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He just can't help himself. Never could. By no means does he go searching for fights or willfully interpret anything less than obviously hostile as such, but once he sees red, that's all he can see.
Or hear, or even feel, for that matter. He knows that the other man is bigger but feels no fear. He knows that he's been punched in the eye but keeps going, numbed to the pain by the heat of his own rage. He hears a familiar voice shouting his name but feels no inclination to react to it until—
"MR. ARCINIEGA—!"
Strong arms wrap around him, coming from the top to pin his own arms to himself. It is perhaps that voice so close to his ear, now, that snaps him out of it and keeps him from fighting back as hard as he might when those arms pull him back.
Gustavo steps swiftly in between him and the other man. He's the shortest of the three and still an effective barrier.
"Leave. Now," is all that he has to say. The man obeys. Who wouldn't?
Max is promptly struck with a chill in his chest and gut. He groans and starts back toward his cart, fully expecting the colonel to follow.
"I don't need you to fight for me," he makes sure to be the first to say.
"I didn't fight at all," Gustavo snaps, practically leaping in front of him to make avoiding his gaze impossible. It's a fierce one. "I diffused the situation. For which, by the way, you are welcome. I don't know what the hell happened but I can't imagine your business will thrive very well if customers witness you behaving that way—"
"Your first business advice to me was to not be so nice and now I need to be nicer? Make up your damn mind!" Max shouts, which actually seems to startle Gustavo. Whether it's the content of what he said or the fact that he did so loudly, he isn't sure. But once it occurs to him that he shouldn't draw more attention, he does quiet down: "I guess you only showed up at the tail end, because I was protecting my business. That bastard Rolando drove up on his shitty bike and started telling a line of customers that I had that they shouldn't be buying from some maricón like me—"
His throat and eyes both shut tight the moment that he realizes what he's said. Gustavo is an observant man. Surely he'll wonder why someone would think to slander him with that, and furthermore why he would take it so personally, and why he would be so clearly on the verge of tears just from repeating it...
But the questioning he expects doesn't come. Instead, as he allows his eyes to open again, he notices Gustavo glancing around the street. He doesn't know what he's looking for.
Then his hand is between Max's shoulder blades, guiding him so gently that before he even knows it he's in an alleyway, Gustavo having pulled the cart with them.
"I don't think Rolando will be bothering you or your customers again. However, if he does—do you know where he works?"
Max blinks several times, adjusting slowly to the unfamiliar way Gustavo is looking at him. His eyes hold more feeling than ever.
"Um... yes, he has his own chicken cart a few streets away. I'm sure he felt the need to do this because he's angry that people would rather walk for ten minutes to eat my chicken than merely step out their front door for his, the jealous asshole—"
"Perfect," Gustavo says, nodding to himself.
"What is?"
Then there are hands briefly gripping either of his arms.
"If Rolando returns, here is what you do: Say nothing. Do not acknowledge him. Do not stop serving your customers. If he attempts anything illegal, I will see to it that he answers to the law. If he only engages in verbal harassment and slander, then we will purchase some laxatives, grind them to a powder, and find a way to sneak it into his sauce. All of his remaining customers will leave and he'll have to find some other form of work."
He feels certain, for a moment, that that second half must be a joke. A laugh just barely manages to avoid escaping him before he realizes that Gustavo is serious. He furrows his brow and shakes his head as though to knock his confusion loose before laughing anyway and throwing his hands up—
"I... you know, I have to take back what I said about you making up your mind. That's a whole lot worse than me just kicking his ass."
"Exactly." Gustavo flashes him a smile, then. "You save your anger, Mr. Arciniega, and you can use it properly."
He smiles back, but much more slowly. "...You know how many times I've told you to call me Max, Coronel."
Once again, Gustavo glances around—subtly, his eyes flitting around with minimal head movement. Max does know whom he's looking for, now. He won't usually take the initiative himself because he finds it far too easy to forget the rest of the world when they're face to face.
Being reminded of the rest of the world never feels very good.
