Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Bradley stared at the canvases that filled his large sunlit room, a summer's worth of drawings and paintings. He'd always been drawn to people, finding landscapes less compelling. This summer, nearly every brushstroke had been dedicated to his mother. He traced a finger over the bald head in one portrait. Long, difficult months spent accompanying her to chemotherapy, watching helplessly as she grew weaker with each passing week. The thought of returning to State College, after being her sole companion for so long, felt like an impossible task.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts, and his mother walked in, her head uncovered. There were no wigs or bandanas now; he'd made sure she knew she was beautiful, hair or not.

"Still staring at your masterpieces?" she asked, a gentle smile on her lips.

Bradley sighed, turning from the canvases. "Just thinking, I guess."

"About what?" she prompted, moving closer.

He looked at her, a knot tightening in his stomach. "About leaving. I just… I wish I didn't have to."

She reached out, her hand resting warmly on his arm. "Oh, honey. I'm going to be fine, you know that." She squeezed his arm. "Besides," she said, her eyes twinkling, "I've already got us covered." She picked up his brand new phone: the groundbreaking Ericsson R380. His dad had raved about it for a whole year, as his company was one of the first to finance its creation. He'd even referred to it as a "smartphone" back at the beginning of summer and managed to get him and his mom the phones before the official release.

Bradley was impressed with the new phone. The Ericsson R380 was a revelation. Most kids at State College barely had basic Nokia bricks for emergency calls, if they had a phone at all. But this… this was something else. He flipped open the keypad, revealing the large, monochrome touchscreen display. It felt futuristic, like something out of a spy movie. He and his mom could actually send emails from this phone. And it had an organizer and voice dial. No more frantic searches for payphones or waiting until he got back to his dorm to check messages. Now, with this device, they could truly stay in touch, even with the distance between them.

His mom walked over to a canvas propped against the wall, her gaze softening. It was a painting of her in their mansion's garden, bathed in moonlight, an elegant evening dress flowing around her as she held a glass of wine. "Is this the last one you were working on?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur. Bradley hadn't quite finished it, but he could see in her eyes that she liked it, perhaps even loved it. He'd inherited his passion for art from her; they used to spend hours drawing and painting together, a shared world of color and imagination.

It was a much different than his father's world. Bradley wasn't much for extreme sports, but he'd joined the X-Games because his dad, a staunch baby boomer, wanted him to excel in something "manly." His father, a man who lived by the creed of "get a job, marry young, bear a child, preferably a son, teach him the ropes, and demand he repeats the cycle," didn't think much of Bradley's artistic talent. To his dad, art was a hobby, a pleasant pastime, but certainly not a path to a respectable future.

His dad's vision for Bradley's future was, to put it mildly, rigid. It was less a suggestion and more an insistent demand that Bradley major in business, the path laid out for him to eventually inherit the family company. This meant relentless pressure on his grades. "Don't waste time on trivialities like frat parties and 'college experimenting'," his dad would warn, his voice echoing Bradley's own suppressed desires. His dad was a baby boomer through and through, a man of strict decorum and expectations. Bradley often wondered if his dad would spontaneously combust if he ever learned about the very same "activities" Bradley had indulged in in his own fraternity house.

"Speaking of the devil," Bradley muttered under his breath as his dad walked into the room, already pointing at his watch and urging Bradley to hurry. The only things Bradley seemed to have inherited from the man were his good looks and lean physique. His dad's gaze swept over the canvases with a dismissive headshake. "You could have used your summer for something more useful for your senior year, Bradley," he lectured, his tone implying a wasted opportunity.

Bradley raised an eyebrow, a defiant spark in his eyes. "What if I told you I'm going to join an art club this year?" He glanced at his mom, searching her face. "Would that make you happy?"

She smiled warmly, a soft light in her eyes. "Anything that makes you happy makes me happy, sweetheart."

His dad, oblivious to the quiet rebellion brewing, cut in, "Just don't give up on the X-Games this year. Too bad you lost last year. You would have had an excellent achievement if you'd won all four years of college, but if you win this year, it would at least salvage last year's humiliation, and you'd finish your college education with a win."

Last year's X-Games still stung. Bradley had lost to the annoying freshman who hadn't just stolen his glory, but also his best friend, Tank. Bradley usually relied on cheating to win, a tactic he'd employed in previous years, but Max's natural talent for extreme sports was undeniable. The kid hadn't just wiped the floor with Bradley, he'd earned the judges' respect by winning and saving Tank, whom Bradley had, in a moment of panic, left to fend for himself. Bradley knew his dad would have been furious if he'd ever found out about the cheating. It was the only way Bradley, far from an athletic guy, knew how to win. Being an artist already pegged him as a "softie" in his dad's eyes, a label his father simply wouldn't tolerate.

The sting of losing to an eighteen-year-old nobody had been overshadowed by his mom's illness all summer. But with his return to college approaching, and his dad's expectation that he'd win the X-Games this year, Bradley's hatred for Max Goof was about to intensify. Without Tank on his team and with the X-Games cracking down on cheating, he had no idea how he'd pull off a victory. He wouldn't even be surprised if Tank joined Max's team. Bradley knew he needed to find a way to win, and more importantly, to rub it in Max's face.

"I won't let you down, Dad," Bradley promised weakly, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears. He turned to his mom, a more genuine, confident smile touching his lips as he added, "And if there's an art exhibit, I'll make sure my work is there. I won't let you down, Mom."

His mom smiled, a hint of wistfulness in her eyes. "To be honest, dear, I'd rather you find that special someone and maybe I could see your child sooner than later."

A sharp pain lanced through his chest. He hated when she talked like that, the unspoken implication that she was leaving soon, that she wanted to see him settled before she died. He hugged her close, burying his face in her shoulder, and silently prayed to whatever higher power might be listening to keep his mother alive and healthy for years and years to come.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley's senior year was, surprisingly, off to a good start. His business classes weren't the dry, mind-numbing lectures he'd anticipated. Instead, his professors focused on real-world case studies and engaging group projects, making the material feel relevant and almost enjoyable. He found himself actually participating in discussions, a far cry from his earlier disinterest.

He was back in the familiar chaos of the Gamma fraternity house, surrounded by his teammates. The house buzzed with energy and the usual antics. Everyone was there, everyone except Tank. Bradley had spotted him a couple of times on campus, once near the student union, another time leaving the library, but he'd never dared to speak, the awkwardness of their last encounter, and Tank's loyalty shift, too raw to confront.

Bradley paused in front of a brightly decorated table in the student union, a hand-painted sign above it proclaiming "Campus Creatives Art Club – Join Us!" He hesitated, a lingering sense of his dad's disapproval making him feel almost guilty. But the lure of art, a genuine passion, pulled him forward. A girl sat behind the table, her head bent over a sketchpad. When she looked up, Bradley felt a subtle shift in the air. She had strikingly short, choppy brown hair that framed intelligent blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with an inner amusement.

"Thinking of gracing us with your artistic presence?" she joked, her voice light and playful, a smile playing on her lips. "Or just admiring my impeccable handwriting on the sign-up sheet?"

Bradley chuckled, the unexpected humor easing his nerves. "Uh, signing up, actually. Bradley." He extended a hand.

She took it, her grip firm. "I know you," she said, a playful glint in her eyes. "You're the X-Games champion for two years running."

"Yeah," he mumbled, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face. He braced himself, expecting the inevitable mention of last year's humiliating defeat.

She didn't. Instead, she continued, "I'm an avid follower of the X-Games. I enjoy extreme sports."

That makes one of us, he thought dryly.

"Mona," she introduced herself, gesturing to the sign-up sheet. "Full name, major, email. Any particular medium you're obsessed with? We have everything from finger painting to advanced charcoal."

"Drawing and painting, mostly people," Bradley replied, picking up a pen. "And business, unfortunately, for the major." He saw her eyebrow quirk.

"Ah, the classic 'artistic soul trapped in a corporate cage' narrative," Mona said, nodding sagely. "We get a lot of those. Don't worry, we're a safe space for rebellious creativity." She leaned forward slightly. "Want to see some of my latest escapes?" Without waiting for an answer, she slid a portfolio across the table.

Bradley carefully opened it, and a collection of small, intimate sketches and watercolors greeted him. There was a drawing of a forgotten coffee cup on a windowsill, steam still curling faintly; a quick sketch of an old woman laughing over a grocery cart; a pair of worn-out sneakers tied with vibrant, mismatched laces. They weren't grand landscapes or dramatic portraits, but each piece hummed with a quiet observation, capturing tiny, easily overlooked moments.

"These are really beautiful, Mona," he said, genuinely impressed. "You really capture the essence of everyday life."

"Thanks," she said, a genuine warmth in her smile. "I love finding the magic in the mundane, those little flashes of beauty we rush past every day. What about you, since you 'mostly do people'? What draws you to them?"

Bradley thought for a moment, then looked up, meeting her gaze. "I guess I try to capture what makes each person unique, that spark or emotion that makes them who they are. The beauty in their expressions, their gestures. It's like trying to show the world what I see in them."

Mona's eyes seemed to light up. "Exactly! It's that moment of connection, isn't it? Whether it's a person's face or the way the light hits a forgotten object, it's about seeing something deeper and trying to translate that. I think we're going to get along just fine, Bradley." She grinned, and Bradley felt a sense of ease he hadn't experienced in months. For the first time since leaving home, he felt truly, authentically himself.

~*~*~*~*~

The outdoor gymnasium buzzed with a nervous energy, the air thick with the scent of sweat, metal, and anticipation. Teams milled about, stretching, adjusting gear, and exchanging wary glances. Bradley, surrounded by his Gamma teammates, felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. His gaze swept the crowd, immediately snagging on the vibrant colors of Max Goof's team. There he was laughing easily with his two loser friends, radiating an infuriating confidence. Bradley's jaw clenched. The kid was practically glowing.

He noticed that Tank wasn't with them. A small, fleeting sense of relief, quickly replaced by a fresh wave of resentment. He focused on the burning desire to wipe that smug grin off Max's face.

The teams began to warm up, some taking to the ramps, others practicing tricks on flat ground. Bradley watched, bitterness simmering within him. Max, of course, was already a spectacle. He launched himself onto the largest ramp, a blur of motion, executing a series of gravity-defying stunts that drew gasps and cheers from the scattered onlookers. He twisted, flipped, and landed with an effortless grace that made Bradley's stomach churn with jealousy. How could someone so seemingly carefree possess such raw power and precision? The kid moved like he was born on a board, every maneuver fluid and flawless.

"Look at him," one of Bradley's teammates, James, muttered beside him, shaking his head in grudging admiration. "Max must be ripped to pull off those stunts. They demand a serious core."

Bradley scoffed, though a part of him knew James was right. Max's movements were explosive, controlled, and dominant. It was infuriating. Bradley felt the familiar ache of inadequacy, the stark contrast between Max's natural athletic prowess and his own forced, often cheated, victories. He had to win this year. He had to. Not just for his dad, but to prove to himself, and to Max Goof, that he still had what it took. Even without Tank. Even without cheating. The thought felt like a monumental, impossible task.

Bradley strode toward the ramp, James at his side, casually sipping from a can of cola. Suddenly, Max skated past them in a blur, a flash of motion so quick that James yelped, startled, and tossed his can. The cola arced through the air, splashing squarely onto Bradley's shirt.

"Damn it," Bradley thought, resentment bubbling up. Did every year have to start with Max spilling something on his clothes? Last year, it had been coffee at the Coffee Bean. Now, this.

Max glided over on his skateboard, a hint of a laugh playing on his lips as he offered a casual apology. "Whoops, my bad, dude. Didn't see you there."

Bradley, already fuming, ripped off his cola-soaked shirt, tossing it to the ground. "You clumsy jerk!" he yelled, marching shirtless towards Max, his voice rising with each step. He stopped abruptly, inches from Max's face, their eyes locking. The shorter boy's gaze dropped, lingering on Bradley's bare chest. A subtle flush crept up Max's neck, and his breath hitched almost faintly. Bradley felt a sudden, unexpected warmth in the air between them, a charged stillness. Inside, a slow smirk spread across Bradley's mind. Max found him attractive. He hadn't known Max was into guys. Come to think of it, Max hadn't dated any girls last year, though he had hit on a number of them and was popular among almost the entire female population at State College. Yet, he hadn't gone out with any of them.

Bradley's mind raced, a new, insidious plan forming. This attraction, this unexpected vulnerability in Max, was a weapon. He'd use it. He'd use it to win. But for now, the show had to go on.

He pushed Max back, a sneer twisting his lips. "You know, you've got a lot of nerve. Maybe try showing some respect, Goof. After all, you're nothing but some sophomore with the shortest number of teammates."

Max stumbled back a step, his eyes narrowing, the flush on his neck deepening, but this time with anger. "Respect? You want respect, Brad? The guy who got rid of PJ right before the final race, trapped Bobby in one of his sick little schemes, and then almost killed me last year? The same guy who tried every dirty trick in the book to make me lose, and still ended up eating my dust?" Max's voice rose, cutting through the gym's background hum. "You don't get respect, Bradley, because you don't deserve it."

A ripple went through the crowd, then an eruption of cheers and applause for Max. It was like a punch to Bradley's gut. He stood there, shirtless and fuming, the sound of their adoration for Max Goof echoing in his ears. It was bad enough losing to him, but to have the entire arena side with the sophomore was a humiliation he couldn't stand.

Just as Bradley was about to unleash another volley of insults, a booming voice cut through the clamor. "Alright, everyone! Settle down, settle down!" The announcer's voice, amplified and distorted, resonated through the gymnasium. "Teams, gather 'round! We've got some important new rules to go over for this year's X-Games!"

The announcer's voice reverberated through the open air of the outdoor gymnasium. "The committee has decided to make this year's X-Games a landmark event for inclusivity!" He paused for dramatic effect, and a few scattered claps could be heard, mostly from the far corners of the arena. "This year, to qualify, every single team must include at least one female member!"

A stunned silence fell over the gym, quickly followed by a cacophony of murmurs, groans, and outright shouts of disbelief. Bradley's jaw dropped. A girl? On his team? He exchanged bewildered glances with his Gamma teammates, their faces mirroring his own annoyance. Even at the dawn of the new millennium, girls in sports were still a relatively novel concept for many, let alone thriving in the rough-and-tumble world of extreme sports. He could count on one hand the number of girls he'd ever seen on a skateboard, let alone pulling off anything beyond a basic ollie.

"Are they serious?" James hissed, running a hand through his hair. "Where are we supposed to find some chick who can actually shred? This is insane!"

Bradley felt a surge of frustration. This was just another obstacle, another hurdle thrown in his path to reclaiming his glory. He needed to win, to shut his dad up, to finally get one over on Max. But how was he supposed to do that with some inexperienced girl dragging his team down? He pictured some dainty cheerleader attempting a grind rail and nearly laughed at the absurdity. This wasn't about fairness; it was about victory. And finding a girl who could actually contribute to an X-Games team felt like an impossible task. He scowled, his eyes darting around the room, searching for any sign of a female athlete who didn't look like she belonged in a ballet studio. The entire idea felt like a setup, a deliberate attempt to make things harder for him.

~*~*~*~*~

The Gamma house backyard was a chaotic scene of makeshift ramps and scattered equipment, a testament to their hurried attempt to find a female teammate. Bradley watched impatiently, arms crossed, as his teammates grumbled. Chad kicked at a loose piece of plywood. "Not a single girl has shown up. Are we really supposed to believe there's a senior girl out there who can actually skate?" The requirement for a senior was non-negotiable; they didn't want some fresh-faced newbie throwing off their established hierarchy.

Just as Bradley was about to declare the whole endeavor pointless, a flash of blonde hair zipped onto their main ramp. A girl, small but with an undeniable confidence, carved a perfect line, then launched into an aerial, spinning with a grace that defied her size before landing smoothly. She was good. Really good. She executed another trick, then another, each one more impressive than the last, her movements fluid and powerful.

