Chapter Text
18 minutes before sundown, Maxwell’s mother would cover her beautiful eyes.
“Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kidshanu bemitzvotav vetzivanu lehadlik ner shel Shabbat,” she would say, lighting the two candles, her melodic voice slightly above a whisper. It was an inherently feminine ceremony; his sister and mother illuminated by fire in the midst of their darkening living room, rough features softened by flame. He would always hang in the back, a step behind them, his lithe form melting into the shadows.
Often, he wished he would just disappear in them.
Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the light of Shabbat.
“Amen,” he would say, letting out a breath he’d failed to realize was trapped deep within his chest.
“Shabbat Shalom,” they would all greet one another; his mother, his father, his sister, and Maxwell himself. His eyes would slide past the flickering flames as they’d set the table. Always by accident, he’d catch his own reflection in the sterling silver candlesticks; distorted and ugly.
Always so ugly.
*
Living in New York City was a lot like living at home, everything was about art; but this time, he was always the one on the outside looking in.
Shabbat slipped through the large windows of the industrial building, catching Max as he left the monthly editorial meeting of the small art magazine he was writing for. It was almost sundown, and his heart missed a beat as the warm golden light hit the wall. Out of nowhere, he was thinking about his parents and sister back home, the thought translated into a nagging ache that tugged in his chest (but still not enough for a damn phone call).
No one was taking their moment of peace here in the city. In fact, it was quite the opposite; if he were to crack open one of those great windows right then, Max would be able to hear the countless cars and people that were now quieted to a constant hum. Instead, he heard endless conversations, fingers strumming on desks, typing, coffee being poured into ceramic mugs, the buzzing of air conditioning streaming throughout the entire floor like the omnipresent God Himself.
Or Herself, whatever.
It was 6PM and he still had a lot of work to finish before his weekend could begin. He took a breath and steadied himself, trying to avoid the thought of eventually having to go back to his tiny bedroom. His Harlem apartment was shared with the latest in a slew of random people who never stuck around long enough to be considered friends. Through the thin walls, he could usually hear music, his roommate talking loudly on the phone with his voice screeching like a banshee. His skin crawled at the thought of it as he went down the stairs, walked out the door, and joined the general bustle of the city.
The thought of disappearing into the crowd always helped him calm his nerves.
*
Max loved beauty, and everyone was beautiful after three glasses of cheap wine and five shots of vodka.
“It’s like, a law of nature,” leaning his head against his palm, he was definitely beginning to slur. “The ultimate mathematical equation,” he added. The lights at the bar twinkled prettily in the corner of his eye.
“The golden ratio of alcohol,” said the man he was talking to. He was astute, and actually quite beautiful even before he ordered Max’s first shot; but to be fair, he already had Art Exhibit Opening Night Booze coursing through his system when the night started. He couldn’t stop looking into the man’s dark eyes, made darker with intent.
The man’s hand found Max’s leg and stayed there, moving slowly upwards as time progressed. He knew nothing good happens after the fourth drink, so he ordered his ninth. Or seventh (depends on how you count the wine). Max licked his lips and allowed himself to lean into the stranger’s touch, granting him better access as he began to palm Max’s inner thigh more aggressively. It always took Max longer than most, but the warmth was finally beginning to build within him and he let out a low moan into the man’s ear.
He felt sexy; like a wide smile spreading across his entire body, never quite reaching his eyes. It would have to do.
*
They spent the night at Antoine’s place, but Max couldn’t remember exactly what went down. He remembered strong, dark arms holding him close, but never close enough; clothes littering the floor by the time his back hit the mattress; a hand stopping him as he reached to turn off the light; and in the midst of scattered memories bleeding into one another, the one sentence he truly loathed shone clear and bright:
“Leave it on,” Antoine pleaded, “I want to see you.”
And damn it, Max didn’t want to be seen. But he didn’t protest, he knew better than that. He just closed his eyes and let Antoine kiss him. He wasn’t expecting it to be romantic, but then Antoine sighed contentedly into the kiss. He felt himself melting into it, just a little bit.
“You’re so beautiful,” Antoine whispered.
The rest is a blur.
It was still dark when he woke up, feeling rushed and sticky with sweat, tangled in another man’s body. His eyes gave a last look to the sleeping man, illuminated only by streetlights streaming in through the window. In the dim glow, he expertly detached himself without waking Antoine up. Picking up his clothes, he did his best not to leave evidence of having been there; he’d always been more comfortable this way.
