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The first time it happens, David dismisses it.
He catches Max muttering low under his breath, eyes half-lidded, meditatively gazing out the living room window. It’s almost like he’s in a trance. When he mentions it, Max immediately stops. David doesn’t think twice about it, and goes back to making dinner.
When it happens a second time, David asks him about it.
“Is it a song?” he asks.
“What?” Max asks distractedly.
“You’re humming,” David remarks.
“No, I’m not,” Max huffs. He grumpily rises from the couch, rushes from the living room before David can get another word out. The house stills.
When it happens a third time, David stops to listen.
Max doesn’t notice. In his trance, he continues humming, a throaty sound that vibrates somewhere deep in his throat. It’s beautiful, and David follows the boy’s Adam’s apple with his eyes. Sympathetic goosebumps rise along his arms. It’s a language he doesn’t understand. Max continues humming for a long time, repeats the same few foreign syllables, over and over like a mantra. Sunlight from the window bathes his caramel skin in a warm glow.
“That’s lovely, Max,” David breathes, when the boy finally finishes. Max’s eyelids snap open.
“Fuck off, David.”
David captures his wrist.
“Is it a song? A poem?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Max spits.
“Max,” David pleads.
“It’s a prayer, moron.” Max rips his arm away.
“A prayer,” David repeats wonderingly. “You’re religious?”
“Free country.” Max shrugs. He casts his eyes down guiltily. “Sorry. I’ll pray somewhere else, if it bothers you.”
“No, it’s... it’s nice. Like listening to music,” David finishes, a little lamely.
“It’s not a fucking concert, David.”
“What language is that?”
“Hindi.” Max shrugs. “Why do you care?”
“You’re Hindu?” A snapshot from their time at camp flashes through his mind, a culture day fair, an image of Gandhi. He’d almost forgotten.
“Yeah.” Max kicks the carpet. “So?”
“So I didn’t know!” David can’t seem to figure out how to move his hands. “Do you... I mean. Do you need books? Do you need to go to church?”
“We don’t have church.” Max folds his arms. “Church is for Christians.”
“Max...” David hesitates.
“What, David?”
“I want you to feel comfortable in our house,” David says slowly. “I’m serious. Do you, do you need anything? To practice Hinduism?”
Max scrutinizes him.
Our house. A warm feeling floods his chest, not unwelcome. They’ve only been living together a short time, but already David’s house is starting to feel like home. Still, Max treads lightly. He can’t afford to jeopardize his position here, not during the cold winter. If David kicks him to the curb, he has nowhere else to go. He won’t last the season.
“You mean it?” Max asks, finally. “You’re not... weirded out, or whatever?”
“No, Max.” David’s smile comes easily, like the sun. Max exhales.
“Can I have a shrine?” Max asks hesitantly. “To pray?”
“What do you need to make one?”
“Um... just some pictures. I can print them at the library.”
“You can use my printer! I’ll even help you set it up, if you want.”
“You’re serious?” Max probes. “You’d let me have a shrine in your house?”
“Our house, Max,” David repeats softly.
Something warm and heavy settles in Max’s stomach, a feeling of permanence he isn’t used to. He clears his throat. His eyes flick up to meet David’s steady gaze.
“Uh. Cool. Thanks.”
“Maybe you can teach me one of your songs!” David grins.
“Don’t push it.”