Bradley stared, momentarily stunned. "Who is that?"

The girl skated to a halt in front of them, a bright, eager smile on her face. "Hi! I'm Christina, but everyone calls me Tina! I heard you guys needed a girl for the X-Games team?"

Bradley's initial awe quickly turned to a familiar irritation. "You're good, Tina, really good," he admitted, grudgingly. "But we need a senior. I don't think I've ever seen you on campus before. You're a freshman, aren't you?"

Tina's face fell, but she quickly rallied. "Please, Mr. Uppercrust! I'm almost nineteen! And I've been dreaming of this my whole life! My dad and my older brother used to always taunt me about being in the X-Games when I was little, saying 'girls aren't allowed,' 'girls can't do that!' This is my chance to prove them wrong, to prove everyone wrong! I've always wanted to be a Gamma!" Her blue eyes, wide and earnest, pleaded with him.

Bradley sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, Tina, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but rules are rules. We need a senior. It's just... it's how we roll." He looked at Chad, who caught on immediately.

Chad stepped forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Yeah, see, Tina, the Gamma initiation for freshmen is... intense. Like, 'swim across the campus lake naked in winter' intense."

James chimed in, "And then you have to serenade the dean's pet poodle with a bagpipe."

"And shave your head," Slouch added, trying to keep a straight face.

Tina's eyes widened, her enthusiasm visibly deflating. "Oh. Right. That... sounds like a lot."

Bradley nodded gravely. "It is. So, maybe try out for the chess club? Or synchronized swimming?" He gestured vaguely towards the gate. "Good luck with that." As Tina slowly backed away, looking bewildered, Chad and James linked arms, forming a comical human barrier, and gently, but firmly, ushered the talented freshman out of the Gamma backyard, their faces a picture of exaggerated solemnity until she was out of sight.

A familiar voice drifted into the backyard. "How are the auditions going, boys? Finding your extreme sports goddess?"

Bradley spun around, a genuine, easy smile spreading across his face. It was Mona, her short brown hair catching the sunlight, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Mona! Hey," he said, his voice softer, almost sweet, unlike the exasperated tone he'd used just moments before. Chad, James, and Slouch exchanged confused glances behind him.

"Rough," Bradley admitted, running a hand through his hair. "We haven't had any luck. No one's even shown up who remotely fits the bill." He glanced at his teammates, then back at Mona. "No skilled seniors, let alone girls."

Mona's confident smile widened. "Well, that's a shame." She walked closer, then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she said, "I'd like to try out."

Bradley's brow furrowed. "Mona, you're awesome, but… are you sure? The X-Games are pretty intense. It's not just, you know, art." He tried to let her down gently, picturing her delicate sketches, so different from the brute force of extreme sports.

Before he could offer another hesitant word, Mona reached down and, with a practiced flick of her wrist, grabbed a skateboard lying discarded near the ramp. Without a word, she pushed off, a blur of motion. She hit the ramp, launching into an aerial that was so fluid, so effortlessly powerful, it made the Gammas collectively gasp. She landed perfectly, then carved a series of grinds and slides, making the board sing beneath her feet. Her movements were precise, fearless, and utterly breathtaking. She moved with a natural athleticism that even rivaled Max. Bradley and his teammates watched, mouths agape, completely awestruck.

She brought the board to a stop in front of them, a bead of sweat tracing a line down her temple, her chest heaving slightly, but her eyes alight with triumph. She flashed them that confident, knowing smile again. "Oh, and by the way," she said, her voice a little breathless but firm, "I'm a senior."

In that moment, watching her stand there, radiating power and self-assurance, Bradley knew. He hadn't just found a teammate. He'd just fallen in love.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley lay on his bed, the weight of the Ericsson R380 in his hand, its small screen glowing in the dark room. He'd just finished describing Mona's audition to his mom, a wide grin plastered across his face.

"She just picked up a board and completely blew us away," he gushed, propping himself up on an elbow. "She even taught me this insane new stunt today, a 'Darkslide Tailwhip.' It's dangerous, but it looks amazing."

He paused, waiting for his mom's usual gentle skepticism about anything "dangerous." Instead, she just chuckled. "Sounds like you've found quite the teammate, dear."

"More than a teammate," he mumbled, then quickly cleared his throat, hoping she hadn't caught that. "She learned how to skate from her high school boyfriend, apparently. They broke up right after graduation. Can you believe it? Someone actually broke up with her." He shook his head in disbelief. "I mean, there's just… nothing wrong with her. She has this incredible delicate touch for drawing, those beautiful small moments she captures, but then she has the strength and fearlessness to pull off these crazy, dangerous stunts." He traced the edge of the phone with his thumb, a dreamy look on his face. "She's just… perfect."

He waited, half expecting his mom to tease him, but her voice was soft. "It sounds like you're very happy, Bradley. And that's all I want for you."

Bradley smiled into the phone, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the X-Games. "Yeah, Mom. I really am."

"So, how was your day, really?" Bradley asked, a subtle shift in his tone. He knew her patterns, the slight hesitations in her voice when she was trying to downplay something. "Did you take the full dose of that anti-nausea medication? And did Dr. Evans call about the blood work from Tuesday?"

"Bradley, I'm fine, really," she chuckled, a warmth returning to her voice. "Your father actually surprised me with dinner in the garden tonight. He was quite taken with your last painting, the one of me. Said I talked about it endlessly, which I suppose I did." She paused, then teased, "I think he's just a little jealous of our special connection."

Bradley smiled. "I envy him. Finding the perfect person."

"You'll find your perfect person one day too, sweetheart," she said gently.

"Maybe I already have," Bradley murmured, glancing down at the sketch of Mona on his lap.

~*~*~*~*~

The art club studio was a sanctuary of creativity, a glorious mess of canvases, paint splatters, and clay. Bradley, palette in hand, leaned over the large canvas he and Mona had been co-creating for the past week, an abstract piece that seemed to pulse with their combined energy. Mona, brush tucked behind her ear, was adding a delicate swirl of cerulean.

"You know," Bradley mused, without looking up, "this piece is starting to look suspiciously like a psychedelic skateboard park."

Mona giggled. "Just reflecting our current obsessions. A little bit of art, a little bit of X-Games. Multitasking at its finest." She dabbed another stroke. "Though, I must say, your brushwork has gotten significantly bolder since you started spending afternoons at the ramp."

"And your land speed has quadrupled since you started critiquing my chiaroscuro," he retorted, a playful grin on his face. Their days had fallen into a rhythm: mornings in class, late afternoons at the art club, and then hours at the X-Games practice ramps. They were inseparable, a constant hum of shared laughter and focused ambition.

"Speaking of which," Mona said, wiping her hands on a rag. "Ready for some real art? The kind that involves gravity and broken bones?"

Bradley laughed. "Lead the way, Picasso."

Later that afternoon, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the concrete of the practice ramps. Mona stood at the crest of the biggest half-pipe, her silhouette sharp against the orange sky. "Alright, Bradley," she called down, her voice ringing with excitement. "Remember that 'Switch 360 Double Kickflip' I was talking about? The one with the extra rotation and flip in mid-air?"

Bradley's stomach did a little flip of its own. "The one you said might actually snap my ankles?"

"Minor detail!" she laughed. "Watch closely."

She pushed off, gaining speed with effortless grace, then launched herself into the air. It was a blur of motion, the board spinning, flipping, her body twisting in perfect sync. She landed it, clean and precise, a testament to her natural talent and relentless practice. "Your turn!" she yelled, beaming.

Bradley swallowed, a surge of adrenaline mixed with a healthy dose of fear. He took a deep breath, pushed off, and hit the ramp. He soared into the air, mimicking her movements, but his timing was off, his rotation incomplete. He twisted awkwardly, the board skittering out from under him. The world spun, and he crashed down hard, the concrete unforgiving against his side.

A second later, Mona was there, dropping her board and rushing to his side. "Bradley! Are you okay?" she asked, her voice carried genuine concern. She knelt, her hands gently touching his arm, checking for injury.

He groaned, pushing himself up onto an elbow. "Ugh, definitely felt better." But as he looked up, her face was inches from his, her striking blue eyes wide with worry. The faint scent of paint and something uniquely Mona filled his senses. In that moment, the pain, the X-Games, even Max, faded away. All that mattered was her.

He reached out, his hand instinctively cupping her cheek. "Mona," he began, his voice a little shaky, "I know this is probably the worst time, but… will you go out with me?"

A slow, radiant smile spread across her face, lighting up her eyes. "Took you long enough, Bradley." She leaned in, her touch feather-light as she helped him sit up.

~*~*~*~*~

The Coffee Bean was exactly what Bradley expected: dim lighting, the clatter of ceramic on saucers, and the overpowering aroma of burnt sugar and pretentious artisanal roasts. On a small, makeshift stage, a boy with too-tight jeans and an overly dramatic flair was reciting poetry, his voice trembling with manufactured angst. Bradley grimaced, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Team 99, but notably, their leader Max was absent.

"This place isn't really my scene," Bradley confessed to Mona, leaning closer so she could hear him over the snapping fingers that replaced applause. He’d winced internally when she'd suggested it, but he hadn't had the heart to say no. Not on their first date.

Mona tilted her head, her blue eyes curious. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

He shrugged, trying to be casual. "Just not really a poetry fan, I guess. And all the snapping instead of clapping? It drives me nuts." He mimicked a snapping sound, exaggerating his disdain.

Mona laughed. "Oh, I know! It's like, just clap, people! Your fingers aren't going to break." She mimicked it too, even more comically than he had.

Bradley burst out laughing. He felt light, happier than he’d been in months. His eyes, still sparkling with mirth, drifted towards the door just as a massive figure filled the frame. The laughter died in his throat.

"Tank," Bradley breathed, the single word a tight knot in his throat. His entire body stiffened, the easy warmth of the date rapidly cooling.

Mona followed his gaze, her expression softening. "He was your best friend, right?"

Bradley nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the hulking figure now ordering at the counter. "Yeah. We... we had a falling out." He knew she'd heard the rumors, the whispers that followed him from last year's X-Games. The humiliation of it burned.

"I know," Mona said quietly, her hand gently covering his on the table. "I watched the X-Games last year."

Bradley flinched, pulling his hand away as if burned. Embarrassment washed over him, hot and suffocating. "Then why?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Why would you even want to go out with me, after knowing all the crap I pulled? How I almost... I almost got him killed."

Mona's blue eyes met his, unwavering and kind. "Because," she began, her voice steady, "I also saw your art. Remember that first piece you showed me, the one of your mother? It was so raw, so honest, so full of love. That's the Bradley I see. The one who creates beauty, not just the one who messes up." She squeezed his arm, a warm, reassuring pressure. "Everyone makes mistakes. It's what you do next that matters."

A comfortable silence settled between them, charged with a quiet understanding. Bradley felt a profound sense of relief, a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying suddenly lifting. Mona saw past the X-Games, past the failures, to something deeper within him.

Then, Mona nudged him gently. "Go on," she urged, her eyes flicking towards Tank. "He's right there. You should talk to him."

Bradley pushed back his chair, a fresh resolve hardening his jaw. He started towards the counter where Tank was ordering coffee, the low hum of the Coffee Bean suddenly feeling charged with anticipation. Just as he neared, he bumped squarely into someone.

"Hey!" a voice snapped. Bradley looked down to see Tina, the blonde freshman he and the Gammas had ushered out of their backyard. She grimaced when she saw him.

"Oh, it's you," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Just so you know, I joined Team 99. And we're going to kick the Gammas' butts like we did last year."

Bradley felt a surge of cold dread, quickly replaced by hot anger. Max had accepted her? With Tina's undeniable skill and Max's raw talent, they'd be unstoppable. Their combined abilities would pose a genuine threat to his chances, a threat he hadn't accounted for. He gritted his teeth, his eyes involuntarily darting back to Mona.

She was watching him, a soft, encouraging smile on her face, gently gesturing towards Tank. Bradley's anger dissipated, replaced by a warmth that spread through him. Max could win all the X-Games he wanted. Bradley had Mona. He grinned, a genuine, unburdened smile.

Bradley approached Tank, who was still waiting for his coffee, the air thick with unspoken history. "Hey, Tank," Bradley mumbled, the word feeling foreign on his tongue after so long.

Tank turned, his large frame seeming to fill the space. His expression was unreadable, a blend of surprise and something else Bradley couldn't quite decipher. "Bradley. Fancy seeing you here." The politeness felt strained, heavy. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the clatter of mugs and the distant snapping of fingers.

Finally, the barista called Tank's order. "Tall mocha, extra whip!"

"That's me," Tank said, reaching for his drink, his voice already moving towards an exit. "Well, good seeing you, Bradley."

"Wait!" Bradley blurted out, a desperate hope surging. "Tank, listen. We're looking for another teammate for the X-Games. We need a strong presence, and... it's just not the same without you. Want to rejoin the Gammas?"

Tank took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes scanning the bustling café before settling back on Bradley. "The College X-Games is not really my thing anymore." His voice was flat, leaving no room for argument.

Disappointment twisted in Bradley's gut. "Oh. Right."

"But," Tank continued, a faint softening in his gaze, "that doesn't mean we couldn't, you know, hang out. Do something outside of roller blades and skateboarding."

A wave of relief washed over Bradley. This was something. This was a start. "Yeah, sure," he said, a smile breaking through. "Whatever you want, man."

He watched Tank walk away, a lightness in his step that hadn't been there moments before. Bradley's luck was definitely looking up. He had a beautiful, smart date waiting for him, and he was patching things up with his longtime best friend. What could possibly go wrong?

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley walked back to the Gamma house after his last class, a lightness in his step. He expected to find Mona waiting, perhaps sketching in the common room or raiding the fridge, just as they'd agreed. She'd officially moved into Tank's old room a few days ago, cementing her place as an official Gamma, and their easy camaraderie had only deepened. But the common room was empty. She wasn't in her room. A flicker of annoyance sparked within him.

Just then, the back door creaked open, and Mona strolled in, her helmet tucked under one arm, her skateboard held casually against her side. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with that familiar post-skate glow.

"You went skating without me?" Bradley asked, the words coming out sharper than he intended, a frustrated edge to his voice.

Mona looked at him, a slight frown creasing her brow. "Yeah, I wanted to get some practice in while you were in class. You said you didn't feel like skating today, so I figured I'd go solo." There was a subtle tug in the air, a silent acknowledgment that she could see his waning enthusiasm for the sport unlike her own boundless energy.

Then, she added, almost as an afterthought, "Though I wasn't exactly doing it solo."

Bradley's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I found the guy from Team 99 already using the ramp when I got there," she said, a casual shrug. "Max."

The name hit Bradley like a physical blow. His blood ran cold, then boiled. "You were skating with Max?" he asked, his voice low, dangerous, barely recognizable even to himself.

She shrugged again, completely unfazed by his sudden shift in demeanor. "Yep. He's really good."

"Don't you ever skateboard with him again, Mona!" Bradley snapped.

Mona stopped dead, her eyes widening, then narrowing. The playful spark in them vanished, replaced by a cold, hard glare. "What did you just say?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

"I said," Bradley continued, ignoring the warning in her tone, the anger blinding him, "I don't want you near that guy! Do you hear me?"

"Do you hear yourself?" Mona retorted, her voice now sharp, cutting. "You don't tell me what not to do!"

"Not when you're engaging in playful repartee with the enemy," Bradley retorted, his voice tight with anger. "He's our rival, Mona. We don't fraternize with our enemies."

Mona's eyes flashed. "What are you talking about? We didn't do anything. I just showed him a couple of my moves, that's it."

"Showed him?" Bradley interrupted, his voice laced with disbelief and betrayal. "Mona, how could you?"

"What is wrong with you?" Mona shot back, mirroring his own anger. "What's gotten into you?"