And yet, as the other man sighs and says,
"I have a schedule to return to. Don't give away too much chicken in the meantime, alright, Max?"
It's enough to fuel him for the rest of his day.
*
The thing is, when Max does manage to let some grievance go in the moment, he struggles to hold onto it. It fades not until he forgives but until he actually forgets. He heard somewhere once that he's supposed to do the opposite of that.
Though he doesn't have any desire to be the sort who follows all social expectations, that particular lack of ability has tortured him for as long as he can remember. Whatever force controls him decided long ago, in spite of the rough world he lives in, that his problems will be solved either immediately or not ever.
There was a point early on at which he resignedly accepted that. He could simply say this is how I am and not think much of it.
After perhaps a month of knowing Gustavo, then, he can no longer fathom not wanting to rid himself of his burdens.
He wants it now. He wants to learn to control his emotions instead of the other way around. He hates what they do to him—what they steal from him... None of that is stolen from Gustavo. The man is held back by nothing despite having origins just as dismal as Max's if not worse. What he's achieved may not be what Max wants for himself, but seeing it in action makes him think that it might be worth it, to be able to protect himself like that. To stop coming so close to bursting right out of his skin.
Or at least, as the two of them grow even closer, for it to stop hurting so much.
*
For how often he falls prey to even minor impulses, his heart is very rarely gripped by even the most rational of fear. Which is perhaps why it's not the notion of arrest and imprisonment that keeps him from revealing his affiliations for as long as he does.
Far moreso, it's the notion of losing Gustavo as a friend.
Max knows it's crazy. He knows that he's crazy. He has no doubt that he would even be shunned by the very organization that makes him so vulnerable if they knew what other friends he kept. And he can't blame them. Caring about a high-ranking member of the junta is antithetical to their very cause.
He knows that he should hate Gustavo. It's just that Gustavo hasn't given him a reason to yet.
It's a curse, is what it is. That he can't shut off his willingness to understand. That his professional friendliness could not remain just that. That he is so much more inclined to focus on a man's eyes than his uniform.
He then feels like a coward not only for not sticking to his convictions, but in putting off the inevitable. If Gustavo never learns the truth then he will never know him. Otherwise the longer it takes him to learn it, the more betrayed he will feel and the more pain Max will feel when he loses him.
Taking into account how consistently the idea is on Max's mind before he finally goes through with it months after first meeting, it's probably the least impulsive decision he's ever made.
"Gustavo, do you like your job?"
"Excuse me?"
Not any less stupid than the others, though. He doesn't have to analyze any expression or tone of voice to know that.
But he has just allowed Gustavo to escort him home. Gustavo himself insisted because it's so late. He's shown the man where he lives and can see only sympathy behind his eyes—far, far behind his eyes, as he would surely want to avoid expressing any kind of pity, but it's there. It must be. Max is sure of it. This feels right. Still, his heart threatens to beat out of his chest.
"Do you like your job," he repeats, searching the other man's face despite knowing that nothing he might find will make him stop. "Do you enjoy it? I—I know you've certainly worked hard to get where you are, but do you actually approve of the orders you follow? If you knew for a fact that you could get away with not following the regime, would you?"
Gustavo's expression hasn't changed since he started. All Max can think, for a moment, is of how he's too damn good at that. He himself can't keep stoic for the life of him.
Then the other man is silent for a moment too long and the anticipation of his answer becomes unbearable, so Max just comes out with it:
"I'm in the Communist Party, Gustavo. Not—not a high ranking member by any means, hardly even a footsoldier, I don't know anything that isn't public knowledge, I'm really just a nameless attendee, but... that's where I stand. That's what I believe in. I want you to know that."
For a moment he's worried that he accidentally spoke too quickly, or incoherently, due to how Gustavo just keeps staring at him. He almost starts up again, ready to defend his beliefs with his economic situation and apologize for not telling him sooner—
But then he sees the other man's shoulders relax and his lips part.
"You actually trust me enough to tell me all this?" Gustavo asks. His eyes have taken on more of a shine. "Why? I've done absolutely nothing to earn it."
