendant on board. His name is Barry. Say hi Barry."

"Hi, Barry," the kids chorus.

A short balding man in a white button-up and black slacks waves back at them from the front of the plane.

"The flight is only gonna be about an hour and a half and we just had Waffle House, so we aren't doing any food service. Barry will be providing drinks like juice and water, no soda this early in the morning, and no coffee for any of the teenagers on board."

Huey and Louie both audibly groan at that.

"Max is allowed to have coffee, but only if he swears not to give Huey or Louie any."

Huey and Louie both send him death glares from their seats and Max rolls his eyes. Looks like he won't be drinking any coffee on this flight. Which works just as well. He's sure they have cafes in Nashville.

He can wait these suckers out.

"The weather is clear and the wind is on our side. Take off in less than ten."

Once Della has finished her spiel, Huey and Louie continue to glare at him as he fastens his seat belt and prepares himself for the flight. This is definitely the most luxurious flight experience he's ever had.

Being a backup dancer doesn't exactly buy private flights. Christina was of the more private jet fame, but they never really flew anywhere together. Not on her label anyway. They typically went their separate ways for tours.

Christina the pampered pop princess.

Max stuffed somewhere in economy if he could fly, but more than likely he'd end up on a bus.

"Is there anything I can get for you to drink before take off?" Barry asks.

Max shakes his head, feeling the weight of his cousin's annoyed glare.

"Alrighty, If you need anything once we're in the air just holler," Barry says, pointing to the call button above his seat.

"You'd think with a plane this small you wouldn't need a call button," Max remarks.

"People like to feel like they're in control when they're in a hunk of metal barreling through the sky at thousands of miles per hour, I suppose," Barry responds.

Max huffs out a laugh.

"Guess so. Thank you, Barry," he says.

"Anytime."

"You're not gonna get a coffee?" Louie asks.

"Just had coffee at Waffle House, I don't need to drink more."

"Your friend woke you up at five in the morning and you don't need more coffee?" Huey asks, skeptical.

"Figured I'd catch some sleep on the flight."

"We'll only be in the air for an hour," Louie says.

"Guess I better get started then," Max smirks, closing his eyes and settling down into his seat.

"Lame," Louie grumbles.

Max tries very hard to disguise his laugh as a cough, but from the irritated grumbling coming from his cousins, he doubts he did a very good job.

Max does fall asleep on the flight. It doesn't take much for him to go under. With a full stomach and a not insignificant amount of painkillers, he finds it's fairly easy to conk out anywhere.

He sort of wishes he had these pills back when he was still dancing. Would've helped a lot with the more colorful travel arrangements and accommodations he endured. Though, it probably would've pushed him across the line from casual user to addicted. So maybe it's best he didn't.

Max wakes to the sound of Della's voice coming over the intercom.

"Welcome to the city of Nashville," she drawls, "Often referred to as music city as it's been the central music hub of the US for decades. Not to be confused with New York or LA. Nashville is the home to some of the most prolific country singers of our time."

"Does she do that every flight?" Max asks, yawning and rubbing at his eyes.

"Yep," the triplets, Webby, and even Barry chorus together.

Max laughs, shaking his head.

"She likes facts about cities," Webby says, shrugging. "It's kind of her special interest. That and, well, planes."

"Please return to your seats, put your trays in their upright positions, and fasten your seat belts. We're going in for a landing."

Max straightens up in his seat, making sure his seat belt is secured across his hips.

Barry walks the beverage and snack cart back to the front of the plane, disappearing behind the curtain that leads to the cockpit.

Max's ears pop as they descend. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Landing is always the worst part of the flight for him. He hates the jolt of the plane when it hits the tarmac. It makes his bones rattle and his anxiety peak.

He braces himself.

Tires screeching, plane jolting,

slowing,

slowing to a stop and

Then,

they're in a whole new place.

Wheels up in Ohio.

Wheels down in Tennessee.

When he finally turns his phone back on he has ten missed calls from Bobby. He dials him back while he waits for the hydraulic lift to come get him off the plane.

"Are you here?" Bobby asks without even so much as a hello.

"Yes, I'm at the airport now. We just arrived."

"We?" Bobby asks.

"Yeah, it's me, Del, and my cousins."

"This isn't a vacation, dude. I genuinely need you to come to the studio and save my ass. What am I supposed to do with a bunch of teenagers?"

"Nothing," Max says. "Della is here. I'm pretty sure she's fully capable of taking care of her own children."

"I'm sending a car to the airport for you," Bobby says. "And you only, okay? Don't bring the kids. I don't need them running around the studio drawing attention. This situation is delicate."

Max purses his lips. Bobby sounds agitated. His usual cool and laid-back demeanor is gone. His tone clipped, annoyed.

"Is everything alright?" Max asks.

"No," Bobby hisses angrily into the receiver. "Everything is not alright. The fuck do you think I need you in Nashville for? A non-emergency? Christ, Max. Even you're not that dumb. The car is gonna be there in five minutes at arrivals. It can only idle for about ten before airport security gives them the boot. Please tell me you've already deboarded."

"Dude, it must be pretty bad if you're being this much of an asshole," Max bites.

"Have you deboarded or not?" Bobby says, choosing to ignore Max for the time being.

"I'm in a wheelchair on a private plane, Bobby. I have to wait for the hydrauli—"

"For the love of fucking God," Bobby snaps. "Can't somebody carry you off? You're not that heavy."

"The lift is gonna be here in a minute."

"Sure it is," Bobby deadpans. "Because everything at airports is always so punctual."

"Dude, maybe you should smoke a little. Chill or something."

"I'm working, Max."

"Yeah, I know. If you're this stressed out, though, might be worth the risk. You don't usually talk to me like this."

"You've never worked for me before."

"And I didn't want to now. So maybe you could be less of an ass since my aunt flew me out here as a favor to you."

"Cost me an arm and a leg to do it. Doesn't sound much like a favor."

"Wouldn't the label pay?"

Bobby laughs, harsh and biting.

"Not when I don't want them to know about it."

"Bobby, what did you do?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"Dude. Why am I here? It can't just be to play the violin. There has to be something more to it. If it were just the violin th—"

"Let's just say the person I'm working with is a fan. Okay? Told her I knew you. She wanted to meet you." Bobby says.

"Do you even need me to play?" Max asks. "Or are you just whoring me out to your client?"

"Isn't this how things work in LA?" Bobby asks. "Thought you'd be used to it."

"Dude, what the fuck?"

"Of course I need you to play, Max," Bobby snaps. "Last I checked prostitution is illegal."

"You said she wanted to meet me, the fuck am I supposed to think?"

"She does want to meet you."

"Then?" Max prompts, annoyed.

"I don't think this is that kind of visit, man. She's friends with Christina."

Max's jaw clenches. Blood going cold. He knows all of Christina's friends. There's no way this is a first meeting. He tries to wrack his brain for who among her friends would be recording in Nashville of all places.

It comes up empty.

"Who?"

"Car'll be there in two minutes. Don't keep me waiting."

"Bobby! Wait!"

"Buh-bye for now, Maxie," Bobby says and the line goes dead.

Max listens to the soft beep. Beep. Beep. Of the call ending, jaw clenching. He can feel an ice-pick headache forming just behind his right eye.

"Goddammit," he sighs, shoving his phone back in the pocket of his jeans. He rests his head in his hands.

Today is going to fucking suck.

Max barely makes it out of the terminal in time to meet his car. He doesn't even have time to say goodbye to Della or the kids by the time the hydraulic lift finally shows up to take him off the damn plane.

He wheels himself as quickly as he can through the airport toward arrivals. Anxiety builds in his gut with every minute that passes. Arms burning from the effort. He doesn't want to piss off Bobby any more than he apparently already has.

Max has no idea what that was about earlier. The snide comments. The rudeness. A far cry from the Bobby he knew back in high school and college.

But,

He'd be a fool to think he's the only one who's changed in all these years

After all,

The pinnacle of the human condition is that change is constant

And

Not always for the better.

"Maximilian Goof?" a gruff voice asks when he's finally reached the sidewalk outside of the terminal.

He's panting, arms and hands aching. Even his legs burn a little. Though he supposes that has more to do with humping his pillow into submission last night than wheeling at warp speed through the airport.

"Yeah," Max pants. He doesn't bother to correct the name. He can barely catch his breath as it is. Not to mention they don't have enough time for pleasantries. He needs to get out of his chair and into the back seat of the car as soon as possible. So they don't get screamed at by security for idling too long.

"Just in time," the man says, leading him toward a large van.

Max visibly relaxes at the sight of it. Especially when the ramp comes down.

"Thank God," he sighs, wheeling himself into the van and lining his chair up with the L-Track.

In a world not built for people like him, it's a wonderful feeling when he gets to experience something easy. Instead of having to conform to the 'normalcy' of society.

The driver secures his chair with straps before pulling up the ramp and closing the van door.

They ride in relative silence to the studio. The arborus outskirts of Nashville passing them by. Strip mall after strip mall as they drive toward the city.

"Been to Nashville before?" the driver asks him, making polite small talk as Max's anxiety grows.

"Once or twice," Max answers, "But not enough to build up a taste for it."

Max has no idea what Bobby has in store for him when he gets to the studio. His stomach twists, heart pumping twice as fast.

"What brings you here today?"

"Favor for a friend."

Max starts to shake his leg nervously. Wincing when nerve pain sparks, sending pins and needles up and down his thigh. He grips his knee, rubbing roughly to try and stave off some of the worst of the pain.

"Must be some friend," the driver says. "Tough to travel with wheelchairs these days."

Max laughs.

"That's an understatement," he says, teeth grit against another wave of sharp pain. He really needs another painkiller, but he left his carry-on with Della in his haste to get to the car.

He hopes Bobby has something and that he's willing to share.

Though Max isn't sure who needs it more. Bobby or him. Especially with his foul mood on the phone. He's only ever seen Bobby lose his temper a handful of times and none of them with that much biting sarcasm.

He must be in deep shit.

They ease off the highway and into Nashville proper. Stunted skyscrapers and nondescript brick buildings line the streets. People wander slowly down sidewalks to bus stops or disappear into apartment buildings.

"They call this music row," his driver says, van slowing as they turn onto a somewhat busy side street. Jaywalkers impede the flow of traffic as they hurry to their destinations. "Doesn't look like anything special, but the best places never do."

"Huh," Max says, gazing out the window at the lush trees and upscale apartment buildings. "Guess you're right."

They pull into the parking lot of a tiny wooden building. Easing into the single handicap parking space. The sign advertises law services, but the building looks too interesting to belong to a lawyer.

"Interesting place," his driver says.

"Never been here before?" Max asks.

"First time," the driver answers, turning off the van and sliding out of the driver's seat.

Max pulls out his phone and texts Bobby a quick Here.

To which he receives a, Fucking FINALLY

and before his driver can even slide open the door and let the ramp down, Bobby is practically slamming through the front doors of the strange building.

Both Max and the driver jerk in surprise, turning to stare at Bobby as he marches through the tiny parking lot with purpose.

"Should uh, probably get the straps, man," Max says, calling his driver's attention back to him. "He's in a mood."

"I can see that," the driver says, hastily freeing Max's wheels from the L-Track.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting?" Bobby asks, hands on his hips, glaring at Max over the driver's shoulder as he tries to pull the straps free.

He manages to drop them no less than four times during Bobby's tirade. Max winces and tries to lean over and help.

"For the love of God," Bobby complains.

"Dude, I had to fly here from Ohio, give me a break, it's only been a few hours. We left as soon as we could make it to the airport."

"You of all people should know a few hours can make or break shit in this business, Max."

"Bobby, I hear you. I get it. Let me get out of the van and I'll do whatever you need me to do, okay? Just let this poor guy finish releasing my chair from the L-Track and then you can yell at me. No use in yelling now."

Bobby sighs, running his fingers through his hair.

He looks agitated. Maybe a bit strung out. Different than he was barely a few weeks ago. But he waits, giving Max the space he needs to get out of the van.

"Thanks, man," he says to the driver once he's on the concrete. The blue paint of the handicap spot beneath his wheels.

"If you need another ride around Nashville, gimmie a call," he says, producing his card and placing it in Max's palm. "Have a good one."

With one last lingering look at Bobby, he pulls up the ramp and closes the door.

Max moves away from the van and toward Bobby, anxiety rising again the closer he gets.

In his past few years in Hollywood, he's used to the volatility of it. The way people, especially men, hurt because they can. Because nobody will stop them.

Max knows what it's like to be a caged bird.

A thing on display.

He just never thought he'd feel this way with Bobby.

Bobby's irritation practically radiates off of him as Max moves closer, closing the gap and waiting for him to start yelling again.

Behind him, he hears the slam of the van door, the ignition of the engine.

"Hurry up," Bobby says, voice tense. "Let's get inside."

"Okay," Max says, still a little tense. Still a little apprehensive.

"Don't look so scared, I'm not gonna yell at you again," Bobby says with a sigh. He rakes his fingers through his hair again and Max notices that his hands are shaking.

"Are you okay?" Max asks, pushing past him and toward the front doors of the studio.

"No," Bobby says with a laugh, "But it's nothing having you here won't fix."

Max arches an eyebrow, turning to glance at Bobby curiously over his shoulder. He wants to ask what Bobby means by that, but he gets his answer when the studio doors burst open a second time.

He turns his head, catching the smooth saunter of a familiar face. Long silky black hair, bright red lips, pale white skin, claw-like red fingernails.

Max's stomach sinks.

"Bobby, no," Max whispers, gazing up at him with wide eyes.

Bobby doesn't look at him. He keeps his gaze on the ground, jaw clenched.

If she's here that can only mean one thing.

"Maxie," she drawls, stopping just in front of his chair. She leans down, bracing herself on his armrests to meet his gaze. Her hair flows over her shoulders like water, brushing against his forearms. "It's been a long time."

Max averts his gaze so he isn't staring directly down her shirt.

"Ruby," Max responds curtly.

"Aw, don't be like that," Ruby purrs, reaching up to scratch her fingernails beneath his chin. "Heard you and Chris broke up. I just wanted to make sure I offered my condolences."

Max pulls his head back from her grasp.

"Chris never did like crippled guys," Ruby muses, straightening back up to her full height. She puts her hands on her hips and gazes down at him, eyes dancing with amusement.

"Is this all I'm here for?" Max asks, choosing to ignore Ruby in favor of addressing Bobby again. "To sit in the parking lot and—" he gestures vaguely between himself and Ruby, giving Bobby a pointed look.

"Oh, no," Ruby answers, moving languidly behind his chair and grabbing the handgrips, pushing him forward with such force, Max's stomach drops, hands gripping the armrests for dear life. "We'll need somewhere much more private for what I want to do with you."

Max gives Bobby one last horrified look before Ruby wheels him into the front doors of the studio.

Bobby still won't meet his gaze.

She pushes him quickly past reception, where Max very pointedly tries to get the attention of the bored-looking receptionist to no avail.

He feels so fucking uncomfortable right now.

"You're not really supposed to um," Max starts, clenching a little when Ruby pushes his chair violently over a hump in the floor. "Jesus Christ. You're not supposed to—"

"Relax, Maxie," Ruby says, veering a sharp left, that has Max leaning right so his chair won't topple, and pushing him into a narrow hallway.

A few onlookers turn to look, but their eyes pass over him after barely more than a cursory glance.

No questions

No comments

No concerns

Like it's just a normal everyday occurrence for Ruby Matoille to essentially kidnap someone in a wheelchair.

Though, knowing her

Maybe it is.

Max digs his fingernails into the armrests of his chair and tries to bear it. His back and legs ache from how tightly he's holding on. Pain reminiscent of his first nights in the hospital building up from the tension.

God,

he needs something for the pain.

Ruby finally comes to a stop just outside of a live room. From the plate glass door, he can already see someone inside. They're sitting at the piano and talking to someone in the booth.

"That's where you're gonna play," Ruby tells him. "We have studio time in a few hours. Missed our window earlier because it took you so long to arrive, but. Few hours hopefully won't throw us off too much. The album is already almost four months behind. It's impossible to find good musicians these days."

Max frowns, biting his tongue so he doesn't say something stupid. He doesn't know how deep Bobby is with her. Or how much he's going to have to do to pull him out of that hole.

Tentatively, Max reaches behind him, placing his palm over the back of Ruby's hand where it still rests on his handgrip.

"Do you have any painkillers?" Max asks when he feels her fingers twitch beneath his.

"I have some ibuprofen in m—"

"You know that's not what I meant," Max says, wrapping his hand around hers tighter.

"Still in pain, then?" Ruby asks, her hand moving from beneath his so she can wrap her arms around his shoulders. The cloying scent of her perfume filling his nostrils. "Your injury was almost ten months ago, wasn't it? Shouldn't they have switched you over to something milder by now? A nice gabapentin?"

She traces her hands down the front of his chest, turning her head to press her lips to his ear.

"You've always been so straight-laced, Maxie. What's go you so ready to be a bad boy now?"

Max grimaces, rolling his eyes. He was barely straight laced and she knows it.

"I left my pills in my carry-on since Bobby was so keen on rushing me out of the airport," Max says. "It's nothing my doctor wouldn't have prescribed me back home. Hardly a walk on the wild side."

Ruby hums, straightening up when she notices her touch isn't having the desired effect.

There's very little that seems to get Max hot and bothered these days and all things considered, Ruby didn't make the list before his accident. She definitely isn't making the list after.

"Where's your carry-on now?" Ruby asks.

"Probably touring downtown Nashville with my aunt," Max answers. He pointedly doesn't mention his cousins. He doesn't want Ruby to know they're here. Max has always been sort of private about his family. The ones he could be private about anyway.

His relationship with Christina was extremely public and most people sort of knew about his dad. But anything explicitly tying him to the Ducks or subsequently to the McDucks, Max tries hard to keep under wraps.

"Why isn't she here? I thought it was weird to see you arriving alone without any bags. Shouldn't you have someone with you at all times in this state?"

"I'm very capable of doing things on my own," Max says with a sigh.

"Except pain management, apparently," Ruby teases.

"Do you have pills or not?" Max asks.

"Maxie, you know pills were never my specialty," Ruby laughs. "Could probably score some if you're willing to play. I have to assume after your quick exile from Hollywood you're not exactly rolling in cash."

"I have enough cash for the street price," Max answers, turning over his shoulder to meet Ruby's gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, a smirk on her lips. "I'm not an idiot, Ruby. I know I'm already here to pay a debt. I won't sink deeper into that hole."

"Oh, I think you'll sink plenty deep, Max Goof," Ruby says, "Been awhile since you've been on the scene y'know. The price of oxy could've gone up."

"It didn't."

"Maybe I have a broker's fee."

"Cut the crap, Ruby. I know you have some on you. I don't feel like playing games."

"But I like playing games," Ruby simpers, tracing her fingernails along the side of his throat.

"You're nowhere near as cute as you think you are," Max says, grabbing Ruby's hand and pushing it away.

"Cute should be what you aim for," Ruby says, voice turning cold. "You wouldn't like me any other way. You want me to cut the crap? Fine. I have no qualms about walking away. You shouldn't be on painkillers this late into a psci. Whatever doctor you've got back home is doing you a disservice. Oxy is highly addictive."

"That's rich coming from you."

Ruby laughs.

"I'm not a doctor, Maxie. I'm not bound by the same code of ethics. First, do no harm? Bah. Sounds boring."

"Considering you're not a doctor, maybe you shouldn't be offering medical advice," Max says, gazing up at Ruby with a bored expression. "My doctor is still prescribing me pain meds. Let me buy some off you to hold me over until I can meet my aunt later on the way home."

"Home?" Ruby asks. "It's cute you think you're leaving to go home after being here less than a day."

"I can lay down a quick violin track in a few hours," Max says, hoping he remembers violin well enough to actually do that. "Bobby didn't say you'd need me for anything otherwise."

"Bobby has misled you, it seems," Ruby smirks, taking a step back when Max grabs his wheels to turn around and face her. "I need you for four tracks. And you won't be playing violin. At least not in violin style. I need someone who knows their way around a fiddle."

"I can't fucking play fiddle," Max balks. "I only learned violin and I was hardly great at it. It was just a way to make me seem more well-rounded and appealing. What the fuck?"

"Well, you've always been a quick study," Ruby shrugs. "I'm sure you can learn. Bobby has the sheet music."

Max rolls his eyes. As if sheet music is going to help here. He doesn't know how to play fiddle. He only knows classical, if that.