"Don't you get it?" Bradley pressed, stepping closer, his face tight with frustration. "Max is trying to get you to show your moves so that he'd know all our strategies for the X-Games! He'd steal them!"

"He showed me his moves too," Mona insisted, her voice calmer now, though still firm.

"Believe me," Bradley countered, his voice dripping with certainty, "he showed you some flimsy tricks in exchange for your genuinely great ones."

"They were impressive stunts, Bradley. He didn't hold back," Mona argued, a hint of frustration in her tone.

"Mona, I know Max. He's an arrogant, competitive jerk who would do anything to win. He's looking for a four-year streak, and he'd do anything to get it. Believe me."

Mona sighed, finally seeming to concede. "Guess I shouldn't have shown him my moves."

Bradley moved closer, gently brushing her arm. "Just be careful," he warned, his voice softening. "Don't fall for Max's conniving personality."

Mona offered a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I hope this didn't put a downer on our evening."

"Come to my room," Bradley suggested, a different kind of warmth entering his voice.

In his room, he led her to a canvas he'd kept hidden. It was a painting of Mona, in her drawing apron, a brush in her hand, smudges of color dusting her cheek and nose. Her eyes, captured with astonishing accuracy, held that familiar intelligent sparkle.

Mona gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Bradley... it's beautiful," she whispered, her voice a soft whisper filled with genuine awe and emotion. The beauty of the piece, the care he'd taken, seemed to have touched her deeply. She turned, her blue eyes glistening, and leaned in, her lips meeting his in a tender kiss that quickly deepened. Their embrace became passionate, a whirlwind of emotion and desire, until they stumbled backward, collapsing onto Bradley's bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The past few weeks had been a blur of textbooks and late-night study sessions. Bradley had been swamped with midterms, the relentless pressure from his father to excel in his Corporate Finance and Business Ethics classes leaving him little time for anything else. He'd poured all his creative energy into art, finding solace in the quiet focus of a canvas, while skateboarding had, regrettably, fallen by the wayside. Mona, understanding his schedule, had agreed to practice on her own, promising, with a playful wink, that she wouldn't even look in Max's direction.

He sat at his desk now, ostensibly reviewing notes for his upcoming finance exam, but his pen was moving across a different page. In the margins of his Corporate Finance notebook, he was sketching. Line after delicate line, he captured Mona in the intimate quiet of his room, the way she looked in bed, a soft curve of her hip, the gentle slope of her shoulder, the tangle of her short brown hair against the pillow. He wondered, briefly, if she would be upset if she ever saw them, these private tributes to her beauty.

Suddenly, the sharp, insistent ring of his phone cut through the quiet. It was Mona. He'd bought her the same Ericsson R380 for her twenty-first birthday just last week. At first, she'd been reluctant, protesting that it was too expensive, too much, but he'd insisted, wanting her to have the best, wanting them to be connected effortlessly. Eventually, she'd relented, her smile making the extravagance feel entirely worth it.

"Hi, sweetie," Bradley answered, a soft smile already on his face, the image of her sketches still vivid in his mind.

But it wasn't Mona's clear, bright voice that answered. Instead, a hesitant, unsure male voice spoke. "Uh, listen, Bradley..."

Bradley's blood ran cold. He knew that voice. Rage, hot and immediate, surged through him. "Max?!" he snarled, jumping to his feet, knocking his chair backward with a clatter. "What are you doing with her phone?"

"Listen, Bradley, Mona had an accident on the ramp," Max's voice rushed out, a strained urgency replacing his initial hesitation. "They took her to the State College Hospital. I thought you should know."

"Are you with her?" Bradley demanded, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Well, yes, someone had to be," Max answered, his voice a bit defensive. "The doctors are afraid she's got a concussion. She fell pretty hard."

How did Max know that? Bradley raged with jealousy on the inside, a bitter taste in his mouth. But that didn't matter now. Mona's well-being was all that mattered.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley burst through the swinging doors of the emergency room, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The sterile scent of disinfectant hit him first, followed by the low hum of hushed conversations and the distant beep of machines. His eyes darted across the waiting area, searching, until they landed on a familiar mop of black hair. Max. He was slumped in a plastic chair, staring at the floor, his usual vibrant energy replaced by a troubled, almost haunted stillness.

A wave of pure, unadulterated rage washed over Bradley. He stormed forward, ignoring the curious glances of other visitors, stopping abruptly in front of Max. "What are you still doing here?" Bradley demanded, his voice a low growl that barely masked his fury. "Her boyfriend is here now. You can leave."

Max slowly lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with fatigue. He looked genuinely upset. "I just... I want to know if Mona's alright," he said, his voice quiet, almost pleading.

The nerve! Bradley seethed internally, his fists clenching at his sides. The audacity of Max, acting concerned after always being a thorn in his side. He was about to unleash a torrent of scathing words, but then, Max slowly pushed himself up from the chair.

"Look, you seem pretty shaken up," Max said, his voice surprisingly calm, almost polite. He gestured towards a row of vending machines in the corner. "Can I get you something? Coffee? A soda?"

Bradley scoffed, the offer only fueling his anger. "I want nothing from you," he retorted, his voice dripping with contempt.

Max sighed, a sound of resignation, and turned, walking slowly towards the vending machines. Bradley watched him go, a dark, simmering desire to inflict pain churning in his gut. He wished he could light the jerk on fire, burn him, end him. The thought, vicious and potent, lingered.

Then, a different thought pricked through his anger, a memory of the outdoor gymnasium, the way Max had reacted to Bradley's shirtless chest. A predatory calm settled over him. With slow, menacing steps, Bradley approached Max from behind, closing the distance until he was standing far too close, deliberately invading Max's personal space. His nose practically brushed against the soft, thick black hair at the back of Max's neck. Max tensed instantly, a startled shiver running through him, and spun around, suddenly face to face with Bradley. Bradley made sure his angry, hot breath reached Max's skin, his cold, piercing gaze holding Max's now flustered, wide-eyed one. Max swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He seemed to gather himself, forcing a glare, and then spoke, his voice tight with a strained defiance.

"What the hell was that, Brad?"

"What the hell was what?" Bradley asked, his voice a cold, innocent tone as he looked down at the slightly shorter boy.

"You're standing way too close," Max whispered, his gaze darting nervously to the people around them, as if checking if anyone had noticed.

Bradley saw the faint blush creeping up Max's neck, the subtle tremors in the younger boy's body. "I changed my mind about that beverage," Bradley murmured, taking another step closer, his fingers brushing almost imperceptibly against Max's groin. Max tensed at the light touch, an unsuccessful attempt to turn around frustrated by Bradley's proximity.

"Could you move back a little?" Max managed, his voice strained. "I'm not a human heat lamp, you know."

Bradley took a deliberate step back, allowing Max to fully turn. A faint smirk played on Bradley's lips; the boy was definitely hot for him.

"Uh… what do you want?" Max asked, rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding Bradley's gaze.

"Peach," Bradley murmured, his voice low and laced with a suggestive taunt, gaze boring into Max's tense body.

"They, um, they don't have that," Max answered, sounding clearly on edge, his voice a strained whisper as he tried to put some distance between them.

Bradley moved closer, a deliberate, slow advance that left Max no room to escape. He leaned in, as if to peer at the selection of beverages from Max's shoulder, his body now plastered to Max's back. The heat emanating from Bradley was a force seeping through Max's clothes. Bradley's breath, hot and minty, ghosted against Max's ear as he whispered, "Hmm, that's too bad." The deep rumble of his voice vibrated through Max's entire frame, sending a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cool air in the room.

"Okay," Max said in a strangled voice, the word barely audible as he finally managed to slip away from Bradley's oppressive proximity. He looked away, embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck. "Okay, um, I think it'll be best if I left."

Bradley gave him a dry, knowing stare. "Yes, you should." His eyes, dark and sharp, never left Max's retreating form. He watched Max leave, a wolfish stare following him as he exited, a slow, predatory smile playing on his lips. That was interesting.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley sat hunched in a hard plastic chair, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on Mona, who lay pale but thankfully concussion-free in the bed. "Are you absolutely sure you were on that ramp by yourself?"

Mona sighed, pushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "For the tenth time, yes! Max was on the other ramp, waiting for me to finish. He was a gentleman who respected my request to have the ramp to myself."

"Then if you see him there, leave!" Bradley's voice suddenly cracked, the carefully constructed calm shattering. "Don't skateboard! Just leave!"

"I don't like this side of you, Bradley," Mona said, her voice quiet but firm.

"And I don't like you spending time with Max!" he shot back, rising from the chair, his anger filling the small room. "I don't see you at the art club anymore. We haven't even finished our last joined painting project."

"I'm sorry," Mona replied, her gaze softening slightly, "but I find myself more excited about winning the X-games."

"Is it because of Max?" Bradley's voice was a harsh whisper, laced with accusation.

Mona groaned, a sound of pure frustration. "Bradley, stop it! There is nothing going on with Max!" Her eyes began to brim with tears. "I just had an accident, and all you care about is whether I'm cheating on you with Max."

Bradley clenched his jaw, his hands fisting at his sides as he fought to rein in the tremor in his voice. "Mona, I just don't think you understand how cunning and manipulative Max is." He watched her closely, willing her to see what he saw.

Mona simply lay back against the pillows, silent, her gaze distant. The quiet stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Bradley couldn't stand the silence, the lack of immediate reassurance. He moved to her bedside, leaning in, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "Promise me, Mona. Promise me you'll stay away from him."

She turned her head slowly, her eyes, clear and steady despite the earlier tears, meeting his. "Bradley," she said calmly, her voice devoid of emotion, "get out."

His breath hitched. Bradley stared at her, stunned. "What?"

"I just can't be with you right now," she reiterated, her voice still quiet but resolute. "I'll see you at the Gammas' house tonight."

He stumbled back, a raw, wounded ache blooming in his chest. After all his worry, after his genuine concern, she was pushing him away for simply trying to protect her. The hurt was a cold, sharp blade, twisting deeper with each beat of his heart. And underneath the hurt, a simmering anger began to churn. Bradley felt a fierce, possessive rage building inside him. Max was a threat, a parasite, and Bradley was going to make him regret ever crossing their path.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The chill of the evening air did little to cool the fire in Bradley's gut, but he pushed it down, focusing solely on Mona. He had arrived at the Gammas' house just as she did, her movements still a little stiff from the accident. He was there instantly, a steadying hand at her elbow, guiding her through the bustling entryway. He fetched her a glass of water, then a pain reliever, fluffing her pillows and adjusting the dim bedside lamp. He was a whirlwind of quiet, attentive service, anticipating her every need before she even voiced it.

Mona watched him, a soft, tired smile gracing her lips. "You don't have to do all this," she murmured, but the smile lingered, a small comfort to his frayed nerves. He simply shook his head, a silent promise in his eyes that he would do anything.

Finally, she was settled. He climbed onto the bed beside her, carefully, so as not to jostle her. The mattress dipped, bringing them closer. He propped himself on an elbow, gazing down at her, his heart aching with a mixture of relief that she was safe and a desperate longing for things to be right between them again. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to her lips, a silent question in his eyes.

Mona, however, turned her head slightly, a faint sigh escaping her. "I just want to sleep, Bradley," she whispered, her eyes already fluttering closed.

A cold wave of insecurity washed over him, a familiar, unwelcome guest. He pulled back, the unspoken rejection stinging. He had tried so hard, done everything right, and still, she was miles away. The words tumbled out, raw and unguarded, before he could stop them. "I'm in love with you, Mona. I'm willing to give myself completely to you."

Her eyes, which had been closed, slowly opened. They glistened, reflecting the soft lamp light, and a single tear traced a path down her temple into her hair. The sight of her tears, though he couldn't discern their source, broke something fragile within him. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, burying his face in her hair. He lay there with her, the soft rhythm of her breathing a small comfort. But even as he held her, he felt her distance. Her gaze was fixed on the wall opposite, unseeing, as if she wasn't truly with him in the room, as if something else, or someone else, occupied her thoughts. A fresh wave of fear, cold and sharp, pierced him. He hugged her tighter, a silent plea for her to return to him, his own eyes beginning to well up with unshed tears.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, Bradley was getting ready for class, the previous night's unresolved tension still a dull ache in his chest. He made his way to Mona's room, a knot forming in his stomach, and found her sitting up in bed, her eyes distant, staring blankly ahead.

"Hey," he said softly, moving closer. "I'm heading to class, but I'll be back as soon as it's over, okay?" He leaned down, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek.

"When you come back, I won't be here," she said, and gently pulled him near. "If you want to talk, you can call."

Bradley froze, staring at her in shock, his mind racing to process her words. This wasn't what he expected.

"And, no, it's not your fault," she added, her gaze finally meeting his, though still clouded with an emotion he couldn't quite decipher.

He just smiled and gently pulled away from her grasp. "Let go of me," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper, "But there's something that I've just gotta know. Did someone else steal my part?"

"It's not my fault," she replied, her voice flat, offering no further explanation.

Bradley left for class, each step heavy, as if his feet were dragging through thick mud. His heart, he realized, felt like it was doing time in Siberia, a desolate, frozen place, bracing itself for the inevitable. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that Mona's quiet words were a lie he was about to live. And God, did it hurt. That familiar, crushing pain when the one you wanted more than anything didn't want you back, not in the way you needed.

When Bradley came back, she wasn't there. Just a note left on the stairs.

If you wanna talk, give me a call.

The note slipped from his grasp, floating softly to the floor. His files and notebooks followed, scattering around his feet with a muffled thud. He didn't even register them. The dull silence that had first greeted him now roared in his ears. He turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, the urgency a physical ache in his chest. He ran to the one place he instinctively knew she would be, the place that had become a battleground for his affections: the skate park.

And there, beneath the vast, indifferent sky, he found the truth. It hit him with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. At the very top of the highest ramp, silhouetted against the setting sun, were Mona and Max. Their heads were tilted, close, undeniably close. Then, as if in slow motion, he watched as their lips touched. A quiet, undeniable connection, perfectly framed against the fading light. Bradley stood frozen, the world tilting on its axis, the scene before him etching itself permanently into the raw, bleeding landscape of his heart.

My heart did time in Siberia
Was waiting for the lie to come true
'Cause it's all so dark and mysterious
When the one you want doesn't want you

I gave myself away completely
But you just couldn't see me
Though I was sleeping in your bed
'Cause someone else was on your mind
In your head

Bradley's gaze narrowed on Max, the sight of him a match to the tinderbox of Bradley's simmering resentment. Every slight, every moment of doubt, every crushing second of heartbreak ignited into a roaring inferno. He'd make him pay. Max would taste hell, and Bradley knew exactly how he would deliver it.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Max was lost in a swirling vortex of deep pleasure, feelings he’d never encountered before. A warmth spread through him, radiating from places he hadn't known could be touched, sending shivers of pure sensation through his core. His eyes remained blissfully closed, savoring every exquisite second. A soft moan escaped his lips, a sound of contentment. As the moan faded, he slowly opened his eyes, ready to embrace the source of this incredible sensation.

And on top of him, framed in a hazy glow, was Bradley.

Max screamed.

He jolted awake, the shriek tearing through the dark, silent room. His heart hammered against his ribs, sweat beading on his forehead as he frantically looked around, the lingering phantom touch of the dream still electrifying his skin. The bunk beds, the familiar glow of the alarm clock, the hushed quiet of the sleeping dorm. It was just a dream.

From the top bunk, PJ groaned. Below him, Bobby stirred, pulling his blanket down to reveal a scowl. "What the hell, Max?" Bobby grumbled, his voice thick with sleep and irritation.

Thoroughly flushed, Max stammered, "Nightmare. Just... a nightmare." He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the vivid, unsettling images.

"Pipe down, man," Bobby muttered, rolling over. "We got a long day tomorrow."

PJ tossed on the top bunk, the springs creaking ominously.