Max doesn't think he's ever heard Gustavo say something more flagrantly incorrect. Does he really not know?
"You've been my friend," Max says, shrugging. "You've visited my poor little chicken cart every day and never paid less than four times the price. You've been kind to me—"
"Kind?" Gustavo repeats, like that surprised him.
Max is surprised in turn.
"Of course. Did you not mean to be?"
"Well, I... I just—didn't think that I was necessarily being..."
"You're also not arresting me right now, I've noticed," Max interrupts to save him the trouble. A wave of confidence has him closing a bit of distance between them. Gustavo's silence, then, is much shorter than before.
"I have no obligation to. There have been no direct orders to arrest members of the Communist Party since I was last promoted. Even if there were, it's far below my station."
"Is that the only reason that you don't?"
As he meets the other man's eyes, he feels like he might cry. Not out of fear or sadness or relief, but in simply being overwhelmed by all the other things he wants to say but can't. It's certainly wishful thinking, but Gustavo looks as though he feels the same.
"No, of course not."
*
Max is very surprised to learn that Gustavo's primary reputation lies in him being, supposedly, terrifyingly devoid of emotion.
Personally he would only call the man very stoic. And yes, one of the most enviable things about him is how well he hides his feelings behind a stone face and stiff body. But he still undoubtedly has them. He does. Even the inconvenient ones. Which only makes his stoicism all the more impressive of a feat. Is Max truly the one person who Gustavo allows to see? Or is it possibly that he's the only one who actually bothers to look?
It's so obvious to him when he looks. He barely needs to even try—it's just like observing some warped mirror. Inhuman shapes, but easy to understand what it's meant to reflect:
A life of suffering did it to him, plain and simple. It convinced him to learn how to keep every shred of emotion under lock and key, accessible only when he wishes. Worse so, it convinced him not to wish it almost at all. And in the world Gustavo lives in now—in which they both live—he only has all the more reason to stay that way.
*
"I don't know what I would do," he eventually admits to Max. "It's been so long since I've done anything else."
They're in Gustavo's house, sitting on opposite chairs in a spacious living room. It's easy to see, looking around, why he would be hesitant to leave his position. The air conditioning alone is enough of an argument. Though Max is sure that it goes beyond that.
He glances at the television. It's muted, but he can see that it's a news spot about Pinochet. Something about him addressing the national debt. Whatever the bastard is saying, it's likely not worth hearing anyway.
Then he looks back to Gustavo and finds the man with his hands folded, his elbows resting on his knees, and staring at the floor. He searches his mind for something helpful to say—and what comes out of his mouth is nothing he's ever found before:
"Maybe it doesn't matter if you know. Maybe what matters is that it's too late for you to ever make that choice... so you will continue to be part of it. Either that or you'll be killed. In fact, both of us will. That's just how it is."
Expectedly, Gustavo's head shoots up. Not so much, he proceeds to frown, tilt his gaze back down, straighten up the rest of his body, and say,
"No." His brow furrows so deep that Max almost thinks he's angry. Then they meet eyes again and it's most certainly something else. "No, it's not too late, Max. It doesn't have to stay this way. We can change it. I can... lend myself to the cause. I could be an inside man for them, if they'll have me. Well—they likely won't. Why would they? I'm too publicly close to be trustworthy... I suppose I can operate anonymously and leak information through a third party—which would be you, of course..."
Hearing Gustavo ramble like this in general would be shocking enough, let alone what he's proposing. Somehow, meanwhile, the mention of himself takes Max out of that shock. His head shakes from the whiplash.
"Me?"
"Who else?" he says without skipping a beat. "I thought you wanted to do something more than distribute Victor Jara cassettes."
As far as Max can recall, he's only mentioned that once. Very offhandedly, too. More as a joke than anything. How long has Gustavo been thinking about this?
He takes in a sharp, heavy breath to make up for the pace his heart has suddenly taken and leans forward until he's barely on the couch anymore.