"You can just learn how to be technically good at something like this in a day, Ruby. It takes years to master shit like this. Why on earth did you have Bobby tell m—"

"I told him it was fiddle. Not violin. Anything he told you was most likely a lie to get you here, babe."

"This is going to be a fucking disaster," Max sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't have anywhere to stay. I—"

"I've got a room in one of the hotels nearby. I'd love to have you," Ruby drawls. "Only had one bed, though. Wonder what we'll get up to."

Max grits his teeth.

"I'll find somewhere," he says. "I have my aunt with me too. She'll need a place."

"The more the merrier. It's a pretty large bed."

Max only just swallows down the bile that rises in his throat.

"Do you have oxy or not?" Max asks, ignoring Ruby's goading. "I'd like to get rid of the stiffness and pain in my limbs before I try and teach myself how to play the fucking fiddle from a YouTube video in less than two hours."

"That's the spirit," Ruby says, twisting a little at her waist to dig a small baggy with two pills in it out of its confines.

"Only two?" Max asks, looking up from the baggy back at Ruby's face.

"I do want you somewhat lucid, Maxie," she says, pulling the baggy back before he can reach up to grab it. "Money first. I'll take forty for it."

"You'll take twenty," Max growls, leaning forward in his chair and pulling a crumbled twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet. "That's more than enough for two."

"You drive a hard bargain, Maxie," Ruby says with a put-out sigh, "I guess I can take twenty for it."

Max rolls his eyes.

"Don't act like this if breaking the bank for you, Ruby. Could've given them to me for free and still broke even."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Max grabs the baggy and examines the pills. They're round and off-white with m30 printed on the back. He narrows his eyes,

"What is this?" he asks.

"Oxy like you asked."

"Doesn't look like any oxy I've taken."

"I doubt any self-respecting doctor would've prescribed you thirties. As it stands, you're probably only going to want to take half a pill."

"Probably because thirties are the most counterfeited. Thought you said you wanted me lucid," Max says, looking up at her with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. "But you're willing to give me fentanyl? I don't have the tolerance for that."

"How do you know it's fent? Could be perfectly good oxy."

Max throws the baggy back at her, watching as it hits her waist and falls to the floor.

"I may have been out of LA for a while, but I'm not stupid. I know your games and I don't want to play. Give me weed for the twenty instead. Two joints should cover it. I won't even ask for my change."

Ruby scoffs.

"I'm not picking that up," she says, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to act haughty.

"Consider it shrinkage then," Max retorts.

"You were nicer in LA," Ruby says, bending down and grabbing the baggy. She stuffs it back in her purse.

"I was in less pain then," Max answers. "And you never tried to sell me laced drugs."

"Never bought from me," Ruby says, zipping up her purse and reaching into her bra, pulling out a joint. Max gives her a disgusted look. "Only got one joint on me, and this is it. Take it or leave it."

"Whatever," Max grouses, reaching for the joint and taking it, tucking it behind his ear. "You'll owe me one then."

"I'll take it off the debt you're paying for your friend."

"Lucky me," Max deadpans.

Max smokes the joint in the parking lot. Daring any of the passersby to say something to him. He knows in LA it's illegal to smoke a certain amount of feet away from a building, he doesn't know if it's the same law in Nashville. But he can guess from the dirty looks he keeps getting, that it must be.

He's sure there's probably somewhere more private. A designated smoking spot for the artists and musicians that come here, but he can't be bothered to find it. Not when his skin feels like it's practically vibrating with pain.

Max is at his limit.

And if he wants to be decent enough to work with, he'll need to choke down this whole joint before he even lays eyes on Bobby again.

Bastard knew what he was doing bringing him here. Dangling him in front of Ruby like a worm on a hook.

Max exhales, smoke billowing out of his lungs and into the open air.

He takes another hit, paper sizzling as it ignites. Smoke filling his mouth and escaping through his teeth as he inhales again, pulling it into his lungs.

He holds his breath before releasing. The headrush is fun. The dizzy feeling he gets from holding his breath just a little too long.

A couple passes him on the sidewalk, a man and a woman with their fingers laced together, both glancing over just as he exhales a cloud of smoke out into the air.

"You really shouldn't be doing that," the guy says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Weed's illegal here."

Max shrugs his shoulders, taking another hit and blowing out more smoke.

"'M dying, man," he says, making direct eye contact with the guy. "It's prescription."

"Oh, uh," he says, suddenly timid, and awkward.

Max watches in amusement as he stammers and his girlfriend or whatever she is gapes at him.

"I told you not to say anything," she whispers harshly, pulling her hand away from his to hit his arm. "He's obviously in a wheelchair. Leave the poor man alone."

Max chuckles, shaking his head and taking another drag.

People are so fucking gullible. They're willing to believe anything if you look pathetic enough.

When he finally wheels himself back inside, after struggling for almost five entire minutes to open the not-at-all-handicap-friendly door, he finds Bobby waiting for him at reception.

"We're ordering lunch," Bobby says in lieu of any of the things he's supposed to say in this stupid over-complicated situation. "You want?"

"No, thanks," Max says. Ignoring the hollow ache in his stomach. He's only consumed a meager plate of hash browns and two cups of black coffee. That was after Della's intense pleading eyes got him to at least order something at Waffle House.

"Y'sure? We're getting hot chicken," Bobby says.

"Forgive me if I don't have much of an appetite," Max says. He's still pissed off. The low-level high of whatever ditch weed Ruby sold him for his last twenty isn't doing the trick. It's nowhere near as potent as the shit he could get in LA.

Bobby sighs.

"Yeah I get it, man," he says like he's somehow commiserating and not the entire reason for Max being here. In this predicament.

With Ruby fucking Matoille.

"If you could get me a violin to practice on since I'm apparently supposed to be playing it fiddle style I'd appreciate it, though," Max says, words dripping with venom and sarcasm.

Bobby has the good sense to give him a somewhat apologetic look.

"Some warning would've been nice," Max says.

"If I had told you the truth you wouldn't have come," Bobby sighs.

"You don't know that," Max responds through clenched teeth. "I like to think I've been a pretty good friend to you. If you had just tol—"

"Can we not talk about this here?" Bobby asks, nodding to where the poor receptionist looks somehow both uncomfortable and put out. "Go wait in the musician's lobby. We'll talk later. After I finish ordering food for the team who has to stay later than anticipated since it took you so long to get here."

"I came from Ohio, Bobby," Max snaps.

"Yeah. I know," Bobby says, waving him off.

Max rolls his eyes.

He's been doing that a whole hell of a lot today.

"Where's the musician's lobby?" he asks instead of blowing up on Bobby right here in the fucking main lobby.

"Down that hall and to the left," Bobby says, pointing into one of the hallways that branches off behind reception. "Ruby's already in there. I'm sure she'll be happy to keep you company."

Max takes a deep, shuddering breath. Rage building beneath his skin.

"What the fuck is your problem dude?" Max asks, trying to keep his voice low, but from the way the receptionist jumps in surprise, he can tell he's failed.

Bobby turns to look at him slowly, eyebrows arching over his heart-shaped sunglasses.

"I told you we're not gonna talk about this here," he says, voice low and threatening. "Go. Wait. In. The. Lobby."

"Dude, no," Max says. "You seem to think this is fucking funny or-or that it's a fucking game or something—"

"I don't think it's funny," Bobby says, raising his voice whirling around on Max, causing a few of the people in the lobby behind him to gasp in surprise. "Go sit in the fucking waiting room and I will be right there to have this out with you. Stop fucking making a scene at my goddamn job, Max."

Max grits his teeth and grabs his wheels, pushing himself forward with such force it makes his hands burn. He storms angrily down the hallway, practically seething. His rage at Bobby reaching a fever pitch even before he opens the door the the musician's lounge to find Ruby sitting on one of the black leather couches waiting for him.

The room is empty except for her. Smug red-painted smile like a beacon against the monochromatic color scheme of the room. Her legs are crossed, short black skirt riding up over her thighs.

"Maximilian," she drawls, self-satisfied and cruel. "So nice of you to join me."

"Don't call me that," Max growls, exasperated. "I'm not in the mood."

"Well, you better get in the mood because I want to play." Ruby pats the space on the couch next to her. "Come, sit."

"I'm fine here," Max says, motioning to his wheelchair. "Sort of have my own thing going on if you haven't noticed. Built-in seating, and all that."

"Still in a sassy mood, hm?" Ruby asks, drumming her nails against the bare skin of her upper thigh. She pulls her skirt up just a little bit higher. "Would a massage help?"

Max gives her an unimpressed look.

"We're in public, Ruby," he says with an exasperated sigh. "Pull your skirt back down."

"So?" she asks, very pointedly not pulling her skirt back down over her thighs. "It's just a massage."

"It's never just anything with you," Max gripes. "I'm here to do a job y'know."

"You're here to pay a debt," Ruby corrects. "And I decide when that debt is paid."

"Wouldn't you providing a service to me be adding to that debt?"

"Who said this was for you?" Ruby asks, eyes raking over his body slow. "I've been wanting to get my hands on you for a while."

"I've noticed," Max deadpans. "You did always want everything Christina had."

Ruby rolls her eyes, fingernails drumming impatiently against her knee.

"You would think that," Ruby scoffs. "You and Chris always did have your heads so far up your own a—"

"Am I wrong?" Max interjects, cutting off Ruby's annoyed tirade.

"Chris doesn't have you anymore, does she?" Ruby asks. "She didn't fucking want you. I bet no one does now."

"Is this some sort of fetish thing?" Max asks. "Always wanted to bang a guy in a wheelchair?"

"Or," Max continues, cutting Ruby off the second she opens her mouth. "Is this a low self-esteem thing? Couldn't have me back before I was crippled, so you figure now that I'm desperate I might be willing to throw you one?"

"I liked you first," Ruby hisses, red lips dripping with venom. "Chris knew that. She pursued you anyway."

"I knew you liked me," Max answers. "You're not subtle, Ruby. I just didn't want you."

"You want me now," she says.

Max shakes his head.

"No," he answers. "I really don't. I'm here as a favor. I'm here as a plaything or a token or whatever the fuck. If you can live with yourself knowing I'm doing this to pay a debt, then whatever. So be it. I have a reputation back in LA of not being very fussy about who I fuck. What's one more?"

"I never said I wanted you to fuck me," Ruby says, voice uncharacteristically soft. "I'm not going force you to do anything you don't want to do, Max. Jesus."

Max laughs, sharp and barking.

"Fuck o—"

"Are you two playing nice?" Bobby interrupts, pushing open the doors to the musician lounge with a flourish.

Max's shoulders tense, teeth clenching. God, he almost forgot how pissed he is at Bobby.

"He could stand to play a little nicer," Ruby drawls, uncrossing her legs and pulling her skirt down to rest just above her knees.

Max sighs and shakes his head.

"I'd play nicer if I wasn't here against my will," he says, turning his chair around to address Bobby. "Please tell me you brought a violin for me to practice on."

Bobby holds up his empty hands.

"Asked for one, but it's gonna be a second. It's in the live room and they're actively recording. Gotta wait until they take a break."

Max sighs and rubs his temples.

"Sure, okay," he says. "Please tell me you have more weed because I don't think my blood pressure can handle this much stupidity without killing me."

"Aren't you on oxy?" Bobby asks.

"I left it with my aunt because I was in such a rush to get here," Max seethes. "And whatever shit Ruby gave me somehow only made me more irritated."

"Marijuana isn't my usual fare," Ruby says flippantly. "I'm in LA more often than not. There's no point."

"Please tell me you still sell," Max says, massaging the hinges of his jaw as he tries to slow the onset of this migraine he feels building in his skull. "And that you have something at least half decent."

"I don't have anything on me, dude," Bobby says. "I prefer not to shit where I eat."

"You're ruining my life, Bobby," Max groans.

"Just call Della and tell her to bring your shit," Bobby says. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind dropping it off."

"I'd really rather not have my aunt here if you know what I mean," Max says, giving Bobby a pointed look.

"Why? Cause of your cousins? They don't have to come in."

"Dude shut up," Max sighs.

"What?" Ruby asks, "Scared I'll corrupt your poor little cousins?"

"No," Max says. "They're too smart for that. I just don't want them here. I don't want them anywhere near—" he gestures vaguely to Bobby and Ruby— "this."

"I've met your cousins a hundred times," Bobby says, "They'll be perfectly safe."

"Dude," Max sighs, shaking his head. "I'd rather suffer the pain than bring them here. I don't want them near this shit."

"They're not gonna start using drugs by osmosis," Ruby says. "You worry too much."

"I don't mean drugs. I mean this. Here. The industry. I won't take the chance. They're smart kids, they don't need to see the seedy underbelly of entertainment. I don't want them to know one of my oldest friends basically trafficked me."

Ruby laughs while Bobby has the gall to look offended.

"No one trafficked you, Max," Ruby chides. "It would be perfectly acceptable for you to walk away at any time. You don't even have to learn how to play the fiddle. I'm sure we could find someone. There are loads of street performers in downtown Nashville. Could be one of them."

"What happens to him if I go?" Max asks, nodding to Bobby. "If I walk right now, what're you gonna do to him? His career?"

"Do you really think that concerns you?" Ruby asks.

"Yes," Max says, throwing his hands up. "It definitely concerns me. Jesus Christ. You dragged me all the way out here to play your game. I'm playing. My aunt and my cousins aren't. Leave them out of it."

"We're just trying to make sure you get your pain pills, Maxie," Ruby drawls all fake concern and even faker empathy. "We want what's best for you."

"Then I'm fine," Max says. "You can rest assured. Let's move on."

"Don't sound fine," Ruby remarks, crossing her arms over her chest and very pointedly pushing up her cleavage. "You sound agitated."

Max bites his tongue, choking back his argumentative retort in favor of giving Ruby the most serene smile he can fake without an aneurysm.

"Is there a computer somewhere I can use? My phone is almost dead and I need to watch some videos on how to play the fiddle if you're gonna get anything out of me any time soon."

"Sure," Bobby says. "I've got my laptop upstairs in the management offices."

"I'm gonna go ahead and assume this building doesn't have elevators or an ADA lift," Max says, giving Bobby a look. "So maybe you should go upstairs and get your laptop? Bring it here so I can work?"

Bobby nods, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Max turns back to Ruby, trying to keep his face impassive, but he can't help the way disgust slithers down his spine like a snake.

"You're a good friend," she says.

"I'm not doing it for him," Max answers.

Ruby tilts her head to the side, gazing at Max with a curious expression.

"Then who are you doing it for?" she asks.

Max doesn't answer.

Max is struggling. His fingers ache from where they press into the steel strings. Harsher against his fingertips than the nylon-like ones he grew up playing for more classical fare.

His bow shrieks, squeaking and squealing as he tries to get back into the headspace to play. He hasn't touched the violin since before he was added full-time to Powerline's dancers.

He'd foolishly thought then that he wouldn't have to do this again. Set himself apart by showcasing his other talents. It's funny to think about now, how assured Max was in his identity as a dancer.

That's all gone now.

The only thing he has to fall back on is this.

Other talents he's let fall by the wayside. In favor of following a dream that betrayed him.

His fingers slip against the strings, biting into sensitive flesh. He hisses, wincing, and sucks his finger into his mouth, trying to soothe the pain with his tongue.

It isn't bleeding, but there's an indentation. A mark in his skin. Marring the softness of his fingertips from lack of playing. He'll need to build back up his calluses.

"You sound terrible," Ruby says when he draws his bow up again, dragging it over the strings as his fingers struggle find their chords.

"Yeah, well," Max says, shoulders tensing. "I'm not really here for my musical talent, am I?"

Ruby goes quiet, but he can hear the sound of her shifting on the couch behind him. Rising to her feet. Heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor.

Nervousness builds in his gut. Ears tuned to the sound of Ruby coming closer.

He lowers the violin.

Ruby puts her hand on his shoulder, gripping tight enough to make him wince.

"Wallowing again?" Ruby asks, leaning lower to whisper the next part in his ear. Breath hot against the side of his neck. "Is little Maxie sad one of his oldest friends sold him as a sex puppet to get his next heroin fix?"

Max clenches his jaw. Turning his head to meet Ruby's gaze.

"I've been sold to worse for less," he says, yanking his shoulder from her grasp. Moving away. "You don't fucking scare me."

In the end, relearning the violin isn't anything like riding a bike at all. Max's fingers ache, throbbing from how many times he's put them through their paces. His wrists and arms burn. Shoulder stinging.

His rhythm is still off. So is his pitch, but the rhythm is far more embarrassing. Considering it was his job for years to stay on beat. Now he can't even keep time in a children's song.

And

just like every single one of his

crowning achievements

he is once more boiled down to the sum of his parts

the pretty vision of his body

a tool to use

a thing to plunder

talent and hard work bygones

he is an object

to be bought and sold

to any bidder

infinite in his ability

to please

(everyone except

himself).

He will perform.

Complete the task he's been given.

There isn't any other way,

but

forward.

Sheet music sits in front of him. Off-white pages placed neatly in a music stand. Notes and notations he has no idea how to read staring back at him.

He's out of his depth.

Max is not a musician.

But,

he is a performer.

And, like every show,

he must go on.

Della calls him around dinner time.

And again closer to eight.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Just like his times in the live room. Recording and recording and recording until his hands are numb and his fingers raw.

He has seventeen missed calls and fingertips that look like minced meat.

Blood smears across his phone screen as he tries to unlock it. Fingerprint sensor blinking angrily until he gives up and quickly types his code.

Max is exhausted. He feels like he's falling apart. Like any second his body is going to unravel. Blood and tissue and nerves melting into unidentifiable goop.

He wipes his hand on the front of his shirt, ignoring the bright red stains it leaves behind on the white fabric.

Then, he dials.

Della picks up on the first ring.

"Max?" She asks, sounding both frantic and annoyed. "It's almost ten, where are you?"

"I got caught up," Max says. His voice is soft, empty. Devoid of emotion. He's so fucking exhausted.

"You sound like hell. Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine," Max is quick to reassure. "Just tired. Today was a bit draining and I'm not sure I can leave yet. They need me to stay."

"You have PT tomorrow," Della reminds him. "Will we be able to be back in time?"

Max turns his hand over, staring down at the state of his fingers. At the troubling way his wrist shakes.

"I'll have to cancel," he says.

"Max, I'm not sure that's a good id—"

"I can reschedule for later in the week. I'm sure Roxanne has a few openings," Max interrupts. "I'll be alright, Aunt Della."

"You just seemed so out of it last session, Max, I don't want you to get discouraged."

"I'm not. I promise," Max says, ignoring the sick feeling in his gut when he remembers exactly why he'd been so out of it last session. How it had nothing to do with the exercise.

"The kids and I got a room at one of the local hotels," Della says. "I'll text you the details. Any idea when you'll be done for the night?"

"I hope soon," Max answers, but he honestly has no idea. His hand is bleeding, but he wouldn't put it past Ruby to work him through it. He wouldn't put it past her to insist he come back to her hotel either. Max wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't see Della or the kids for the rest of this fucking trip. "I'm exhausted. I just wanna crash."

"Have you eaten dinner?"

"Yeah, Bobby bought for the whole crew since we're working late."

"What'd you eat?" Della asks and Max can tell by her cautious tone what she's really asking.

"Nothing special, just a burger," Max lies. "Nothing to write home about."

"Where'd he order from?"

Max laughs, trying to keep his tone light.

"Fuck if I know," he says. "I didn't ask."

"You didn't look at a menu?"

"I was distracted laying down music tracks," Max defends. "Next time I'll be sure to get the name of the place. But like I said, it wasn't special. Just something to eat."

In the years he's been doing this. Max has gotten good at lying. About pain, about food, about his mental state. He doesn't even think twice about it. Even while his stomach growls and his hands shake and his fucking fingers bleed.

He'll still always find ways to hurt himself deeper.

The same way he'll always figure out how to deny he's doing it.

"Max we're waiting for you," Ruby says, peaking her head into the musician lounge. "Who are you on the phone with at this hour?"

"Hold on a sec, Del," Max says, lowering the phone from his ear and placing it on mute. "I'm on the phone with my aunt. I've got like twenty missed calls from her because someone didn't tell me my phone was ringing off the hook."

Ruby rolls her eyes.

"Didn't want to distract you from sucking," she snaps.

"I told you I didn't know how to play the fiddle."

"And you still don't."

"It isn't just something you pick up in a day," Max gripes. "Fiddle takes time and finesse I don't have. I can barely piece together how to play the violin right now and I took lessons for, like, a decade."

"Well, you better figure it out. Or I can make your little friend's life a living hell. This album is his first producer credit. Would hate to see it absolutely tank because of you."