"Don't you dare break that bed and fall on me, PJ!" Bobby yelled, his voice filled with genuine alarm. The room fell into a tense, annoyed silence once more, leaving Max alone with the unsettling aftershocks of his dream.

His heart still hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He tried to make sense of the dream, a vague, uncomfortable feeling settling over him. He knew that dreams often echoed the day's events, and he couldn't shake the memory of Bradley standing so close to him at the outdoor gym. Bradley had been shirtless, his lean, muscular body just inches away, close enough for Max to feel the radiating heat. Max wasn't used to shirtless men in his personal space. The only other person who had ever been that close was PJ, but that was years ago, when they were kids on a beach trip with their parents. That was childhood innocence, and this was not.

Max tried to convince himself that it was nothing, a fleeting moment his subconscious had blown out of proportion. But why was he having wet dreams about an arrogant jerk like Bradley? Beyond the sheer strangeness of it all, there was the "gay factor," and Max was not gay. Or at least, he didn't think he was. He'd been in a committed three-year relationship with Roxanne in high school until different colleges separated them. He knew the only reason he hadn't dated anyone last year was that he was still pining for her, unable to move on.

He glanced at his fast-asleep roommates and knew he needed to get some rest. Tomorrow was a big day, with interviews for the College X-Games. Their team needed a female member to qualify this year. But every time he closed his eyes, the image returned, shirtless Bradley, haunting his thoughts, his dreams, and now, his waking moments.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The line for Team99 tryouts snaked through the college skate park, but there was not a sight of skate shoes nor skateboards among the participants. Max, PJ, and Bobby sat at a folding table, a clipboard and a handful of application forms between them.

Bobby leaned forward, his expression serious. "Next!" he called out, his focus seemed to be on the next long-legged applicant in line.

A girl with bright pink hair sauntered up to the table, her gaze fixed entirely on Max. She completely ignored PJ and Bobby. "Like, oh my God, you're Max!" she gushed, batting her eyelashes at him. "I've seen you around campus. You're so hot when you do that... the thing you do."

Max's face flushed a little, a small, flattered smile tugging at his lips. He leaned forward, playing into the moment. "Thanks," he stammered, looking down at the clipboard. "Can you tell us about your experience?"

"Oh, you know, I'm pretty experienced," she purred, winking. "I'm, like, really good at riding skateboards, and I have one at home that I've used like, a bunch of times."

Bobby's eye twitched. Max could see the storm gathering behind his friend's scowl. "Look, this is a serious tryout," Bobby interrupted, his voice gruff. "Are you here to talk about your skills or your crush?" He punctuated the question with a sharp glare directly at Max, who instantly snapped out of his flirty haze.

The girl scoffed. "Whatever," she muttered and stomped off. PJ just shook his head, a small, knowing smile on his face, leaving Max to feel both a little embarrassed and a little relieved.

The next few interviews were more of the same. A girl with a backwards baseball cap spent five minutes asking Max if his hair was naturally that vibrant. Another pulled out her wallet to show him a picture of herself with a fan poster she’d made of him. Max was flustered, stammering out awkward replies while Bobby grew increasingly agitated, his foot tapping a furious rhythm under the table.

"Are we ever gonna get a real skater in here?" Bobby fumed, tossing a pen onto the table.

A new voice cut through the air, timid but clear. "Um, is it okay if a freshman tries out?"

Max, PJ, and Bobby all glanced at each other. Max shrugged, a small smile on his face. "Sure, why not?"

The blonde girl stared at Max. "Hey, you're last year's College X-Games champion!" she exclaimed.

Bobby threw his hands up in exasperation. "Oh, joy, another one," he muttered under his breath.

"Hold on," PJ said, nudging a blushing Max with his elbow. "Are you here to actually try out, or just flirt with my buddy here?"

The girl’s grin didn't waver. "I am serious. Do you want to see me skate?"

"Please, by all means," Max said, gesturing to the ramp.

The girl took off, an electrifying blur of motion. She hit the ramp with a graceful, fluid power, carving through the bowl with an almost effortless precision. She dropped into a frontside lipslide on the coping, a move that required perfect balance and control, before rolling out into a clean tailblock. She launched into the air, spinning a perfect kickflip indy, her board sticking to her feet as she soared. She finished with a flawless fakie bigspin, spinning her board and body in opposite directions before landing perfectly and rolling to a stop right in front of them.

Jaw on the floor, Bobby practically leapt out of his chair. He grabbed the girl, twirling her around as he screamed, "You're hired! You're definitely hired!"

Impressed, Max walked over and offered a hand. "That was amazing. What's your name?"

She grinned. "I'm Christina, but everyone calls me Tina." She then added with a wry humor, "I'm glad you guys accepted me. I was very let down after the Gammas kicked me out like an unwanted dog."

Bobby recoiled from her instantly, his arms dropping to his sides. "What? We're taking a Gammas reject? Uh, uh, no!"

Max stepped in, trying to reason with him. "Bobby, she's the only good skater who's showed up."

"And obviously there are better ones!" Bobby shot back. "Why else would the Gammas reject her?"

Tina held up a hand. "It wasn't about my skill. They only accept seniors, and I'm a freshman."

A wide grin spread across PJ's face. "Don't mind Bobby, Tina. You got the gig."

Tina looked so confused by Bobby's "stink eye," and Max couldn't help but be a little amused.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The afternoon sun beat down on the concrete of the college skate park, the air thick with the scent of dust and warm asphalt. Max was in his element, the familiar rhythm of his board against the ramp a soothing constant. He dropped in, carving a clean line through the bowl before launching into a perfect kickflip over the spine. He landed it, rolling out with a satisfied grin.

As he coasted to a stop, a girl with short, choppy brown hair and a confident smile appeared at the edge of the ramp. "Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice clear and friendly.

Max shook his head, a little surprised. "No, not at all."

She dropped in, her movements fluid and graceful, and Max watched her for a moment before turning his attention back to his own practice. After a few minutes, she rolled up to him. "You're Max, right?" she asked, a spark of recognition in her eyes. "Max Goof? The winner of last year's College X-Games?"

A familiar blush crept up Max's neck. He wasn't sure why it still made him feel so bashful, especially after a year of girls fawning over him. "Yeah, that's me," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck.

"That's wonderful," she said, genuinely impressed. "I bet you've got that trophy proudly displayed in your dorm room."

Max chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah. I actually gave it to my dad. It was his graduation gift."

Her smile widened. "That's really sweet. I remember your dad. He was pretty popular last year, too."

"Yeah, he always manages to charm his way into people's hearts."

Her laugh made something inside Max's chest flutter, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. He looked down at his shoes, then back up at her. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

Her smile was warm and genuine. "Mona."

Mona pushed off, her board a graceful extension of her body as she carved through the halfpipe. Max watched, impressed, as she executed a flawless 5-0 grind, her wheels buzzing against the metal coping. She dropped back in, a smile on her face, and Max joined her, the two of them moving in perfect, unspoken sync. They weaved around each other, a fluid dance of sharp turns and gravity-defying air. Max landed a difficult heelflip backside 180, and Mona was right there, matching him with a clean frontside shove-it.

"Nice," she called out, her voice a little breathless as she landed. "The way you just stuck to that."

Max grinned. "You're not so bad yourself," he replied, executing a difficult ollie over her board as she rode past. "That's a nasty lipslide you've got."

She grinned. "Practice. And you've got a seriously solid kickflip. I've been trying to get mine that clean forever."

They continued to skate, their movements an effortless choreography. The air between them crackled with an energy that went beyond friendly competition. It was a shared language, a perfect understanding of rhythm and momentum. They were two halves of a single, fluid motion, their boards singing in unison as they moved. Max felt a connection he hadn't experienced before, an almost magnetic pull to her every move. This wasn't just about skating; it was about two people finding a perfect harmony on four wheels. They weren't just practicing anymore; they were creating something beautiful, something electric, a flawless, two-person routine.

As Max and Mona pulled to a stop, the small crowd of students who had been watching erupted into applause. A few whistles and cheers echoed across the park. Max grinned. That was the best he'd skated all day, maybe all year, and it was all thanks to her.

"Wow," he said, still a little breathless. "You're incredible. We're actually looking for more members for our team. You should join us."

Mona's smile was warm, but a little sad around the edges. "That's really sweet, but I'm already on a team. I'm a Gamma."

The word hit Max with a thud. "Oh, you're on Bradley's team?" The friendly banter from earlier evaporated, replaced by a sudden, awkward silence. He looked at her again, a new thought dawning. "So that makes you a senior?"

"Yep," she said, her grin returning. "Can't wait to compete against you in the race." She gave him a small wave, grabbed her board, and skated off, disappearing into the crowd.

Max watched her go, the feeling of perfect, effortless chemistry still tingling in his veins. He really liked her, and he thought they had hit it off perfectly. But would she be interested in a sophomore? Her being part of Bradley's team kind of complicated things, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The familiar aroma of burnt coffee and stale pastries hung in the air of the Bean Scene as Max, PJ, Bobby, and Tina settled into a booth. "So what if she was a senior?" Bobby said, looking over at Max. "You're a champ, bro, a total legend! You just owned the College X-Games! Any babe would want to hang with you." He looked around the table. "Let's get a girl's perspective on this."

Tina pointed at herself, offended. "Hello, I'm a girl."

Bobby glanced at her, a sarcastic glint in his eye. "Are you?"

Tina glared at him, a silent promise of future retribution in her gaze.

PJ, ignoring their spat, turned to Max. "Do you actually think Mona liked you?"

Max took a slow sip of his coffee. "I don't know, man. I never felt so connected with someone since Roxanne. On the ramp... it was like we were dancing."

Bobby snorted. "Besides, she's an older woman. That is so exhilarating, I've practically exhilarated myself." Tina skidded away in her seat in disgust.

PJ bristled. "I'm dating an older woman."

"Yours is a junior," Bobby retorted, "Max's 'older woman' is a senior."

Suddenly, PJ’s face lit up, and he waved enthusiastically. "Vicki!" he called out.

Vicki walked over to their table. She looked from one to the other, her expression curious. "The air hums with a curious conversation," she commented, her voice soft and melodic.

"We're talking about Max's older woman," Bobby said, a smirk on his face.

Max's face flushed crimson. "Dude, stop calling her that!" he hissed, embarrassed.

Vicki's intrigue grew. "An older woman?" she repeated, her eyes twinkling. "I am intrigued. Just how old are we talking about?"

"She’s not an older woman," Max protested, his face still flushed. "Well, yes, she's older than me, but only by a couple of years." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's Mona, who will be competing in the College X-Games with the Gammas."

Vicki's gaze became soft and sympathetic. "Be careful, my friend, not to let your hopes soar too high. The ground below can be a very lonely place."

"Why?" Max asked.

Vicki's expression turned somber. "Because a rose that blooms on a different vine has already found its keeper, and hers is Bradley."

Max's face fell, the brief hope he'd felt for Mona fading into a quiet disappointment. He stared into his coffee cup, the swirling liquid a murky reflection of his shifting emotions.

"Hey, man, it's for the best," PJ said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's never a good idea to date someone who's playing for the other team."

Max shifted uncomfortably under PJ's hand. The words "other team" hung in the air, a phrase PJ probably didn't think twice about, but the double meaning was not lost on Max.

~*~*~*~*~

The late afternoon sun was already dipping below the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the skate park. The air was cool, the perfect temperature for a serious session. Max dropped into the halfpipe, feeling the familiar rush of wind against his face as he carved through the concrete bowl. He was working on a new move, the Goof-Grab 720, a stunt that required a backside 720 spin with a mid-air tail grab. It was dangerous, a little crazy, and he felt completely in control.

He landed the trick, rolling out with a grin, and that was when he saw her. Mona was standing at the edge of the ramp, her shoulders hunched, looking more awkward than he had ever seen her.

"Hey," he said, a little too loudly, trying to sound casual.

"Hi," she replied, her voice soft, almost apologetic. She gestured to the ramp. "Do you mind if I use this? I, um, I want to skate alone."

"No, not at all," he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "It's all yours." He grabbed his board and headed to the smaller ramp, settling down to watch.

Mona stared at the ramp, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she looked over at him, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "I was hoping you could teach me that trick you just did."

He felt a surge of pride, but it was quickly overshadowed by the awkwardness between them. He shrugged, trying to be cool. "You're a pro, Mona. You could probably figure it out on your own."

She turned back to the ramp, her body language a tense, hesitant coil of nerves. She dropped in, and he watched her every move. She moved with her usual grace, but something was off, her timing was just a beat too slow, her balance just a hair off. She launched into the air, attempting the spin, but her board didn't stick. She twisted in the air, a panicked flail, and then she fell.

The thud was sickening. She landed hard on her head, and her body went limp, sliding a few feet before coming to a stop.

"Mona!" Max dropped his board and sprinted to her, his legs a frantic blur. He knelt beside her, his hands shaking as he gently felt for a pulse. It was there, but she was out cold. Her face was pale, and a thin trickle of blood was beginning to form from a cut on her forehead.

"Someone call an ambulance!" he yelled, his voice cracking with panic. His eyes darted around the empty park. There was no one. He saw Mona's phone, lying a few feet away. He grabbed it, his heart pounding in his ears. He'd never used one of these before, wasn't sure how to dial for an ambulance. The screen lit up, and the first thing he saw was a call log. The last name called, big and bold, was Bradley's. A flicker of cold dread shot through him. He didn't want to call him, not with her in this condition. He would probably be furious, blame him for this. Maybe he could call him once she was safely in a hospital.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing mind. The phone had a button for emergencies. It didn't take him long to figure it out. He pressed the button, put the phone to his ear, and heard the blessed sound of a dial tone, his voice cracking as he told them what happened.

~*~*~*~*~

The hospital vending machine hummed softly in the dimly lit hallway. Max stood in front of it, his eyes scanning the rows, a quiet ache settling in his chest. Every option seemed to be peach-flavored: peach tea, peach gummy rings, peach soda. A sudden warmth spread across his back, and he felt two strong arms wrap around him from behind, pulling him close. He stiffened, but the tension melted away as a familiar, husky voice whispered in his ear, "You've always had a thing for peach, haven't you?"

He didn't need to turn to know who it was. The hands that had been resting on his waist now slipped under his shirt, their touch both cool and electrifying against his skin. They moved slowly, deliberately, up his sides, his breath catching in his throat. His abs clenched under the pressure, then released as the hands continued their ascent, his own muscles giving in to the unexpected touch. They found their mark, a thumb and forefinger squeezing his nipples, a jolt of pleasure shooting through him that was so intense he had to lean his head back against Bradley's shoulder, a low moan escaping his lips. He was lost, giving in completely to the hands and the feeling they brought, every nerve ending alive and humming.

Max jolted awake with a gasp, his body slick with sweat. He lay in the darkness, his heart hammering against his ribs, the phantom touch of the dream still lingering on his skin. He was so incredibly grateful he hadn't screamed and woken PJ and Bobby.

Troubled, he lay there, staring at the ceiling. What was wrong with him? He shouldn't be dreaming about a jerk like Bradley. Why was his subconscious conjuring up something so twisted? The image of Bradley's hands on his skin flashed in his mind, and he felt a shiver of both disgust and an uncomfortable pleasure. He remembered what PJ had said about dating someone from the other team, and the irony didn't escape him. It had sounded like a gay metaphor then, and it felt even more like one now.

He knew he liked girls. Hello, Roxanne! And even if he was into guys, why must it be Bradley? He just couldn't understand what this sick thing with Bradley was and, more importantly, when it would stop.

~*~*~*~*~

The sky was a canvas of fiery oranges and soft purples, the last rays of the setting sun painting the college skate park in hues of twilight. Max sat on the edge of the main ramp, his board resting beside him, a quiet sense of relief washing over him. Vicki had told him Mona was alright, and though he knew Bradley wouldn't want him asking, the news had lifted a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying. He tried to reconcile the conflicting emotions swirling within him: the undeniable pull he felt towards Mona, and the disturbing, confusing dreams about Bradley. He needed to forget both of them, he told himself. They were together, and he needed to move on.

