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Chloe inhales until her lungs feel ready to burst, the tip of her blunt glowing brighter and filling her with smoke. It keeps her calm. It's about the only thing that does anymore.
She lies on her back in bed, staring at the ceiling, her ashtray on her chest. With each puff, the invisible weight on her shoulders seems a bit lighter.
She runs her hand through her bright blue hair, and she thinks.
Joyce and the step-douche are both at work, leaving her blissfully alone in her home. Except that it hasn't felt like a home in five years. Not since her dad died and her best friend left without a word.
Her gaze trails down the design tattooed on her arm, and she thinks.
She didn't bother getting dressed today, content to laze around in a tank top and boxers. There isn't anywhere to go anyway. Normally she’d be with Rachel, skipping class and getting high in the junkyard, but things have been weird between them ever since the Vortex Club party that Rachel dragged her to last week before the semester began.
Ever since Rachel had drunkenly shoved her against a wall, and shoved her tongue into Chloe's mouth.
The next day, Rachel refused to acknowledge that it even happened, shutting down any attempt at bringing it up. Eventually Chloe just blew up at her, screaming at her about whatever the fuck was going on with them, completely fed up with the vague, ambiguous nature of their relationship.
So they haven't talked in a week. And that's why Chloe is sitting in her bedroom alone, wasting the day and steadily depleting her stash.
Chloe picks up her phone in her free hand, staring at it intensely. She knows she should apologize. Her tendency to fly off the handle is well documented in her spotty Blackwell records from before she dropped out. Rachel probably didn't deserve her wrath. But Chloe knows that it wouldn't change anything. They'd just fall into the same routine, the back and forth, equal parts hope and frustration.
She sets the phone back down, and she thinks.
When did it get this bad? She's been in love with Rachel practically since she met her, but just being her friend used to be enough. Now Chloe wants more, but the object of her affections is aggravatingly cagey about where exactly she lies on the Kinsey scale. Every time it seems like something is about to develop, it always ends in disappointment, and she isn't sure how much more of that she can take.
The doorbell rings, breaking Chloe out of her hazy thoughts.
Normally she’d be inclined to just wait it out and ignore whoever had come calling, but she needs a distraction, and she's kinda curious anyway. Nobody ever comes here.
Chloe could use some human interaction that isn't David shouting at her or one of Joyce’s lectures.
Hauling herself out of bed, Chloe sets the ashtray down on her desk, dumping the blunt into it and heading out of her room, not even glancing at her closet. Getting clothes on is too much effort. Whoever is at the door can just deal with her in boxers and a tank.
She feels pleasantly high as she reaches the front door, almost floating her way through the house, but once she opens it that feeling vanishes, replaced by ice water flowing through her veins. All at once, she feels sober.
Because standing in her doorway, clutching nervously to the strap of a messenger bag, is a face that she hasn't seen in five years. One she thought she'd never see again.
Maxine Caulfield.
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They've been sitting in Chloe's room for near on ten minutes now, completely silent. The blue-haired punk had returned to smoking her discarded blunt, because she couldn't process the presence of the waifish hipster in her desk chair. After Max had said an awkward hello and tentatively asked to be let in, they had only exchanged a handful of words.
The gulf between them seems to grow by the second.
When she first saw her old friend standing outside her door, her immediate instinct had been to slam it in her face. When that impulse passed, she was left dumbstruck. And now the silence is strangling her.
“Where did you go, Max?” She finally asks, shattering the quiet.
The hipster finally looks up at her, tearing her eyes away from where she's been worrying at her fingers and picking at the cuffs of her nondescript gray hoodie. “Chloe, I am so, so sorry that I never got in touch with you. There was so much going on and --”
Chloe sits up in bed, the familiar anger that she feels most of the time now coming to her, warring with the buzzing of her high. “For five years? Really?” She angrily stubs out her blunt, then locks eyes with the brunette, scowling at her.
Max has the decency to look ashamed at least. She breaks off eye contact, looking down at the floor. “It -- I was going through some… Stuff.”