*
It was only four stations to his apartment from there, for which he was grateful. If birds and New York taxi drivers had a well-developed internal GPS system in their heads due to their lifestyle, then so did Max. His mind was a well-worn map of ways to get home after a hookup. He was rarely lost anymore at that point. Not physically, anyway.
It seemed this hour belonged mostly to people who were lost.
It had been his fourth night out that week, and the signs were beginning to show. He was utterly exhausted, head pounding, his own hands looked jaundice and foreign in the shit fluorescent light of the train. It hurt just to open his eyes, but when he did allow himself a sliver, he could see the drag queen seated a few rows across from him. Big hair, huge lashes, a harsh white line under her eye, and a clear-cut don’t-fuck-with-me demeanor.
She rolled her eyes at him as if she couldn’t believe the utter scum her eyes were having to bear. Honestly, Max had a hard time disagreeing with that look. He felt smaller under those disapproving eyes, ashamed of things he could and could not yet name. But his defenses were down and he couldn’t help staring.
He wished he could hate what he saw, but he couldn’t. His eyes, previously unable to open, were now hungry for whatever this was. He knew this wasn’t a normal feeling, and if he let it in, it would swallow him whole. Suddenly, his throat was very dry and he needed a drink. Daring to meet her eyes again, she looked straight into his.
“Beat it, queen.”
And he did, one stop too early, feeling like someone who had just nearly avoided being hit by a goddamn freight train. He waited patiently, feet so bold and hopeful as he stepped clumsily along the very edge of the yellow safety line. A pleasant, painful, heavy drunkenness blurred his senses; if there was a thing Max knew to be true, it was that lightning doesn’t miss twice, so perhaps today was his day.
*
It wasn’t.
Spoiler alert: none of them were, and the sense of failure would burn down the back of his throat, following a well-beaten path of bitter, unshed tears. Which is why it was such a surprise to him when he finally did stumble and fall, head fucking first.
It was 2011, his first time at Bob’s apartment. They’d just placed the bookcase in his living room, and he decided to take a breath, wipe his brow and look around. It was an apartment not unlike his, but for all he knew, it could’ve been a damn rabbit hole; wigs on wigs on wigs, and sequins everywhere.
Bob just smiled, and Max knew he was absolutely trapped.
Honestly, it was bound to happen at some point, but he always figured his unguarded recklessness would lead to bodily harm, not glitter. His eyes widened on their own accord, swallowing and cataloguing this stream of information, mouth slightly agape. From somewhere faraway, he could feel something snap, breaking way to a thick, sickening honey feeling. The air was full of it, contracting against his small frame.
Yes, Max expected a fall, but he never, ever expected for Bob to catch him on his way down.
Suddenly flooded with a million questions, Max allowed his tongue to greedily explore a mouth that provided absolutely no answers. Bob’s fingers were tangled in his hair, a sudden pull releasing an actual whine from between Max’s lips. He let him take him to his bed, various over the top outfits and sullied pairs of tights strewn about the room.
Tonight, there would be no threat of a well-lit room; Bob understood the darkness well, laying Max on his bed, their kisses growing more fervent and demanding. Bob broke the kiss first, his mouth laying claim on Max’s neck, teeth grinding slowly, deliberately, against his pulsing vein. His hands were everywhere as he made his way down, impatiently ridding Max of his sweaty clothes.
In the darkness, he didn’t have to close his eyes. For a brief moment, he imagined the glint in Bob’s eye to be the moon and the stars.
*
“No,” Max said for the umpteenth time. They were splayed in Bob’s bed; sickly pale limbs over strong, dark, muscular legs. Without much notice, this had become a habit neither dared to mention. Well. Max hadn’t dared to mention it, and Bob seemed to have bigger fish to fry.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Bob smiled sweetly, eliciting an eyeroll from Max.
“I haven’t even gone to see your show,” Max avoided the man’s eyes. His fingers began trailing lazily across Bob’s chest, a feeble attempt at a distraction.
“You wanna come see my show?”
“No, I told you, I’m not really into that stuff.”
“Except you are, bitch, you totally are,” Bob’s chuckle was like a noose tightening around Max’s neck. Bob grabbed the lithe finger drawing circles on his skin, Max’s eyes finally rising to meet his. “There is a woman in there, girl, let her the fuck out,” his voice came out lower, softer than Max expected.
He could see his own reflection in Bob’s eyes, but he couldn’t decipher the image he was seeing. How could something he hated be reflected in something he…
No.
He pulled his fingers away too quickly, pale chest reddening with shame.