Just as the thought solidified, a shadow fell over him. Someone sat down beside him on the ramp. He turned, shocked to see Mona there, silhouetted against the fading light.

"Hey," she said, her voice soft, a little hesitant.

"Hey," Max replied, his heart doing a strange little flutter.

She picked at a loose thread on her jeans. "I, um, I broke up with Bradley." Her voice was barely a whisper. "The spark just wasn't there anymore."

Max felt a pang of something he couldn't name, sympathy, relief, a flicker of hope. "I'm sorry," he said, genuinely.

Mona turned to him, her eyes, dark in the fading light, searching his. "There's also another reason," she murmured, her voice dropping even lower. She leaned in, her gaze locked with his, and Max could feel the heat of the moment radiating between them, a silent, electric current. "I started to have feelings for someone else."

His breath hitched. "Oh?" The word was a mere exhale.

She leaned closer, her soft brown hair brushing his cheek. Her lips, impossibly gentle, brushed against his, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt through him, the same startling, intense sensation he'd felt in his dreams about Bradley. But this time, it was real. This time, it was Mona.

Then her lips pressed more firmly against his, a tender, searching kiss that tasted of sunset and unspoken longing. Max's world narrowed to that single, perfect moment. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, losing himself in the soft warmth of her mouth, the gentle pressure of her body against his. The kiss deepened, a slow, intoxicating dance under the vast, darkening sky.

As their lips finally parted, Max felt an overwhelming wave of relief. This was it. This was what he wanted. The confusing, troubling dreams about Bradley suddenly made perfect sense. They weren't about Bradley at all. They were about this. This undeniable, magnetic pull towards Mona. Bradley had just been the inconvenient, infuriating obstacle, the stand-in for the intense, forbidden feelings he'd been trying to deny. With Mona in his arms, under the last blush of the sunset, everything finally clicked into place.

~*~*~*~*~

Max carved through the bustling campus streets, his board a blur beneath him. The afternoon sun was warm on his face, and every push-off felt like a celebration. His sophomore year had started on a high note, and the feeling of victory from last year's College X-Games still lingered in the air around him. As he wove through the throngs of people, he noticed the glances, the whispers, the smiles directed his way. Girls wanted him, their eyes following his every move, and guys wanted to be him, their nods of respect a silent acknowledgment of his skill. It was a new level of admiration he was still getting used to, but it felt good. The weight of his success wasn't a burden; it was a powerful, invigorating force.

Everything in his life seemed to be falling perfectly into place. He had his best friends, PJ and Bobby, always there to back him up, whether it was in the dorms or on the ramps. They were a solid crew, with their new teammate Tina bringing a fresh energy and formidable talent to their College X-Games preparations. The practices were going smoothly, each session feeling more in sync than the last. But the greatest part of all was Mona. The memory of their kiss under the sunset was a constant warmth in his chest, a secret he cherished. He had found someone who understood him on a level deeper than words, a kindred spirit who spoke the same language of concrete and gravity.

As he skated past the campus fountain, a wide grin spread across his face. He felt like he was living in a movie, the kind with a perfect soundtrack and a happy ending. All the hard work, all the years of practice, had led him here. He had his friends and a girlfriend. The future stretched out before him, a wide-open road full of possibilities. He had everything he could possibly want, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like he needed to prove anything to anyone. He was Max Goof, the College X-Games champion, and his life was, for all intents and purposes, perfect.

Max’s board came to a smooth stop outside the Bean Scene. He pushed open the heavy glass door, the jingle of the bell a welcome sound. The cold winter air outside was no match for the warm, comforting aroma of coffee and pastries inside. Max shrugged off his jacket, the heat of the café a pleasant contrast to the chill he had just come from. As he moved toward the counter, his eyes scanned the room, and then he saw him.

Sitting alone at a corner table, nursing a steaming mug, was Bradley.

A jolt of guilt shot through Max. He hadn't seen Bradley since... well, since the hospital. The circumstances were a constant, nagging thought in the back of his mind. Mona had been Bradley's girlfriend first. Even though they had broken up and she no longer lived in the Gamma house, she was still a member of their team. He’d asked Mona about it, wondering if things were awkward, if Bradley was treating her differently. She had been reassuring, telling him that Bradley was taking it well and that things were going smoothly, both in the Gamma house and in the art club.

Still, seeing Bradley alone, a look of quiet solitude on his face, made the guilt in Max’s gut twist. He had everything he wanted now, but it had come at a cost, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was partly to blame for Bradley's loneliness.

Max ordered his coffee, his gaze flitting to Bradley's table, and then back to the menu. He was trying to figure out how to get in and out of the Bean Scene as quickly and painlessly as possible when Bradley looked up. A wide, disarming smile spread across his face, and he raised a hand in a friendly wave, gesturing for Max to come over.

Max felt a hot flush of awkwardness. There was no way out now. He grabbed his cup and shuffled over, bracing himself.

"Max," Bradley said, his voice surprisingly warm. "Sit down. Glad I caught you."

Max slid into the chair across from him. "Hey, Bradley."

"I was just thinking about the holidays," Bradley said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Everything's starting to slow down. Got any big plans?"

"Yeah, actually," Max replied, feeling a bit more at ease. "I'm going to my dad's for Christmas. His girlfriend wouldn't be able to spend Christmas with him so I'm all he's got, and I'm taking Mona with me." The words felt a little bold, a quiet statement of his happiness.

Bradley’s smile didn’t falter, but a subtle, knowing glint entered his eyes. "Ah, the ever-so-charming Mona. You're bringing her to meet the family. How… sweet." The way he said the word "sweet" made it sound anything but. "I suppose you'll be showing her off to your dad, then?"

Max’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice even. "Yeah, I guess."

"Well, I'll be with my parents at our New England mansion," Bradley continued, effortlessly changing the subject. "My mother insists on a proper, traditional Christmas. It's a whole affair, really. Nothing like..." he paused, a small, condescending smirk playing on his lips, "...a casual holiday with the Goofs." He took another sip of his coffee, his expression perfectly civil, as if he hadn't just delivered a subtle jab.

Max stared at his gloved hand, feeling a sudden, heavy need to clear the air. "Bradley," he started, his voice low, "I just want to say I'm sorry for how things ended between you and Mona."

Bradley shrugged, completely unbothered. "I'm not. I ended it."

"You?" Max asked, bewildered. "I thought she..."

Bradley shook his head. "No. I put a stop to it. It wasn't fair to her, seeing as I'm a ship that sails on a different sea."

"Oh," Max said, the word barely a whisper. He remembered what Mona had said about the spark not being there, and for the first time, he understood.

Bradley took a slow sip of his coffee, a sigh escaping his lips. "It's a shame, isn't it? The way they schedule everything. We get two weeks off for the holidays, and then it's straight back to exams."

Max nodded, a look of shared misery on his face. "Tell me about it. I've got a math exam right away, and math and I have never clicked."

Just then, PJ walked over, a look of confusion on his face as he took in the sight of Max and Bradley at the same table. "Max? What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a low, bewildered whisper.

"It's cool, PJ," Max said, trying to sound reassuring.

Bradley's lips curled into a polite, but knowing, smile. "You don't have to stay with me. I'm fine by myself."

PJ didn't need any more encouragement. He grabbed Max by the arm and pulled him away from the table. "Look, forget him. After the holidays, Vicki, Bobby, Tina, and I are all going to a party. You in?"

Max shook his head with a groan. "I can't, man. That math exam is going to kill me. I'm just going to hunker down and study."

PJ's face fell. "Bummer. What about Mona? Think she'd want to tag along?"

Max felt his heart lift a little. "I'll ask her," he said, a smile spreading across his face as he thought of Mona.

~*~*~*~*~

The fluorescent hum of the dorm room lights was the only sound breaking the silence, save for the frantic scratching of Max's pencil against his textbook. Equations swam before his eyes, a dizzying array of numbers and symbols that refused to make sense. While his friends -PJ, Bobby, Tina, Vicki, and Mona - were out enjoying the after-holidays party, Max was stuck, deep in the trenches of calculus. He tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting, replaying the perfect moments of his winter break.

He smiled, remembering Mona meeting his dad. It had been even better than he'd imagined. The three of them had gone ice skating, played board games, and even had a snowball fight that ended with his dad buried up to his neck in snow. Max had been nervous about his dad's silly antics, fearing the inevitable embarrassment he felt every time his old man got a little too goofy. But Mona had just laughed, and that old, familiar warmth had filled him. His only real mortification was when his dad had, in a moment of nostalgic pride, pulled out a framed photo of him as a naked baby. Mona, however, had found it hilarious, and that quiet, unburdened joy of seeing her and his dad hit it off so effortlessly had made the whole trip a success. He needed to stop being so embarrassed by his old man and just accept that people genuinely loved his goofiness.

Knock, knock, knock!

The frantic, insistent pounding on his door shattered the peaceful reverie. Max jumped, startled, his pencil clattering to the floor. Who would be knocking like that? He rushed to the door, his heart thumping.

He pulled it open, and his eyes widened in disbelief. Standing in the hallway, clutching his side and grunting in pain, was Bradley. His usually flawless clothes were disheveled, and his face was pale, streaked with dirt.

"Max... let me in," Bradley gasped, his voice strained.

Max was confused, a million questions flooding his mind, until his gaze dropped. A dark, rapidly expanding stain bloomed on Bradley's side, soaking through his shirt. Blood.

"Bradley!" Max exclaimed, his confusion instantly replaced by a surge of adrenaline and alarm. He grabbed Bradley's arm, pulling him inside with surprising force. He slammed the door shut, twisting the lock with a frantic click.

"What happened?" Max demanded, his voice sharp with urgency. "You're bleeding!"

Bradley leaned against the door, panting, his eyes darting nervously around the room. "The Kappa Alphas," he managed, his voice raspy. "They were after me. I... I messed with their initiation ceremony. Replaced their sacred fraternity paddle with a rubber chicken and swapped out their secret handshake with a choreographed dance routine. They didn't find it very funny." He winced, clutching his side tighter. "They managed to stab me, but I got away. They won't suspect I'm here."

Max grabbed the first aid kit from the back of his closet, his mind still reeling from Bradley's sudden appearance. He set it on his desk and gestured with a frantic hand. "Show me."

Bradley, grunting, pulled his shirt over his head. The wound was a jagged slice across his side, not as deep as Max had feared, but still a nasty cut. As Max knelt to examine it, Bradley flexed his chest, the muscles shifting and contracting. A sudden, electric warmth shot through Max, a heat that had nothing to do with the stuffy room. His gaze lingered for a moment, a disquieting sense of fascination pulling at him.

No. Stop it. The thought was a sharp, internal command. He had a girlfriend, a wonderful girlfriend he loved. His relationship with Mona was great, their physical connection solid and fulfilling. The dreams, the strange fixation he felt around Bradley, it was all supposed to have ended with that kiss under the sunset. He forced himself to focus, to push the image of Bradley's body from his mind, to concentrate on the task at hand: cleaning and bandaging the wound. This was just a medical emergency. Nothing more.

Max finished taping the bandage, the clean white gauze contrasted the dark bloodstain on Bradley's shirt. He put the first aid kit away, a heavy silence hanging between them.

"I can't go back out there," Bradley said, his voice low. "Not with them looking for me. They'll find me." He looked at Max, his eyes holding a rare vulnerability. "Do you mind if I... if I crash here tonight?"

Max hesitated. The thought of explaining this to PJ and Bobby was a nightmare. But he couldn't just turn him out. "Yeah, okay," Max said, his voice quiet. "You can take my bed. I've got to finish studying anyway."

Bradley nodded gratefully, easing himself onto Max's bed and lying back against the pillow. Max returned to his desk, but the numbers on the page seemed to swim before his eyes. He couldn't focus. The air in the room was charged with a strange tension, and every rustle of the sheets from the bed, every shallow breath Bradley took, felt amplified.

Suddenly, a warm presence was leaning over him. It was a dizzying sense of déjà vu. Just like at the vending machine, Bradley's body was close, too close, his breath ghosting against the side of Max's neck.

"Having trouble with that?" Bradley's voice was a low whisper, his gaze fixed on Max's textbook.

Max's breath hitched. He couldn't form a full sentence. "Uh... huh," he managed, his heart pounding in his ears.

Bradley chuckled softly. "You're lucky," he whispered, leaning in even closer. "I happen to know my way around a math problem."

The air in the room was thick with tension, a silent dance between the numbers on the page and the nearness of Bradley's body. He was so close. Bradley’s hand suddenly reached out, a long, elegant finger tapping a line of equations on the open textbook.

“This is where you’re going wrong,” Bradley murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. His hand moved, his finger tracing the problem, a deliberate touch against the page that Max felt in his core. “You’re trying to force the solution. Sometimes you just have to… let it go where it wants to.” He leaned in even closer, his arm brushing against Max’s, and a shiver went down Max’s spine.

Max tried to focus on the math, but the only thing he could process was the sensation of Bradley's nearness. He could smell the faint scent of expensive cologne and something else, something uniquely Bradley, clean and musky. Bradley’s head was bent over the book, and Max could see the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and a strange, unfamiliar tightness bloomed in Max's chest.

Bradley’s finger lingered on the page as he explained the next step, his voice a soft, hypnotic rhythm. His hand then moved, a gentle touch on Max’s back, guiding him to sit up straighter. The contact was brief, but it was enough to send a jolt through Max, leaving him hot and bothered, his mind completely empty of numbers and equations.

He looked at Bradley, who was still focused on the book, a look of polite concentration on his face. He was completely unaware of the effect he was having. Max swallowed hard, trying to get his breath back, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He just had to get through this. He had to focus on the math.

~*~*~*~*~

Max lay on Bobby's bottom bunk, staring at the underside of PJ's bed, the springs casting faint shadows in the dim light. He'd offered his own bed to Bradley, knowing his friends would have thrown a fit if the Gamma president had dared to touch their sacred sleeping spaces. But sleep wouldn't come. Bradley's presence in the room was doing unspeakable things to his nerves. He felt a surge of irritation with himself. He thought he was over this. Having Mona, being truly happy with her, should have made these awkward, confusing feelings stop, especially since it was all in his head. Bradley wasn't doing anything forward, just lying there. Yet, Max heard Bradley toss and turn on his bed, letting out soft, unconscious sounds that were slowly driving Max crazy. He had to get over this night. He snapped his eyes shut, trying to conjure up unsexy thoughts: Mr. P in his ridiculously tight swimming suit, Duke in baby clothes, whatever happened to that jerk anyway?

Suddenly, a heavy weight pressed down on him, forcing the air from his lungs. His eyes snapped open, and he found himself face to face with Bradley, his dark eyes intense in the near darkness. Before Max could react, Bradley began to thrust against Max's groin, a slow, deliberate rhythm that stole Max's breath. Max couldn't help but gasp at the sensation. Bradley's nose was on his neck, then his ear, breathing heavily against him, the warm puffs of air sending shivers down Max's spine. Bradley's hands slipped under Max's shirt, doing things to his chest that made a soft moan escape Max's lips, a whimper he couldn't control.

Was this another dream? It felt too real, the sensations too vivid, the spurs of pleasure too overwhelming. Max couldn't keep himself in control, his hips instinctively thrusting back against Bradley, wanting more, craving his touch. Bradley's hands slipped lower, to his pants, and with a soft rasp of fabric, undid his zipper. One of Bradley's hands moved, grabbing him, squeezing, and Max whimpered again, his body arching into the touch as Bradley's other hand went up to his nipple, circling it with a thumb.

This was wrong, the thought was a frantic, useless mantra in Max's mind. He had to stop this. He had to.

"Stop," he gasped, his voice thin and choked. "Please."