“Stuff. Right. Max, my dad died and you just disappeared! Do you get how shitty that was for me?” Unable to sit still any longer, Chloe gets up off the bed and starts to pace. She's regretting not putting on clothes now. She feels vulnerable, but she's not about to show it.
“I - I know,” Max stutters. “Or, well, I don't. You've obviously changed a lot,” she notes, looking at Chloe's hair and tattoo. “When I got accepted at Blackwell, I knew I had to come see you. I wasn't even sure if you'd still be in town…”
“Pff. As if this shithole of a town is ever gonna let me go,” Chloe gripes. Her anger is starting to subside now - she never could stay mad at her best friend - but in its place is a deep well of hurt. “Max, just… Why?”
The question seems to catch the shorter girl off-guard, and she pales, her hands clenching on top of her knees. “I… T-there's a reason…” She replies weakly.
Now she has Chloe worried. The girl looks like she's trying not to pass out, taking deep, purposeful breaths, and of course Chloe's brain is going to the worst places. “Max? What is it?” She asks, fearing the answer.
The brunette’s eyes meet hers, and she just looks at Chloe for a moment, before taking a deep breath, and letting it out.
“Chloe, I'm gay.”
…
…
…
“You're what?”
The blue-haired punk is sure she heard that wrong. Or her brain is broken. More than usual, that is.
“I'm - I'm gay, Chloe.”
Now that the words are out, Max begins to babble, her thoughts spilling out at an increasing pace, “I've never actually told anyone that before. It - it really messed with me for a long time. At first I didn't understand what was happening to me, why I was… Feeling this way, and then I got scared because bad things happen to people like me a lot, right? And then I didn't want to be this way, I just wanted to be normal, but the feelings just kept getting worse, and then we moved to Seattle, and it sucked so much there… I thought that if I just, y'know, avoided people, it would be better, so I kinda spent most of --”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Chloe interjects harshly, halting the stream of consciousness flooding out of Max's mouth, leaving the nervous girl speechless. The punk turns quickly on her heel and leaves the room.
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Max is gay.
Max is gay.
Max is gay.
No matter how many times the thought repeats itself in her head, Chloe still can't process it. There had always been some part of her that assumed Max left because she realized Chloe was into girls -- into her -- and was freaked out by it.
If Max is gay, why didn't she just tell Chloe? Didn't she trust her? They were best friends! Chloe would have stuck by her no matter what!
Unless… Had Max been into her? She said she was scared of her feelings. Did she mean specific feelings, or just of being gay in general?
The punk has no idea what any of this means for them. No matter how she goes over it in her head, it just leaves her more confused. All she knows is that she has the beginnings of a vicious migraine.
And that she's been sitting on the lid of her toilet for fifteen minutes, leaving Max in the cold like an asshole.
A soft knock at the door reminds her of that fact, as a weak voice questions, “Chloe? Do you… want me to leave?”
She isn't sure of much, but she's sure she doesn't want that. So she hops up and crosses to the door, pulling it open, and there's Max, looking like a wreck.
The kid is doing a bad job pretending she hadn't just been crying, her eyes red and her minimal eyeliner smudged. She's clinging to the strap of her messenger bag again, obviously prepared to be kicked out, and Chloe can't, she just can't not comfort her.
She wraps her old friend up in a hug, and Max stills for a moment before throwing her arms around Chloe, sniffling miserably against her chest, and the taller girl knows in that moment that the past five years don't matter. This is Max. And whatever happens from here, whether Max is straight or gay, Chloe finally has her best friend back.
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The weeks pass by in a blur.
Chloe spends basically every waking minute either hanging with Max, texting Max, or thinking about Max. It's at once exhilarating and terrifying, because the waifish hipster could leave again at any moment.
Like everyone else in Chloe's life.
The blue haired punk makes up with Rachel, because what else can she do? Besides, she doesn't have anyone else to dump all of her thoughts about Max on. It isn't like she's about to have a powwow with her mom or anything.
“All you do anymore is talk about her,” Rachel remarks as they're hanging out in the junkyard. This space of rusted metal and decaying husks felt so much like home to Chloe just a few weeks ago, but now it seems empty somehow.