"So... you're serious about this?—oh, who am I kidding, when have you ever not been serious—wait, actually, no, I'm... Gustavo," he exhales, gesticulating wildly in an attempt to articulate what he means. As well as to simply make sense of all this. "You would... actually do this? Are you sure? It's just—you'd be risking so much for an organization that wouldn't recognize your sacrifice. You'd be... shit, you'd be interacting every single day with men who would have you tortured and killed if they knew what you were doing. You'd have to be friendly with them."
"I am well aware."
Said in any other tone of voice, that would likely have made Max feel stupid. But they clearly both know that he isn't trying to tell Gustavo something he doesn't already know himself. He's even sure, now that he thinks about it, that none of what he described is something Gustavo doesn't already do.
He's just marvelling aloud at the lengths his friend is willing to go—at the continued suffering he is ready to put himself through—to get what he wants.
*
He doesn't understand how this can be what Gustavo wants.
Any ambition that Max has ever had felt no closer than a lifetime away. They've felt less tangible than dreams. Like the mere vague images that he can recall directly after waking, they've lied so frustratingly out of reach that it's only natural to give up. Because to him, truly wanting something has a prerequisite of believing that it's possible.
So in spite of the passion that he's held for chemistry since high school and even the confidence he feels in the intuitive nature of it, the idea of actually pursuing that field... well, he's felt it in waves. Very occasional ones.
Ultimately Max couldn't even feel all that let down by what he'd hoped for a moment might be a real opportunity. He was angry, yes, but no differently than he often is. There's no surprise in it—it's just the shitty world he lives in, where he's nothing more than a poor, dirty errand boy from the slums and will never be more than that. Not even to those whose radical politics supposedly aspire to change that world.
"I know it can't be because they just plain don't trust me," he told Gustavo over a drink. Or several drinks. "Not when I've been delivering your messages for almost a year. Hell, they let me know where the laboratory is and what they're up to in there so it's not any fucking secret to begin with! All I asked—I really don't see why they couldn't... There's only two chemists in there. I said all I would need is a little practical training and I would pick it up and I know they could've given me some test to prove I had the—the... theoretical knowledge up here, but! They didn't even let me do that! I might as well have just been a rat who wandered in and started climbing in the damn beakers."
Whatever part of him was still sober that night expected some sympathy, and his memory is foggy, but he believes that he got it.
However, he didn't expect Gustavo to open the liquor cabinet again two nights later and, over some expensive wine, announce that "I've checked and made sure that my finances are in order, so you can start toward your chemistry degree as soon as the fall semester at the University of Santiago begins."
Max never asked for it. As far as he could tell, he never even implied it. He's mentioned that if he had the option he would have attended a university, sure, but...
"Why?" he asks after several moments—after he fully registers what has been said. "Why would you spend so much money on me?"
Gustavo, who appeared confused a second ago, immediately laughs and sets down his glass.
"Don't worry, Max, I can afford it just fine. Really—I doubt it will even be a full four years that I'll be paying for. I bet you could knock it out in three or less. No pressure, though, of course. I promise." He shifts, then, and reaches out to put a hand on Max's knee. "I have an excess, here. I have no qualms selling this place for something smaller and cheaper if I need to. I simply believe—no, actually, I know that this... is the one thing keeping you from achieving everything you want."
Without realizing until now, Max has drunk all of his wine. He can't tell whether it's helped him wrap his head around this or tangled him up in his feelings even worse.
If there's any one thing that he is acutely aware of at the moment, it is how deeply he admires Gustavo and how ceaselessly he has done so since the moment that they met. For the man's sense of justice and honor in spite of the system he works under, the control he wields in any and every situation, the... sheer strength, athleticism, and grace that he's proven to have... His adaptability, most of all. Max has already watched him learn several new skills, some of them having been his own first. It's ridiculous. He's just so fucking intelligent and talented.