Max snorts.

"Trust me when I say my shit playing won't be the reason for your garbage country album tanking. They probably saddled Bobby with this because he's a no-name or maybe he's getting in the way of a different, more affluent producer. I don't know, but I do know he must've pissed someone off if he's being forced to work with you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Ruby growls.

"It means you're a fucking hack," Max snaps. "God, when are you going to learn that you're not talented. People just don't want to stand up to you because of who your father is. Fucking two-bit nepo baby."

Ruby laughs. High-pitched and airy.

"And you're better?" She hisses, words dripping from her lips like venom. "Grand nephew of Scrooge McDuck?"

"Uncle Scrooge had nothing to do with my fame and you know it. I barely fucking know the man."

"Whatever," Ruby spits. "You're still just a pretty boy dancer who only got as far as he did by fucking the ladder the rest of us have to climb."

The knife she twists should hurt. Max knows who he is. What he's done.

It should hurt to be reminded, but it doesn't.

It never really does.

"An aspect of my personality you're benefiting from," Max reminds her, tone even, voice quiet. "And, might I add, something I don't benefit from whatsoever. I'm the pawn in this little game between you and Bobby. Something to remember the next time you want to accuse me of being a whore."

Ruby's nostrils flare. Her jaw clenches.

"Come back and play," she commands, pushing the door to the lounge open and waiting.

Max holds up his hand, letting Ruby see the smear of blood across his fingertips.

"I don't think I have any more in me tonight," he says.

Ruby stares at his bloodied hand. Unmoved.

"Wash the fucking blood off your hands and keep playing," she says.

"Wounds are just gonna open again," Max sighs. "I don't really want to bleed on the only fiddle you have. Isn't fair to the other musicians that have to play it after me."

"I'm sure dozens of people have bled on that thing," Ruby tells him.

"I don't want to be one of them," Max gripes sourly. "I'm tired, Ruby. I need to sleep."

"You're weaker than I remember," she says, twisting her shitty little knife deeper.

Max nods, ignoring the way her stupid acidic words eat away at him.

Sticks and stones and all that.

"Funny how getting your spine cracked in half will do that to you," he snaps, giving Ruby an unimpressed look. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I'm on the fucking phone."

In the shock of the century, Ruby doesn't insist Max go with her to her hotel. Ending their session is a relatively quiet and somewhat somber experience.

Everyone is exhausted. Borderline irritated. Maybe even a bit murderous.

They all need a break from each other.

"You got a place to stay, man?" Bobby asks when they're back in the parking lot and Max is weighing the pros and cons of calling an Uber and having to rely on them to help him in and out of their vehicle.

He winces at the thought.

Maybe public transit would be better.

"Yeah, Della and the kids already have a bed with my name on it."

"Do you need a ride?" he asks. Soft. Tentative. Wringing his hands nervously.

"You got a car?" Max asks.

Bobby nods.

"Down the street a ways," he says, pointing to the left and into the eerie darkness of the night. "Old Nissan Sentra from pretty much the dark ages, but it runs. Gets me between New York and Tennessee just fine."

"What happened to your old VW van?"

Bobby laughs.

"Thing crapped out on me years ago, dude. It was barely running when we were in college. Didn't make it much longer outside of that. Comparatively, the Sentra is pretty cramped, but I'm sure I could fit your chair in the back seat if it folds."

Max hesitates.

Remembering all the ways today has been just, genuinely awful because of how Bobby blatantly lied to him. He presses the tips of his ruined fingers against his thigh. Feeling the way they throb and sting with pain.

Max should be angry. He should be furious.

"It folds," he says, meeting Bobby's gaze, giving him another chance. A chance he might not even deserve. "Lead the way."

"Oh!" Bobby says, immediately spurring into action, leading Max down the dimly lit sidewalk. "Yeah. Sure. Okay."

"You seem surprised," Max says, pushing himself forward, wincing when his injured hand throbs from the effort. It was one thing to push himself around on the even ground of the studio, it's a whole other to bear the slight incline of the street.

"Wasn't sure you'd want to be around me, man. Not after, well," Bobby starts, laughing nervously. He glances back at Max over his shoulder, gaze immediately catching on Max's hand and the strange way he's pushing his wheel. "Do you need some help?"

Max grits his teeth. He doesn't want someone to push him around so soon after Ruby basically abducted him this afternoon. But depending on how far Bobby's car is, he might have to suffer the indignity.

"How far is the Sentra?" he asks.

"Probably about a half a mile," Bobby admits, sheepish.

"Fucking Christ," Max hisses. "I'm gonna need you to push me."

Neither of them speak as they glide under the street lights, oft getting caught in the shadows in between. Darkness spilling into the streets like ink. Swallowing up any conversation they may have had.

It's eerie. Walking at night in an unfamiliar location. No comforting landmarks. No places to escape to if you turn a corner and find something sinister waiting.

They listen to the sounds of the night. The whisper of wind through the trees. The loud rhythmic song of cicadas. The distant sound of cars driving toward their destinations.

Max keeps expecting to feel angry. Embarrassed. Pissed off. Something.

But all he feels is sadness.

A deep, visceral feeling of despair at the knowledge of what Bobby must be going through to bring him here.

To embroil him in this mess.

It sucks for him. It hurts. He should be enraged.

But he's known Bobby for a long time.

Knows how good he is. How kind.

Max has seen the gentleness of him. Knows all the ways he tries to take care of people.

He's a good friend.

He's always going to be a good friend.

"Here she is," Bobby says with a flourish, stopping when they reach the side of a beat up black sedan. Rust spots mar the hood, passenger side doors, and the massive dent above the passenger side tire. "My sweet, sweet chariot."

"Looks like shit," Max laughs, tipping his head back to look up at Bobby. Heart aching in his chest when he catches the sight of his bloodshot eyes. The worried apprehension, the tightness in his expression. "You good, man?"

"Yeah, sorry," Bobby laughs a little, nervous. "I just need to move some shit around before you can get in. Gimmie like five minutes."

Max shrugs.

"Whatever you need," he says, holding up his hand and showing Bobby the scabs of his wounds. "Not like I'm going anywhere."

"Ha, yeah," Bobby says, voice flat. Deadpan. "Right. Hold please."

Bobby yanks open the door to the back seat, hastily shoving things out of the way.

Max can't really see from this angle what he's moving, but it sounds like fabric. Clothing maybe. There are a few gentle thumps that could've be plastic or metal, but he has no way of knowing.

"Okay, whew," Bobby says, backing out of the car and closing the door. He always back over to Max, hands hovering over the handles of his chair. "Cool if I move you again? I just need to move some stuff from the front to the back. Then I can get you inside."

A soft smile spreads across Max's lips. Warmth filling his chest.

"Yeah, it's cool," Max answers, then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he continues, gazing up at Bobby with a fond expression. "It's kind of you to ask. Most people wouldn't."

"You should know by now I'm not most people," Bobby whispers back, hands wrapping around the handles of Max's chair and pulling him back a little, turning him to face the darkness behind them.

Max hears several somewhat heavy thumps of things being thrown from the front of Bobby's car into the back.

"Got a lot of stuff in there, huh?" He asks, trying to sound nonchalant, but there's tension growing in his limbs. Anxiety creeping across his stomach.

"I guess," Bobby says and Max can tell he's trying to sound flippant, but he can hear the guarded tension in his tone. Thinly veiled.

He feels the touch of Bobby's hands against his chair again, turning him back toward the car and the now open passenger side door.

"Can you get in on your own or do you need help?" He asks.

"Should be fine on my own," Max answers. "Don't want you to sprain something lifting me."

Bobby laughs, but it feels dull somehow. Hollow. A pale comparison to how he laughed the last time they saw each other in Spoonerville.

"You're not that heavy, Max," he says. "If you need me, I've got you."

Max nods, locking the wheels of his chair and standing. He winces at the pins and needles that stab up his legs. Breathing through the strangeness of the sensation.

He wonders if this feeling is ever going to go away. The static fizzling of his damaged nerves.

"You good?" Bobby asks, slowly moving the chair away from the back of Max's legs.

Max shudders, bracing himself against the side of the car. Hissing when his fingers make contact with the thinning paint. He feels Bobby's hands settle on his waist to steady him.

"I'm okay," Max says, even while he twists in Bobby's grasp, putting an arm around his shoulder for support. Letting Bobby ease him down into the passenger seat. "Used to getting up more at home and I'm sure the plane ride didn't help."

He pulls his legs into the car once he's seated. Taking a deep breath to calm the rapid beating of his heart.

Bobby retreats, grabbing his wheelchair and flipping up the footrests before pulling on the seat to pull it closed.

"Didn't even have a lock," Bobby remarks, picking it up and gently stowing it in the seat behind Max. "Pretty cheap if you ask me."

"Man, don't make fun of my chair," Max gripes, pulling the passenger door closed to silence Bobby's laughter as he walks around the back of the car to the driver's side door.

"I'm just wondering why you didn't get something with a little more oomph," Bobby chatters, sliding into the driver's seat and looking at Max curiously, "You said you had to build strength back up in your arms first, right? Why have a manual chair? Must've been difficult to get around. You would've needed someone to push you."

He pulls the driver's side door closed, car rocking gently side to side from the force of it.

"I was fine," Max says, facing forward. Staring out at the emptiness of the road ahead of them. "I managed."

"Couldn't have been easy," Bobby says, reaching across Max to grab his seat belt and pull it across his body. Hands lingering for a second too long at the buckle next to Max's hip.

"You didn't ask that time," Max comments, gaze slipping from the road to where Bobby's hands linger, trembling. He swallows hard and looks away.

"Just wanna make sure you're safe," Bobby says. Words soft, carefully chosen. Though his tone is devoid of warmth, slow and clinical.

Max knows what this is. He's seen it before.

He doesn't want to see it again.

"Thanks," he says, resting his hands in his lap as Bobby finally pulls his hands back.

He puts his keys in the ignition, turning and waiting for the engine to catch. It sputters to life with a loud roar and a high-pitched squeal.

Max grits his teeth against the sound, eyes absently going to the rear-view mirror to check behind them as Bobby pulls from the curb into the street. Gaze not quite making it to the rear window, lingering on the items strewn across Bobby's back seat.

Clothing. A blanket. A pillow. A toothbrush.

His stomach clenches. He bites down on his tongue.

"You're gonna have to tell me where to go, man," Bobby says, pulling to the stop sign at the end of the road. It's a four-way stop leading directly toward central downtown.

Wordlessly, Max pulls up his GPS, setting it in the center console, propped up on the climate control knobs.

Bobby glances down.

"Sweet," he says, pulling forward, driving toward the lights of the city, "I know that place. Not too far. Pretty nice rooms too. Do you want me to pick you up tom—"

"Bobs," Max says, cutting him off.

Bobby's hands go tense on the steering wheel. Jaw clenching.

"Yeah, man?" he asks.

Max fidgets, rubbing at his thigh when it makes dull pain shoot up and down his legs. There's really no easy way to say what he has to say next.

"Are you living in your car?" He asks, staring straight ahead. Watching in silence as Bobby stops at a red light.

The car's breaks squeak from the effort.

"Does it matter?" Bobby asks after a beat of silence, flicking on his blinker and turning left.

"It does to me."

Max turns to look at him now. Watching as the street lights wash over Bobby's skin. Warm yellow to silvery gray and back again.

"Why don't you hate me, man?" Bobby asks.

"It's not your fault," Max responds. Though the words weigh heavy on his heart. Again, he finds himself wanting to feel anger. Rage. Anything other than this sinking sadness.

"Don't give me that bullshit," Bobby says, keeping his eyes glued to the road. Wilting a little beneath Max's gaze. "It is. Of course it is."

Max shakes his head, gently reaching across the center console. He places his hand on Bobby's thigh.

"No," Max tells him. "It isn't."

"How can you say that?" Bobby asks, stopping at another light. The interior of the car bathed in its eerie red glow. "How can you just—" he turns his head, meeting Max's gaze. At a loss for words.

"Stay with me tonight," Max says. "At the hotel."

The light turns green, but Bobby doesn't pull forward. Car staying firmly stopped on the line as he gazes at Max with absolute bewilderment.

"Max, wha—"

Behind them, a car honks and Bobby sighs, pulling forward into the intersection just as the light turns yellow.

Max squeezes his thigh.

"We'll probably have to bunk with the boys, but I doubt any of them will want to share a bed with me," Max explains, "So, you could. If you wanted."

Bobby lets one of his hands drift down from the steering wheel, placing it over the back of Max's. His palms are sweaty, skin too cold for the warmth of the night.

"I have somewhere to sleep tonight, Max," he whispers.

"Stay with me instead."

"How can you just be okay with all of this?" Bobby asks, wrapping his fingers around Max's hand. Squeezing so hard it almost hurts. "How can you just forgive me?"

They're nearing their destination. Clock on the GPS counting down.

"Don't mistake kindness for forgiveness, Bobby," Max says, slipping his hand free from Bobby's grasp and moving it back to rest in his own lap.

"Then you are angry," Bobby says, turning again, eyes searching for the hotel entrance.

"No," Max answers.

"Then, what?" Bobby asks. "Is this the part where you tell me you're disappointed?"

"I'm not that either," Max says.

"How?" Bobby asks, car pulling to a stop beneath the porte-cochère. Casting Bobby in darkness. He puts the car in park, pulling the emergency break up with such force, the whole car rattles. "Is this what you expected of me? To be this just, piece of absolute shit? Is this all I've amounted to in your mind? How can you not be disappointed? How can you not be fucking angry?"

Max meets his gaze, lets Bobby see the full brunt of the sadness he's carried all day. Drink it in. Internalize it.

"Because I understand," Max answers, watching the way his words cut. Splintering Bobby apart right in front of him.

"It would be easier if you hated me," he says and for the first time Max notices his whole body is trembling. Skin covered in sweat.

"You don't deserve easy," Max whispers, eyes fluttering closed at the sound of Bobby's breath hitching.

Bobby says his name. So soft and so broken it makes his heart ache.

"You're sleeping with me tonight," Max says, leaving no room for discussion. "You're going to get my chair out of the back seat and help me back into it. Then you're going to park your car in the lot and I'm going to call Della to help me upstairs."

Max opens his eyes, taking in the pathetic sight of Bobby again. Ignoring the way it turns his stomach. The memories it brings back to the forefront of his mind.

"You're going to go get yourself right, do you understand? None of this shit upstairs. Not in front of my cousins, Bobby. Do you feel me?"

"I told you I have somewhere I can sleep," Bobby argues.

"I don't fucking care," Max snaps, reaching across the car to grab Bobby's wrist, fingers searching for his pulse under the guise of pulling him closer. Breath hot against his face as he leans over the console. "Call me when you're done. I'll give you the room number."

His pulse feels steady. A bit fast, but not dangerously so.

"Max, I can't."

Max scoffs, releasing Bobby's wrist and unfastening his seat belt.

"You can and you will. Own up to what you've done, Bobby. Lay in that bed with me and stew, fucking marinate in the knowledge that I understand why you did it. That I'm not angry. I'm going to comfort you through all the ways you've fucked me. That's your punishment. That's your penance."

"Please."

"You fucking broke my heart!" Max chokes out, finally feeling the brunt of the emotions he's tried to avoid.

Bobby looks at him, eyes red-rimmed and filled with shame.

"Do you understand that?" Max continues.

Bobby swallows, taking Max's hand in his, swiping his thumbs over his knuckles before raising it to his forehead. Pressing the back of Max's hand to his pallid, clammy skin.

"I'm sorry," Bobby says.

"I'm sure you are," Max answers. "But sorry only works if I'm willing to forgive you."

Bobby makes a choking sound, hand trembling against Max's wrist.

"How can I fix this?"

"I told you how."

"You can't want me t—"

Max pulls his hand back from Bobby's forehead, gripping his cheeks and squeezing. Forcing his head up until their eyes meet.

"Get me out of this car, get yourself right, and fucking call me."

Bobby stares at him. Eyes watering. Nose running.

"Okay," he says, voice muffled by the way Max is squeezing his face.

"Don't fucking try me either," Max growls, squeezing until he can feel the outline of Bobby's teeth against his fingertips. "If you don't call me, if you don't come upstairs, I won't be coming back tomorrow. We won't be friends. I won't let you use me like that. Do you understand?"

"You should let me use you like that now," Bobby mumbles.

"Well it's too late for that now, isn't it?" Max asks, releasing Bobby's face and turning to open his door. "Get my chair. I'm tired. I want to go upstairs and sleep."

"As you wish, my liege," Bobby teases, trying to break the tension.

Max smiles at him over his shoulder. Fond, but no overly so. He's still heartbroken, after all. But he wants to mend things.

He wants to pick back up all the things he lost when he left for California. The pieces of himself he set aside for fame. The good things he thought he'd moved on from.

When Bobby rounds the car, setting Max's chair in front of him on the pavement, Max doesn't even attempt to stand up on his own. He moves his legs to the side, placing his feet on the ground and opening his arms. Waiting for Bobby to lift him.

"Thought you could do it on your own," Bobby says, bending down and sweeping Max up into his arms. He trembles a little under Max's weight, breathing strained.

Max rolls his eyes.

"I'm tired," he grumbles. "I'd make you carry me all the way to bed if I thought you could manage."

"Who says I can't?"

"Put me in my chair before you hurt yourself."

Bobby huffs, but does as he's told. Lowering Max into his chair and taking a step back.

Max gives him one last once over. Taking in the rumpled, pale, sweaty state of him. Swallowing down the hurt it drags to the surface.

"Call me when you're done," Max says, taking out his phone and dialing Della.

Bobby exhales shakily and nods, eyes closing, jaw clenched.

"Okay," he says, retreating back to his car once Della answers.

"Max?" She asks as he watches Bobby close the passenger side doors before slipping around the car and into the driver's seat.

"Hey Aunt Della," Max says, speaking a little louder over the roar of Bobby's engine. "I'm downstairs. Could use some help up to the rooms, if that's okay?"

There's static over the line. Followed by audible shuffling as Bobby pulls off. Timing belt shrieking and brakes squealing into the night.

"Be right down," Della says. Line going dead.

Della paces in front of him while Max does his best to clean up his hand in the bathroom sink. Her frantic energy reminds him of early days. Back after his first appointment with Dr. Niehaus. Before Roxanne, before Bradley.

Guilt festers on the edges of his psyche at the thought of him. Which is stupid because they aren't really anything. Bradley is his doctor. They've fucked a few times. He doesn't owe him anything.

"They can't just do this to you," Della growls, interrupting his thoughts and bringing him back into the present. Her fists are clenched at her sides. "Where the hell is your stupid little friend Bobby? I'll kick his ass."

"Leave Bobby alone," Max sighs. "He's not forcing me."

"Your fingers shouldn't bleed from playing the violin, Max," Della says. "That's like, abuse or something."

Max rolls his eyes fondly.

"No different from when I used to push myself until my feet bled when I was dancing," he answers with a shrug. "It happens."

"It happens?" Della hisses.

"Yeah, Della, it happens," Max sighs, smoothing antibiotic ointment over the tips of his fingers. He doesn't bother with gauze or band-aids. The cuts are too high on his fingertips for that. Bandaging them would be awkward. "I'm used to putting my body through its paces. Don't worry so much about me."

"I'm your aunt, I'm allowed to worry," Della grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring down at Max.

"Well, you don't have to worry about this," Max says, nodding to his hand. "The cuts will heal. I'll develop calluses. It'll get easier to play."

"They won't heal before tomorrow," Della says. "You'll be playing on hurt fingers again."

"It'll hurt less tomorrow," Max offers with a pithy shrug.

"You're way too calm about this," Della says. "Why are you so calm about this?"

"No use in being angry about things you can't change."

"You can change it, though. You don't have to go back, Max. You don't have to do this."

Max winces. Shoulders tensing.

Trying and failing to ignore the way Della tenses along with him.

"Unfortunately," Max sighs, giving Della a wry smile. "I actually do."

Della opens her mouth to speak, but she's cut off by the shrill stock ringtone of Max's phone. Bobby's name popping up on the screen.

"Why is he calling?" she asks, watching as Max picks up his phone with his good hand and swipes to answer.

"He's gonna stay here with me and the boys tonight," Max says, raising the phone to his ear. "Room 319."

Della gapes at him.

"We only got two beds for the four of you to share," she says.

"Bobby can share with me," Max answers, hanging up the phone and setting it back down on the counter. "I'm sure none of the boys would've wanted to share with me anyway."