Bradley's breath was hot against his ear, the words a low, taunting rumble that sent a shiver through him. "Why?" he whispered. "You're clearly into it."

"But…" Max moaned, a helpless sound, as Bradley squeezed his nipple, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through him. "But I'm with Mona."

He tried to lift his hands to push Bradley away, to create a desperate, last-ditch barrier. But Bradley’s rhythm increased, the thrusts more powerful and insistent. He squeezed harder, the pressure a sharp, delicious ache, and then bit Max’s earlobe, a swift, possessive nip that stole the last of his resistance. Max’s hands fell back, his body arching, his mind completely surrendering to the sensation. He gave in, letting Bradley do whatever he wanted, lost in the overwhelming rush.

Just as Max was about to completely lose control, the pressure stopped. The weight lifted, and Max’s eyes fluttered open to see Bradley sitting up, looking down at him. Bradley's gaze was piercing, a searing blue that stripped Max bare. Max was panting heavily, his body humming with a frustrated energy, itching for more, but Bradley wasn't giving it to him. His eyes traveled slowly over Max's body, from his glazed-over eyes and parted lips, down his exposed stomach to the throbbing evidence of his arousal. Bradley looked like he was savoring the image, a silent, knowing look in his eyes.

Then, without another word, Bradley was off the bed and making his way to the door.

"Wait!" Max panted, his voice a desperate croak. "Where are you going?" He scrambled to sit up, his limbs feeling heavy and uncoordinated.

Bradley paused at the door, a knowing smirk on his face. "Do you want your friends to catch you with me?" he said, the words a taunting challenge.

"But what about the guys who were after you?" Max asked, fumbling to pull up his pants. The abrupt stop to the sensation, the ache of unreached climax, was a physical hurt.

"I doubt they stuck around looking for me this long," Bradley said, already opening the door.

"Bradley, wait," Max finally managed to sit up, looking at him with a mix of confusion and desperation. "What just happened...?"

"Don't worry. Our little secret," Bradley winked, a flash of predatory glee in his eyes, and then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Max was left in the cold silence, trying to breathe evenly, his body still humming with a humiliating ache. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, a bitter taste on his tongue, a taste he knew wasn't from a bad dream. He felt like dirt, like something vile and cheap, a feeling that settled deep in his gut. The worst part that twisted the knife, was the knowledge that he had just betrayed Mona. He was a fraud, a cheat, and he felt disgusted with himself for more than one reason.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

The last brushstroke was a whisper of crimson across the canvas. Bradley stepped back, his eyes scanning the piece with a quiet reverence. He had been working for hours, the world outside his room fading away until only the canvas and the paints existed. It was finished, a piece unlike anything he'd ever created. It was raw, honest, and filled with a desperate, aching beauty that he didn't even know he possessed. He felt a profound surge of pride, a satisfaction so deep it was almost painful. This was the first time he had ever completed a piece in a single sitting, a testament to the powerful inspiration that had driven him.

The serene silence of his room was suddenly broken by the bright, melodic ringtone of his mother's favorite Beatles song, "Here, There and Everywhere." He glanced at the screen, a small smile touching his lips, and answered.

"Bradley, dear? How are you?" his mother's voice was soft, laced with a familiar concern. "I was wondering if you were all right after… things didn't work out with your girlfriend."

Bradley's gaze fell to his latest creation, and the smile on his face widened, a little sharper this time. "I'm fine, Mom," he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "Things are getting much, much better."

"I just don't want you to feel pressured to find the perfect person just because of me," she continued.

The words were meant to be kind, but they struck a nerve. Bradley's knuckles whitened as he gripped his phone. He hated Max. He hated him for everything. Mona would have been the perfect woman to bring home to his mother, to introduce her to a girl who was smart, talented, and beautiful. Mona would have made his mother so happy, seeing him finally settling down with someone so amazing. But that self-serving, selfish scum had to take her, had to flaunt their relationship all over campus, as if he had truly earned the right to be with her. First it was the College X-Games, then it was his carefully cultivated popularity on campus, and now it was Mona. Max always took what was Bradley's and acted as though it was his own. He would pay for this. He would pay dearly.

"Bradley, dear? Are you all right?" his mother asked again, her voice a fragile whisper of worry.

A chilling, devilish smile spread across Bradley's face, his heart beating with a cold, vengeful thrill. "Yes, Mom," he answered, his voice dripping with a newfound, sinister calm. "I'm finally all right."

His eyes settled on the canvas. The subject was none other than Max, but not the confident, smiling champion the world saw. This was the Max he had encountered in his dorm room just hours before. He had painted him lying on the bed, his body a study in raw, frustrated desire. The longing in Max’s eyes was so intense it was almost painful to look at, a desperate, silent plea for a touch. Bradley had meticulously captured the smooth curve of his exposed stomach, the way the muscles flexed in a hungry arc, and the undeniable proof of his state, a desperate need that had strained free of the fabric, was laid bare for his gaze. It was a masterpiece of vulnerability, a silent confession that showed a Max who craved no one but him.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley sat alone on a bench at the far edge at the college skate park, a dark, motionless figure amidst the vibrant chaos. He nursed a lukewarm coffee, his gaze locked on the halfpipe where Max and Mona were performing a beautiful, synchronized dance. Their boards moved as one, a fluid choreography of graceful turns and airborne spins. Max launched into a clean frontside 360, and Mona was right there, matching him with an equally flawless kickflip. Bradley, for all his seething resentment, could not deny the artistic beauty of their performance. His painter's eye saw the perfect geometry of their movements, the effortless harmony that existed between them, and he hated it all the more.

A group of girls gushed to his left, their voices a constant, irritating hum. "They're so perfect together," one sighed. "Max and Mona are the ultimate couple. He's the champion, and she's a Gamma, it's so exciting! It's like a real-life romance novel."

"I know, right?" another chimed in. "I wonder who's going to win this year’s College X-Games. Max or his girlfriend, Mona?"

No one mentioned Bradley's name. No one seemed to remember that Mona was a member of his team, a team he led and poured his heart into. He was a ghost in his own kingdom, his authority and his identity erased by the easy charm of Max Goof. The words of the girls were a poison, seeping into his mind and curdling his blood. He felt a deep, twisting hatred for Max, for his effortless talent, his unearned popularity, and for the way he had so easily taken what was Bradley’s.

Bradley’s grip tightened on his coffee cup, the plastic groaning under the pressure. The bitter liquid did nothing to quench the fire in his gut. His eyes, dark with an intense, burning hatred, were fixed on Max. A single phrase, raw with promise, slipped from his lips in a low murmur. "Ich tu dir weh." He wanted to hurt Max. He wanted to make him feel the same consuming pain that was eating him alive. And he would.

The sun was a warm, heavy blanket over the college skate park, a stark contrast to the cold, simmering rage in Bradley's gut. He found Max sitting alone on a bench near the ramps, a blue towel draped over his shoulders, the steam from his exertion rising in the humid air. He was hunched over, drinking deeply from a steel water bottle. A perfect picture of a confident victor in his natural element.

Bradley approached, a studied casualness in his stride. "Hey," he said, his voice smooth and even.

Max's head snapped up, a flicker of alarm in his eyes. A deep blush crept up his neck and onto his cheeks, betraying a flicker of embarrassment. He quickly composed himself, setting his bottle down. "Hi," he replied, his voice a little strained.

"Great performance out there," Bradley continued, leaning against the bench. "You were amazing."

Max just stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decipher a hidden meaning behind the simple words. "Thanks," he mumbled, his gaze dropping to the ground.

Bradley, enjoying the boy's discomfort, changed the subject. "How was that math exam? I'm sure you aced it after our little... tutoring session."

"I didn't do too well, actually," Max said, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"Aw, too bad," Bradley said, a condescending smirk playing on his lips. "If you want, I'll give you another session."

Max shook his head, a resolute look on his face. "Listen, Bradley, about what happened that night..."

Bradley leered at him, a wolfish glint in his eyes. "You still remember that night?"

The blush on Max's neck intensified, his cheeks burning crimson. "I told Mona about what happened," he confessed, the words a strained whisper.

Bradley felt a jolt of genuine shock. "What? You told her?"

"I can never lie to Mona," Max said, his voice firm and unwavering. "I love her, and while I have these weird urges, I don't want to do anything to jeopardize my relationship with her."

Bradley stared at him, a knot of confusion forming in his stomach. "What did Mona say when you told her?" He didn't remember her being angry or upset with him at the art club earlier that day.

"I didn't tell her it was you," Max said.

"Ah," Bradley said, a cold, hard smile spreading across his face. "So you did lie to her."

"Not exactly," Max said, his voice firm. "I just told her what happened, without mentioning who I was with. She was a little upset, but we worked things out."

Of course you did, Bradley thought, a bitter, resentful thought that twisted in his gut. Because it always works out for you, you little scum.

Max stood, squaring his shoulders, and looked Bradley directly in the eye. "Listen, I don't want what happened to happen again. I'm in a committed relationship, and I can't hurt Mona again." He said it with a quiet conviction that made Bradley's blood run cold. He was so sure of himself, so confident in his righteousness.

Bradley just stared at him, a storm of emotions brewing beneath his composed exterior. Max spoke with an even colder resolve. "So stay away from me. Get it?"

A slow, unsettling smile spread across Bradley’s face. He shook his head, a feigned look of amusement on his face. "Max, Max, Max," he said, his voice a low, condescending purr. "Why the hostility? I didn't know how serious you and Mona were. I was just giving you a taste of what college life is like. A little harmless experimentation." He paused, his smile growing sharper. "Don't worry. No more experimenting."

Max's shoulders visibly relaxed. He nodded, a look of gratitude on his face. "Thank you," he said, and then, grabbing his skateboard, he turned and headed for the ramp.

Bradley watched him go, his eyes narrowing into slits. The sight of Max's retreating back, so confident and so oblivious, was like a match to a tinderbox. The quiet rage he'd been holding back surged. The little sermon Max had just delivered, the casual way he had dismissed what they had shared, was a humiliation that Bradley would not forget.

"Ich tu dir weh," Bradley muttered in German. A raw, venomous phrase, a promise of pain, barely audible over the scrape of Max's board on the concrete.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The campus was a sprawling tapestry of student life, and Bradley had become a phantom thread woven through it all. He was always there, a few yards back, a beat behind. He watched Max from the shadows of the student union, a silent spectator to his every move. He saw him on his board, weaving through the crowded streets of the campus with PJ, Bobby, and Tina. Max was in his element, a natural leader, effortlessly giving them pointers as they worked on a new routine. Bradley saw how his friends looked at him, the easy admiration they held for Max. He wondered how much of that respect would remain if they had seen him that night, panting on the bottom bunk, a helpless sound escaping his lips as he begged for a touch from their enemy.

From a back table in a bustling campus eatery, Bradley watched Max and Mona, his face obscured by the menu he pretended to study. He saw them leaning in close, their heads together in private jokes, a soft intimacy he yearned for himself. The anger in his gut twisted as he watched Max reach across the table to take Mona's hand. Then, as the conversation faded, he watched them become lost in a passionate, lingering kiss, a moment so private and consuming that it seemed to blot out the rest of the world. Bradley’s own breath caught in his throat, a bitter, cold ache settling in his chest.

Bradley sat in the history section in the library, a book in his hands, his eyes, however, were glued to Max. Max was at a table across the room, bent over a textbook, a look of tired concentration on his face. Bradley watched as Max got up, stretching his arms over his head, and went to get another book. He lingered at the front desk, joking and laughing with the librarian who was also his father's girlfriend, completely unaware of the opportunity he had just created. Bradley smirked. He saw Max's keys on the table, glinting innocently under the lamp. As Max remained distracted, Bradley rose from his seat, a fluid, silent movement. His hand slid across the table, his fingers closing around the cold metal of the keys. He was gone a moment later, found a small, discreet kiosk in a back alley on campus and had a copy made of each key before slipping them back onto Max's table without a soul being the wiser.

He was there again, hidden in the shadows of a streetlamp outside a downtown dance club. He watched as Max and Mona emerged, their laughter echoing in the chilly night air. Max pulled a rubber band from his wrist, stretching it and placing it around the doorknob of Mona’s dorm room, a silent pact of privacy. They disappeared inside, the door clicking softly shut behind them. Bradley’s mind painted a vivid picture of the scene inside: the two of them, their bodies entangled in a dance of their own, skin against skin, the sounds of their desire muffled by the quiet dorm. He pictured the gentle rise and fall of Max's chest, the feel of his skin, and the surrender in his eyes. Bradley lingered, a cold sentinel outside the warmth of the building, a dark, unsettling smile on his face, the keys to Max's sanctuary a physical weight in his pocket.

The next night, the campus was quiet. Bradley had spent the evening watching Max, a patient, silent spectator as Max's friends disappeared into the Bean Scene to listen to PJ's girlfriend's newest poetry piece. He knew from his relentless observation that Max had a big extra credit test tomorrow, a final chance to boost his math grade. He watched as Max said his goodbyes and headed back to the dorm alone, an exhausted, solitary figure walking towards an early bedtime. Bradley gave him time to fall into a deep, uninterrupted sleep, waiting outside the dorm for a little over an hour before he finally took the keys from his pocket. He slipped the key into the lock, the tumblers clicking with a satisfying precision. The door opened with a slow, hesitant creak, and his shadow, tall and distorted by the dim hallway light, stretched across the floor, reaching out like a long, dark arm to touch the empty beds.

Inside, the room was still and quiet. Max lay in his own single bed, deep in a peaceful, unsuspecting sleep. He was sprawled on his side, a white tank top riding up just a little, and his hair was a wild, soft mess against the pillow. His face, in the soft glow of the digital alarm clock, was a picture of perfect, peaceful innocence, nothing like the frustrated, desperate expression Bradley had captured on canvas. Bradley crouched silently before the bed. He unzipped his bag and pulled out his sketchpad and a charcoal pencil. He didn't make a sound. He simply watched, his gaze moving over every curve and line of Max's face in quiet intensity. With a few deliberate strokes, he began to draw, the dark charcoal marking the white page, capturing the unsuspecting features of the boy who had no idea he was being watched, let alone immortalized by the very person he had tried so hard to escape.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The campus was a hushed, sleeping giant under the cold, indifferent gaze of the moon. Bradley, however, was wide awake with a single purpose. He had watched Max practice earlier that day and had overheard him mention to Mona that he planned to work on a new move alone, late at night, without interruption. Now, Bradley made his way to the skate park, and as he approached, the faint scrape of wheels on concrete reached his ears. He paused, concealed by the shadows of a large oak tree, and watched. It was Max, alone in the vast expanse of the park under the pale moonlight.

Max was practicing relentlessly, mastering the new move he had talked about. Bradley recognized it as a variation of a kickflip to fakie manual, a difficult and precise trick. Max would land it, stumble, then try again, his body a blur of determined motion. He was pushing himself, striving for perfection, and Bradley watched, a grudging admiration mixing with his simmering resentment.

Finally, after a flawless execution, Max rolled to a stop, his chest heaving, a blue towel draped over his shoulders. This was his moment. Bradley stepped out from the shadows, his voice cutting through the quiet night. "Max. Haven't seen you around here in a while."

Max startled, his head snapping up. His eyes widened in surprise, and a faint blush crept up his neck, a tell-tale sign of his discomfort. He quickly composed himself. "Hey, Bradley."

"That move," Bradley continued, ignoring the awkwardness. "It was perfect. Absolutely flawless."

Max stared at him, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, before mumbling a hesitant "Thanks."

"I was actually hoping you could give me your opinion on something," Bradley said, a subtle shift in his tone, a hint of vulnerability. "There's a move I've been trying to perfect. I could use an expert's eye."

Max hesitated, then, with a reluctant sigh, nodded. "Sure."

