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Sometimes Sean felt like the universe had chosen him to be the test man of this planet, and he was testing all its crazy ideas and challenges.
Did your father's death destroy you enough to make you give up forever? What about your super powered brother? Is he eating well? Do you enjoy sleeping on the ground, Sean Diaz? Do you like begging for food, taking beatings from fucking racists, eating from other people's dishes, taking on a job that you wouldn't have thought a year ago was done by real people?
And crossing the border didn't magically solve all his problems like he had thought. For one thing, he and Daniel had to take back their father's home from Mexican squatters and in a village where everyone knew each other, new faces raised questions and suspicions, and not every store would sell milk and bread to outsiders. The roof to their reclaimed home continued to leak even after it was repaired, water from the taps was slow and rusty, the ocean reeked of fish, and Daniel couldn't speak Spanish so he didn't open his mouth in crowded places. Of course, Sean wasn't having an easier time in the regard either because his American accent made the locals grimace.
Despite this, sometimes, the universe seemed to like how he handled himself, and in its own way, expressed its respect for him. In the form of Brody Holloway, for example, and Claire and Stephen. Every time Sean felt like he couldn't carry on, someone gave him a break.
In Mexico, Max Caulfield became such a respite.
At night, Sean had crawled into a bar where they served drinks to everyone, no documents were needed, no accent was necessary. He downed a shot of tequila in one gulp, burned his throat, covered his lips with his wrist, and spoke softly through his teeth in his native English, which was not understood there.
"You fucked up."
And the girl behind the counter, a meter away, grinned into her glass and consciously turned her head towards him, resting her cheek on her palm.
"You come in with the face and voice of a quarryman, ask for a stronger drink, and expect to get a sweet cocktail mixed in? The bartender thinks the same of you, tequila is actually a snack around here."
Max Caulfield didn't look much older than him. Probably because she wasn't particularly tall or built, her hair was dyed blue, and she carried a hipster Polaroid camera. She was also an American, and that was all Sean was interested in after that. Having worked eighteen hours in the Bazaar and spoken only in Spanish (Spanish that was constantly being ridiculed and corrected for business and non-business reasons), it was a miracle to have another English speaker besides Daniel.
Sean offered to buy her a drink (even though he didn't have any spare money to pickle a random girl in a bar), but Max said that her moral principles didn't allow her to drink at the expense of a child, so she paid for a whole tray of shots, then took Sean outside to get some air.
Following a difficult shift of unloading goods and having only a single sandwich for dinner, Sean was carried away after the second drink.
He asked Max questions about her life, but had only listened to the answers half the time, because almost any word could be translated in a roundabout way to his own lamentations that his life sucks. He'd taken a lot of shit, more than fed it out of a big spoon to his little brother, and for what? For the sake of a happy future, that never came.
He didn't understand or remember much about Max. A photographer (which, at first glance, was obvious), well-known in narrow circles, but she didn't like to talk much about that. She lived and studied in Seattle for a while (which turned out to be a nice coincidence, but it didn't affect the conversation much). She came to Mexico on vacation for the first time in years wanting to take pictures of the ocean and many picturesque streets of a small village a she chose another country, remembering a childhood dream of traveling the world.
Sean gave out four times more information: about his father being shot, about wintering in someone else's house, about the hemp plantation and problems at the border crossing into Mexico, not out of it. Max was trustworthy. When Sean told her something, he didn't feel that any word he said could be used against him, Max just wanted to talk. To speak out in a language that Sean was sadly burying deeper with each passing day.
"Maybe I should have done something else."
Sean took out a cigarette, leaned back on the bench and put his heels up on the seat.
Max poured the last drops of tequila into one glass, took another sip, and sat cross-legged, her head propped up with her hand. "I thought Mexico was the right choice, it's my dad's homeland, it's something good. But in the end, we traded one survival for another. You can't look to the future about where your actions will lead you. And, like in a video game, go back to a checkpoint and try something different. Unfortunately, I can't rewind time."
Max chuckled over that last sip of tequila and rolled the tray away.
"Well, I can." She looked Sean in the eye for too long and smooth for a woman who was talking nonsense, and without waiting for his reaction, she continued. "We can choose a question. Something a stranger can't know about you. You answer it, and I'll be back by the time you have something to say. If we do that, you'll ask about your brother's birthday. It's April 11th."