"Some warning would've been nice, I could've booked you two your own room."

Max's shoulders tense.

"Don't want to be alone with him," he says, blowing out a breath and staring at the sink to avoid Della's intense gaze.

"But you're fine with him being around my kids?" She asks, a sharp edge to her voice.

"He's not dangerous," Max answers, eyes fluttering closed. Heart beating just a little bit faster. "Not to them. You know I wouldn't do anything to put the boys in danger."

"Did he do something to you?" Della asks.

"He's sleeping in his car," Max says as if that'll somehow explain everything. As if it'll put into words everything he's too scared to say aloud. "He's one of my oldest friends. I can't let him do that."

"But you don't want to be alone with him," Della responds, keeping her voice low.

Max's heart aches in his chest, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. Pain biting up through his fingertips. Dulled a little by the oxy he downed the second he could, but not so dull he can't feel it. Stark and bright against his nerve endings.

"No," Max answers.

"Max," Della starts, closing her mouth when there's a knock on the door. She sighs, moving to go answer it, but stops when Max grabs her wrist.

"It's nothing bad," he says, finally meeting her gaze. Trying to keep his expression neutral. "I'm just avoiding a difficult conversation I don't want to have with him, okay? One we can only have if we're alone. I need some time to figure out what to say. Please trust me."

Della nods.

"I do, Max," she says. "I hope you and your friend can figure things out. You seem like you really love him."

"Yeah," Max says. "Used to think he deserved better than me, but now I find myself wishing I never left him behind."

Bobby knocks again.

"You're a good friend, Max," Della says, gently tugging her wrist free and leaving Max alone in the bathroom to ponder her words.

Bobby, Della and the kids make a vending machine run while Max showers. Cleaning the muck of this unfortunate day off of him. He's far too exhausted to go anywhere else. To do anything else.

His body doesn't ache as much as it did earlier. Painkillers making the sharpness of it fade to a dull throbbing, but it's still there. The physical hurts bleeding into the emotional ones.

Seeing Bobby.

Knowing.

It's enough to make him want to stay locked in the bathroom all night. Letting the water run over his skin until it goes from hot to cold.

This is something Max has faced before.

The slow death of losing someone to their vices.

He was a kid then.

Scared and in love and just starting out.

A shitty apartment in LA with bars on the windows and house spiders making their home in every dark corner.

A stove he had to light with matches.

Flame licking at the backs of spoons.

He was a different person then. Brighter. Saw things in black and white. Good or evil.

Sheltered. Trusting. The kind of thing Hollywood loves to eat alive.

He knows better now.

Found out the hard way.

He wishes he hadn't.

Bobby reminds him

of the person—

he was

then.

Except, that Max never would've understood.

He would've been angry.

He wouldn't feel this sense of resignation, acceptance.

But he's learned.

Max knows now that anger doesn't help with things like this.

It change anything. Doesn't do anything.

Max shuts off the taps for the shower and sighs, dragging himself up out of the tub and drying himself off. His body fights him at every turn, making him sit on the edge of the tub and the seat of the toilet to catch his breath when his legs start to give out beneath him.

It's a struggle to get dressed. Especially when he has to pull the same boxers he's worn all day back over his hips. Along with the blood-stained white t-shirt from earlier. He hadn't thought to bring a change of clothes. Didn't think he would be here for longer than a day.

Really, as a seasoned performer, he should've known better.

He'll have to buy something new to wear tomorrow before he and Bobby make their way back to the studio.

Wouldn't be the first time he's has to sleep in dirty clothing.

Max eases back into his chair and makes his way into the room. Ignoring the dull ache of his fingers. There are two queen beds and a semi-comfortable looking couch.

Bobby offered to sleep on the couch before they went out for snacks, but Max immediately shot his offer down. He wants Bobby close. Needs to keep an eye on him.

He remembers how touch and go it can be.

God, he's

terrified of going through this (again).

Max takes a deep breath, trying to get himself under control. Now isn't the same as then. Bobby isn't the same as—

The room door clicks open, Della, Bobby, and the kids spilling in one by one.

Max plasters a smile on his face. Only to have it falter when Bobby's gaze lands on him. Eyes glassy. Unfocused. Moving slowly down Max's torso to stare at the blood stains on his shirt.

"I have a change of clothes in my car," he says, turning on his heel and walking right back out the door. Leaving everyone to sort of stare after him in confusion.

"Uh," Max says, shrugging when everyone looks at him. "It's Bobby, he's always been a bit weird."

Poor impulse control. Lack of social skills.

Max's chest feels tight.

He tries his best not to let his anxiety show.

Wondering if maybe it isn't the best idea to have a drug addict in the same room as his younger cousins.

While also wanting to treat Bobby as normal as possible.

He wants to avoid the fight he knows they'll have.

The one that's, unfortunately, inevitable.

Webby, Huey, Dewey, and Louie all pile onto the bed closest to the door. Leaving the one closest to the bathroom for Max.

Della gives him a lingering look before retreating through the door of their shared suite to the bedroom she and Webby will share. A single king bed for the both of them.

"Don't let them stay up too late," Della says from the doorway to a chorus of groans.

"I make no promises," Max answers back, smirking when Della rolls her eyes and flips him off before disappearing into the other room.

Max is getting ready to settle into bed when Bobby returns, a few worn t-shirts and sleep shorts in hand. And it's strange how palpable the relief is that he isn't going to have to sleep in his jeans.

"Might smell a little weird from being shoved in the trunk of my car, but," he says, crossing the room and ignoring the annoyed groaning of the kids as he passes in front of the TV. He offers the clothing to Max with an awkward shrug. "Beats sleeping in a bloodstained shirt and jeans."

"That's blood?" Dewey asks, turning from the TV to narrow his eyes at Max's shirt.

"Yeah?" Max asks, staring down at the browning stain. "What did you think it was?"

"What's the blood from?" Louie asks.

Max holds up his hand to show them the bloody divots in his fingers.

"Playing violin."

"Gross," Huey says.

"Hardcore," Louie responds.

"Are you okay?" Webby asks.

"I'm fine," Max says, taking the clothes from Bobby and moving to turn his chair so he can head back to the bathroom to change.

Bobby reaches a hand out to stop him.

"Need a push?" he asks.

Max glances up at him and sighs.

"Sure."

Bobby takes him to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind them.

Max tries to ignore the way that makes his shoulders tense. His stomach tighten with anxiety.

"Relax," Bobby says when he catches sight of him. "Everything's fine."

Max swallows, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Do you need help changing?"

"I think I can manage taking off my shirt."

"Then let's see those abs," Bobby jokes, cocking his hip and staring pointedly at Max. "Been awhile since I've seen you naked."

"Shut up," Max laughs. "You've never seen me naked."

"No time like the present," Bobby remarks.

"Turn around, I'm not undressing in front of you if you're gonna make it weird."

"Relax, I've seen you shirtless tons of times. I've been on your instagram. You like posting thirst traps."

Max laughs awkwardly.

"Dancing videos aren't thirst traps."

"Pretty sure dance videos don't include gratuitous eye fucking."

"Dude, I don't—"

"Take off your shirt, Max," Bobby says, voice low and authoritative.

Max inhales sharply, eyes searching Bobby's face.

"No," he says, so soft the word is almost lost in his exhale.

Bobby nods, pursing his lips like he's figured something out.

"Okay," he responds, turning his back to Max and facing the door. "Whatever you need."

Bobby makes quick work of pulling his own shirt over his head. Exposing the bare skin of his back to Max's gaze.

Max stares, eyes sweeping over his skin. Searching for tell-tale signs. Bruising, scabs, yellowish pallor.

He's pale. Some bruising at his hip, but nothing severe.

"Find what you're looking for?" Bobby asks, turning over his shoulder to look at Max while he pulls his new shirt on. "Or are you just enjoying the view?"

"Don't delude yourself into thinking I was checking you out," Max says, glaring pointedly at Bobby until he turns back around. Giving Max the privacy he needs to pull his won shirt over his head and replace it with Bobby's.

It smells faintly of gasoline and stale fabric.

Max's heart aches.

"Will you turn around so I can take off my jeans?" Bobby asks, already undoing the button and the zip.

"Why, don't want me to see your ass?" Max goads.

"I'd like some privacy," Bobby laughs, but there's something off about it.

"Not a lot of room to turn around in here," Max says.

"Close your eyes then."

"What don't you want me to see?"

"Drop it, Max," Bobby snaps, anger and irritation returning, chasing away the gentle teasing tone.

"Alright," Max says, letting his eyes slip closed. "I won't look."

"I'm watching," Bobby tells him.

"I know," Max responds.

He hears the sound of Bobby's jeans falling to the floor. The rustle of fabric and scrape of metal against the stone tile floor as he kicks them to the side.

Max keeps his eyes closed for all of it. Not willing to break Bobby's trust so soon into their tenuous newfound friendship.

"You can open your eyes now," Bobby says, moving closer, stepping into Max's space. Until he can smell the vinegary stench of his clothes.

His stomach turns and instinctively he pulls back a little. Putting some distance between himself and Bobby.

"What?" Bobby asks.

"You should shower," Max says.

"It's not me. It's the clothes."

"Mine don't smell like that," Max says, laying the sleep shorts in his lap and moving to try and get around Bobby. "Shower. If we're going to be sharing a bed, I can't—" He takes a breath to steady himself. "I just. I fucking can't."

"Max—"

"Let me leave. I need to go."

"Finish changing."

"Goddammit," Max hisses, undoing his jeans and practically ripping them off himself. The force of it burning in his muscles and against his skin. He throws them onto the floor, quickly pulling the shorts up his legs.

"What happened, man?" Bobby asks, backing out of the way to give Max more room to maneuver out of the bathroom.

Max shakes his head.

"If I don't get to ask questions, then neither do you," Max snaps. "Shower, then come to bed."

"Fine," Bobby says, awkwardly shuffling around Max's chair and toward the shower. "Be right out."

"Cool," Max answers, beating a hasty retreat back to the room, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

"Your friend Bobby seems...interesting," Huey says when Max emerges from the narrow hallway leading to the bathroom.

"Yeah, he's always been a bit of a character," Max says. "I'm sure you remember. You've met him a few times."

"No?" Louie says. "I think I would remember."

Max narrows his eyes.

"He used to hang out at the skate park with us back when dad and pop started dating. When you three would come out for the summer from Duckburg."

"The guy that always ate Squeezy Cheese?" Dewey asks, gaze slipping past Max and down the hallway to the bathroom.

"That's the one," Max says.

"He seems kinda different now," Dewey says.

"He's older," Max shrugs. "I'm different now too."

"I think what Dewey means is that he seems kinda sad," Webby says, turning her head to arch an eyebrow at Dewey. "Right?"

"Yeah," Dewey says. "When we used to hang out during the summer he was sort of weird, but not sad."

"Probably why we didn't recognize him," Louie offers.

"I mean you didn't really know him anyway," Max says, trying to laugh it off, hoping to avoid a discussion on drug addiction and the music industry tonight.

"So he's always been sad?" Huey asks.

"I dunno," Max answers.

"But you said he was one of your best friends then, right?" Dewey asks. "How can you not know?"

Max sighs.

"Nobody can know everything about everyone," he says. "People hide shit. It's unavoidable."

Max catches the way they all exchange glances in his periphery and he sighs again.

"I think Bobby and I are both just tired. Today was draining. I kinda just want to pass out."

"Do we need to turn off the TV?" Louie groans, "We just found a movie and there's snacks."

"Don't worry, I used to share hotel rooms with thirty other dancers. I can sleep through anything."

"Sweet," Dewey says, ripping open the bag of M&Ms he got from the vending machine and tossing a handful in his mouth.

Louie turns up the volume on the TV.

Max rolls his eyes and wedges his chair between the bed and the wall. Locking the wheels and standing on shaky, tired legs to climb into the bed.

He's just making himself comfortable when Bobby finally emerges from the bathroom. Toweling off his wet hair.

Without product in it, it's longer than Max expected. A little unkempt. Framing his face, sticking to his cheeks and jaw.

He tosses the towel over his shoulder, pressing one knee onto the bed and leaning into Max's space.

"Am I fresh enough to climb into bed with you now, my liege?" he asks, shaking his still wet hair in Max's face. Splashing droplets of water all over his skin.

Max yelps, shoving Bobby's head away.

"Man, go dry yourself off and stop being a dumbass," Max gripes.

"I am dry," Bobby laughs.

"I'm not letting you sleep in this bed with me with wet hair. There's a blow dryer in the bathroom. Use it."

"Can you two shut up? We're missing the movie," Louie snaps.

"I dunno, they might be more interesting than the movie," Webby laughs.

"Definitely more annoying," Louie grumbles.

"Did you two used to date?" Dewey asks.

"What?" Max laughs. "No. We're just buds."

"Don't seem like just buds to me," Dewey teases.

"Oh my God," Max sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We've been friends forever. That's all."

"A friend would let me sleep in their bed with wet hair," Bobby teases.

"I'll kill you before I let that happen."

"Dude," Louie growls, tipping his head back and glaring at the ceiling. "Go dry your stupid hair. I'm trying to watch TV in peace."

"Fine," Bobby groans, jumping up off the bed and retreating back to the bathroom.

"He doesn't seem all that sad to me," Max remarks once he's gone.

"Maybe he's only happy around you," Huey says.

Max opens his mouth to respond, only to be shushed by Louie before he can even get a word out.

"If I have to tell you to shut up one more time, I'm going to smother you with a pillow, Max, I swear."

"Jesus, no need to be violent. I'll shut up," Max huffs, flopping down on the bed and rolling to face the wall.

"Thank you," Louie says, turning the TV up just a little bit louder.

Max closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

Thoughts slowing,

breathing rhythmic,

the white noise of the blow dryer—

Max wakes to the feeling of someone's arms wrapping around his waist. The soft press of their forehead between his shoulder blades.

"Chris?" he whispers sleepily into the night.

Brain sluggish.

Always so ready to accept he's waking from a nightmare.

"Nah, man, I'm sorry," Bobby whispers, hugging Max a little tighter.

Max grunts and shifts, rolling in Bobby's arms until they're face to face.

The room is dark. TV off. The gentle sound of Dewey's snoring fills his ears.

He can barely make out the lines of Bobby's face in the dark.

"Wha'time is't," Max slurs, reaching up to rub at his eyes. Hissing when he catches one of his cuts against his skin.

"It's late," Bobby whispers.

"Why'd you wake me up?" Max asks, voice hoarse and muffled from sleep.

"Are we okay, Max?" Bobby asks, voice gentle and raw. Cracked open.

Max draws back from where their bodies are almost pressed flush together. Trying his best to make out the shape of Bobby's face in the dark.

"Did I fuck shit up between us forever?" he continues, eyes catching the blueish night light next to the bathroom. Turning the green a bit muddy in the darkness.

Max can see the shiny tracks of tears on his face.

"No," Max says, tucking Bobby's head under his chin and letting him cry softly into his chest. "Not forever. Of course not forever."

"I'm sorry," Bobby whimpers, holding him tighter. Fingers digging into the small of Max's back.

"I know," Max says, smoothing his fingers over Bobby's hair. It's surprisingly soft beneath his palms.

"I'm really sorry."

"Yeah, Bobby. I know."

"Please tell me we're going to be okay."

"Shh. Hush now, Bobby," Max says, voice gentle. Lips pressing to the top of Bobby's head. "Get some rest."

"Please," Bobby whispers, hands gripping the back of Max's shirt. Arms digging into his hips.

"How okay we end up after this is entirely up to you," Max says into Bobby's ear. "You don't get to be absolved by repeating bad behavior, Bobs. Now, go to sleep. I'm tired. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Max—"

"Sleep, Bobby." Max wraps his arms around Bobby's shoulders, crushing their bodies together. Muffling Bobby's words into his chest. Drowning out any further apology. Any further pleas for absolution.

"Stew in it," Max says, pressing his lips to Bobby's forehead. Skin clammy and cold beneath his lips. "Isn't that what I told you to do? It's going to get so much worse before it gets better."

Chapter Text

Max jolts awake, his consciousness surfacing rapidly to the feeling of violent shaking. He winces, hands grabbing at the arms of the person shaking him, fingernails biting into flesh. Groaning softly in pain when the tender tips of his fingers burn from the pressure.

"Max," Bobby hisses in his face and the acrid stench of stale morning breath is enough to make his eyes water.

"What the fuck," Max groans. Pain burning through every inch of his body. His nerves practically on fire from all the jostling.

"Get up," Bobby says. "Ruby's already called four times. We have to go."

"What fucking time is it?" Max rasps, trying to sit up, only to gasp in pain lay back down. Easing the tightness in his muscles as best he can to stave off the brunt of it before trying sit up again.

"Seven, man. Get. Up."

"Seven is too fucking early for this shit."

"Works different in the music industry, dude. Especially in country music."

"God, I don't understand. We were there so late yesterday. Why so early today?"

"What Ruby wants, Ruby gets."

"Just go with him, Max. Some of us are trying to sleep!" Dewey shouts from the other bed.

"What Dewey said," Louie grumbles sleepily.

"Teenagers need more sleep than adults," Huey chimes in. "Up and at 'em. Get out."

"Damn, even Huey's being mean. Guess it is time to get up." Max sighs. "Grab my oxy out of my bag. My back is fucking killing me and I'm not going through another day of this torture without pain pills."

"On it," Bobby says, dragging himself off the bed and toward where Max's bag lay on the small desk next to the TV.

"Bring me the bottle and some water," Max says, sleepily dragging himself up off the bed. He slides into his chair, grabbing his phone from the night stand. It's a miracle he had the foresight to bring his charger.

Especially considering he thought he'd be back home by now.

He checks the time. It's just past seven, which means it just past eight in Ohio. There's an hour before Roxanne's office opens. He hates to cancel so last minute, but he doesn't really have a choice.

Part of him thinks maybe he should cancel their appointment on Friday too. Just to be safe.

"Here," Bobby says, appearing in front of him and thrusting a bottle of pills and a small plastic cup of tap water into his face. "Take these. We gotta go in like ten minutes."

"I don't suppose we could stop by a store and grab a change of clothes?" Max asks, taking the pills and popping the top off them. He tosses two into his mouth, quickly washing them down with water. "Been wearing these boxers since yesterday and it's starting to gross me out."

"I have underwear in my car if you need to change."

"Dude, no offense, but I don't want to wear your tighty whities."

"Better than an unwashed pack from the store," Bobby says with a shrug.

"I honestly beg to differ," Max laughs. "I think I'll take my chances with the residual dyes and fresh from the factory smell."

"It's your funeral," Bobby shrugs, wincing when his phone begins to ring again. "I guess we can make a pit stop. Ruby's gonna be pissed though."

Bobby presses the lock on the side of his phone to silence the call.

"She can stand to wait a little," he says to Max's questioning look. "It's not like she's making the next greatest album of all time. It probably won't even resonate with her current fans. There's a reason her dad and, honestly, the entire label didn't want her doing a fucking country album."

"Okay, so why is she?" Max asks, unlocking his wheels and pushing his chair forward. He needs to grab his jeans from the bathroom before his cousins, who are being incredibly patient right now, murder him for talking so much at the ass crack of dawn. "And why the fuck did you get saddled with it?"

"It's a long story," Bobby sighs.

"We've got time," Max says over his shoulder as he locks his chair at the bathroom door and steps into the room. The stone tile is cold beneath his feet and he lets out a startled breath.

"Can you morons, please, for the love of Jesus, have this conversation somewhere else?" Louie groans. "It's so early."

"Someone's in a mood," Max laughs, sitting down on the toilet and grabbing his jeans from the floor.

"Dude, I already told you I'm trying to sleep, now you're just being a dick," Louie complains.

"Alright, alright," Max laughs. "We'll be quiet, I promise."

He pulls Bobby's shorts down his hips, kicking them onto the floor before replacing them with his jeans from yesterday. He keeps the shirt. Even though it's a little damp from night sweats, it's better than walking around in public with visible blood stains.

Bobby awkwardly watches from the doorway. Shifting back and forth on his feet.

"You good this morning?" Max whispers.

Bobby shakes his head.

"Go down ahead of me, then."

"Gotta drive first."

"You can't—"

"Please just get dressed so we can go," Bobby says, cutting him off. "The sooner we get to the studio, the sooner—" he gestures vaguely.

"Sure," Max says, pursing his lips. "Shut the door, I gotta piss and I'll be right out."

"Sure," Bobby nods, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

They can only stall for so long before they have to be at the studio. It takes them less than an hour to buy a few things at the store. All the while Ruby is calling Bobby non-stop.