He's so fucking beautiful, Max cannot help but think above all else. He's looking at Max with an excited but gentle smile, and it's a very rare sort of happiness to see on Gustavo's face that Max now wishes he could see forever, and—
And Gustavo, this man, believes this much in him?—when no one, no one before has ever...
"Frankly," Gustavo continues, "I have to apologize for not doing this sooner—"
His spot on the couch is unable to contain him any longer. Max unthinkingly surges forward past every other boundary he's ever before breached with Gustavo and finds himself living out one of the very dreams that he'd never imagined had a chance in hell of happening—and his head is swimming so much it might as well be a dream, it's heaven to feel Gustavo's lips and breath against his own, it's—
Brief, before Max realizes what he's done.
The worst fear that he's felt in his life stabs through him as he jumps back. He just ruined everything. His free education, before he could ever even use it. His place in this house. His friendship with Gustavo.
Max stares at the spot on the carpet where he dropped his wine glass in that impulse. It's a miracle that it didn't break. He swallows hard.
He can't look at Gustavo. He can't. But he has to.
That decision comes quicker than he'd have thought, and he finds Gustavo having yet to react. He just looks stunned. He looks about as baffled as Max felt minutes ago.
Right as Max feels ready to get up and run, then, Gustavo's eyes change. For a split second he looks terribly sad. Before that second is over, he's closed the distance the same way that Max did.
Oh.
And he's closed it even further.
Oh.
*
Max once looked inside Gustavo's heart and saw something artificially hollowed out. While it made him sad, he understood why it had needed to be done.
Now, he sees himself in there. He still struggles to believe it long after that night—even as the two of them share a bed for the hundredth time, as Gustavo pulls Max on top of him and laces their fingers together, as he says Maximino so sweetly and like he can't get enough of it... But it gets easier. It's not that he thinks very lowly of himself so much as that he doesn't want to be so bold as to think that it's only him in there.
He can find no evidence of anything or anyone else, though. As years pass, it only becomes more undeniable. Gustavo never expresses more than professional affection for another soul unless that other person is present. He never mentions even his own family—until Max one day wonders aloud why that is, at which Gustavo cups either of his cheeks and tells him,
"You are my family."
For as long as he can remember, Max has been taking care of others before himself. He hasn't an ounce of self-importance in his body. Pieces of his heart are scattered all throughout Santiago because he once had it in him only to love and trust. Without his attachments, he'd have had nothing.
He has to think of how many of the people he's known and loved would warn him to run from someone who cares for no one but him. To run even faster from someone who finds it so easy to feign attachment to others. How they would say that a man like that is lethally dangerous.
Yet none of those people, even without any clue of his deviancy, have ever truly stood face to face with him.
Gustavo has always respected him, meanwhile. He's always treated him so well, never spoke down to him, never even yelled at him. He's done so many selfless things for him, both to outright protect him and simply to make him happy. He's not afraid to stand by Max's side even when he should be.
Truthfully, Max is finding it easier by the day to forget everyone else himself. It doesn't feel too bold anymore to acknowledge it.
There's no denying that it's not right. That doesn't necessarily stop him, whenever he has the opportunity to place his hand over Gustavo's heart, from feeling both a thrill and a deep comfort in knowing that he is the only one that it beats for.
*
"...Methamphetamine."
"The market for it is practically untapped, Gustavo. At least—at the purity that we could be making it. Ninety-five percent at least. Most of the junkies out there have never experienced even half the high that they would get. It would even technically be safer. We would have a monopoly on it before the bathtub cooks out there had any idea what hit them."
Rather than looking impressed like Max had imagined, the other man seems to scrutinize him for a long moment. Then,
"Are you... on it, right now?"
"Am I—Gustavo, no!" He has to laugh. He can't be mad, really. His pupils must be huge. "No, I'm just excited. A bit manic, I admit—look, I know this sounds like it's come from nowhere. I kept the idea to myself for the past few weeks or so because I wanted to make sure that I was capable of synthesizing it on my own before I said anything. And I can."
Max's mania kicks in harder as he strides across the room for his backpack, from which he removes a paper bag, and from that removes a plastic bag, which he then tosses to Gustavo.