Because Max isn't there.
She can just imagine that hippy walking around the derelict cars, snapping photos and remarking on the quality of the space or some other pretentious artsy garbage. She hasn't brought her here though, because this is supposed to be hers and Rachel's. Their place. A symbol of their connection, the way that Rachel dragged Chloe back from the edge and gave her a reason to keep living her shitty life.
She wants to bring Max here, though. Show her this piece of herself.
Rachel hates not being the center of attention. Chloe knows this about her beautiful friend. Which makes it aggravating to talk to her about the things that are going on in Chloe's life, because she always wants to bring the discussion back to her own drama. And usually that's fine with Chloe because her life is shit anyway, and the distraction helps. But right now she wants to talk about her own shit, and her blonde counterpart isn't having it.
“It's kind of a big deal, Rachel. Max shows up out of nowhere after five years and just injects herself back into my life? Of course I'm gonna talk about her.”
She hasn't outed Max to Rachel or anything. The girl is just getting used to being out to Chloe, and the two of them go to school together. Telling Rachel would be Not Cool, with capitals and everything. As much as she wants to blurt it out and hash out all of her feelings on the subject, she has managed to refrain, so far.
“And? She left you high and dry for five years, Chlo. Aren't you mad about it?”
She should be. Max disappeared on her. But she can relate to Max's reasons. It isn't like she's come out to anyone either. Rachel knows that Chloe is less than straight because of their drunken escapades, but she hasn't told anyone else about her sexuality. Not even Max.
Especially not Max, because if she tells her old friend about her feelings, it makes everything real. Then they have to talk about how they see each other, if they want to be just friends, or… More.
Chloe isn't sure which possibility terrifies her more.
“She had her reasons. It sucked hard, but I'm over it.”
Rachel scoffs. “Reasons? Like what, a sudden phobia of phones? Did she join a cult of Luddites?”
Chloe sits up on the hood of the decrepit car-husk that she had chosen to lie on. “Dude, why are you being a tool about this? I figured you and Max would be best friends by now. She's into photography, you're a model, it should be a match made in heaven right?”
The blond sits up too, sighing deeply. “I guess I just don't really get what you see in her. Isn't she kinda… Boring? She barely talks in school, just keeps her head down and acts… Aggressively nondescript.”
“She doesn't like crowds,” Chloe defends. “She's cool if you can get her alone. And when she gets into the zone with her camera, it's just…” She trails off, gazing into the distance.
Rachel's eyes first narrow at her blue-haired friend, then widen in surprise. “Shit, you're hot for her, aren't you?”
“What?! No!” The punk denies automatically. “It's… It's not like that!”
“It so is like that. Holy shit, Chlo, you so want a piece of that skinny hipster ass!”
Chloe's chest clenches painfully, because she kinda does, but also because Rachel doesn't seem even a little jealous. No, she looks like this is the best joke she's ever heard.
Like all the times she fucked with Chloe's heart didn't mean anything to her.
Hopping off the rusted hood, Chloe stalks toward their hideout. “Fuck, I need to be way less sober if I'm gonna deal with your shit right now.” Stomping into the concrete shack that they've made into their lair, the punk retrieves the handle of vodka hidden there. Rachel follows, sporting a shit-eating grin.
“So? Are you gonna take little miss Caulfield for a test drive?”
Chloe drops down on the salvaged furniture, taking a pull from the bottle before handing it off into Rachel's waiting hand as the clear spirits burn down her throat. “Fuck you, dude, she's a person, not a car. Besides, how do you know she'd even be into it?”
“God, this shit is trash,” Rachel complains as she downs a shot of her own. “And are you kidding? She's so fucking gay. Her and this other girl in our photography class go on these cute little tea dates. Doesn't get much gayer than that.”
“... Really?” That's news to Chloe.
“Yup. So you'd better make a move before tea-date-girl scoops her up.”
The blue-haired girl takes the bottle back and tips it back against her lips, swallowing a huge mouthful of the vile drink. Gasping afterward, she stares at the wall, thinking.