"Man just pick it up and tell her we had to get a few things unless she wants me to smell like shit when we get there."

"I told her that already."

"Is she on something? Jesus."

"I think she's just anxious about the album. Since literally everyone told her not to do it."

Max purses his lips, shoving his newly purchased clothes into the trunk of Bobby's car. Very pointedly ignoring any paraphernalia he may have also seen in there.

"Probably not a smart move for someone who was barely decent at pop music to try and break into country markets."

"Or maybe it's a smart pivot."

"She does sort of seem like the type."

Bobby laughs.

"Is there a bathroom at the studio I can change in or do you think I should go back and change in the handicap stall here?"

"Studio definitely. It's a single so you'll have more room."

Max nods.

"Studio it is."

Ruby is furious when he arrives solo.

"Where the fuck is my producer?" she hisses the second Max struggles through the front doors.

"Have you been camped out at reception this whole time?" Max asks, completely avoiding her question. "It's barely eight thirty, Ruby, damn."

"If you haven't noticed, we don't have a lot of time considering my fiddle player can't play the fiddle."

"I can play the violin fine," Max answers, shrugging. "They're the same instrument. Just different styles. You could let me play the way I know how, but I somehow doubt you'll be satisfied with that. You're only ever satisfied when everyone else is miserable, after all. Since you're such a spoiled br—"

"Can y'all maybe not do this in the lobby?" The receptionist asks, southern drawl heavy on his tongue.

"Sure," Max says, giving him an apologetic look. "Sorry about that. We'll be on our way."

He gives Ruby a look, pushing himself forward and toward the musician's lounge.

She rolls her eyes and follows after him. Heels clicking ominously against the floor.

"Tell me where the fuck Bobby is," Ruby says the second they enter the lounge. She doesn't even bother to close the door behind her.

There are a few people meandering about. Sitting on some of the loungers, staring down at the phone or tablet screens. None of them look up at the sound of Ruby's voice.

Max has to assume they're used to this by now.

"Let's give him a few minutes," Max says. "He had to park the car. So. It might take him a minute to walk here."

"He could've parked in the fucking lot," Ruby gripes.

Max rolls his eyes.

"You know he couldn't."

"Jesus fucking Christ, useless fuc—"

"Don't you dare talk about him like that," Max growls, stilling his chair and whipping it back around to glower at her. Relishing in the way Ruby falters. Taking a step back from him like she's startled. Afraid. "Bobby isn't useless."

"Whatever," Ruby says, rolling her eyes and crossing the room to one of the couches on the farthest side. "We have studio time in an hour and a half. I got you the violin."

She grabs the violin case from the couch and dangles it in the air.

"How thoughtful of you," Max says, "But I was actually thinking—"

"I'm not paying you to think," Ruby snaps, cutting him off. "I have a concept for this album. I don't want any changes or last minute ideas from crippled dancers who think they know anything about what it's like to make an album."

"No need to be so rude," Max laughs. "I'm just saying. In the interest of time, it might be better if you listen to my idea before fully dismissing it."

"Just do it the way I want it done," Ruby says, crossing the room and practically slamming the violin case into his chest.

"And if I can't do it the way you want it done?"

"Don't fucking try me," Ruby snaps. "Go find somewhere to practice and figure it out."

"I'm not going to figure it out, Ruby," Max argues. "You get that, right? There really isn't anything to figure out. I don't have the technical skill to play the style you want."

"What, because you spent a few hours fucking around yesterday you think y—"

"I know I can't do this," Max says. "But I can do violin. If you want a more unique sound we could try electric. It'll change the sound a little, but I think it might work better."

"What the fuck do you even know about this shit?" Ruby asks. "It's not like you're an actual musician. You're not a producer or an engineer. You're nothing, Max."

"Obviously I'm something or I wouldn't be here."

"You know why you're here."

"Then just use me for that and hire an actual fiddle player."

"You should be able to do both."

"Couldn't find anyone willing to work with you, huh?" Max goads. "Not even as a favor to daddy?"

"Shut the fuck up, Max," Ruby hisses.

"It's kind of funny seeing you like this," Max says. "Without all your dad's power to throw around, you really aren't anything, huh?"

Ruby sighs.

"I'm not gonna stand here and let you disrespect me like this."

"Then walk away," Max shrugs. "Doesn't make a difference to me. You should've just done another pop album. At least then you wouldn't have to scrape the bottom of the barrel for talent. Then again. you always were a dumbass."

Ruby's palm collides with his cheek, fingernails biting into his jaw on the down swing.

Max's head snaps to the side, skin stinging, eyes watering. He can taste blood that spills over his teeth from where they cut into his skin.

When he looks back up at her, his ears are ringing. Hand slowly raising to touch his cheek.

"Ruby, wha—"

She slaps him again, chest heaving with rage.

"Don't you ever," she gasps, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up at her, even while his head spins from the shock of someone hitting him. "Ever—"

She doesn't even finish her sentence before she's whirling around him, grabbing the handles of his chair and pushing him back out into the hall.

Max meets the gaze of one of the other people in the room. Someone staring at him wide-eyed while everyone else is trying desperately to ignore that just happened right in front of their fucking faces.

Absolutely none of them make any move to help him.

Fucking figures.

Max wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, closing his eyes to stave off the motion sickness he gets from Ruby pushing him.

"You're such a fucking piece of shit," Ruby says, shoving his chair into the bathroom so hard it's a wonder he doesn't hit the wall on the other side.

"Jesus, Ruby, tell me how you really feel," Max snaps, taking control of his chair and turning around just in time to see Ruby slam the bathroom door closed and lock it behind her.

"God, do you ever shut up?" She hisses, digging her fingers into his hair, nails biting against his scalp.

"Nope," Max says, spitting his blood in her face when she pulls his head back.

"Fucking disgusting," Ruby growls, scrubbing the back of her free hand over her cheek.

"Let go," Max says.

"Someone has to put you in your place," Ruby says, tugging on his hair harder. Pulling his head back to explore the full length of his throat.

"And you thought it should be you?" Max asks, laughing. "That's funny."

"God, you're so fucking infuriating. How did Chris even put up with you?" She plops herself down in his lap, legs spread over his thighs. It's a tight fit with her knees pressing against the metal frame of his arm rests.

"What are you doing?" Max asks.

"You're bleeding," Ruby says. "I'm gonna kiss it better."

Max lets out a breath. Body going slack under her touch, letting her smash her mouth against his. Tongue slipping between his teeth.

He thought he would have more time.

"Kiss me back," she commands, pulling away to glare down at him. There's blood on her lips, smudged across the pale skin of her cheek.

It's barbaric.

It suits her.

"Fucking touch me."

"Is that what you want?" Max asks, sliding his hands up Ruby's back. "You want me to fuck you in the bathroom?"

"Want you to fucking shut up," Ruby says, biting his bottom lip.

"I'd shut up if you'd let me play violin the way I know how," Max says, gently pulling his head away.

"Not gonna happen," Ruby says, grinding her hips down into his.

"Then this isn't gonna happen either," Max smirks, gripping Ruby's hips and pushing gently. Just enough to throw her a little off balance, but not enough to send her careening down to the floor.

She gasps, arms wrapping around his shoulders.

"You don't get to negotiate," she snaps, tugging at the baby hairs at the base of his skull. "You're paying a debt. I decide the terms."

"No," Max smirks. "I'd like to think I have a little more power here than being a pawn you and Bobby push back and forth. If I don't get a say in what instrument you want me to use, I should get a say in what happens to my body. And right now, my body doesn't want to fuck you in this bathroom."

"And if I want you to fuck me in this bathroom?" Ruby asks.

"Then I reserve the right to play the violin my way."

Ruby smirks at him, smoothing her hand over the back of his head.

"Good to know four months of wasting away in Ohio hasn't changed you too much," she drawls. "For better or for worse, you still know how to grease a wheel without getting caught up in its spokes."

"Sex or fiddle?" Max asks.

"I could be amenable to the sound of electric violin?" Ruby hums, moving one of her hands away from Max's shoulders to undo the front of her blouse. Exposing the pretty lacy teddy she has beneath.

"It isn't exactly what I was hoping for, but if that's what you want," Max answers, playing coy and keeping his true feelings close to his chest. Electric has always been a little easier for him to pick back up. Really, she'd be doing him a favor.

Well,

she would be,

if it didn't mean he'd have to fuck her to get what he wants.

"This version of you isn't exactly what I wanted either," Ruby says.

Max laughs, ignoring the way her words make his chest hurt.

"If you weren't crippled you could fuck me from behind over the sink. I'd get to watch all the pretty faces you make in the mirror while you're inside me."

"Don't lie," Max says, sinking his fingers into her hair and pulling her head back. "You'd be watching yourself. Bet you like watching yourself get fucked," Max leans forward, pressing his lips to the front of her throat. Smearing his blood over her skin. "Can move my chair over to the sink if you want."

"No," She answers, tracing her hand across Max's shoulder and down over his arm. She grabs his wrist, leading his hand to press between her legs. "Finger me and I'll let you play the stupid electric violin."

"Is that all?" Max asks, scraping his teeth over her clavicle.

"For now," Ruby whispers, leaning up to press her tits against his chin. "I have other plans for later."

"Yeah?" Max asks, releasing her hair and slipping his hand beneath her teddy, pushing it down her shoulder, exposing her breast. "Tell me how to get you off," he whispers, leaning forward to tease her hardened nipple with his tongue. "Tell me what you like."

"I'm sure the great Max Goof can figure it out," Ruby intones, fingers threading through his hair, pulling his mouth closer to her breasts. "Heard you're an incredible lay."

Max chuckles, turning his head to tease Ruby's other nipple through the lacy fabric of her teddy.

"I get that reputation because I don't like going in blind," he says, pushing her panties to the side, letting his fingers tease her folds. "I like it when my partners tell me what they're into. Gets me all hot and bothered."

"You don't seem hot and bothered," Ruby says, moaning and grinding her cunt into his hand when he sucks her nipple into his mouth. "You're not even hard."

"Semantics," Max says when he pulls away. "I don't have to be hard to get you off. We don't have a lot of time anyway. Bobby will be looking for us soon enough."

"He'll know what we've gotten up to," Ruby sighs, whole body shuddering when Max sinks one of his fingers inside of her.

"I'm sure someone will have to use the bathroom at some point."

"They can hold it."

Max laughs again, but it feels cheap, hollow.

He used to be good at this.

He remembers liking it.

The warm press of someone's body.

Their breath panting against his ear.

Now he doesn't feel anything other than detached.

Like he's separate from it.

Distanced from himself.

Or maybe,

this is how he's always felt and he

never stopped to think about

how sex never feels like something he's doing

so much as it feels like something being done to him.

He chose this,

negotiated it.

It's fine, he's fine, but

God,

maybe he isn't.

Ruby fucks herself on his fingers. Arching her back, pushing her tits into his face until they're nearly smothering him. Until the blood from his split lip is smeared everywhere, all over her skin. Stark and red against the pale white.

He can feel the split closing and opening again. He needs to put pressure on it, stop worrying it between his teeth to let the blood weep down between them.

"Why is your lip bleeding so much?" Ruby asks, placing her fingers beneath his chin to force his head up.

"You did hit me pretty hard," Max says, running his tongue over the cut on his bottom lip.

"Should've clotted by now," She presses her thumb against the wound, gentle pressure keeping all his blood inside of him. A kindness her actions so far do little to reflect.

Healing

after hurting

while she

uses his body for her own gain

for

her own pleasure.

And

he

lets

her.

Bobby is waiting for them when they emerge. Blood carefully cleaned from their skin. The wound on Max's lip cleaned and scabbed over.

He doesn't ask where they've been.

He doesn't question anything at all.

"Max wants to switch from fiddle to electric violin," Ruby announces. "It isn't going to take much doing and it'll change the sound a bit, but I think it might fit better."

Bobby sighs, turning his head and gazing at Max from behind his sunglasses. Eyes lingering for a long time.

Max can only guess at what he sees.

"Yeah, okay," he says, shrugging. "They're the same instrument, so whatever."

"It'll give it a more polished pop sound," Ruby says, "Which isn't exactly what I wanted, but it'll have to do. I don't want to have to try and find someone else and push the album back even more."

"Mmhmm," Bobby says, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward a bit. Hunching. "The vocalist for your duet just quit."

"What?" Ruby asks. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Are you surprised?" Bobby asks, sounding eternally exhausted. "You have a reputation for being terrible to work with. Not to mention you just accosted a man in a wheelchair."

Ruby raises her eyebrows in surprise, glancing down at Max with a shocked expression.

"I did n—"

Bobby stands and thrusts his phone into Ruby's face, a video of her slapping Max and him gazing up at her with wide eyes already playing.

"Who the fuck," She snatches Bobby's phone out of his hand. "Christ it's already got thousands of views. Why didn't my fucking PR team call me about this!?"

"I assume they tried," Bobby says, shrugging. He nods his head at Max. "Maybe you were a bit busy."

Ruby glances at Max, nostrils flaring.

"Goddammit," she hisses, shoving Bobby's phone into his chest before stomping off. Pulling her own phone out of her bag as she goes.

"Damn," Max laughs. "Didn't think anyone from the musician's lounge cared. Since they let her take me after watching her split my lip."

Bobby shrugs.

"This is gonna put a major a damper on the album, but it buys you more time to practice."

"I only have like a day before my next PT appointment," Max says.

"Gonna have to cancel," Bobby responds apologetically. "Probably gonna be here all weekend too."

"Bobs, I have to go back to Spoonerville eventually."

"You will. I promise. Just not yet."

"God, I wish I would've known you were going to hold me hostage for almost a week instead of for a single day. Would've brought a better pillow."

"You can always sleep on me, I don't mind," Bobby teases.

Max laughs.

"I think you were the one sleeping on me last night."

"Not my fault you're so warm," Bobby shrugs.

"You just like to cuddle," Max says, voice going soft. "You've always been a cuddler."

Bobby smiles down at him, hand slowly rising so he can press his thumb against the split in Max's bottom lip.

"She got you good, huh?" he whispers. Touch gentle, almost reverent.

"Slapped me twice. Had me spitting blood for almost a full minute."

Bobby frowns, moving his thumb away from Max's lip to gently caress his face.

Max leans into his touch, giving more of himself than Bobby probably deserves.

"I am sorry, Max."

"I know."

He prefers the touch of nylon-like strings to the steel ones of the fiddle. They feel more pliant beneath his fingers. Less foreign. But, as Ruby so rudely pointed out that morning, he can't always get what he wants. So, he'll suffer the steel strings of the electric violin. They're different than the strings of the fiddle he played yesterday, but not quite so comfortable as what he prefers. Still, the music makes sense to him now. Everything settling in his head in a neat little row. The slow drawling style of classic violin in direct opposition of the more quick-footed extemporized feel of the fiddle.

"You're sounding much better," Bobby says, foot bumping against Max's when he finishes going through the first song for the fifth time.

"I feel the music better when I don't have to worry about quick improvisations and a faster style," Max says, lowering the violin to rest in his lap and opening his eyes. "I've never been great at carving out my own parts."

"I think you are," Bobby says with a shrug. "You were always a stand out as a dancer. Leagues ahead of anyone else in your troupe. You really know how to use your body."

Max hums non-noncommittally. Staring down at the instrument resting against his thigh. Trying not to think about what it means to know how to use his body and all of the ways that's come to be a detriment. Instead, he lets his thoughts wander toward his career as a dancer. Thinking about it feels like he's reminiscing on a past life now. Like it's something that happened, but not to him.

"I don't know about all that," Max says.

"No use in being modest now, Maxie," Bobby says, patting Max's thigh and giving him a reassuring smile. "You're talented. Own it."

"Bobby," Max starts, laughing.

"Don't Bobby me," Bobby interrupts, taking Max's hand in his. "I've followed your whole career, man. I'm proud of you for all you've accomplished."

"You're such a fucking weirdo," Max says, smiling in spite of the strange lump in his throat.

"I like to think of myself as less of a weirdo and more of a fan," he shrugs. "Always thought of myself as lucky to be able to say I knew you when."

"Must suck now," Max says. "Now that I'm a has-been."

Bobby shakes his head, raising Max's hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Another apology. An act of absolution.

"You'll be something again," he says. "It's only a matter of time."

Chapter Text

Ruby doesn't show to the first live recording of Max's tracks. Which, considering how controlling she is and that she's the only one who knows the true vision of the album, should've given him and Bobby pause.

It

should've,

but—

They do the recording anyway.

Max listens to the track. Closing his eyes, letting the music wash over him.

It starts simple with a bass drum joined by guitar. Followed by the hi-hat. A tambourine. The ghost of a count in.

Max lets the music play.

Once,

twice—

three

times to make it feel less fragmented, less broken

like his nebulous thoughts.

Trauma creeping on the periphery,

darkness growing inside him like black mold.

Then,

he raises the violin and presses down on the strings, drawing up his bow

and

he carves out his space in Ruby's song.

A slow haunting melody stretches out in front of him.

It isn't the jauntier track she wanted with the fiddle sound, but Max thinks it's music worthy of a ballad.

And without Ruby there to tell him otherwise, who is going to stop him?

They record in stops and starts.

Frustration building in the space between them.

Ruined notes,

though much less ruined that the day before

send them Topsy-turvy through the song.

Rage at

"stop" and "again"

giving way to

the pride of

"well done" and "man i think we got it"

until finally,

finally,

Max can lay down his bow

fingers aching but unbloodied

from a job well done.

When he sets down his bow, grinning up at the booth to search for Bobby, it's Ruby's voice that fills his ears over the intercom.

"Not half bad, Goof. Not half bad."

His smile falters, but only just as he quickly tamps down the disgust blooming in his gut, eyes settling on Bobby. Ignoring Ruby entirely.

As best he can.

Bobby closes out the session.

Voice tense, words strung out as he mutters;

"One down. Two to go."

Lunch is a nearby sushi place. Bobby and Ruby tuck in to eat the second the food arrives.

Max, as he often (always) does, lingers on the fringes.

His stomach aches, but he doesn't feel stable enough to eat.

He doesn't feel present enough to be hungry. Especially since he's skipping PT to be here.

No one questions it.

He'll have time to eat once he's finally safe back home in Spoonerville. When he can actually stomach food again without feeling ill.

Or,

at least,

that's what he tells himself.

They lay down another track.

It gets easier each time. Now that he isn't so much in his head about what he can't do. All the ways he can't perform.

Now that it's something he can focus on

instead of the gaping,

gnawing feeling in his gut.

The music comes easier.

He might even be able to get out of here by tomorrow.

(he hopes,

he

hopes)

Instead of spending the entire weekend locked in a studio.

"How's your singing voice?" Ruby asks him over

a dinner

he doesn't eat

And

Max knows now that

she's never had any intention of letting him go and

he isn't getting out of this any time soon.

Max sighs, hanging his head and staring down at the hotel sheets as Della outright screams at Bobby.

The kids have made themselves scarce. Checking out the indoor pool on the bottom floor. Far, far away from Della's indomitable temper.

"You said it was going to be a day, maybe two!" She shouts, "Now you want to keep him here the whole weekend?! After you brought him back practically mauled! How the fuck did he manage to split his lip playing violin, Zimmeruski? Explain that to me."

"Della," Max sighs, looking up from the bed and meeting Della's enraged gaze. "C'mon. I'm fine. I said I was fine."

"You're fine?" Della asks, voice shrill. She throws her hands up in the air, exasperated. "You're fine? Then tell me how you split your lip, Max and don't you dare lie this time."

"It was nothing. It was stupid."

"Gonna tell me you just ran into a door?" Della asks. "Or maybe that you slipped in the shower?"

Max's stomach twists, cold washing over his skin.

"That's not fair," Max whispers, voice soft. Earning him an apologetic glance from Della when she sees how far she's pushed him.

She sighs, taking a different approach.

"You can't be away from PT for this long," Della says, voice turning softer. "Max, come on. You know you're still in recovery. Don't let this jerk take advantage of you just because you used to be friends."

"We are friends," Max defends. "Present tense. Bobby isn't a jerk and he isn't taking advantage of me, okay? I miss working in the industry. If this is the only way I get to do it now, then why not take the chance?"

Della falters, mouth opening and closing like a fish before she finally sighs in defeat.

"I'm just worried about you," Della says. "I don't want you to fall behind."

"I know this looks bad. Like I'm avoiding PT after falling last time, but I swear I'm not. I didn't plan this. It just sort of happened. We'll be back by Monday, I promise," Max says. "Plus, look at it this way. You and the kids get more time to enjoy Nashville."

