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Snippet #2742037

located in Chicago, a part of Hale's House of Boys, one of the many universes on RPG.

Chicago

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Max Evans Character Portrait: Valentine Cervantes Character Portrait: Samuel Jordan Foxworthy Character Portrait: Greyson Ross
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Max doesn’t sleep.

He could blame it on the A.D.D, if he doesn’t take his meds there’s no reason for his brain to shut down. He could rationalize it that way. It’s his head, not his heart. But it’s a lie, because his heart is broken and he’s staring at the shattered pieces trying to remember how to put them back together again.

His window frame was broken once. Would just fall down if he tried to put it up. Max had said he’d call a handyman but Grey had told him not to worry, he’d fix it. He couldn’t, he’d eventually just nailed the damn thing shut. Max had been upset as hell but hadn’t ever had the time to change it. After Grey had left, he’d admitted it was going to stay that way.

There’s a poster in the corner of the room that isn’t his. It’s buried under others that are, but that one is torn at the top. On the back of it, he and Grey had played about five hundred rounds of tic-tac-toe while they were both a few joints in. (The only drug that got through Debbie’s policy was marijuana. Most of them agreed it shouldn’t be illegal anyway.)

There’s a pillow case that was Grey’s tucked under his mattress, a pair of socks hidden away in his drawer, a book on his shelf that he’s not even sure Grey ever read that was stuffed with his photos, and a motorcycle helmet balancing on his desk. Grey’s voice swims through his mind, clear as day, “you'd look good on it, try it out".

Snippets of a life he’d once had. Pieces that he’d stolen when it had all come crashing down. He remembered destroying Grey’s room with Val. Taking it apart piece by piece until it resembled nothing of the man that had once occupied it. Because it was too hard to leave it that way. Like Grey was coming back.

It’s snowing outside. Max loves the snow.

He turns his back on the window and pulls his covers over his head. His bed is soft as fuck, he really splurged on it once he started making good money. But when he buries his nose in the sheets it just smells like him. And he resents the fact that he suddenly misses months of being buried in Grey’s bed. Of soaking up that scent until it was gone.

He should have slept with Val. He should have begged and pleaded not to be left alone. Max was never good with being alone.

He throws the blankets off and pulls himself out of bed, doesn’t bother to put a shirt on or change out of his pajama pants, just runs his fingers through his hair a few times. It’s fucking early, eight in the morning. Most of the house would still be sleeping, morning was a deadzone for people who worked the night. But Max can’t sleep, and there’s video games in the livingroom.

He wishes Isaac were up, so maybe he could pick a fight. Get some other emotion rolling through his body to replace this shit that hurtshurtshurts. He’d even take Jordan’s company. They weren’t really close, but Max would damn near pay to look into blue eyes that didn’t hold him in a vice grip. That didn’t rip him bare to his soul and take fucking control of it.

He needed Val. But Val had a meter of energy he could allot to Max at any given time and with Grey back in the picture, back in their house, back in their lives, Max knew better than to waste that energy. He’d save it until he couldn’t stand without it.

He remembered Grey’s smile just hours ago. Small, gentle, the same even on a face that had a sharper jawline than in his memories. Grey had never found him annoying. Had never run out of energy to give him. Max closed his eyes tightly and rested his forehead against his door, his hand resting on the curve of the knob. His chest was tight and his bones were heavy. It’d been three long years since he hadn’t felt like living.

He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he can sneak downstairs and get some whiskey. Drink himself silly before any of the staff members realize what he’s done. Before he has to come back and share with the others. Maybe if he gets just drunk enough, he can pretend like he’s okay.

He opens his door and pushes himself out into a living space as quiet as he’d expected, but blood rushes through his ears when only three steps in he realizes what he’s smelling. Pancakes. He’d hardly thought Grey was serious, much less that he’d be awake this early.

Max isn’t sure if it’s curiosity or masochism that draws him towards the kitchen but the fact of the matter is that one is just as deadly as the other. He finds Grey at the table, occupying a seat that had long ago stopped being his, joint in one hand, fork in the other, stack of pancakes in front of him. The nostalgia hits Max in the stomach like a cannonball to a pile of bricks. Autopilot says he should be bouncing on his toes, pushing himself into the space between Grey and the table to balance on his lap, a ‘good morning’ in the form of a shotgun kiss that tastes like maple syrup.

Maple syrup. They don’t have any. Max had thrown it out the goddamn window, and no one had had the balls to buy more since. “Let’s literally go fuck right now, after we eat. Or here. During breakfast. Maple syrups gotta be a kink somehow.” Val had been so frustrated, Grey had been so amused. Max had been…

Sweet tasting shotgun kisses were a thing of the past, and Grey’s lap was no longer a place Max should want to occupy. He should have stayed in his room. He should have asked Val to let him stay with him. But he’s in too deep now.

“That pancake mix isn’t yours,” he mutters as he drifts into the kitchen, back tense and hands shaking. They used to all three sit on that end of the table. Max had carved their initials on the underside of it once, after the first time they’d all had a good night. He was pretty sure it was still there.

Max fucking loves pancakes, and he hovers over the pile staying warm, wondering what kind of hell he’d put himself through if he chose to take one. He could, and just go back to his room, shut the door, lock it.

He thinks it says something about how much he hates himself that he grabs a plate and fills it up before heading to the table. He sits as far from Grey as he can get, puts his feet on the edge of his seat, knees pressed against wood. Distance is good, he thinks, but the downside is that from here he can see Grey. It’s not the low lighting of the bar or the shadows of a darkened bedroom. It’s morning light, and Grey is just as handsome as he ever had been. When Max had known him, he’d been smaller, softer around the edges, only his arms covered in tattoos. But even with a sweatshirt on, Max could see the additions to his bulk, to the ink that covered his entire neck, to the sharper definitions in his face, the longer hair.

Max jerks his gaze away before he gets caught in those goddamn eyes and shoves a pancake in his mouth.

He’d thought Grey was dead. With every fiber of his being. He’d watched the news for almost a year, waiting for his body to be found. He never imagined he’d be sitting here, across from him, again. He never imagined that his heart would be so weak that he would want to, while his brain was telling him to run.

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