“Fff, slow down there, you lush. Well, what are you gonna do?” Rachel takes the vodka away from Chloe, taking another shot before setting it on the makeshift table.
“... I need to see her.”
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Chloe sits in her truck, parked in the Blackwell lot, taking occasional pulls from the vodka bottle she’d taken from the junkyard. It's dark, night having fallen nearly three hours ago, and the punk stares out at the deepening shadows of the campus forlornly. She was sober enough when she drove here, but now her vision is starting to swim, even though it feels like there isn't enough liquid courage in the world to prepare her for this.
What if Max doesn't feel the same way? What if her and tea-date-girl are in love? What if Max is freaked out by Chloe's feelings and never talks to her again?
The bottle slips from her grasp, clattering to the floor of her junker and spilling its contents. “Fuck,” Chloe slurs, then lets her head fall back onto the seat, not bothering to retrieve the alcohol.
In an impulsive moment, she shoves the door open and nearly falls out of the truck, just catching herself on the handle. She pushes the door closed, then jumps at the noise, hissing a “shhh!” into the oppressive silence, and whipping her head to and fro, checking if anyone heard. Then she has to steady herself, dizzy from the sudden motion.
Stumbling away from the rusted heap, she staggers her way toward the dorm, the alcohol in her veins making her ignorant of the chill.
The door to the dorm is locked. “Of fucking course…” The punk gripes, her vision wandering before locking onto a ladder, probably left there by… whoever does maintenance here.
Sparing a brief thought for just how much of a Really Bad Idea this is, Chloe picks up the ladder, then drunkenly searches for Max’s window. Deciding on one that seems likely, she props the ladder up and begins to climb.
After a number of moments of gut-wrenching vertigo, she manages to get to the top, peering inside, her gaze met by the ever stoic Lisa the Plant. “Score,” the drunken punk whispers, “I am a ninja!”
Knocking on the window once yields no results. Twice gets her some rustling and movement from inside. Three times, and the window pops open, a bewildered Max blinking out at her.
“Chloe? What the hell!” the tired hipster hisses. “Did you seriously just--”
“Can we maybe play twenty questions after you let me in?” The height is starting to get to Chloe, and her grip on the ladder feels dangerously unsteady.
Some frantic scrambling later, Chloe sways unsteadily in Max's dorm room, trying to focus on her friend’s face, vaguely aware that she's being stared at like a crazy person. They stand a few feet apart, the brunette’s arms crossed over her chest. Chloe's eyes start to wander, sliding down the waifish body in front of her, dressed in a sleep shirt and a very short pair of shorts.
“So?” Max questions, pulling the punk’s eyes away from her legs. Her freckled cheeks are shaded with an attractive blush, and Chloe starts forward, intent on kissing those freckles, but she ends up stumbling into Max, slumping into a loose hug.
Groaning under the weight, the hipster grips her friend tightly. “Jeeze, how drunk are you? Shit, Che, did you drive here?” Chloe would answer, but she's distracted by the warmth of Max's embrace. Her hands instinctively travel up and down her friend’s back, rubbing contentedly until one of them finds the hem of the shirt, and slips under.
“C-Chloe?” Max stammers as cold fingers trail up her spine, her breath coming unsteadily, hitching as an equally cold nose brushes her jawline.
“Gotta tell you somethin, Max…” the punk breathes into her ear.
“What --” the brunette swallows heavily, her voice lowering, taking on a more intimate tone. “What is it, Chloe?”
Spreading her hands across the bare expanse of Max's back, Chloe vaguely registers the lack of a bra. “You're… warm,” she slurs, “and soft…” Her lips ghost across the hipster’s neck, and she can feel the erratic jump of Max's pulse.
“I… what?” Trembling, Max clings on for dear life, her hands fisting in Chloe's jacket. “You're… you're drunk, Chloe,” she reminds the punk. And herself.
The wandering hands find their way to Max's lower back, toying with the elastic of her shorts idly. “Do you like me, Max?” Chloe whispers, an edge of vulnerability creeping into her words. “Do you like me better than tea-date-girl?”