Sean was so baffled by what was happening, he forgot about the cigarette and the burning filter burnt his fingers. The first question that really came to his mind was about Daniel, but paradoxically, his younger brother with superpowers did not humble him with the idea that anything is possible in the world at all, but on the contrary, he was extremely skeptical. Sean was sure that one superhero would be enough for his lifetime, so he sloppily leaned back against the wall.
"Maybe it's not that question at all."
"Well, ask another question."
Before Sean could even open his mouth, Max quickly blurted out, "October 28th."
Sean took another deep breath, but Max cut him off again. "Lyla Park."
"Enough."
Sean hunched over, his face buried in his hands. He hadn't put up with Daniel very well in his time. That the universe distributes resources fucking unevenly and illogically: after all, in the choice between a spoiled ten-year-old and a teenager who by the time he was sixteen already understood something in life, that you need to earn money, objectively spend your resources, protect yourself and not burn pot in front of your father, the higher forces without a shadow of a doubt poured all the extraordinary abilities into Daniel.
By the time he was seventeen, Sean had already crossed several States and countries on his own, poised to keep him and his brother relatively well-fed and free, and taught the child to use powers in which he barely understood. And in the choice between him and a freak with a camera who uses her ability to go back in time to impress a random guy in a bar, the universe again didn't choose him.
It took a while for it to happen, but Daniel realized that even if he wanted to show off his powers, he had to keep it a secret, only reveal it to people he trusted completely. And he understood this not in theory and not according to the instructions of his older brother: Daniel learned it himself, through personal experience, about the wrong people learning about his gift and that it can't solve all his problems. If Max hadn't learned the same thing by the time she was twenty-two, then how easy life must have been for her. Probably without tragedies and losses, without having to deal with cruel bastards, without experiences so toxic you'd want to erase them from your memories.
Why did the opportunity to correct mistakes of the past go to her, a girl who couldn't think of anything smarter than to use it for cheap pickups? If Sean could have had it for just a minute: he would have gone back on a particular day, prevented a particular event, and lived happily ever after in Seattle. But no, why give resources to people who need them the most?
Sean let out a long breath and didn't even want to comment with words.
He took another cigarette from the crumpled pack and cupped his hand over the flame of the lighter. Alcohol made his head feel heavy and hot, while nicotine flowed through his brain in a gentle stream, blowing out all the unnecessary information through the nostrils.
He tilted his head back to stare up at the dark sky and exhale smoke upward, but he still heard Max's soft, almost knowing chuckle.
"I can't read minds, but if you think the power to change the past has been given to someone who has nothing to use it for, you're wrong."
Sean turned his workman's eye at her a little, not very interested, and decided that was enough as a response to her words. What Max did not lack was patience and a sense of tact, and she did not resent such a flawed dialogue.
"My best friend was shot in front of me in the school bathroom. It was also stupid and unfair, but I guess I was the only one who thought that. I stopped the shooting then, and the next day I was there when a bullet ricocheted into her chest while she was shooting at the bottles. I fixed that, too, and she got hit by a train. I tried to change her life somehow going as far as back to her childhood, but it didn't get any better. I used my gift to save her life, over and over and over again."
Sean only now realized that he hadn't been breathing all this time, and the cigarette had burned out completely in his hands. Max noticed it, too, and gave a small, mirthless laugh, her voice much lower and more insinuating. "At some point, my city became the epicenter of the largest cataclysm. Because a temporary canvas is like a drawing, it cannot be fixed indefinitely. Sooner or later, you'll rub a through hole with an eraser."
Sean touched his backpack, where he was still carrying a notebook for old times' sake. The metaphor could have been accidental, but it was too much in the theme. With people like Max, it probably shouldn't have relied on coincidences.
"I never said I liked to draw."
Max shook her head in disapproval and closed her eyes for a moment. And then she looked at Sean in a way that barely familiar drinking buddies don't.
"You don't want to know how much this meeting is worth to me."
Sean almost choked on his own saliva and forced himself to keep his face as straight as possible. It was out of the question to force any articulate sounds out of his throat, and Max realized it once again. She spoke slowly and smoothly.
