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Max was drowning in the familiar fog of booze and painkillers, a toxic haze that barely dulled the sharp edges of his grief.
The house was a mess - dishes piled high, takeout containers strewn across the counters, half-empty whiskey bottles and empty pill bottles on every available surface. His body ached in ways he couldn’t even describe anymore. His heart hurt worse.
Every morning, he woke up on the living room couch - or the floor, depending - with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and a feeling of horrible numbness. And every morning, he reached for another bottle to try and blot out the memories of what had happened to Michelle and Rose.
He hadn't been upstairs since... that day. The crime scene cleaners had removed all the evidence, but... he couldn't remove those memories from his mind.
He stumbled through the house, not entirely sure what day it was, trying to remember the last time he showered. Maybe it was when Alex had come by the first time the day before the funeral - when Alex dragged him into the downstairs bathroom, grumbling about the stench and Max’s refusal to care about anything, even himself. He had shoved a towel into Max's hand and left the bathroom with a request that was more of a demand that Max not come out until he smelt of sunshine and rainbows.
The shampoo in that bathroom had been Michelle's, almost empty. She had been meaning to buy more.
The smell reminded him so much of her. It reminded him that she was gone.
He had cried in that shower, tears mixing with the water as he clung to a fucking shampoo bottle of all things. Alex had probably heard him - but he didn't say anything when Max had finally emerged, only pushing a plate of fresh, hot food into Max's hands and offering him a somber smile.
Max wasn’t sure what kept Alex coming back - Max was a fucking mess, hopelessly floundering after what had happened. But he was grateful, in his own way.
The knock on the door startled him out of his stupor, though barely. He dragged himself to answer it, already knowing who it would be.
Alex stepped inside without waiting for an invitation - he never waited these days. He just took one look at Max and shook his head.
"Jesus, Max. You look like hell."
He always did.
Max shrugged, shuffling back into the living room and collapsing back onto the couch. He didn’t have the energy to argue. Didn’t even have the energy to care.
He didn't have the energy for anything.
Alex disappeared into the kitchen, and Max closed his eyes, the sound of clattering dishes and running water barely registering.
He was drifting, caught between memories of better days and the relentless pull of the void he’d been living in.
It wasn’t long before Alex was back, shoving a plate of food into his hands. The smell hit Max’s nose, and his stomach twisted uncomfortably. Outside of Alex's visits, he hadn’t eaten properly in days - maybe weeks.
How long had it been?
"Eat," Alex said, firm but not unkind, handing Max a fork. "Michelle would kill me if I let you live like this. And you know she wouldn’t want to see you like this."
Max clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around the fork. "Well, she’s not here to see it, is she?" His voice was harsher than he meant for it to be, but the guilt and the pain were always just beneath the surface, ready to spill over. "Shit, sorry. I’m just..."
"You're hurting," Alex finished softly, sitting down beside him. "I know."
There was a long silence between them, broken only by the soft clinking of the fork against the plate as Max slowly picked at his food.
He didn’t taste it.
He just chewed and swallowed because Alex was watching him, and it felt like the least he could do.
Max didn’t look at Alex when he said it, his voice rough like he was chewing on gravel. "I'm selling the house."
Alex didn’t respond immediately, letting the words hang heavy between them. Max stabbed his fork into the food again, but it was tasteless. Every bite felt like chewing ash - dry and thick, the weight of it pressing down on his throat, threatening to choke him. His chest ached, but it wasn’t hunger. It was the poison that was his guilt.
"I can't… I can't stay here." Max’s voice cracked, and he set the fork down, staring at the barely touched plate. The house felt suffocating, like the walls had shrunk around him. Every corner held ghosts he couldn’t escape, memories that sank into his skin and clung like the smell of whiskey and stale air. When he awoke from his nightmares, he could still hear the echoes of his wife screaming and his baby girl crying.
The graffiti was still on the wall.
The silence stretched, punctuated by the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside. Alex shifted beside him, his presence solid, unwavering.
"Where will you go?" Alex asked after a moment, his voice careful, like he didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace between them. "If you ever need a place to stay... my door will always be open to you, Max."
Max forced himself to swallow the knot in his throat, but it didn’t help. It never helped. "I applied to an apartment complex over in the city, closer to the DEA." He muttered, eyes still fixed on the plate. "I need to leave Jersey. I need to get away from..." He trailed off, but Alex didn’t push.
He didn’t need to. Alex knew.
Max’s fingers twitched, his hands aching to grab a bottle, pop another pill - anything to make the pain fade for just a moment longer. But Alex was here, watching him, and Max couldn’t bring himself to numb it all away, not while his best friend sat beside him.
"I get it," Alex finally said, his voice soft but steady. "This place… it’s too much. You shouldn’t have to stay somewhere that hurts you like this."
Max swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to say something, anything, but he just stared at the untouched food, his mind swirling with the weight of everything that had happened, everything he had lost.
"Look," Alex continued, shifting in his seat, his voice firmer now. "You do what you need to do, Max. Sell the house. Move. Throw yourself into your work like I know you will. But don’t... don’t shut me out, alright?" He leaned forward, catching Max’s gaze. "You’re not in this alone. I’m not going anywhere."
Max blinked, his chest tight with something other than grief for once. It wasn’t quite hope, but it was... something. He looked at Alex, at the way he sat there, solid and steady, the way he always was. Max didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that kind of loyalty, but he wasn’t about to question it now.
"I appreciate it, man," Max muttered, his voice rough. He didn’t say thank you - he couldn’t, not with how hollow everything felt - but Alex nodded like he understood anyway.
He always did.
"I’ll be here," Alex said, giving Max a small, reassuring smile. "Wherever you end up, you’ve got someone in your corner. Don’t forget that."
Max nodded, though the weight on his chest didn’t lift. Not yet, at least. But for the first time in what felt like forever, the crushing isolation seemed to loosen its grip, just a little.
Alex stood, giving Max’s shoulder a light squeeze as he picked up the plate. "I’ll get out of your hair for now, but... I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time. Don’t make me drag you into the shower again. And maybe pick up a water bottle rather than a whiskey."
Max let out a weak chuckle - more of a sigh than a laugh, really - but it was something. He watched as Alex left, the sound of the front door clicking shut echoing through the empty house.
He looked around at the mess, the empty bottles, the lingering traces of Michelle and Rose that haunted every corner, toys and high heels and evidence of what he had lost. The thought of leaving hurt almost as much as staying, but maybe Alex was right. Maybe a new place would help.
Max leaned back on the couch, eyes drifting shut, the silence of the house settling around him.
He wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot.
But he just had to survive one more day. One at a time. And for now... that was enough.
One day at a time.