"If this is what you want, Max, I'll support you," Della responds, wrinkling her nose a little, like Max's poison is too bitter for her to swallow. "I'm not entirely happy with this, but this is your life."

"It is what I want. I'm sorry to put you and the kids through this, but I have to see it to the end."

Della takes a breath, head hanging as she concedes.

"Okay," she tells him, "Okay."

"Thanks, Del," Max says, giving her a reassuring smile as he leans back into the pillows on his and Bobby's bed.

"My only stipulation is that we're back by Monday. Three PT appointments is too many to miss. I'm still not all that happy with two and I'm sure Dr. Rover won't be either."

Max grimaces.

"Yeah Roxanne is absolutely going to rip me a new one when I get back."

"And you are absolutely going to deserve it," Della grins.

"I absolutely am," Max answers with a self-deprecating laugh.

Later that evening when the kids are back and fast asleep, Max is still waning in and out of consciousness. Bobby stirs next to him, leaning across the bed to hover over Max's half asleep form. Bobby's words tickle gently against his neck.

"Still need a pillow?" he asks, gently coaxing Max to rest his head against his chest.

Max sighs against the soft fabric of Bobby's sleep shirt.

"I've missed this," Max says sleepily.

"We've never done this before," Bobby answers.

"Just miss feeling close to someone," Max says, rubbing his cheek against Bobby's chest. Taking in the scent of him. Hotel soap and sweat. "Used to do this all the time. End up in someone's bed. Sleeping just like this."

"You really know how to make a guy feel special," Bobby chuckles.

"You're not special," Max sighs, resting his hand against Bobby's diaphragm. "You're just another guy. Using me just the same as everyone else."

"Max, I—"

"I'm not angry," Max says, smoothing his hand gently up Bobby's chest to rest just above his heart. "You don't have to keep apologizing. I just want to make sure you remember your place in my life, Bobby. Don't get too comfortable. You still aren't forgiven."

"Okay," Bobby responds, voice soft and strained like he's about to cry. He rests his hand on the back of Max's neck and squeezes gently. "Okay."

"Good-night, Bobs."

"Yeah. G'night, Maxie."

Chapter Text

Sunlight streams in from the open curtains, shining directly in Max's eyes when he stirs. He groans, raising his hand from Bobby's chest to shield his eyes from the brightness of the light.

"You two sure do like to cuddle a lot," Dewey remarks, stepping between Max and the window. Blessedly blocking out the sun. "Something you wanna share with the class?"

"Nah," Max grunts, rolling over on his back and raising his arms over his head. Limbs trembling a little as he stretches out his sleepy muscles.

"All I'm saying is that it seems a little suspicious," Dewey continues. "For the two of you to be sharing a bed."

"Yeah well. We're friends," Max groans, twisting in the sheets so he can sit up. "You'll understand when you're older."

"Dude I'm sixteen. I'm not a baby or an idiot," Dewey says, clicking his tongue and placing his hands on his hips.

"Why are you asking me about this?" Max asks, scrubbing his hands over his face before turning to Dewey and arching an eyebrow.

"Are you two, like, a thing?"

"Definitely not," Max laughs. "I literally just told you. We're friends. Besides, I would never."

"Hurtful," Bobby grumbles sleepily.

"Then why?" Dewey gestures vaguely to where Bobby's hand is still resting on Max's hip.

"You'll understand when you're older," Max shrugs.

"That's such a bullshit answer, dude."

Max shrugs again, raising his shoulders higher.

"Sometimes," Bobby begins, yawning and releasing Max's hip to stretch his arms over his head. "When two people love each other—"

"You're both so blech," Dewey sighs.

"Where's everyone else?" Max asks, nodding to the empty room. "Are they over on your mom's side?"

"Everyone else went downstairs to get breakfast. We drew straws to see who would have to stay behind and wake you two up."

Max blinks in confusion.

"Why didn't your mom just wake us before everyone went downstairs?"

"She tried. A few times. You weren't lying when you said you sleep like the dead," Dewey says.

"There was no point in you staying behind," Max answers. "You could've gone down with everyone. There wasn't any reason to draw straws."

"Mom said not to leave you two alone together," Dewey says.

Max lets out a breath.

"Ah," he responds, ignoring the confused look from Bobby.

"Still doesn't trust me alone with her beloved nephew, huh?" Bobby asks, sitting up and putting his feet on the floor. "I'm not gonna deflower him if that's what she's so worried about."

"Gross, dude," Dewey gripes, slapping his hands over his ears. "Don't talk like that."

"Dude stop being gross in front of my cousin," Max says, trying and failing to keep a straight face as he admonishes Bobby, "It's like barely nine A-M. Take it down a notch."

"Thank you," Dewey says, lowering his hands.

"I've already been deflowered a million times over anyway," Max says, laughing at the horrified look Dewey gives him.

"Dude!" He shouts, clapping his hands over his ears again.

"Dude!" Max mocks back, moving across the bed so he can grab Dewey's wrist and lower one of his hands, "go downstairs and get some breakfast. Send your mom back up, we'll be fine alone for a few minutes. I'm gonna go take a shower."

Dewey winces a little.

"Man, I promise I'm not gonna perform any hankus pankus on your cousin," Bobby laughs. "We'll be up here remaining mostly virginal until your mom comes back."

"I hope that when I'm your age I'm not gross and weird," Dewey says.

"You will be," Max and Bobby say in unison.

"Terrible. I don't like that," Dewey says, shaking his head. "I'm just gonna call my mom. I don't trust the two of you not to get gross with me gone and we all have to sleep in here."

"The maids'll change the sheets. You'll never have to know," Bobby says, laying back across the bed ti lay his head on Max's lower back just above his ass. The sensation is strange, but not quite painful.

"Oh my God," Dewey groans. "You're both the worst."

"Get off me, man," Max laughs, shoving Bobby away and onto the bed. "I'm gonna go shower."

"I can carry you to the bathroom if you want," Bobby says, tipping his head back to watch Max ease off the bed and into his chair.

"I'm sure I can manage," Max says. "That way Dewey doesn't have to stand out here and be worried that you're seeing me naked."

"Oh my God," Dewey groans. "Now I know why we had to draw straws this is the worst thing ever."

"Come on Deuteronomy, where's your sense of adventure?" Max asks, unlocking his wheels and pushing his chair forward. "You used to be more fun. Guess Huey's rubbing off on you."

Dewey sighs and tips his head back to glare up at the ceiling.

"You're too young to look so tortured," Bobby says.

"And you're too old to be this childish, but here we are," Dewey responds.

"Damn, roasted by a teenage party pooper," Bobby laughs. "However will I cope?"

"Just call your mom," Max says. "Della knows how to deal with Bobby's specific brand of idiocy."

"Is he gonna be staying with us the whole time we're in Nashville?" Dewey asks.

"Yep," Max says.

"He can't get his own hotel room?"

"Nope," Bobby answers.

"Better get used to him now," Max says, turning his chair down the hallway to the bathroom. "I promise once you figure out his uncouth sense of humor he's a lot more fun."

"Again," Bobby says, "hurtful."

"Get over it," Max responds, flashing Bobby a wide grin before wheeling into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

He wheels himself past the mirror. Refusing to look at his reflection. Ignoring the frenzied beating of his heart as he gets used to the silence of being alone. Darkness stirring on the edges of his mind.

All the thoughts and feelings he keeps shoving

down and

putting off

rise to the surface

floating like broken ice

on a frozen lake;

it's almost suffocating

how much it hurts

when he has no one left to perform for

no script to follow so he can be

okay or

fine or

even good.

When really,

he's nothing but a hollow-filled ache,

a stain of humanity

skin smeared over bones

given autonomy

but never really given a choice.

He can't even face himself in the mirror

too terrified

of what he'll find

looking back at him.

The water does little to wash away his sins.

Being at the studio is different today. It's more muted. Somber.

Max's thoughts are barely lucid.

As he tries to keep his thoughts from straying into

dangerous territory.

Eyesight swimming.

His stomach growls.

Headache after headache

blossoming behind his eyes

from the tension

in his jaw.

Painkillers eating away at

the slow build of

the storm inside of him.

He feels sick, but

he's always been better at treading these murky

unknowable

waters

when he's less present

less able to discern

where each line should be drawn

(to

protect

him)

for stability.

"You're shit today, Max," Ruby's voice crackles from the booth into his headphones. "Do it again. Better this time."

"Great pep talk, Ruby," Max deadpans, lowering the violin to rest it in his lap. in an effort to give himself a few moments to recover before

once

again

starting from the top.

Shoulders tense with Ruby's admonishments

resting just there in his limbs

poisoning his muscles with each smooth glide of his bow.

Who knew the last song would be the hardest?

The stops,

The starts,

the

"Do it again. From the top."

"From the top."

"From the top."

"Again."

and, resolutely,

"If you don't get it down by lunch, we'll probably be here all night."

He doesn't get it down by lunch.

Much to the eternal frustration of everyone.

The live room is booked for the rest of day.

"You were so good on the first two," Ruby complains, stomping her feet next to him while he wheels down the hallway toward the kitchen. Bobby walks a little ahead, talking on the phone with their food delivery driver. "What fucking happened, Max?"

He sighs.

Max wishes he knew

(he absolutely knows,

darkness and disgust swimming around

and around

and around

beneath his skin,

choking out his thoughts as he tries

desperately

to maintain status quo

he just

can't admit to it).

"You should eat something," Bobby says, voice soft and laced with concern as he pulls Max from his thoughts.

They're all sat around a table, plates of Chinese takeout between them.

The sight and smell of it makes Max's stomach turn.

Though,

for the life of him,

he doesn't know if that's because of hunger,

or disgust.

"Not really all that hungry," Max answers. His voice sounds empty. Far away. "I'll eat later."

Bobby watches him for a long time after that.

But,

ultimately,

says nothing.

Just like the coward he is.

When another booth finally frees up, they make the executive decision to give Max a break.

"We can't keep wasting time on you sucking," Ruby says before she disappears into the studio, leaving Max and Bobby alone in the darkness of the booth. Silence following in her wake.

The eerie glow of flashing LEDs permeating the dim light.

Max and Bobby sit side-by-side. Alone for the first time outside of the car. Where it's easy to turn on music and ignore each other. Now there's nothing but silence and waiting between them as they watch Ruby prepare to record.

The darkness of the room makes him feel haunted.

Honest.

The soft buzz of electronics pulling thoughts he's tired to bury to the forefront of his mind.

He meant it when he said he didn't want to be alone with him.

Couldn't be alone with him.

But here they are.

In the dark.

Wrapped in a pregnant silence that feels inevitable.

Two objects colliding.

It doesn't take long before Max can't hold back anymore and every ounce of anxious curiosity he's built over the past days comes tumbling free.

"How long?" Max asks because he simply cannot help it. He needs to know how bad this is. How much of a hole Bobby's dug himself into to.

If he'll still be able to be saved.

If once they're finished with this. With paying off this debt, Bobby will be willing and able to move forward.

"I don't want to talk about this with you, Max," Bobby whispers, keeping his eyes glued on Ruby, waiting for her signal to begin recording.

"You brought me into this, Bobby. You flew me out from Spoonerville to get me involved in some deep fucking shit, man. And I've given you space. I've tried to let you come to me about it. You haven't. So. The least you can do is tell me how you got involved in it."

"Is that why Dewey wouldn't let us be alone? Because you were giving me the space to come talk to you about it? Because last I checked, Max, we haven't had a single moment alone since the start. When would I have been able to come to you?"

Max swallows audibly. Taking in a shaky breath.

"You had ample time to bring this up in the car. Don't act like you didn't. And Dewey being irritating has nothing to do with this. He's just a kid."

"Doesn't he?" Bobby asks, defensive. "If not him and the rest of your little cousins then definitely Della. Who hates me, by the way. Wonder what you've told her."

"I haven't told Della shit, Bobs. You garnered her animosity on your own. Considering you haven't exactly been the best guest. Or friend," Max sighs heavily, slumping forward a little in his chair, defeated. "Just tell me. How long? When did it start? How did it start?"

Bobby shrugs, clenching his teeth. The muscles in his jaw working as they grind.

At first, Max thinks he isn't going to answer. That he's going to put this off until Ruby tells him to start and they have to sit silently, listening to her sing. Waiting for her starts and stops.

Then,

"It just happened, okay?" Bobby whispers harshly, head bowed in shame. Gaze slipping from ruby to stare down at the audio controls. He takes a deep, shaky breath. "And now it keeps happening."

Max exhales. Steeling himself against the onslaught of memories this conversation kicks up.

All the things he said back then. All the things he'll need to say now.

"You need help," Max says, trying to sound as gentle as possible while still being firm. "You can't keep doing this. If you stay on it, it's going to kill you one day."

"It might."

"No, Bobby," Max implores. "There is no might. It will. This will kill you unless you can come back from it."

"Max, it's fine, I have it under control."

It's Max's turn to clench his teeth. Heart squeezing painfully in his chest. Memory stuck between the past and present. The dead and the living.

And,

all the things he wishes he knew then.

"Then why bring me here? Why sell the idea of me to Ruby for your next fix? If you have it under control."

"You know as well as I do why," Bobby says. His tone is clipped, accusatory. "I'm not the only one that's picked up new vices."

Max blinks in surprise.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks, immediately on the defensive. "I'm not on drugs, Bobby. The painkillers are prescription. I have a sp—"

"You're skin and bones, Max," Bobby interrupts. "You didn't eat lunch or dinner yesterday. Or the day before. You didn't eat lunch today. I'm not stupid, man. I notice things. Especially things like that. What are you trying to do? Starve yourself? There's barely enough of you left to starve."

Max's heart beats wildly in his chest. Fear prickling on his skin. Wilting beneath the relentless endeavor of being seen.

Perceived.

"The pain medication makes me sick," Max lies, ignoring the anxiety that builds in his gut at Bobby's accusation.

"So go off it."

"It isn't that simple."

"I'm sure your doctor would be happy to provide you with an alternative, Max. Maybe a little ganja to help with the appetite. You look like you need to put on at least twenty pounds to be healthy."

Max clenches his teeth.

Like he's one to talk.

"How long has it been since you used?" Max asks, changing the subject. He doesn't want to deal with this. Doesn't want to go down this path with Bobby. He barely escaped when it was Della.

Bobby isn't half as kind.

Not right now at least.

"You know," Bobby answers.

"This morning?"

"Yep."

"How much are you using? How many bags a day?"

"Max, please. I told you I don't want to talk about this."

"I think I have a right to know. Since I'm being presented as payment for your debt." Max says. "She's already gotten me once. Only a matter of time before it happens again. I'd like to know how out of my depth I am here, Bobby. I think I deserve that much. Just tell me."

"I don't know."

"You don't know or or don't want to say?"

"Max."

"Didn't you discuss this with Ruby beforehand? What were her terms?"

"I owe her a lot of money, Max. Her terms were pay her the money or bring you here. Whether she wants you to lay down tracks, fuck her, or both, I don't know. It's none of my business. Ruby has always been a bit of a wild card like that. You should know better than most her whole deal."

"None of your business?" Max guffaws, "I think it's absolutely your business, Bobby. Especially considering what you've done."

"Max," Bobby sighs, sounding defeated.

"Do you owe her more than two, almost three grand?" Max asks, continuing to push.

"Why does that matter?" Bobby questions.

"Do you owe her more than the cost of bringing me here or are you just fucking with me at this point?"

Bobby goes quiet. Fists clenching.

"There's more to it than the money isn't there? Are you trying to take me down a peg? Punish me for leaving back in college?" Max asks.

"Max, I told you I didn't want to talk about this."

"I have a right to know what you promised her, Bobby. It's my body."

"Max, please."

"How long will me fucking her hook you up?" Max pushes. "What did she promise you?"

"I told you that I'm not pimping you out for drugs, Max, just drop it."

"You don't think she's going to want that?" Max asks. "Bringing me all the way here from my dads just to play fiddle on a shitty country album? There's more to it than that, Bobby. I'm not an idiot. Ruby always did like a well sweetened pot."

"Drop it, dude," Bobby growls, "If it comes to that—"

"It's already come to that," Max hisses, hating how his eyes burn with unshed tears. How choked up he sounds. "She's already—"

"I didn't, like, expressly agree to that beforehand, man. I told her you still had autonomy. That if you didn't want to fuck her you then you shouldn't have to."

Max laughs, shaking his head.

"See, that's the problem with these kinds of deals, Bobby," Max says, turning his head away from Bobby and toward where Ruby is watching them, brown eyes glittering with curiosity. She smiles slow and winks at him, tongue darting out to wet her red lips. Max's skin crawls with disgust. He swallows down the bile that rises in the back of his throat. "In the end she isn't going to give me an option. Either I play her little games and I fuck her, or you get blackballed by every plug she can get her greedy little hands on."

Bobby sighs. His misery tell-tale of just how deep he knows he's fucked them both.

"I really am sorry, Max. I don't know what else you want me to say."

Max shakes his head, baring his teeth to Ruby who is still watching him. To her, in that sound proof room, it probably looks like a smile and not the death throes of his autonomy.

"Nothing you can say. Isn't the first time someone's done this to me. Probably won't be the last."

In his periphery, he sees Bobby turn to gape at him. A horrified expression crossing over his face.

Max doesn't give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. Or giving him the comfort of seeing how truly well and okay he is with this.

Being used.

Sold to the highest bidder.

In the end,

Sex is just sex.

His body is

a vessel

for pleasuring others

something created for

getting ahead

and making deals.

It's easy

to separate his psyche

from the physical

when he knows all he

(is)

and all he

(brings)

to the table

is a pretty thing to look at.

"Ready boys?" Ruby's voice carries over the mic and into their ears. Growing dissatisfied with watching. Anxious to begin. She interrupts the dark and twisted silence of Max's admission and Bobby's answering guilt.

Bobby turns

in

slow

motion.

His gaze only leaving Max when it absolutely has to. He presses a button on the control. Static crackling for a split second in Max's headphones.

"Ready," Bobby says and presses play on the track he spent the better part of the afternoon mixing. Imperfect raw music fills their headphones. The smooth sound of Max's violin breaking through.

Singing a sullen soliloquy.

Bobby counts her in.

And,

she misses the mark.

And

over and

over

they start again.

Until none of them can remember the end from the beginning.

Chapter Text

Della paces the thinly carpeted floor in front of them like an agitated mama cat. Going to and fro across the thin strip of carpet between Max's bed and the bed Huey and Louie are sharing.

Bobby watches from Max's bed, leaning back on his hands. Max can tell he's trying to look nonchalant, but the way he flinches every time Della stops to angrily run her fingers through her hair absolutely gives him away.

Max is watching both of them sitting safely several feet away in his chair.

This is the fourth fight Bobby and Della have had this morning alone. Last time Della whipped a pillow at Bobby so hard it bounced off his face and very nearly hit Max.

This time, he's not taking any chances.

"We've been here four days and you're still not done?" Della asks. "I thought you just needed him for violin on three tracks. How is that not doable in four days?"

"Ruby wants him to do vocals on a duet," Bobby answers, shrugging. His eyes are downcast, frown pulling on the edges of his lips.

"And it's whatever Ruby wants, Ruby gets is it?" Della snaps.

"I mean, kind of, yeah," Bobby says. Not helping the situation at all.

Della gives Bobby an annoyed borderline murderous look.

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture, heaving out a put-upon sigh.

"She's my client," he clarifies. "I'm trying to make this go smoothly so she doesn't ruin my career before it gets started. She has the power to completely crush me in the industry if she wants. So."

"And you need my nephew at your beck and call for an entire week to do that?" Della asks, hands on her hips. "He can't have a single day to enjoy Nashville with his family?"

"That isn't really my call," Bobby responds, voice wavering a little when Della gapes at him.

"Not really your—" She stops pacing, throwing her hands up in the air in frustration. Her next words coming out in a booming, frustrated voice that Max swears rattles the pictures on the walls a little bit, "Not your call!?"

"Aunt Della," Max sighs, finally interjecting himself into the conversation. Despite his concerns about his own safety.

Both Della and Bobby turn to regard him.

Bobby with a sheepish, somewhat grateful grin.

Della with barely concealed rage, eyebrows raising high on her forehead as she waits for him to explain himself.

"Ruby is the daughter of the most affluent person in the music industry. It's imperative that Bobby keep her happy or this could bite him in the ass. I understood what I was getting in to when I started this. Even I know better than to piss off Ruby Matoile," Max explains, trying to keep his voice low and gentle. Ignoring the way his heart throbs painfully in his chest as he tries to cover for someone who deliberately lied to him. "I don't mind. Really."