"Look at the size of those crystals," he says without missing a beat. "And the clarity. As far as I can research, this is some of the best quality meth that anyone could get in the world. If I can create this with half my degree left to go, imagine what I could do once I graduate. Or hell, I wouldn't even need to—well, no, I still would like to use my credentials for the Patriotic Front, but—"
"Max." Gustavo's commanding tone startles out of it—but his eyes aren't on him. They're on the bag of meth in his own hand. "...Did you use the university's lab to do this?"
His breath stops at how calmly Gustavo asked that, but he tries not to read into it.
"Where else?"
"What if you had been caught?" Even calmer. Still not looking at him.
"I'd reserved the lab for another project. I had a school-sanctioned reason to be alone in there and I knew no one else would come in. I accounted for the time that it would take, the chemicals I would need, everything. I'm not stupid."
"But what if things had gone unexpectedly? If a staff member needed to retrieve something or speak to you, or if some emergency required you to vacate the building? Not only would you have been kicked out of the university, but you would have been arrested. Furthermore, I would have been questioned as a newly promoted Captain who has been funding the education of a wannabe meth cook."
"Alright—fine, yes, I couldn't be a hundred-percent positive—but I didn't get caught, did I?" Max is hunching over and arching his neck uncomfortably far, now, just to try to meet the other man's face. "Gustavo. You're missing the point. Do you know how much money you're holding in your hand right now? That alone can pay the rest of my tuition!"
Gustavo's head finally snaps up, startling Max backwards.
"Is that what this is about? Paying me back? Because I already told you that you never have to, and in fact, I never want you to—"
"I still think that's unfair—but no, Gustavo." He heaves a breath of relief but doesn't feel it entirely, yet. "This is about our future. I thought it might be my turn to do something about it—don't you? We both know what the Patriotic Front ultimately intends to do. If they succeed, you're a war criminal. If they don't, you could be in danger from both sides. Your income is then gone, and your savings after you finish funding my degree will only last so long... and much of it, I assume, will go towards us fleeing the country. This is a guaranteed income. We could have enough money to go anywhere we wanted, Gustavo! We could be rich enough to fear no one. We wouldn't even have to hide who we were—if we could afford to pay for security, and to bribe police to look the other way, and, shit, to be so charitable that people would be forced to re-evaluate what they see as immoral..."
As soon as he runs out of air to ramble on with, Gustavo makes use of the time he takes to catch his breath:
"You don't need to worry about our future. Not like this. Where did you even learn this much about meth? Where did this idea come from? A meth empire—this... isn't you, Max. No. We can't. We won't."
"...You just hate it because you're not the one who came up with it."
The words come out of his mouth with far more vitriol than he's ever intended toward Gustavo before, even in his darkest moments. It's just been building up in him since the other man first avoided meeting his eyes. Max felt a sting in his throat and behind his eyes from the moment that he outright said no.
That feeling continues as Max stares hard at the other man, who now stares back with wide eyes but an otherwise stiff face. After an agonizing pause, Gustavo unlocks his jaw and speaks in the softest of voices.
"You know that's not true."
He does. He already feels horrible.
But he still feels angry, too—he has to, when he'd felt so sure that Gustavo would be nothing but proud of him. For not just officially making that tuition money worth it for both of them, but also proving himself to be capable of that kind of big-picture thinking, unburdened by trivial insecurities.
It was as though, upon finishing that first batch of meth, he'd finally become the man that he knew Gustavo deserved. He can't bear the idea of being wrong about that now.
"This... is something I'm good at, Gustavo," he finally brings himself to say, miraculously free of tears. "The Patriotic Front could hire any amateur chemist for their purposes if they wanted to. If I'm producing something—if I'm one of the best in the world at something... isn't that better than just making a bomb and some poison gas?"
He steps closer and catches a glimpse of Gustavo's lip trembling.