But Bob held his gaze until it was unbearable; until he sighed and pulled Max in for a long kiss, one Max could have drowned in. Max closed his eyes, and knew he wasn’t, under any circumstances, off the hook.
With his body clinging to Bob’s, Max knew he would fight him until his dying breath.
*
Max felt lightheaded as Bob’s face drew closer to his. He knew that Bob had seen him in various stages of nakedness, but he’d never felt so exposed under his gaze. Now, in broad daylight, his eyes were entirely focused on Max. He could feel Bob’s hot breath on the surface his already sweltering skin. Max’s heart was beating wildly in his chest, his sweat trickling down the back of his neck, the upper part of his back, where Max lost track of its path. It was all turning out to be an exceptionally bad idea.
Max’s fingers played nervously with the hem of his shirt as Bob’s hand made its way towards his face. “Careful,” Bob’s voice was thick with something Max didn’t want to place, “eyes down.”
Bob’s hands were big, gentle, and almost-surgically precise as he placed the sticky false eyelash over Max’s own, adjusting it with a pair of tweezers. Max’s heart may have fluttered, but his eyes remained dutifully still. Losing himself had been quite enough; he didn’t need to lose an eye in the process as well.
He held his breath as Bob pulled back his hands, examining his own work. Max knew that Bob wasn’t prone to lying, but his entire worldview shifted as he said:
“You look beautiful, baby.”
Disappointment sank deep within his stomach, unexpected yet familiar, the words sliding off of his skin as if unable to comprehend that they were addressed to him. To Max.
He watched as Bob carefully secured an incomprehensible mess of blonde curls onto his head, the weight of it somehow grounding, comforting. There was no mistaking Bob’s pride as he took Max’s hand and helped him up. Yet Max could mistake his behavior five different ways.
The fan blew cool against Max’s back, but the sensation was short lived. Bob began concealing his body under a suffocating heap of padding, tights, and finally, a cincher. Max felt absolutely ridiculous, cracking his worst jokes to ease the tension and getting flustered as they all bombed. He wasn’t cut out for this shit, this was Bob’s thing. He just happened to be there, next to him, that’s all.
Max’s mother always said that people who have hammers see nails everywhere, and Bob finally got to hammer this particular nail. Bob’s tongue popped out of his mouth, licking his lips as he looked at his handiwork. He lifted a big, poofy wedding dress for Max to step into, and Max felt wholly unprepared.
There is something so feminine about the sound of a dress being zipped up. The noise hit his ear, tingled pleasantly from his scalp to the back of his neck. He looked down at his lace-covered body, and what had previously seemed to him like an incoherent assortment of pillows had somehow transformed into goddamn curves. His hand slid slowly across the new swells of his body as if he were afraid to touch them. A new feeling started to form in the pit of his stomach, but it was far from unpleasant. Just unfamiliar, or long-forgotten, perhaps, but so very far from unpleasant. For the first time in however many years, he had an urge, and he needed to know.
“Bob, can I… can I use your mirror?”
The words came hesitant from between his lips, and he was grateful to Bob for not making it into a big deal because it really wasn’t. Max kept telling himself that as he followed Bob to the only area of his apartment he has yet to familiarize himself with.
Max could tell you a lot about Bob’s apartment at that point. He knew where Bob kept his coffee mugs, his forks and his whisk; he knew the nail above Bob’s bed used to hold a painting by one of his exes, and that the stain on Bob’s floor was already there when he moved in. Max was especially aware of the boxes of wigs, tights, and sequins he used to tiptoe around as if afraid they’d swallow him whole. But the bathroom mirror only received the occasional glance, and the full-length mirror in the corner of Bob’s bedroom was avoided altogether. This was never mentioned, of course. It was just a fact, and facts are facts - that is, until new evidence comes to light.
Until someone steps into that light, causing it to fragment and rearrange itself in a way that rattles the earth, creating a crack big enough for new truths to emerge.
Until Bob flicked a switch, and Max could see big eyes and pink, overdrawn lips. Max could see an expression somehow similar to his on a completely different face. His features had been erased, exaggerated, and then reassembled into a Picasso. He blinked once, twice, and then it all made sense.
It was Friday, 358 minutes before sundown, and Maxwell was home again. He smiled into the mirror, his eyes meeting Bob’s, a hand reaching to take his. There was still time until Shabbat, but he’d somehow already felt a little calmer, a little cleaner, even a little lighter than he had in a long time. He let the warmth in Bob’s eyes reach all the way into his chest. He’d finally managed to disappear entirely, and yet, he’d never felt quite so seen.