"Must be important if you're using big fancy words like imperative," Louie interrupts, appearing in the doorway to Della's half of the suite. Stinking of chlorine and still wet from the pool. White hotel towel wrapped around his neck to catch the beads of water that flow down from his hairline.

Della bites her lip, giving Louie a guilty look.

"How long have the four of you been back?"

"Long enough to hear you ripping Max's boyfriend a new one," Louie says with a shrug. "We drew straws to see who would come ask what we're having for lunch."

"He's not my boyfriend," Max sighs, rolling his eyes.

No one pays him any mind.

"Is it that late already?" Della asks, pulling her phone out of her pocket to check the time.

"It's almost two," Louie says.

"Shit," Bobby groans, pulling his own phone out of his pocket and staring down at it. "We've got studio time in less than an hour, Max. We gotta go."

"We're not done with this conversation," Della says.

"Really?" Bobby asks, some semblance of either idiocy or bravery washing over him as he stands, "cause I'm pretty done with it."

"Dude," Max sighs. "Please try not to antagonize my aunt more than you already have. She's the only reason I'm able to be here. You could be a little nicer."

"Della giveth and Della can sure as hell taketh away, Zimmeruski," Della growls threateningly. "Remember that."

"I'm being plenty nice," Bobby defends, crossing his arms over his chest and laying back on the bed with a huff.

Max can already tell he's starting to get irritable. Can see the sweat forming on his forehead. The slight tremble in his hands.

After their talk in the booth yesterday, Bobby hasn't used again. Like he's trying to prove a point. Except, Max knows all to well that withdrawal only takes a few hours to kick in. Heroin isn't something that can be kicked cold turkey.

"You're really not," Louie says from the doorway, pretending to inspect his nails.

Max sighs for probably the millionth time since he woke up that morning.

"Alright," he says, before anyone else can speak and make this situation even more annoying than it already is. "Bobby and I are gonna go."

"Max," Della warns, giving him an annoyed look.

"You knew I was coming here to work," Max says as gently as he can. "You said you were okay with this."

"I said I would respect your choices," Della counters. "Not that I was okay with all this. I still think you're making a mistake by skipping PT."

"You worry too much, Aunt Della," Max says, giving her his best 'I'm okay, I promise' grin. "It's only a few more days."

"And then it'll be a few more, and a few more, and a few more," Della growls, frustrated. "You've been saying it's going to just be a few more days since we got here. So forgive me if I don't have much hope for you being okay to return by Monday."

"I told you I would," Max says. "I promised I wouldn't miss about PT appointment, didn't I? Can't that be enough?"

"You've already missed two what's one more?" Della pushes, "or two more, or three more, or a whole month, Max. It's a slippery slope and you're still in recovery. Don't you want to get back on your feet?"

Max rolls his eyes.

"Della, I get that you're not fond of Bobby and you're frustrated that we've been here for so long, but you've never had any issues with trusting me before. Why now?"

"Maybe it's I've never had any issues with you keeping things from me before now, Max."

"What are you talking about?" Max asks, hands gripping the arms of his chair to hide the way he shifts nervously in his seat. Della has always been observant. Much moreso than both his dads. To the point where he's always found it difficult to hide things from her for long. If she's noticed something it's only a matter of time before Max's lies unravel. "I'm not keeping anything from you."

Della hangs her head.

"I really wish you hadn't said that," she says, turning to look at Louie with pleading eyes. Silently begging him to leave the room.

"What?" he asks, ever defiant. "I want to hear what Max is lying about too. It's the least you can do since I had to walk all the way in here to ask about lunch and, oh yeah, still haven't gotten lunch."

"Louie," Della sighs. "This is a grown up conversation."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Yeah. That line barely worked on me when I was, like, twelve and it definitely isn't going to work now."

Della sighs again.

"Alright. Whatever. Guess we'll have to talk about this later," she says, turning and walking back toward her room. "Have a good time, Max. If you aren't ready to go back by Monday, I'm leaving you here and you'll have to fly back commercial."

"I haven't even done anything wrong!" Max laughs. "I don't understand why I have to be punished."

Della turns her head and glares at him from the doorway.

"You know you did," she says, voice low and serious. Gaze darting toward Louie, then to Bobby, before finally settling back on Max, "we will be talking about this later."

She wraps her arm around Louie's shoulder, pulling him back into her suite with her despite his protests. Slamming the door behind them.

"Jesus," Max says.

"Your aunt sure is a fire cracker," Bobby says with a disconcertingly dreamy tone.

"Dude don't say that," Max grimaces, wrinkling his nose in distaste, "She's got a temper and she worries about me. Let's move on."

"You're basically one of her kids," Bobby teases, sitting back up on the bed and smirking at Max.

"Dude she didn't even met me until I was a teenager," Max answers. "We've only known each other for a few years."

"So have her and her kids," Bobby shrugs. "You forget I was around when she first came back. I remember what it was like."

"I mean, you weren't really around, around, were you?" Max asks, eyes squinting a little as he tries to remember. "It's not like you were in Duckburg with me."

"I spent the last two summers before college with you there, Max. I still have a pretty good memory. Despite all the drugs. I remember the uproar. I also remember how you got sucked up in the drama of her coming back and how Della became a strong female presence in your life. One you haven't had since your mo—"

"Okay, Bobby. I get it," Max interrupts. Not wanting to go down a rabbit hole where he has to discuss his dead mother. Not while he knows he has to perform on all cylinders today. He's not sure he would survive the emotional fallout. "Della treats me like I'm one of her boys. Happy now?"

"If it helps, she treats Webby the same way," Bobby shrugs. "I think maybe she's overcompensating since she missed out on parenting her kids for a good portion of their lives. That would fuck up anyone."

"So, what, you're on her side now?"

"Nah, bro," Bobby laughs. "I'm just saying. I don't have to be on her side to see her perspective. I just have a different system of belief. One where you and I make it out of this without getting our asses kicked by Ruby or her dad."

"I think the worst part of this is we could've avoided this entire situation," Max says pointedly.

"If only," Bobby responds.

Max clenches his teeth, but doesn't say anything otherwise. He's not sure he can keep resentment from bleeding into his words.

And

if he's learned anything,

from all his years of surviving

this machine created to destroy

everything in its path

to entertain;

honeyed words

are a far better trap

than a sharp tongue.

The studio is dark.

LEDs blinking on and off,

glimmering in the dim light and

capturing his attention.

Pulling him away from the heat

of someone else's body pressed to his.

Focus turning toward the gentle thrum of the air conditioning,

but simple things like this cannot hold his attention forever

cannot keep him from slipping in

and out

of this moment

where

Ruby's breath is hot against his throat.

The red pigment on her lips

waxy against his skin.

He can feel the way it peels between their bodies.

Oil and spit sticking.

Marking.

From her mouth to his neck.

Until all he can think is

Damn.

Bobby's been gone for awhile.

Then,

I should've known.

Really. Max should've put two and two together before now. The silent, tense way Bobby left the room after Ruby whispered something in his ear was a dead giveaway. The way his gaze found Max, green eyes watery and pleading.

He should've known.

He should know by now how to read a room,

but still, even after all this time

denial is still more powerful than deduction.

The color on her lips is brighter than usual.

Rich ruby red turned scarlet.

Branding him Hester.

"Doesn't someone else have this studio booked?" Max asks, trying to change the subject away from this to something else. Anything. Disgust rising up from the pit of his stomach with every press of Ruby's lips to his skin.

"It's a slow day today," Ruby says, tilting her head so she can run her tongue along the shell of Max's ear.

Max only just bites back the urge to gag.

"Maybe we should go somewhere else," he says, turning his head away to try and put more space between them under the guise of extending his throat to give her more access. He just needs a moment. A breath, Without the feeling of her mouth on his skin.

"Don't act like you and Christina didn't get up to shit like this all the time," Ruby groans, clicking her tongue in irritation. "I know you've been to her recording sessions before."

"Is that what you want?" Max asks, pulling Ruby's face away from his throat by her hair and scraping his teeth along her shoulder. "For me to treat you the same way I treated Christina? You want to pretend to be her?"

"No," Ruby says, body going slack in his hands as she leans into his touch.

"Or maybe," Max continues, rolling her skin between his teeth before nuzzling her ear, continuing in a breathy whisper, "you want to pretend to be me. Fucking her. Wrapping your red lips around her clit like you know you'd ne—"

"Shut up," Ruby hisses, wrapping her hands around his throat and shoving him backward. Trying to maintain some semblance of control over the situation.

"That's not what I want and you know it," she continues, but she can't hide the way her body reacts to the fantasy. Hardened nipples pressing against him through the sheer fabric of her dress. Hips grinding down against him. The apex of her thighs meeting the

softness

of his cock.

Ruby stares down between them, forehead wrinkling as she clicks her tongue in distaste.

"You're supposed to be fucking me," Ruby groans, hips grinding down harder with more intent.

Max's cock doesn't so much as twitch in response.

"Why aren't you more excited?" Ruby asks, gaze moving from his lap back up toward his face. She looks disappointed.

Max shakes his head.

"Give me something to be excited about and I'll get excited," Max shrugs, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. Knowing full well that if he hasn't gotten hard by now, it's likely it won't happen and all of this would be for naught.

"You're such a bastard," Ruby says, freeing herself from his lap and moving the the small black couch in the corner of the booth. She beckons for him to follow with a quirk of her finger.

Max grabs his wheels and pushes, only for Ruby to extend her leg, pressing her shiny red heels between his thighs and stopping his chair from moving forward.

"Uh-uh," she says, pushing the toe of her pumps more insistently against his balls. Pressing until Max inhales sharply. "Want you to get up and walk. Crawl if you have to. I want you on your knees."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not very adept at walking or getting on my knees," Max argues, looking up from Ruby's foot to meet her gaze.

She's watching him with hooded eyes and parted lips. Scarlet lipstick smudged, painting the pale skin around her mouth.

"I'm sure you can manage just this once."

"Traumatic injuries don't work like that," Max answers, pushing her foot from between his legs and rolling closer. Only to be stopped when she leans forward, hands resting on his knees to still him.

"Come on, Maxie," Ruby pouts. Long black hair spilling over her shoulders to obscure her face. "Humor me."

Max rolls his eyes.

But he already knows he'll concede.

It isn't like he has a choice.

"Fine," he says, reaching down and pulling the lock on his wheels. "Back up. Give me some room."

Ruby smirks and leans away, relaxing into the couch as she watches him expectantly. Fingertips playing with the hem of her dress. A tight black satin mini she's wearing beneath an over-sized red blazer.

Max places his feet on the floor, kicking up the foot rests of his chair to get them out of the way. Then he moves his hips forward. Hands gripping the arm rests. He takes his time, but he knows he's only staving off the inevitable.

This is going to happen regardless of how much he wishes it wouldn't.

Ruby watches him, like a predator watching prey. Fingertips tracing over the exposed skin of her bosom, blazer falling down over her shoulders to bare her arms. Exposing her supple, creamy white skin.

It would be sexy, Max thinks, if he weren't so put out.

"Go on," Ruby urges when Max stills for a moment to catch his breath. Knees and thighs already burning from the effort as he lowers himself to the floor at an agonizingly glacial pace. "We don't have all day."

Max huffs out a disapproving sound.

"I'm going," he says testily, giving Ruby a hard look just as his knees touch the ground. Pins and needles prickling up and down his thighs. His grip strength falters sending him careening down the rest of the way with a hard thud.

"Good boy," Ruby giggles, tone mocking, raising her foot to rest it on Max's shoulder. A bastardization of knighting. While she urges him forward with the press of her heel into his back. Grinning as he slowly crawls across the floor to meet her. "You look so fucking pretty like this, don't you? On your knees for me. Bet you don't do this for just anyone."

Max snorts.

"It's not as if I have a choice," he snaps, hands coming up to rest on the cushion between Ruby's thighs.

"Whatever, Max," Ruby sighs, eyes rolling.

"What? Did you want me to tell you you're special?" Max asks, ignoring the twist in his gut when his thoughts turn to Bradley. How often has he said those same words to him?

When he knows now,

without a doubt,

he is.

When in comparison to this

Bradley is something

undeniable.

"I know I'm special," Ruby says, sitting forward and placing her hand gently on the top of Max's head. "You don't seem like the type of guy who spends a lot of time on his knees."

Max grunts, wincing as he shuffles across the thinly carpeted floor, pins and needles climbing up his limbs like fire ants.

"Calling me sacrilegious?" Max asks, trying to change the subject away from his sexual proclivities. To keep his thoughts from wandering back to Bradley. He moves his hands from where they rest on the cushion to settle on Ruby's knees. Watching as she spreads her legs, tight satin skirt rolling up her thighs.

Ruby shrugs, fingers curling beneath the skirt of her dress and hiking it up the rest of the way, revealing the thin, see-through material of her black panties.

"If the shoe fits," she says, scooting forward and spreading her legs wider. Giving Max more access.

Max ignores the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach

pushes back

against the apprehension.

He can do this,

he can do this,

he can.

This isn't the first time he's been in a situation like this. Where disgust outweighs his arousal. The fix is simple. It should be a no-brainer. All he has to do is turn off his brain and let his body take over.

Let his anxious thoughts blur into sensation and offer the animal side of him full control. Debase himself all the way

down

to his core.

Until he isn't anything but id.

Unconscious desire.

Except

he can't quite cut off his thoughts.

Not when it feels like he's staring down the barrel of a smoking gun.

Prey waiting to be consumed

by the apex predator.

And

God,

He's so tired

of spending so much of his time settling debts

and settling scores.

Allowing himself to be taken advantage of for the sake of holding his place in an industry that dropped him the second he was no longer useful.

Doing this with Ruby doesn't serve him.

It won't make him happy.

He doubts it'll even really save Bobby.

This is only a band-aid on a larger issue. It feeds Bobby's addiction. Keeps him in the same circumstances that started it in the first place, all it really does is ease some of the pressure.

Buys time.

Infinitesimal space.

Finite peace.

So,

in a way,

he's honor bound.

Or,

whatever it is he has to tell himself

to get through this.

His cock doesn't even so much as stir when Ruby spreads her legs wider, the scent of her arousal wafting into his nose. The heel of her shoe digging into the side of his rib cage, urging him closer.

He remembers doing something like this with Christina. Body beneath him on a studio couch just like this. Legs wound around his shoulders. Ankles crossed, stiletto heels pressing against his spine.

Thinking of that moment now makes him feel like he's tarnishing the memory. To compare something so transactional to something so passionate.

Though he can't help the way his thoughts wander

or how he thinks maybe even then he hadn't been

entirely into it

the realization tugging something

loose

in his chest.

His eyes burn.

He clenches his fists.

And,

"Well?" Ruby asks, stroking her heel over his back, pressing just above the centre of his spine. Choking the breath from his lungs and bringing tears to his lash line. "What are you waiting for?"

Max can't quite

catch his breath.

Panic clawing at his throat

like creeping vines.

He shoves it down

with the bile that rises in the back of his throat.

Pushing himself down deep

until he can focus on action

instead of emotion

lust and not

desire.

He tilts his head, rubbing his cheek gently against the smooth skin of Ruby's thigh. Ignoring the way his stomach twists, waves of disgust radiating over his skin, at the sound of her excited gasp.

He forces his thoughts to terminate

pretending his brain is severed from his body

imagining the cut in his spinal cord

just below his shoulder blades

and covets the agony of his nerves dying

in preference to this loss of autonomy

of person hood

until he is nothing but

unfeeling,

uncaring,

action.

He kisses the crease of Ruby's knee, following the line of her saphenous nerve. He can feel the rapid beat of her heart against his mouth. Fluttering like hummingbird wings as he moves higher and higher until he can his tongue along the crease of her thigh. Wincing when he feels her heel press into the center of his back. A few inches above his surgical scar.

It takes everything in him not to recoil.

To put an end to this and bolt.

He grabs her leg, pushing it up toward her to get it off of his back under the guise of eagerness to push her thighs open wider. The skirt of her dress pushes higher. From her upper thighs, over her hips, to rest at the center of her abdomen.

Ruby hums, smirking down at him with half-lidded eyes as he continues to tease. Pressing gentle kisses from the crease of her thigh across her pubic mound.

"Are you going to tease all night or are you going to fuck me?" Ruby asks, tracing her fingernails across the line of his jaw. Her touch his gentle, but Max knows better than to accept it as kindness or mercy.

He takes a breath, resting his cheek against Ruby's bare thigh and gazing up at her from beneath his lashes. Making himself as pretty as he can to smooth down her ragged edges and barbed tongue.

Fawning.

For when fight

and flight

both fall short.

"Since I know how much Hollywood loves to gossip, I'm sure you've already know," Max begins, lowering Ruby's leg to rest on his shoulder once more. "I'm impotent. So, either you settle for my mouth and my fingers, or you get nothing at all."

"They do have pills that can fix your little problem, you know," Ruby answers, moving her hand a little higher to gently stroke her knuckles across Max's cheek. "And I've got a pretty blue pill with your name on it."

Max lets his eyes flutter closed. Continuing to play the part Ruby expects him to play.

"It's funny that you think Christina and I didn't already try that," Max says, "or do you think you're better than her? That you alone can make me hard when Viagra didn't work?"

His cock is still soft in his jeans. Not even so much as a twitch.

He used to be better at this. Getting hard for people he doesn't want to fuck,

but

he can't get past the disgust he feels as he opens his eyes and stares down at the front of Ruby's sheer black panties. There's a wet spot from her arousal, something that used to absolutely turn him on, but now only makes him feel revulsion.

"Viagra doesn't work all the time. Maybe it wasn't your speed in the early days," Ruby suggests. "Maybe it'll work now."

Max shakes his head.

"It doesn't work," he says, hooking his fingers in the wast of her underwear and tugging them down. He can't keep staring at that spot.

Not when looking at it twists his stomach.

"How do you know it won't work if you don't try?" Ruby asks, reaching down to grab Max's chin and force him to look up at her.

"Can't you just be content with this?" Max asks, freeing himself from her grasp and lowering his head to lap softly at her cunt. Smirking when he hears her gasp. "Let me please you this way. Viagra is embarrassing, Ruby. I don't wa—"

"Shut up and take it," Ruby sighs, sinking her fingers into Max's hair and pulling his head back up to meet her narrowed gaze. "Everybody needs a little bit of help sometimes. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

She releases his hair, leaning over the couch to rummage through her purse where it's sitting on the floor next to the arm rest. When she comes back up she's holding an orange prescription container with the label peeled off. Some of the sticky white residue still clinging to the sides.

He can see the little blue pills inside. Colored gray in the dim light and from the offset of the orange.

Ruby shakes them in his face, offering him the bottle.

Max doesn't take it.

"Don't act like that, Maxie," Ruby pouts. "I just want to get what I paid for."

Max ignores the shiver that runs down his spine. Only just holds back the startled, anguished breath that threatens to give away just how affected he is by this. Pushing himself to go through with something he doesn't want.

Ruby's needs don't cater to his wants. There's no pleasure or pain or anything. It's just her, legs spread, cunt on full display. Waiting for him to bury himself inside of her.

His thighs tremble beneath his weight. Legs aching against the hard surface of the floor. The thin carpet doing nothing to cushion his knees.

He feels almost bored by how typical this is.

How transactional.

It would be better if she'd hurt him.

Degrade him.

Do something.

Like the day she slapped him

and he

painted her pale skin with bloody kisses.

That was worthwhile.

Cinematic

in

a way.

He could pretend then.

Could focus on the pain instead of

her.

Open and wanting in front of him.

Just another Hollywood leech

feeding off those stupid enough to venture into its shallow waters.

He can't pretend anymore.

He has to be present,

conscious of his own undoing.

"Take one," Ruby says, shaking the bottle in his face again.

Max winces. Recoiling at the sound of the pills rattling so close to his cheek. His jaw aches from how hard he's been clenching his teeth. Headache slowly radiating from his mouth to settle between his ear and eye.

It isn't the right kind of pain to focus him.

He needs a different kind of hurt.

One he doesn't think Ruby can provide.

"I'm fine," Max says, straightening up a little and backing away. He needs a second to breathe air that isn't suffocated by the cloying scent of her arousal.

Ruby watches him, gaze moving from his face, down the planes of his chest and lower to where there is still no bulge in his jeans.

He can see the disappointment in her eyes.

It's stupid the way it makes his heart ache.