That yanks Max back into reality, and she pulls back enough to look at the other girl's hooded eyes. “Kate?”
Chloe blinks blearily, confused. “What?”
“Kate. She's the person that I get tea with. What's going on, Chloe?”
“Do you like me better than her?” Chloe questions miserably, her expression falling into dejection.
Trying not to giggle at the punk’s very un-punk, hangdog expression, Max reiterates, “You're drunk. And handsy,” she adds, pulling Chloe's hands off of her. “Let's just… Get to bed. We can talk in the morning.”
The blue-haired girl's face screws up in consternation. “I'm not tired.” She promptly contradicts herself by yawning hugely.
By this point, Max can't keep the grin off her face. “Sure you aren't. Come on.” She guides her friend to the bed, sitting her down and kneeling to remove the chunky boots on her feet.
“Are you gonna keep going out with tea-date-girl?”
“Kate,” Max corrects. “And we aren't like that. She's straight… I think. And she doesn't know that I'm… Not. We just get tea sometimes.” She tosses the boots across the room, then shoves Chloe's legs up onto the bed. “Now get to sleep.” Standing, she makes for the couch across the room.
A hand wraps around Max's wrist, stopping her. “Stay with me,” Chloe slurs sleepily.
The brunette hesitates, glancing at her uncomfortable sofa, before giving in and sliding into the cramped dorm bed beside her friend. “Okay, but keep your hands to yourself, drunky.”
“Mmhmm,” Chloe agrees, before sliding her arms around the thin body next to her, her hands going straight up Max's shirt and resting on her bare stomach.
“Seriously?” Max complains, her face lighting up in another blush.
She gets no answer other than a soft snore.
She sighs, and leaves the hands right where they are.
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The moment she opens her eyes, Chloe decides that waking up is a bad idea. Consciousness has never done her any favors, after all. So she shuts her eyes, rolls over, and falls back asleep.
Her second foray into the waking world lasts a bit longer, but she wishes it hadn't. The throbbing behind her eyes drags her out of sleep, and she groans pitifully, pulling a pillow over her head to block out the intruding sun.
Her attempt at passing out again is foiled by a finger prodding her side, and she peeks out, her gaze met by Max's amused expression.
“Max? Why’re you in my room?” she asks groggily.
The tiny hipster snorts ungracefully at that. “You're in my room, Che. Also, it's like noon. You slept like a corpse.”
Chloe looks around, squinting against her hangover, and confirms her friend's claim. She frowns at Max, trying to figure out what the hell she's doing in the dorm.
“You showed up at my window completely wasted last night. I let you crash here,” Max clarifies, seeing the punk’s confusion.
The explanation prompts a series of vague memories to pop into Chloe's head: the junkyard, Rachel laughing, a barely-sober drive, climbing a ladder while trashed… Chloe buries her face again, putting her arms over her head. “Ugh, kill me…” her brain is assaulted with the decision she came to yesterday in the junkyard - the one to tell Max what has been going on in her head - and she suddenly feels very awake.
“Uh, I didn't, like, say anything weird last night… Right?” She tries - and fails - to sound like she isn't standing on uncertain ground. If she came onto Max last night in a drunken stupor, she's going to slap herself silly, she swears.
Her best friend’s eyebrows shoot up an inch, and she's quiet for a moment before she takes a seat next to Chloe on the bed. “Well, yah, you said some… Stuff.” As much as that makes the punk want to dig a hole and hide in it for the next thousand years, she's stuck here, hanging on Max’s next words. “You seemed really concerned about… Kate,” the shy hipster manages, looking away as her freckled face heats up.
That gives Chloe pause, and her brow scrunches up as she thinks hard, before exclaiming, “Tea-date-girl!”
The brunette snorts out a laugh, her pink-tinged face opening into a fond smile as she looks back at her friend. “Kate,” she corrects gently, before taking Chloe's hand. “I'm not dating her - or, uh, dating-dating - I mean, we just get tea sometimes, and…” She halts her babble, and squeezes the punk's fingers in her own. “Chloe, I would tell you if I was, uh, going out with someone. I'm not… Seeing, anyone, right now,” she explains haltingly.