"I'm sorry about your father. I'm sorry that you and Daniel have had to go through so much." Sean couldn't help but chuckle, because even though his head was still a little swollen from the alcohol, it was unlikely that he had mentioned his brother by name in any of his conversations. Max was no longer bothered by the inconsistencies; even if she realized her mistake, she didn't explain it. "Life sucks, and those who watch us from above are complete bastards. However improbable this may sound, we are being led along the most correct path possible. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."
"My father was a wonderful man," Sean interrupted, his voice husky, as if he'd been silent for decades, but he didn't look Max in the eye. "His death is not right."
"I know," Max whispered and understandingly, and for a moment, with the very tips of her fingers, she scribbled Sean's knee in a supportive gesture. "Death is never right. But to die by an accidental shot, almost instantly, while protecting your children — it's not the worst kind of death."
Max's emphasis was so careful and deliberate that Sean shuddered inside. People don't say that when they don't know the exact alternatives. At seventeen, Sean still didn't know what could be worse than death.
"You're right. I don't want to know."
Max didn't push. She leaned her head back on the bench and stared up at the graying predawn sky, taking a deep, contented breath. She took the pack of cigarettes from Sean's lap, pulled out one, and didn't ask him to light it. Sean reached for his lighter, but at the last moment he left it in his pocket. Max clearly knew the consequences of even the smallest of her actions.
"You did the right thing, Sean. There are things that even I can't change: they just have to happen, whether we want them to or not. But when something depended on you, none of your initial decisions took you and Daniel down a less profitable path. Take my word for it, even if you don't feel that way now, you'll never feel that way again, but it's all right. You're doing a great job. You don't need to be able to change the past, because you have a different talent; you fix what the universe has already fucked up. Not as fast as you'd like, not as perfect, but I'll let you in on a little secret; there's no such thing as perfect. I will always feel that my photos are not good enough, you won't be completely satisfied with your drawings. So there is no reason to polish one work. Do you have any idea how much we'll miss out on?"
Sean chuckled, and for the first time that night and in the past few weeks, it was light of heart. Max sat with him for a moment in a not oppressive, but rather tight, pleasant silence, and then she fidgeted, stabilizing the glasses on the tray.
"I suppose we're just about finished with the revelations of this life. Mexico may be a great country, but if I miss the light I need to the capture the sunrise on the ocean, I'll have to stay here another day, and I'm not ready for that."
Max picked up the tray with one hand, pressing the edge against her side, and with the other she slammed a stack of square cards back into place. "Have a good life, Sean Diaz, and try to look at the past as an already captured masterpiece, not a rough sketch that can be corrected."
Max flew through the bar doors so fast that Sean didn't even have time to say goodbye to her back.
Lost, he slid down from the back of the bench to see what she had left, and without expecting it, flipped over the stack to see a strange set of photographs. His home in Seattle, a gas station, a motel on the coast, an abandoned snow-covered cabin. It was as if Max had been following him and his brother around with her polaroid camera the previous year.
In the last photo, Sean was slamming down a shot of tequila, his eyes closed.
It took Max Caulfield several years to complete this non-cultural photo shoot of buildings, fences, trees, and random people. A few years, a couple of long hospital stays in a near-comatose state, a hundred conversations starting out the same way, three prison dates, and a list of forty other things she didn't want to repeat.
Having failed to save Chloe, she hoped to fix the life of at least a random guy from a random bar in Mexico, but after viewing it literally in all variations, she did not find the strength to tell him what she saw there.
Having jealously dragged a stack of photographs that had spanned a thousand lifetimes, Max emptied them all out of her backpack to block the way back to the Diaz's' past once and for all.
She now took it much easier to part with her photos: she sent them out to competitions without leaving a return address, gave them to friends, put them on stands in coffee shops and bars, or gave them to passersby who caught her eye. Anything to avoid the possibility of taking a step back and trying something different.
Max couldn't get rid of just one control point though. A photograph of a blue butterfly from her old school days wandered behind her from one backpack to another and desperately refused to get lost. At one point, Sean Diaz drew two wolves and a fox with a camera strap around its neck in a few strokes on the back. The timelines didn't even leave a trace of the slate pencil, but the signature was painfully etched into Max's memory.
"Decisions can be painful as hell. And be right at the same time."