Bradley took his board, a theatrical sigh escaping his lips. He dropped into the halfpipe, and executed a simple ollie, a basic maneuver that even a novice could manage with a few weeks of practice. He rolled out, his expression a mask of exaggerated frustration. "Ugh! See? It's pathetic! I'm never going to win the first rounds with simple moves like that. I just can't get it right. I'm not practicing hard enough." He threw his hands up in despair, a performance so over-the-top it was almost comical.

"Wow," Max's voice was a low, dry drawl. "You've been lurking in the bushes for God knows how long, just to ask me about a simple ollie? You think I'm that gullible? It's really touching how much you care about my opinion, Brad, but you'll have to try a little harder than that." He crossed his arms over his chest, brows furrowed. "What are you really doing out here?"

Forgot he's not as stupid as his old man. Bradley's shoulders slumped, his posture a picture of defeat. "You got me," he said, his voice dropping to a low, troubled murmur. "To be honest, the desire... it's just not there anymore. All the practice in the world isn't going to help when you don't have the heart for it." He sat down heavily on the lower edge of the ramp, his head in his hands. "To be honest, I'm thinking of just throwing the whole thing." He looked up, trying not to overdo the pleading eyes. "I don't know how else to win. I've always had to resort to cheating just to make my dad proud."

The rigid lines of Max's face eased, and he inched closer. "Look, if you're really struggling, I can give you a couple pointers. But if this is another one of your games, just know I'm not playing."

"You're right," Bradley said. "It's not really my dream. It's his. The College X-Games, and he just... expects me to end my senior year on a high note." He looked up, his expression a careful mix of vulnerability and frustration. "All this pressure to win is killing me." He let out a heavy sigh, a perfect performance of a young man burdened by a legacy he never wanted.

Max's expression remained guarded. He didn't seem to buy the act, but Bradley could see that he was starting to waver. "If that's the real problem, then you need to talk to him," Max said, his voice interestingly gentle. "Tell him what you just told me. You can't spend your life trying to win for someone else." He shook his head, a weary chuckle escaping his lips.

Bradley's brow furrowed, a grimace spreading across his face. "What? You're laughing at my problems?"

Max shook his heads. "No, man. I was just thinking about how lack of communication almost got me and my dad mauled by Big Foot." He laughed when Bradley's eyes widened. "It's amazing what a little honesty can do. It's like a superpower, except instead of flying, you get to avoid getting your limbs torn off."

Bradley’s jaw tightened. Max was so transparent, so quick to offer advice that served his own interests. He wanted Bradley out of the College X-Games, out of the way. He wanted a clear shot at the title without any competition. The thought made the bitterness in Bradley's gut curdle.

"I can't," Bradley said, his voice filled with a desperate, manufactured weight. "He'd be so disappointed." He subtly shifted, drawing a fraction closer to Max. He remained perfectly still, every nerve on edge, waiting for the younger boy to make the first move, to offer the comforting contact that would give Bradley his opening.

Max responded with the exact sincerity Bradley had counted on. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on Bradley’s shoulder. "I'm sure he'll understand," Max said, his voice soft with empathy.

A small, triumphant smirk played on Bradley’s lips, hidden just out of Max’s sight. The fish had taken the bait. Bradley reached up and grabbed Max’s hand on his shoulder, holding it tight, a silent, possessive claim in the moonlight.

Bradley felt Max's hand yank back as Max’s face hardened with resolve, his eyes blazing with defiance. "We talked about this," Max insisted, his voice low and strained. "I'm with Mona. I'm not going to do anything with you while I'm in a relationship with her."

A cold, knowing smile played on Bradley’s lips. It was the same old, tired argument, the desperate clinging to a loyalty he knew was fragile. He tightened his grip, pulling Max just a fraction closer. "Maybe you're more attracted to me than you are to Mona," he whispered, the suggestion a poison he let seep slowly into Max’s thoughts. The silence between them stretched, thick with Max's internal struggle. "Think about it, Max, you hate me, yet you desperately crave my touch. What does that mean?"

There was a subtle shiver that ran through Max at his words, the quiet surrender as his body betrayed his mind. Bradley had struck a nerve, hit a truth that Max wasn't ready to face, and with that single question, Bradley knew he had won. "You're right, you know, about communication," he said with a low voice that was dangerously intimate. He leaned in, his face so close to Max's that he could feel his hot breath. "You should tell Mona how you really feel." He leaned in so their noses were almost touching. "That you're just with her to hide from this." He released Max's hand, his fingers trailing down his arm, a feather-light touch that was both a caress and a claim. "You're not fooling anyone, especially not yourself. The harder you fight this, the more obvious it becomes. You're so much better than being a coward, Max."

He watched the shiver go down Max's spine at the closeness, a familiar electric jolt that Bradley felt from across the gap between them. Max tried to speak, to protest again, but the words caught in his throat. A faint, desperate groan escaped Max's lips as his hands pushed weakly against Bradley's chest, trying to put distance between them. Bradley's hand moved to Max's neck, pulling him closer. Max's loyalties warred with his desires in a silent fight that Bradley knew he was already winning.

"Don't lie to me, Max," Bradley whispered, his breath ghosting over Max’s ear. "I saw what you wanted that night. I know what you want now."

Max shook his head, a desperate, final attempt to pull away from the inescapable orbit of Bradley's gaze. But Bradley held him close, his arms a steel trap. "Ich tu dir weh," he whispered, the German words a low, intimate rumble against Max’s skin. The phrase was a foreign secret, its true meaning a cruel promise only Bradley understood, but the tone was all Max needed to hear. He went completely still, his body surrendering, his fight finally gone.

Bradley leaned in again, his lips brushing against Max's ear. "That's a good little freshman," he whispered.

Still shaking, Max tried to protest. "Freshman?" he repeated in a strained, breathless whisper.  

"When it comes to experimenting, you are nothing but an inexperienced freshman, Max," Bradley replied, the words a low, mocking taunt. He punctuated the sentence by gently biting Max’s ear, an intimate gesture that stole the last of Max's resistance.

Max moaned, his head leaning back against the cold concrete of the ramp. Bradley was sure he was tired of fighting it, tired of pretending it wasn't there. He saw the change in Max's eyes, the exact moment his resolve broke. The hesitation was gone, replaced by a desperate, open need. Bradley’s smirk returned, cold and triumphant. With a swift, fluid motion, he reached for Max’s skateboard, pulled it from beneath him, and flipped it upside down so the wheels were on top. He then gently guided Max down until his head came to rest in the perfect hollow between the wheels, a strange, fitting pillow. Bradley settled on top of him, his body warm and close. The moon shone down on them, casting long shadows, two bodies entwined in a silent, complicated dance under the endless night sky.

Bradley's hands moved with a cruel intimacy over Max's body. He lifted the hem of Max's shirt, his fingers brushing against skin that shivered and goosebumps. He tugged at Max's pants, pulling them low until they were bunched uselessly around his knees. Max's body was responding, a soft gasp escaping him as Bradley's touch found all the right places, leaving him hot and breathless. Bradley, still fully clothed, began to thrust against the younger boy. In his mind, he saw the image of this very skate park alive with the roar of the crowd. He could almost hear the cheers, the shouts of admiration for their champion. What would they think of their hero now? Their flawless idol, being ravished by his own rival on the very ramp where he did his best work, lying on the skateboard that was his identity, his body fully exposed and vulnerable. Max was losing it completely, surrendering to his enemy, and all Bradley had to do was whisper and thrust.

Max's breath came in a series of ragged pants, his body arching, every muscle coiled with a desperate need Bradley had ignited. The boy was on the verge of release, so close Bradley could see the tremor start in his bones.

And that was when Bradley stopped.

He sat up, pulling away with a cruel, deliberate motion. Max was left in a state of complete, aching frustration, his body twitching with unfulfilled energy, unable to move. Bradley looked down, savoring the sight of him. Max was half-naked on the ramp, his shirt bunched around his chest and his pants pulled low to his knees. His body was a masterpiece of longing, every line and muscle a testament to a desire that, in this moment, was for no one but Bradley. His head lay against his skateboard, the very board he had ridden to win last year. This image, so raw and vulnerable, would make a fine new art piece. Bradley felt an itch in his fingertips to get back to his room and immortalize this moment forever. With a final, victorious smirk, he got to his feet, grabbed his own skateboard, and left Max there, still writhing, still desperate, a canvas waiting to be painted.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The Bean Scene buzzed with a low, persistent hum of gossip. Bradley sat in his usual corner booth, a cold coffee in his hand, listening. He saw PJ, Bobby, and Tina huddled around Poetess Vicki their faces a mix of disbelief and sadness.

"I still can't believe it," Tina was saying, her voice a low lament. "Max and Mona? Calling it quits?"

"The shock-age of it all," Bobby chimed in, shaking his head. "They were the Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt of State College, the Beyoncé and Jay-Z, the Carson Daly and Tara Reid..."

"Actually, they broke up," Tina pointed out.

Bobby slammed the table. "I can't handle all these changes! I need my emotional support cheese."

A slow, satisfied smirk spread across Bradley's face. He finished his coffee and got up. The path to Mona's dorm was a short one, and when he arrived, the door was cracked slightly open. He knocked softly, the sound swallowed by the silence.

The door opened wider, revealing Mona, her eyes red and puffy, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Hey," Bradley said, his voice a great, practiced display of sympathy. "I... I heard the news. I'm so sorry."

Mona's gaze was guarded, a flicker of suspicion in her tear-filled eyes, but she gestured for him to come in. The room was a mess, clothes scattered on the floor, and a half-eaten pint of ice cream sat on her desk.

"Thanks for coming by," she said, her voice tight and distant. She didn't offer any details, just sat on the edge of her bed, her arms wrapped around herself.

Bradley took a step closer, his hands in his pockets. "Mona, if you need anything at all... anything, just let me know. I'm here for you."

"Thanks," she repeated, her voice still closed off. She wouldn't give him what he wanted, not yet. But Bradley wasn't worried. He'd waited for much longer to get what he wanted. He knew, with a certainty that was both cruel and thrilling, that she would come to him eventually.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The art club studio was filled with the familiar scents of paint and turpentine. A couple of days had passed since Bradley had seen Mona, and she looked much better than she had in her dorm room. The redness in her eyes was gone, and while her expression was still subdued, she was back to her usual quiet intensity.

Bradley walked over to her easel. Her latest work was a dark, sorrowful abstract painting of deep blues and harsh blacks that spoke of loss and anger.

"It's... different," Bradley said, keeping his voice gentle. He gestured to the canvas. "I'm guessing this is about what happened with Max?"

Mona stiffened, her brush stilling. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, her voice clipped.

Bradley chose to ignore the warning. He had a different goal in mind now. He leaned in, a soft smile on his face. "Well, if you need a break from all of this, maybe we could get some coffee. Or a movie?"

Mona’s eyes flashed with anger, and she pulled him closer, whispering fiercely so no one else in the room could hear. "I don't want to go out with you, Bradley. I'm still in love with Max. I don't understand why he ended things, but I'm not ready to date anyone right now."

The words hit Bradley with the force of a physical blow. He felt a jolt of genuine shock, followed by a wave of white-hot anger that threatened to consume him. In love with Max? It wasn't enough that Max had taken his title, his popularity, his dignity, he had also managed to hold onto Mona's heart, even after breaking it. A new, more potent rage for Max had overtaken him, a bitter poison that curdled his blood.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The bass thrummed through the floorboards of the dance club in a relentless pulse that vibrated through Bradley's chest. He had followed Max and his friends here as a silent shadow in the pulsating crowd. Max's friends, PJ, Bobby, and Tina, were clearly on a mission to drag Max out of his self-imposed dorm room exile after the breakup with Mona. They were in the middle of the dance floor now, but Max wasn't feeling it, his shoulders hunched, his face a mask of disinterest. He clearly wasn't in the mood to dance.

Bradley watched as Max, after a few half-hearted attempts to join in, turned and made his way towards the club's staircase, disappearing into the darker reaches above. Bradley followed and found Max standing on the balcony, leaning against the railing, in a shadowed alcove. He was looking down at the dance floor, his friends a distant, joyful spectacle below.

Bradley approached, a smirk already forming on his lips. "So," he drawled, his voice pitched just loud enough to cut through the thumping music, "you're single again."

Max's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing into a glare. "What do you want?" he demanded, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger.

Bradley moved closer, his gaze lingering on Max's face. "It's not about what I want, Max," he said, his voice dropping to a low, seductive murmur that was almost lost in the beat. "It's about what you want."

Max recoiled, his eyes darting around the crowded balcony. "Stay away from me," he hissed. "We're in a public place. There are people around."

Bradley ignored the warning, taking another step, closing the distance between them. The music was loud, the shadows long, and the other club-goers were too lost in their own worlds to notice.

"I mean it," Max warned, his voice rising slightly, a desperate edge to it. "Stay away."

Bradley stood close to Max, close enough to see the frantic pulse beating in his neck. "You don't mean that," he whispered in a low, confident challenge.

Max pushed him away. "I do!" he retorted, his voice strong, unwavering.

Bradley tsked in mock disappointment. "Why are you fighting it? You're not in a relationship now. You're a free man. There's nothing wrong with it now."

"There's so much wrong with it," Max shot back, his eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and something else, something akin to fear. "Because it's you, Brad. Being with you is wrong."

Bradley tilted his head, a feigned look of hurt on his face. He brought a hand to his chest, as if physically wounded. "Ouch, you hurt me, Maxie." He stepped closer again, invading Max's personal space, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "It might feel wrong, but it is exciting, isn't it? Lusting after your own enemy. A forbidden love fairytale."

Max pushed him again. "I'm more of a 'happily ever after' without the 'evil step-rival' kind of guy."

Bradley hovered around Max in the shadowed alcove. "You broke up with her because you knew you wanted this," he said, his voice weaving through the loud music. "Because you knew, after what we shared, that you couldn't keep lying to her. You did the honorable thing, and now... now you're free. There's nothing to be afraid of."

As he spoke, Bradley slid in behind Max, his body a warm, solid presence against Max's back. He wrapped his arms around Max's middle, pulling him tight against his chest in a possessive embrace. Max went completely rigid, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"I can't be with you, Brad," Max's voice was a desperate, strained whisper, a final, weak protest.

Bradley leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Max’s ear. "Because of them?" he whispered, his body a silent, taunting gesture towards the dance floor below, where PJ, Bobby, and Tina were dancing without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of the private war being waged just above their heads. He noticed Max's reflection on a glass partition in the wall next to them. He was glad for it; the distorted image of Max's face, a mask of desire and shame, would make for a challenging, intriguing new art piece. He wanted to capture it. In the dark shadow, he slipped his hand under Max's pants.

Max's body went rigid. "No," he hissed.

"Shhh," Bradley said, his voice a low, soothing command. "It's alright. No one can see us here." He squeezed and pulled in a merciless motion that stole the breath from Max's lungs. Max gasped and closed his eyes, his head falling back against Bradley's shoulder.

Bradley grabbed his jaw with his other hand, forcing his eyes open. "Look at them, Max," he demanded, his voice a sharp whisper. "Look at your friends." He saw Max's gaze drop to the dance floor where PJ, Bobby, and Tina were lost in their own world. "What do you think they'll say if they heard that their team leader is enjoying a private moment of pleasure from his own rival? Look at them, Max, dancing in the lights of the club with nothing to hide, look at how unaware they are, unaware that their leader is hiding in the shadows, being fondled by the team's worst enemy."

Bradley watched Max's throat bob with a painful swallow, the shine of tears forming in his eyes as he looked down at his oblivious friends. The sight was a potent cocktail of victory and cruelty. Bradley leaned into Max's neck, his lips pressing hard against the soft skin before he viciously sucked and bit, leaving a red, bruised mark. "Every time you look in the mirror, you'll see this red hickey," he whispered, a possessive, chilling promise. "You're mine, Max. Mine to do whatever I want."