"I don't... I just want you to be safe, Maximino—"
"Of course I will be, you'll be there." And closer, until he's gripping either of Gustavo's arms and is inches away from his face. "This wouldn't just be me, it would be us. You have the perfect businessman's brain—you already agreed that you would help me run a restaurant if I ever managed to open one, didn't you? We could still do that and it would be our front! I swear I've thought about every possibility already, Gustavo. I'm prepared for the risk. If I die, it's only because you already have, and what the hell is there for me to live for if that happens?"
Rather than saying anything for the next minute, Gustavo closes his eyes and rests their foreheads together. In that minute, in spite of everything, Max finds himself coming to terms with the possibility of a sustained no.
"...Please don't feel like you have to do this if you don't like it," he nearly whispers. "I understand. I'm sorry."
Not a moment later, Gustavo pulls back to look at him.
"If we do this..." He takes a deep, slow breath, during which Max's own breath hitches. "...We draft a comprehensive, precise plan first. And long before that, you still need to graduate. And... please, no more synthesizing until then."
Max doesn't hesitate to agree.
*
The inescapably addictive quality of meth is possibly the only thing that keeps Max from being tempted to try it himself. But it's the only thing he needs.
He doesn't have to venture into the world of addicts to know how the chemical properties present. Higher purity means that a higher amount of serotonin is transmitted—an amount that the human brain can never come close to producing on its own. It sets a new threshold with a single use. Normal levels of serotonin become inadequate for daily life. Using the drug becomes permanently required for the sensation of true happiness.
The thought alone sends chills through him, makes him hesitant to even touch the stuff after it's been made if he doesn't have a mask on. Terrifies him with the possibility that he might somehow have an impulse to crush a crystal and snort it despite how much he's also terrified of that sort of pain.
\All he can think is what a horrible existence it would be if, one morning, waking up next to Gustavo ceased to make him feel anything.
Part of him is then inclined to think of how that precise experience will inevitably happen to many of their customers, far down the line. How once the cartel begins distributing their product, there will be millions of lives more or less ruined by a new addiction. Those lives will have been already under-privileged and exploited groups, such as those living in slums like he used to.
That is, he's inclined, but he knows how to stop himself now. He's learned how to ignore it.
*
Gustavo did teach him how to curb his desire to take immediate, reckless action. More importantly, how to reap the satisfaction he craved through means that entirely benefit him. Max had one day outright asked him how he did it with all that he faced, and the man had given fairly straightforward instructions:
Remind yourself that you're only more likely to get hurt worse if you act without thinking. Remind yourself that the offending party is likely not as smart as you. After the offense is over, continue to remind yourself of it. Relive the events as many times as you need to, to remind yourself of what you lost, and that will motivate you to decide with a sober mind what will be both deserved and effective.
"It won't feel exactly the same as if you simply let pure instinct carry you forward and blindly attack," Gustavo had admitted—in retrospect, with a very tender, sympathetic gaze. "Nothing is ever going to match that... primal feeling. But in the end, Max, you will feel far more in control in this world if what happens is truly your decision."
It took a long time and still never began to feel quite natural, but he eventually managed to get in the habit.
It was like learning a second language. A great tool for general use, especially in breaching a gap in communication. In embracing another culture and trying to live in peace with it. He could never rewire his brain, though. He just had to remember the steps and follow them exactly. He had to think about it.
No matter how easy it became, meanwhile, it never stopped frustrating nor impressing him how much easier it was for Gustavo to maintain such control.
Up until his dying breath he could never entirely comprehend it.
After that, some part of Max remains present just long enough to see that switch in Gustavo's brain turn off. From nowhere and everywhere he watches the love of his life scream and charge like a rabid, wounded animal with no aim but to create more violence. To see blood. To have the despair and rage replaced with the catharsis of clawing that murderer to shreds.
It's in the rage that Max lives in those final moments. Where else would he go? He's always been here. No true change had to occur, inside or out. This is the same man that he met on the streets of Santiago eight years ago. He's always been here.
It's excruciating, but Max would never hold that against him. He understands better than anyone that Gustavo just couldn't help himself.