Maybe, Chloe thinks, It would be better to just let it lie. To keep these feelings under wraps and go on with life, having Max and Rachel at her side, keeping them close for as long as she can. It's not so bad - hell, it's fucking great.
But her brain sticks on those two words: right now. Max hasn't come out to the world yet, but she will. She might not realize it, but she's the bravest person Chloe knows. And when she does reveal her epic gayness to the world, she'll be fighting girls off left and right…
Or not fighting them off. Which terrifies Chloe. So she decides to do something brave. Or stupid, which is more her forte.
Hooking a hand around Max's neck, Chloe drags the shocked hipster down to lay a messy kiss on her. She presses her lips in firmly, hoping against hope that she hasn't just ruined the best thing in her life.
Max, for her part, yelps as she is dragged in, expecting Chloe to pull her into a tickle-fight or something just as juvenile… Until her mind blanks out at the feeling of lips on her own. Thought flies out the window as she reacts on instinct, falling on top of Chloe gracelessly and clinging to her, not wanting this sensation to end.
The kiss shifts from clumsy and thoughtless to something more tender as they both gain their bearings, Max clutching fervently at Chloe's shoulders, and Chloe wrapping her arms around Max. They sink into eachother easily, naturally, a progression that now seems obvious as the hipster pushes her friend further into the bed, her enthusiasm boundless, and her lack of experience apparent.
Chloe takes control of the embrace, her hand sinking into Max's hopelessly messy brown hair and guiding her, as she nips at the younger girl's lower lip, sweeping her tongue across it and pulling a needy whimper from her friend's throat.
Overwhelmed, Max slides herself fully onto the bed and attacks Chloe's mouth with fervor, wanting everything at once but knowing nothing at all. She slips her tongue out to greet its partner, shivering at the feel, and allows her hands to slide down Chloe's front, wanting to touch, to know.
Chloe jumps as fingers slide up into her tank top, and she breaks the kiss to look up at Max. “H-hey, woah there tiger,” she says breathlessly, her heart pounding in her throat.
Wide-eyed, Max gazes down at her, panting. “Wowsers,” she breathes, hanging there for a moment, her brain in total shut-down. Locked in a staring match, the two of them are as still as statues, until Max comes to the conclusion that they should be doing more of that, diving towards Chloe's lips.
“I'm gay for you!” The punk blurts, then grimaces as Max rears back at her words, shocked into some semblance of rational thought. “I mean, I'm gay. And I like you. Be my girlfriend,” Chloe stumbles out awkwardly, wondering exactly when it was that she was reduced to a stuttering pre-teen mess.
“Uh, yah. That… that sounds good,” says Max, her brain still swamped in adrenaline and lust. “Can we kiss more now?”
“Max, I'm serious,” Chloe interrupted nervously, her hands gripping at the hipster’s clothes. Inordinately aware of how sweaty her palms are, she continues, “I really, uh… I want this. To be with you, I mean. For real.”
Finally dragged out of her haze, Max blinks and stares down at the punk, staying silent far too long for Chloe’s frayed nerves. “I know, Chloe,” she finally says. “I, uh… I may have thought about it before?” she answers cagily, wincing at her own unsure tone.
“Max,” Chloe chides as she stares up into her best friend’s devastatingly blue eyes, “I need this to be real. I don't… I don't want to be jerked around.” Again, her mind continues. Relaxing a little, she runs her hands up Max's arms and shoulders until she can thread her fingers through the hipster’s ruffled hair.
Closing her eyes against the sensation of Chloe's blunt nails against her scalp, Max nods, just barely. “I'm not going anywhere, Chloe. You're the most important person in my life,” her words say, but when her eyes open to look down at the punk again, they say ‘I love you’.
With that doting face staring down on her, Chloe can't help but smile. “We can do this right? We can make this happen?” She asks shakily, cupping Max's cheek tenderly.
“Yah, we can. Partners in crime, right?” Reaching up, Max brushes her fingers across Chloe's cheek.
“Yah. Partners in crime.”