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Language:
English
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Published:
2024-10-26
Words:
461
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
6
Kudos:
40
Bookmarks:
6
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356

Vice

Summary:

Max and his (2nd) favorite plush. He's not having a good time.

 

Or, literally just a load of max angst

Notes:

Work Text:

There’s a red plush that sits on Max’s bed. It’s stupid, badly made, and stuffed amateurishly with scraps of tshirts he grew out of. The stitching is on the outside and is uneven. One of the eyes droops. The shaping is horrendous. 

Sometimes he throws it across the room at his wall and the way it bounces off like nothing happened makes him want to destroy something. Or kill someone. Sometimes he holds it tight while he cries and whispers to it, telling it that everything is going to be okay. Sometimes he hugs it and pretends it can hug back because he can’t remember the last time someone hugged him other than at—

It’s a maple leaf. With a face. Stupid as hell, but he can’t let go of it. It’s Mr. Honeynuts’s friend after all. It smells like pine because he stole some bitch’s car air freshener and put it inside. He doesn’t know why he did that. 

 

Sometimes, when he’s sitting in bed, across from it, chugging his dad’s stupid, shit-tasting alcohol, he has to cover it with a blanket to keep it from judging him. Alcohol doesn’t feel right anymore, so he swipes some asshole’s adderall. That’s better but it makes him spiral sometimes. Not in the fuzzy way where he can’t really remember it afterwards, but the way that makes him feel like he’s dying, a culminating sense of anxiety that just grows and grows and grows until he’s shoving shaking fingers into his mouth so maybe he can puke some of this shit up so the high won’t last as long.

After a few more of those incidents, he switches to something else. Presses a hand around his neck one day cause someone said something that made him curious and finds that a numb face and the loud ringing and the static and the pain and everything about it is euphoric. He feels like he’s dying again. It’s great. The plush still judges him for that too. It makes him want to gouge his eyes out, pull his teeth out, rip his nails out, just do something to make it stop. He doesn’t. It doesn’t.

 

Crying makes his head hurt so he makes a note not to do it anymore but it keeps happening and he can’t fucking breathe even though he’s taking in shuddering breaths that are far too loud for his liking. God, his head hurts. He stuffs his face into his pillow and shakes, sobbing without sobbing, trying to just get this over with before someone comes barging into his room for something and asks him what’s wrong or what happened or what he’s crying about because he can’t be crying, he can’t, not when—

The sound of stairs sober him up.