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The only thing remotely enjoyable about spending nights in the Wasteland was the sky – the blanket of stars patterning the black of night was like silver splattered blood of old dead gods. Max thought a lot about the old world that once looked unto the same sky, watching sattelites drift, the last remnants of vanished civilizations drifting like insouciant wandering stars.
And then there was everything else: the biting cold, the feral beasts, the roving gangs, the empty landscape, the lack of any sense of direction, and so on and so on and so on. Many a night had Max spent out here as he wandered aimlessly; he decided the cold was the worst. The dark of night seeped into all, even the cracks between the stars, and it sucked heat from everything it touched – which, he reminded himself, was everything – like some starved parasite. Fires helped, but it was unwise to build one when you slept alone. If the body of the vehicle was still intact, cars retained heat well enough, even hours after sundown, though he'd never come across one that still had a functioning heater. He woke himself shivering in the dead of the night often.
He liked fires the best, though. But learned quickly after a few nights on his own that the light was a beacon for trouble – those feral beasts and roving gangs would close in on any camp with a flame and he stopped building fires altogether after his third near death experience at the hands of some savage Wasteland fucks with high octane blood and an insatiable craving for death.
The difference now was that Furiosa was with him, somber and pensive watching the achingly bright flames in the center of their small camp for two. No doubt that fire would serve like a beacon and all the devils of the Wasteland would be here, but two of them meant one could stand watch while the other slept, a comfort Max wasn't used to. When the devils of the Wasteland came, they could be long gone at that point, already tearing across the desert in the War Rig having seen them coming a mile away.
And for other reasons, it was nice to travel by her side again. She shouldn't leave the Citadel, he told her, yet still she was always the first to volunteer to accompany him when her told her he was going to set out. This venture in particular wasn't a short trip – and it was on official citadel business, too. The History Men and Women told histories of the apocalypse, everything after The Fall, but nothing before. The ruins of the old war scattered the Wasteland, like blemishes against smooth and hostile desert, and within them, these missing histories.
The building they had visited that day before the sun disappeared was a library. Old and dusty, it was one of the last standing buildings in the area, among broken pieces of old roads almost completely consumed by sand, and the last crumbling remnants of empty shells of whatever buildings once surrounded it.
The back seat of the Rig was already starting to fill up – a box of books they'd been able to salvage, some Max remembered reading before the war, some he didn't. Many of the books were ruined – water damage, excess of dust, sat in the sun too long, words too faded to read. But what they'd been able to grab would be invaluable. Even what Max remembered of the pre-war world was hazy, broken and incomplete. The human mind was feeble and for all of such history to be lost like that would be disasterous. So any pre-war texts they could get their hands on were nothing short of a blessing.
And that was the main reason they'd set out. Furiosa was important to the Citadel with Immortan Joe gone, but so were priceless artifacts like these. The ruins that scattered the Wasteland were rife with old histories, when scavengers and gang members hadn't gotten to them first. Before the library, they'd found three other buildings in tact – none containing much of anything. The library had been a miracle.
"Max."
How long had he been staring at the sky, the empty sprawling Wasteland beneath it, lost in thought? Time didn't have a lot of meaning out here. He didn't pay attention to it.
Turning his head over his shoulder back at her, he made a small noise of acknowledgement, caught somewhere between a "hmm?" and a lazy grunt.
"The books we gathered."
"Yeah."
"You said you knew what some of them were?"
"Yeah?" His tone shifted as he turned to face her properly, more quizzical now than simply a cue for her to continue.
His change of voice brought on hesitation to her – there was a beat of silence before she spoke again. "How?"
"Most of them do have titles on the cover," he replied, slowly at first, that puzzled inflection still underlying. She gave him a look – not quite like a deer caught in the headlights, but something near that. Oh. "Can you... not read?"
Immediately she was on the defensive, head sharply turning away. "It's not as though it's something you need to drive a Rig. None of the War Boys ever learned. Not even Joe's own kids. Who's going to teach you to read when you're to spend your whole life awaiting a hasty death—"
"Hey." Though firm, he remaind gentle, keeping the edge out of his voice. "It's okay. I understand."
She continued, though, but easier, less self-justifying and prickly. "All of the Vuvalini could. I was supposed to learn, but... rarely do we get our way."
"I could teach you." He all but blurted it – it was sudden, and it almost startled her. It took Furiosa a moment to process the offer.
"You could try," she replied eventually, and it felt suspiciously like a "no thank you" to Max.
"I mean, I'm not any good at it, I know. I'm out of practice, but I thought, it might be worth the effort..." His words petered off, now unsure of himself. He'd all but forgotten how to speak when they met, she likely didn't expect much out of him when it came to reading and to teaching.
"Toast already tried. Years ago." It was like she knew what he was thinking, sought to put him to rest. "But the words are... unclear for me. Not sharp at the edges like they should be – like things in the distance are. And they jumble, anyways. She reads like it's the easiest thing in the world for her, too, like she was born doing it. And I just never... grasped it."
"Oh." Even if his efforts would be wasted, he still couldn't help the insatiable pull of a need to try, but... "I could read to you, then."
"What happened to 'I'm not any good at it'?"
"I'm not," he replied, gruff, standing from the rock he'd settled himself on – it hadn't been comfortable in the least, but that hardly bothered him now. He thought for a brief moment to continue, but instead went to the Rig in silence, Furiosa watching as his figure became unclear in the dark of the night away from the fire. Moments passed – over the dull crackling of flame she could hear him, unclearly, doing something, till the door shut loudly and he returned to the small make-shift camp. There was a book in his hand – words on the front she couldn't quite discern, though she caught an F and two Ns on its cover.
He didn't open his mouth again till he was already settled on the cold ground next to her, up against a rock that still dug into his back but all things considered, was surprisingly easier to lean against than most things in the Wasteland.
"I'll take the first watch if you just let me read to you."
"Deal."
He opened straight to the first page – didn't waste his time with anything else, didn't even give her a title before he began, his gravelly voice somehow nicer up close, and rattling off more words than he'd spoken to her in the last hour before he even finished the first paragraph.
"To Mrs. Saville, England — You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking."
And he liked to read, whether she knew it or not – it reminded him how to talk and be civilized, and it felt comfortable and good to read to Furiosa in ways there weren't words for. And it made her feel safe, in ways there also weren't words for, but she knew what it was even if articulation failed to do it justice.
This was a fine arrangement after all.