Like he's the one that's failed somehow.

God, he

used to be

better at this.

Ruby sighs, pressing her palm against the pill bottle lid and twisting. It comes off with a strident pop. She fishes one of the pills out with her index finger, closing her legs and leaning forward until her face is inches from his.

"Fucking take it," Ruby growls, raising her hand and pressing the pill against his sealed lips.

Max swallows, flattening his mouth into a hard line.

"Don't be so difficult," Ruby says, raising her other hand to grip his jaw, long acrylic nails digging into the flesh of his cheeks as she squeezes hard. Trying to force his mouth open.

Max struggles. His breathing erratic, thoughts panicked and fleeting in his head.

Telling him to do it.

Give in.

Let her take what she wants and it'll be over.

Then he can go back to what's important.

But,

fuck.

He's so tired.

He doesn't want this.

His eyes burn, tears forming in his eyes and sticking in his lashes from the sharp, biting pain of Ruby's fingernails cutting into his skin.

"Where's all your blustering now?" Ruby asks, digging her thumbnail into his skin, trying to needle it between his teeth and force his jaw to open. "All your pretty boy bravado. Didn't you tell me you weren't afraid? Didn't you say you'd done this already? You talked such a big talk about knowing what it's like to be sold to the highest bidder. I thought you'd be better than this."

Max leans back, trying to free himself from her touch.

Ruby only digs her fingers in harder.

"You are afraid, aren't you?" Ruby whispers, pulling his face closer to hers in a jerky, violent motion.

Max feels his skin break beneath her fingernails. Fear swells in his chest. Followed by the panic of how he's going to explain these wounds to Della. To his cousins.

He doesn't want them to know about this part of his life. The shame he feels alone is enough.

He doesn't think he'd survive their pity.

"What a coward you are," Ruby continues. "Did you think I wouldn't want this? That after the taste you gave me in the bathroom I wouldn't want more? Don't be such a tease. Open your mouth and take your medicine."

Blood drips, warm and thick down the side of his face and Max knows this is a battle he's lost. A fight he cannot win.

If he gives in now he knows he'll walk away, but if he keeps fighting, Ruby will waste no time tearing him to shreds.

All at once,

Max relaxes his jaw, letting his lips part gently around Ruby's fingers still pressing the pill against his mouth. Accepting it when she forces onto his tongue.

"That's it," she coos, fingers retreating so she can quickly cover his mouth with her hand. "Now swallow."

Max tips his head back, letting his mouth fill with saliva.

He swallows.

Just like the dog he is.

"There," Ruby says, swiping her thumb through the blood on his cheek, smearing it over his skin. "Was that so hard?"

Max stares at her with a neutral expression. Tamping down on the riot of emotions building beneath his skin as he feels the pill-shaped lump slowly descending down his throat. He needs to keep his emotions under control.

He can't let her know how much this is affecting him.

How much it's hurting him.

Max won't give her that much control.

Not over this.

"Thought you said you wouldn't force me," Max says, watching Ruby lean back into her former position on the couch. Dress hiked up to just beneath her ribs, legs spread, cunt practically glistening in the dim light from how obscenely wet she is.

Figures she would be turned on by something like this.

"Oh, Max," Ruby laughs. "I'm not forcing you. Don't act so superior. You wouldn't be here if you didn't want it."

"I don't have a choice," Max says for the second time. More pointed than the first.

Ruby rolls her eyes, sinking her fingers back into his hair and tugging him forward.

"You always have a choice," she tells him, even while she's holding him there. Keeping him where he doesn't want to be.

But,

in a way she's right.

If he would struggle enough, fight enough, argue enough, he's sure she'll let him go. Release him from their agreement.

Turn her sights back on Bobby and go for the jugular.

Ruin his career.

Maybe even his life.

So,

Max is here by design,

by decision.

Because, trading himself is easy.

His life doesn't mean anything.

Not when he's already achieved his dreams

and had them

bashed to pieces against the rocky shores of California.

This,

is the least he can do.

Let himself be used,

empty himself of humanity.

Deny his person hood and

push down,

down,

down

until he reaches bedrock

until his fingers find the cells that make up

the bacteria that runs his body.

Until all he is,

is a chain reaction

of chemicals pushing and pulling like the tide

moving ever closer toward the light on the horizon.

Shambling through time

toward nothingness.

If he just lets himself fade,

consciousness dipping low,

floating in the barren,

hollowed out spaces he's carved for himself to hide.

He tells himself,

He can do this,

he can do this,

he can do this.

Even while he's still praying to any god that will hear him that the Viagra doesn't work this time.

"Were you planning on spending the time it's going to take for that pill to kick in staring at my pussy or are you going to put that mouth of yours to use and eat me out?" Ruby gripes, annoyed.

Max glances up at her, catching her bored expression. The irritated tightness around her mouth. The way her eyes narrow into slits when their gazes meet.

"Well?" she hisses.

Max grimaces and

lets rage lead him forward.

Tenderness a distant memory as he descends upon her cunt.

Tongue rigid and harsh as it slides through her folds.

Tasting the slick saltiness of her cum.

Her fingernails find his scalp, scratching gently until his skin tingles from it. She rocks her hips up into his mouth, thigh and glute muscles straining as she tries to push and pull his tongue where she wants him most.

"I have thirty whole minutes, Ruby," Max laughs nervously, pulling away and kissing down her thigh to the back of her knee and up again. "Let me take my time."

The words taste like ash on his tongue. Too conversational. Too light-hearted for what's happening here. Nervous laughter shattering something in his chest like a mallet dropped on stained glass.

"You're being insufferable," Ruby complains, tone teasing. As if this interaction is normal. Routine. A tongue lashing between lovers. "I've wanted you for so long. I'm tired of the teasing."

"Was me fingering you in the bathroom not enough?" Max asks, rising from between her legs to nuzzle at the valley between her breasts. "Do you want more? Want my mouth on you in other places?"

He feels like he's on the outside of his body. Watching a memory as it plays back to him. Or like he's watching the recording from a sound stage.

Now,

in front of a live studio audience.

Except the only person in the crowd his him.

Palms slick with sweat.

Stomach churning.

Watching the most uncomfortable After School Special.

"I want you to make me cum," Ruby insists, pushing Max's head back down her body. Bloodied skin slipping slowly down the satin of her dress. Leaving a part of him behind on her clothing.

"Impatient," Max says, nipping at her thigh and smirking up at her when she gasps.

His stomach twists. Bile rising and nearly choking him. His gag reflex only just strong enough to fight against the sick threatening to spew from his throat.

He's struggling to keep his head above water.

To keep acting.

"You've made me wait years already, Goof," Ruby drawls, flattening her palm against the back of his head and pushing his face directly into her cunt. She rolls her hips, sighing when his nose brushes against her clit. "I think I'm entitled to be in a bit of a rush."

"If that's what you want," Max says, words muffled against her flesh to hide his open disdain. "Far be it from me to deny you."

"Exactly," Ruby says, tugging on his hair until his lips settle against her skin. Right where she wants him. "You do for me. Whatever I want."

Max closes his eyes and wraps his lips around her clit, humming until he hears Ruby gasp. A soft moan escaping her lips.

He tastes her with his tongue, rigid flicks turning to swirling caresses. Max keeps his mouth focused right there, there, there as Ruby moans, legs wrapping around his shoulders. Ankles crossing at the center of his back.

Just

like

Christina.

Max fucks her through the pain of her heels digging into the top of his scar. Ignoring the disgusted shivers that roll down his spine when her heels press harder,

harder,

harder,

into his skin.

He used to like this, didn't he? The feeling of someone slowly falling apart beneath him. The way their body opens to him. How their breath quickens and soft moans turn guttural.

God, he

used to like this, didn't he?

"Tell me I'm pretty," Ruby gasps, ankles parting to dig her heels into each is his ribs.

Max stutters and sighs, releasing her clit from between his lips.

"Do you want me to fuck you or do you want me to talk?" he asks, haughty and irritated. He just wants to get this over with. "I can't do both."

"You're the one who wanted to take your time," Ruby snaps. "Be more vocal. Tell me something sweet. I want to hear you talk."

Max grits his teeth, resting his head against Ruby's hip.

"I'm getting mixed signals here," Max says. "First it isn't what I want. Now it is what I want, but it's still what you want?"

"Stop acting like you've never fucked someone before, God," Ruby groans. "You'd think you were brand new at this. Maybe the rumors are wrong and you're not one of the best lays in LA."

Max bites his tongue.

Holding back.

He doesn't want to

shouldn't,

can't,

tell her

the reason he's lackluster,

off,

worse,

is that he can't

push himself to enjoy this the way he used to

the way she wants him to.

He can't reach that point.

That

this is just him going through the motions.

The machinations of sex without all of the bells and whistles,

no sensation,

no emotion.

Because

these are things he doesn't want to feel

bad feelings bubbling up inside of him like a shaken pop.

Ready and waiting to burst.

"I didn't know people kept track of things like that," Max says instead of what he really wants to say. "Seems kind of egotistical if you ask me," he says, lowering himself between Ruby's legs again, spreading her folds with his fingers and lapping teasingly at her clit.

"Who else is on the list?" He asks, breaking his rhythm right after he's settled into it. Right after he feels the way Ruby's body softens beneath him. "Anyone I know?"

"God, you're frustrating," Ruby grumbles.

"Thought you wanted me to talk," Max says, sinking two fingers inside of her cunt.

Ruby's breath catches, thigh muscles tightening as she bucks her hips, grinding forward into Max's fingers.

"Wanted you to say sweet things," Ruby corrects. "Not random shit I don't care about."

"You obviously do care," Max says, flattening his tongue against her, rolling his tongue back and forth over her clit until she's gasping beneath him. Until she's writhing and whimpering. "Or you wouldn't have brought it up."

"Fuck you," Ruby gasps.

"Yeah, that's exactly what we're doing, babe," Max answers. Open and playful. In direct opposition to the way this torrent of terrible emotions wriggles and squirms in his chest. Like parasites eating their way through his heart.

"Okay, you can shut up now," Ruby says, pressing on the back of his head until his mouth his flush with her cunt again. "If you're not going to be nice I'd rather you put your mouth to better use."

Max smirks, wrapping his lips around her clit and humming again. Earning a startled gasp from Ruby's lips.

He redoubles his efforts, flattening his tongue against her clit and curling his fingers inside of her.

She arches up beneath him, legs crossing at the ankles again. This time her heels press between his shoulder blades, holding his mouth against her as she bucks her hips.

"Yeah," she sighs, moaning. "Fuck. Yeah. You're so much better at that then sweet talk."

He's thankful for the distraction. For his tongue being occupied by pleasure. Instead of uttering the venomous things he wants to say to make her never use him like this again.

Max hopes this is the last time.

Ruby tugs down the bodice of her dress. Body only covered by a thin line of black satin and the loose red blazer hanging off her shoulders. She draws her hand back from his hair to play with her nipples, teasing them between her thumb and forefinger with each hand until they're hard.

Her hips buck into his mouth. The salty taste of her spilling across his tongue.

He watches her tease her nipples. Keeping his eyes focused on the way her fingers circle and brush. How they pinch and tease. Anything is better than keeping his attention directly on what he's doing.

"God, your tongue," Ruby gasps, hips grinding against his mouth so hard he can feel the brunt of her pubic bone.

He lets his eyes flutter closed again. Tearing his gaze away from her breasts, letting his thoughts fall back into the void he's carved out in his head. Until he's nothing but sensation.

The roll of her hips. The slick slide of his fingers. The gentle rumble of her voice beneath her skin as she babbles nonsense.

He can feel the way her muscles strain. Going so taut she's practically trembling. The roll of her hips falling out of rhythm, legs wrapping so tightly around his shoulders it's almost suffocating.

Max moves his fingers from where he's using them to keep Ruby's cunt spread and presses his palm against her thigh. To keep her from suffocating him to death between her legs.

She moans, panting, pushing her hips up, up, up until he feels like his jaw could be dislocated from the force of her fucking herself against his tongue.

"I'm close," she gasps out, "Oh, God, I'm close."

And Max's thoughts wander.

Remembering the last time he invoked God's name in vain during sex.

How Bradley had learned forward and asked him cockily,

'are you praying

to me?'

And Max felt himself fall just a little bit

with the way he made fucking feel like

it was worship.

This, though

Ruby shaking,

shuddering,

shattering

beneath him.

All it feels like is work

a chore.

Something he has to do before he can go back to his real life.

There's no thrill when he feels her break, body trembling, cunt spasming beneath his lips, around his fingers. The way she arches up, guttural moans muffled by her hand pressing over her own lips. The sharp, needy way she breathes through her nose.

He can feel her body begin to wind down. To relax beneath the onslaught of his tongue. Sated for the time being.

Except,

Max isn't ready to stop.

He keeps,

going.

Tongue and fingers moving

at a punishing pace.

"Max," Ruby grits out, trying to shove him away.

He stays firmly planted.

"Max, stop," Ruby commands, pushing his head away harder.

Max raises his head, replacing his lips and tongue with his thumb as he gazes up at Ruby with a thunderous expression.

"You don't get to tell me when to stop," he growls, climbing into the couch and slipping his fingers out so he can grab her hips and position her beneath him. So that his body hovers over hers. He grabs Ruby's wrists in one hands and pins them over her head, slipping the other back between her legs. Watching with a vague sense of dread and nausea as she struggles beneath him.

"I thought this was what you wanted," he breathes in her face, fingers sinking in and moving faster. Thumb pressed against her sensitive clit, stroking in quick, sharp motions. He watches as she tries to turn her hips. To close her legs around his hand to get him to stop.

He feels sick to his stomach.

Max knows what he's doing isn't right.

He knows it isn't fair.

There's a certain amount of trust that goes into this. Even though she's using him, she's also trusting he won't choose to hurt her in the same way.

But

he's so fucking tired.

"Max, please," Ruby begs, gazing up at him with wide eyes. "Stop. Stop."

Max lets his fingers still for a moment, leaning his body down so their faces are inches apart.

"Let me do this," he whispers, tired of her fighting. Tired of feeling like he's hurting her even though that's what a decent majority of him wants to do. "It'll make you feel good, I promise."

Ruby lets out a shaky breath, wincing when Max curls his fingers inside of her again.

"I don't fucking like this. It hurts," Ruby complains.

"It won't always," Max says, voice soft. Much softer than she deserves. "Just let me."

"Let me go," Ruby commands, struggling in his grasp.

Max shakes his head.

"I don't want to," he answers.

Ruby takes a shaky breath, looking up at him with wide eyes. She has the good sense to look afraid.

He wonders if this has ever backfired on her before.

One of her trysts becoming something vile.

"Max," she says, wrists straining in his hand. Her voice clear, authoritative, "stop."

"What the matter, Ruby?" Max asks, letting his hand still again, but keeping his fingers inside of her. He leans down into their faces are a hair's breadth apart. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

Ruby shudders, legs spreading wider, hips grinding down against his hand.

Max gazes down at her, a slow, predatory grin spreading over his lips.

"Oh, you like this don't you?" he asks. "You like it when I'm in control."

She makes a noise. Something between fear and shame. It only spurs Max on.

His fingers start moving again, pushing and curling inside of her. Thumbing at her labia just beneath her clit. Watching the way she arches and grinds her hips, seeking the pleasure of his touch.

Her wetness pours over his fingers, spilling with every thrust in and out.

"Told you I'd make you feel good," Max babbles. "All you had to do was stop being stubborn let me."

"Let me go," Ruby pleads again, "Please. I need—" she gasps, "please, Max. I want to touch you."

Max winces, eyes clenching shut at her demand. He can't help the way he shivers, disgust rolling down his body in waves at the thought of her hands having access to his body again.

But, hasn't she earned this?

The right to touch him.

He releases her wrists, wincing when her hands go directly to his shoulders. Fingernails biting into his flesh, clawing wounds into his skin.

She grabs the back of his neck, bringing his head down to smash their lips together. Teeth scraping as they find their rhythm. Her tongue licks across his teeth, forcing its way into his mouth and dangerously close to the back of his throat. Like she wants to taste all of him.

Max winces and tries not to gag. His breath must taste stale from days of not eating. He wonders if Ruby can tell. From the way she's kissing him like he's something to be devoured, he doubts it.

"I'm gonna cum," Ruby sobs into his mouth. Saliva leaking between their lips.

"Do it then," Max answers.

"Will you stop when I do?" She asks, voice wavering. Breath coming in short pants. Her legs are trembling from the effort of holding back.

Max smiles, leaning down to kiss her again. A gentle touch of their mouths, tongue darting out to tease her frenulum.

"No," he whispers into her mouth, letting his breath flow from his body to hers. Letting his poison infect her lungs.

She makes a broken sound when she shatters. Fingernails digging into his shoulders so hard he wonders if it'll make her acrylics pop.

He gives her a second to breathe. Easing his thumb off her clit, but keeping his fingers inside of her. Feeling the way her cunt spasms around his hand, a soft rhythmic squeeze as she pants and moans beneath him.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you fall apart," Max says, fingers moving in and out when the spasming of her cunt starts to ease in its intensity. More cum leaks from her, painting his fingers in a glossy sheen. "God, you want it bad, huh?"

Max glances up at her face. Her eyes are closed tight, mouth open and panting for breath. She whines softly when his thumb finds her clit again, whole body jolting in surprise.

"Gone from just my fingers," Max laughs, pulling his fingers almost all the way out and going back in with three instead of two.

Ruby makes a broken sound, back arching up off the couch. Her fingernails bite into his skin again. Leaving claw marks on his shoulders.

"Feel good?" Max asks, all the while feeling like he's losing his agency. He had power here, but not the way he wants.

Never the way he wants.

It's often his first instinct to hurt in the same way he's been hurt, but he can't do it. He can't be that type of monster.

Even this is towing the line. Knowing he's hurting her by continuing to push. Watching the way she writhes beneath him. Gasping and bowing and trying to move away from his touch.

He'd be more disgusted with himself if he didn't know without a doubt that all of this is just a game. A convoluted way of making him give in to her wants while she tries to meet his desire to be in control.

Ruby slips one of her hands from his shoulder and down between their bodies. Brushing gently against the front of his jeans. Pressing harder when she doesn't feel anything.

"Why aren't you hard yet?" Ruby gasps, mewling when Max curls his fingers inside of her.

"Told you Viagra wasn't going to work," Max remarks, circling Ruby's abused clit with his thumb. Watching the way she tries to edge her hips away from his touch. How her face pinches with discomfort.

"There's still time for it to kick in," Ruby says. "Probably hasn't even been close to a half hour."

"And you're going on your third orgasm," Max remarks. "I don't need my dick to make you feel good. Probably would've hindered things. Considering."

Max watches several emotions flicker across Ruby's face. Surprise. Shame. Anger. Until she forces it back to neutral. Choosing her next words carefully.

"Is that what you told yourself with Chris?" she asks, needling him. "Before she kicked you to the curb?"

"Why are you so concerned about Christina?" Max hums, pressing down on Ruby's clit harder. Rubbing his thumb quickly back and forth and smirking when he feels her clench around his fingers.

"Did she like coming on your fingers too?" Ruby asks, voice strained and breathless. Still trying to insult him while he's fingering her hard enough to chafe. "Or did she want to be fucked proper?"

"Internalised homophobia sure is a bitch, hm?" Max asks. "What's it like wanting someone so bad you're willing to fuck their sloppy seconds?"

"Shut the fuck up," Ruby hisses, grabbing Max's Jaw and digging her fingernails into his skin again. "Shut up. What's even the point of you if you can't fucking fuck me."

"Actually I'm here as a favor to save your shitty album because no one else wants to work with you," Max answers, voice monotone. "Because you're a poison, Ruby. One nobody in their right mind would want to touch. So this?" He asks, wiggling his fingers inside of her, "this is just icing."

"This is paying off a debt your little friend wracked u—" Ruby cuts herself off with a shuddering moan, nails biting into his forearms when he quirks his fingers just a little too hard. "Fuck, fuck you. Oh God."

"You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself," Max says, Watching her cunt pulse around his fingers. The flutter of her vaginal muscles squeezing them together.

Ruby pants, body slick with sweat. Her red lipstick is smudged around her mouth and down her chin.

God, she looks fucking ruined.

"Stop," she gasps. "Please. I can't do another one. I can't go again."

"I think you can," Max says, lowering himself between her legs again and teasing her clit with the tip of his tongue while the walls of her cunt are still spasming around his fingers.

Ruby yelps and sputters, trying to close her legs around his head to get some relief.

"Max, no, please."