His hand in Max's pants viciously grabbed and twisted, a punishing grip that made Max gasp. His other hand went under Max's shirt, his fingers toying with Max's nipples, pinching and pulling. Through the reflection in the mirror, Bradley saw Max's head fall back against his shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut, lost in a world of desire and shame.

As Bradley could feel Max on the verge, his body tense and quivering, he stopped abruptly. Max let out a frustrated whimper, his body convulsing with unfulfilled need. Bradley leaned in close, his lips brushing against the boy's ear. "Max," he whispered, his voice a low, chilling question. "Did I ever say that I wanted you?"

Max swallowed hard, a ragged gasp escaping him. "No," he managed to whisper.

A triumphant smirk spread across Bradley's face as he looked at Max’s tortured reflection in the mirror. "Don't you wish that I do?" he whispered, the cruel admission a final, searing twist of the knife. He pulled away, leaving Max to shudder in the cold air. Bradley turned and walked away. He glanced over his shoulder just once, seeing Max slide to the floor, his body shaking, as he tried desperately to get himself under control.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Max stared at his reflection in the dorm room mirror, his gaze lingering on the angry, deep red hickey blooming on his neck. He could have fought harder, protested more fiercely, but he hadn't. He kept letting Bradley in, kept letting him humiliate him, kept letting him do these disgusting things. A wave of self-loathing washed over him, making his stomach churn.

He swallowed as Bradley's last words echoed in his mind, cold and sharp: "Did I ever say that I wanted you?" And then, the cruel follow-up, "Don't you wish that I do?"

Max's chest tightened with a bitter, suffocating ache. He had broken it off with Mona for this? For a man who had just stated, unequivocally, that he didn't want him? Whatever twisted game this was, whatever dark, shameful encounters they shared, it was completely one-sided. Mona loved him. She respected him. She made him happy. He remembered her gentle touch, her genuine laughter, the easy comfort of their shared silence. He knew it wasn't fair for him to stay with her when he kept giving in to Bradley's twisted games.

God, he missed her. He missed the person he was when he was with her: confident, happy, whole. Not this pathetic loser staring back at him now, marked with a sharp red bruise for someone who saw him as nothing but a dirty slut for his amusement.

Max heard the key turn in the dorm room door and, in a single panicked motion, grabbed a towel to cover the angry red bruise on his neck. He leaped onto his bed and pulled the covers over his head just as the door swung open.

It was PJ, his face a mix of concern and confusion. "You coming to practice?" he asked softly, looking at the human-shaped lump under the comforter.

"Can't," Max mumbled, his voice muffled. "Tired."

PJ walked over to the bed and put a hand on Max's forehead. "You don't seem to have a fever."

"I never said I was sick!" Max snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "I'm just tired."

PJ's hand lingered for a moment before he pulled it away. "You've been tired for a few days now. You haven't stepped foot in the skate park since... you know."

Max's mind flashed back to the ramp in the dead of night, to Bradley's hands and the aching, unfulfilled need that had left him half-naked and humiliated. He couldn't go there, not now. The shame was a physical weight he couldn't shake.

"Is it because of Mona?" PJ asked. "She hasn't been to the skate park either. Don't worry, she's not there if you're afraid of seeing her."

"No, it's not Mona!" Max shouted, the lie coming out choked with tears. "It's not anyone! I'm just tired, PJ! Can you please leave?"

PJ sighed in resigned disappointment, and squeezed his shoulder. "Get well, buddy."

Max watched him go, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. He had done it again. Every time things didn't go his way, he lashed out at PJ. He hated it, the way he lost his temper on his friends and his dad, the very people who actually loved him. Maybe he did deserve getting humiliated by Bradley.

~*~*~*~*~

Max sat at his desk in the lecture hall, but his mind was a million miles away. The professor's droning monologue was just background noise, and his pencil remained motionless in his hand. He was wearing a red turtleneck, grateful for the lingering chill of winter that made it a perfectly normal choice. He tugged at the collar that covered the dark, bruised mark on his neck.

"Did you get that last part?" Bobby whispered, nudging him.

Max startled, blinking, pulling himself from the fog in his mind. "Huh?"

Bobby's eyes went to Max's notebook. The page was completely blank. "You didn't write a single thing," he said, concern etched into his voice.

Max saw PJ and Bobby exchange a quick, worried glance and felt a bubble of anger rise in his chest. He couldn't let it burst here, not in the middle of a lecture hall. Without a word, he raised his hand. The professor gave him a questioning look, and Max gestured at the door. Once the professor nodded, he grabbed his notebook and walked out of hall, the door clicking shut behind him.

Max walked down the deserted hallway, his frustration a burning knot in his gut. He pushed open the door to the men's restroom and stepped inside, the click of the lock a small, satisfying sound of isolation. He checked the stalls, confirming he was alone, and then let out a raw, angry scream into the pages of his notebook, his hands clutching the paper so hard it was close to tearing. He forced himself to stop, inhaling and exhaling slowly, just as Vicki had once told him to do. He walked to the sink, his notebook tucked under his armpit, and splashed cold water on his face.

Just then, the door clicked open. Max's heart seized. Of all the people it could have been, it was Bradley. "You have to be kidding me," Max cursed, his voice low and venomous. "Are you stalking me?"

Bradley's lips curled into a smirk as he sauntered into the room. "Fancy ourselves the center of the universe, don't we?" He closed the distance between them, his gaze falling to Max’s neck. Without warning, he took hold of Max's turtleneck and pulled it down, exposing the dark, bruised mark on his skin. "Hiding my mark, are you?"

Max smacked his hand away. "Get lost," he muttered, turning to leave.

"Wait." The word was a command. Bradley tossed something shiny through the air. Max caught it instinctively. He looked down at his palm and saw a key, glinting under the harsh fluorescent light.

"That," Bradley said, "is the key to a motel room I rented just off campus. For us."

Max stared at the small, silver key in his palm, his mind racing. A motel room? For them? He felt a fresh wave of disgust, a cold dread creeping through him.

Bradley took a slow, deliberate step closer, his eyes fixed on Max's face. "Now that there's no one else in the picture, we're free to explore this... sinister attraction you have for me." The words were a taunt delivered with a seductive smirk.

Max shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. Not interested. Take your key back." He tried to open his hand, to drop the offending object, but Bradley's fingers closed over his, holding the key firmly in place.

"Don't be an idiot," Bradley said, his voice sharper now, though still laced with that dangerous allure. He gestured between them, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken tension that always crackled when they were close. "We both know there's a thing going on here. Why not explore it to the fullest? In a private room, far away from our friends. Just the two of us."

Max stared at Bradley's hand, firm and unyielding, keeping his fingers closed around the key. He hated the way Bradley seemed to see right through him, to expose the raw, ugly truth of his desires.

"You're the one who needs this more than me," Bradley continued, his voice a low, insidious whisper. "Aren't you curious what these pesky feelings mean?"

Max looked up at Bradley, his gaze conflicted. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that Bradley was toying with him, that he had more humiliating ways to torture him in that motel room. But a dangerous thought, a desperate hope, flickered in his mind. What if the reason Bradley never "finished the job" was because they were always under the threat of someone walking in on them? In a private room, they'd have more time, more freedom, to actually do it. And maybe then, the whole twisted lust he had for Bradley, this humiliating attraction, would just go away. Maybe then, he could finally be free.

The door to the restroom clicked open, and Max instinctively shoved his hand into his pocket. It was PJ. Max's stomach clenched with a mixture of relief and fresh anxiety. Bradley shot Max a final, suggestive look, his eyes dropping to the pocket where Max's hand was before he turned and sauntered out of the room.

PJ’s gaze followed Bradley, his body tensing with a protective instinct. He then looked at Max, his brow furrowed with concern. "Did he bother you?"

"No," Max said, his voice flat. "Why would you think that?"

"Why was he here?" PJ asked, his tone skeptical.

"Why would anyone go to the john, PJ?" Max retorted.

"Not everyone goes to the restroom for that," PJ shot back, a hint of anger in his voice. "For example, I came here to check on you!"

"No one asked you to!" Max exclaimed, the words coming out as a choked-off yell.

PJ looked offended. "No one needs to ask me, Max. I'm your best bud. We swore the best bud oath in the tree house eight years ago!"

Max rolled his eyes. "PJ..."

But PJ raised a hand, his face set in a serious expression as he began to recite, "Raise your hand for the solemn best buds oath. I, PJ, and Max vow to be best buds..."

"Get real, PJ!" Max interrupted angrily. "Maybe it's time to grow up and realize that now each of us has their own life! You spend most of your time with Vicki because that's how things are supposed to be!"

"So now we're not friends?" PJ said, sounding genuine hurt.

"Of course we are, but it doesn't mean I have to tell you everything that goes on in my life!" Max's hands were shaking. He attempted to leave, but PJ blocked his way.

"Max, I just worry about you. Sue me, but I do love you as the brother I never had."

Max let out a shaky sigh. "Me too, Peej," he said, his voice softer now. "I just... I'm not ready to talk about this." He lowered his gaze to the floor.

PJ nodded, his expression softening with understanding. "Okay. But if you're ever ready, you know I'll always be there, right?"

Max's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I know. Thanks, Peej."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max stood in the center of the cheap motel room, the air thick with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and bleach. He knew Bradley was a rich guy, with a trust fund and an expensive car, but this room was nothing but a message: peeling wallpaper, a bed with a saggy mattress, a single, stained chair. It was what Bradley thought Max deserved, a room as cheap as he was. A hot tide of self-loathing swept over him, but he pushed it down, focusing on his goal. He was just glad they were finally doing this. Maybe once he finally had sex with Bradley, these frustrating urges would finally stop. Maybe he could be himself again, completely free of Bradley's hold on him, and maybe he could even get back with Mona.

He glanced at his reflection in the old mirror, noting with some small relief that the angry hickey on his neck had faded to a faint pink color. It was still there, a mark of his humiliation, but at least it was less noticeable. He turned away from the mirror as Bradley opened a worn-out closet, the hinges creaking in protest. Bradley pulled a small, battered cardboard box from a high shelf and placed it on the floor. He opened the box, revealing a collection of leather shackles and a pair of shiny handcuffs.

Max’s eyes went wide. He glared at the contents, shaking his head. "No," he said, his voice firm. "No, no, no. We're not using those."

Bradley raised an eyebrow. "I thought they'd make you more excited."

They would, Max thought to himself, a sickening jolt of both fear and desire shooting through him. He swallowed hard, forcing the thought away, grateful that he hadn't said it out loud.

"We have this room all to ourselves, Max," Bradley said. "We could stay as late as we wanted, do whatever we wanted. Scream as loud as you wanted. No one you know would see us, or know what we're doing." As he spoke, Bradley pulled Max by the hips, a sudden, firm tug that brought their bodies against each other. He thrust, a deliberate, grinding motion that made Max gasp. "Wouldn't it be exciting to add a little danger this time? Just think, you tied up to that rusty bed, unable to run or escape, completely under my mercy. Wouldn't that be exhilarating?"

Max's breath hitched. The words were terrifying, yet a hot wave of something undeniable surged through him, rising to his neck and cheeks. His body responded with a desperate, aching hardness against Bradley's clothed form. He hated himself for it, for the thrill that shot through him at the very idea of being so vulnerable to the senior.

Bradley leaned closer, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Now, strip for me."

Max pulled back, a jolt of panic going through him. "What? Right now?"

Bradley's gaze hardened, a mocking amusement crossing his features. "Then when?" He paused, a sneer twisting his lips. "Ah, you're playing hard to get, aren't you? My little freshman wants to be swayed off his feet. Would music do it for you?" He turned, walking towards the old, worn-out closet from which he'd retrieved the shackles. Max watched, a morbid fascination taking hold, as Bradley reached inside again, pulling out an old boombox and a handful of dusty cassette tapes. The box seemed to hold an endless supply of Bradley's twisted delights, a veritable Pandora's box of perversion, or maybe a darker, more sinister version of Mary Poppins' bottomless carpet bag. Bradley plugged the boombox into the wall, the faint hum of electricity filling the silence, and then, with a click, he slid a cassette inside, pressing the play button.

The tinny speakers of the old boombox crackled, and then music began to play, a slow, seductive rhythm, laced with a smooth, almost liquid bassline. Before Max could even process the sound, Bradley pulled him close, his hands settling on Max's hips, drawing him into a slow, swaying dance. Bradley led, his movements fluid and confident, while Max followed awkwardly. Yet, despite his discomfort, a strange current ran through him, a reluctant response to Bradley's confident lead. As they moved, Bradley's hands worked their way up Max's back, deftly pulling his shirt free, then slipping it over his head. The cool air of the room hit Max's bare chest, and then Bradley's fingers were there, tracing patterns on his skin, his thumbs brushing lightly over Max's nipples, sending shivers through him. He felt Bradley's palm flatten against his naked back, pressing him even closer as they continued to sway.

The first song faded, leaving a brief, heavy silence. Then, a new sound emerged: a dark, low-frequency beat, heavy with a powerful, industrial rhythm. It was a menacing pulse that felt like a slow-motion heart beating in the dark, filling the small room with an unsettling, yet captivating, energy. Bradley moved, guiding Max backward, until the edge of the bed met Max's legs. He lowered Max onto the mattress, his body following, never breaking contact. Bradley's lips found Max's ear, nibbling gently, sending a gasp through the younger boy. Max was lost in the sensation, the menacing pulse of the music seeming to echo the frantic beat of his own heart. Bradley moved lower, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses down Max's chest, past his trembling ribs, to his stomach. Then, with a vicious strength that brooked no argument, he pulled Max's pants down, down, until he slipped them completely off Max's feet. Max was completely naked now, exposed and vulnerable under the dim motel lights.

The things you do, aren't good for my health
The moves you make, you make for yourself

Max's stomach knotted as Bradley reached for the box on the floor. He pulled out a pair of leather handcuffs, the metal clasps glinting ominously under the dim light. Max wanted to protest, to roll away, to run, but a sickening fear held him in place. What would happen once he was tied up? Would Bradley just leave him, a naked, helpless figure on the bed, to be discovered the next day by a maid? He couldn't trust him, not with this.

Bradley brought Max's arms up and over his head, a move so fluid and practiced it felt like a dance. He shushed Max firmly, his eyes holding a look of cold command that brooked no argument. He then clicked one cuff around Max's wrist, the cold leather and metal a jarring sensation. He swung the shackle over one of the bed's ornate posts, then clicked the other wrist into place. Max felt a wave of cold panic. He gave a sharp, desperate tug, but his arms were held fast, his wrists bound securely.

The means you use, aren't meant to confuse
Although they do, they're the ones that I would choose

Bradley moved down the bed, a cruel, purposeful look on his face. Max's heart hammered against his ribs. Bradley grabbed a second set of leather shackles from his box and, without a word, secured them around Max's ankles. Max tried to pull his legs away, but the movement was futile. Bradley then fastened the shackles to the heavy foot of the bed. Max gave another sharp, useless tug. His body was now a helpless X across the mattress, his limbs stretched and held fast. 

The full weight of his vulnerability crashed down on him as Bradley stood up. From his position on the bed, Max could only follow Bradley's movements with his eyes. Bradley walked around the bed, circling him slowly like a predator surveying its prey. His movements were languid as if he had all the time in the world. He didn't speak. He just looked, his gaze a physical weight.

As he circled, his fingers brushed lightly over Max's body. A cool touch on his ankle, a light drag across his stomach, a brush against his chest. Each contact was a new jolt, a fresh reminder of his imprisonment. Max's body responded with shivers and goosebumps, betraying his mind's shame and fear. Bradley's eyes took in every detail, every curve and line. He wasn't just looking; he was studying, memorizing.

And I wouldn't want it any other way
You wouldn't let me anyway

Dangerous
The way you leave me wanting more
Dangerous
That's what I want you for
Dangerous
When I am in your arms
Dangerous
Know I will come to harm

Bradley picked up a smooth leather strap, the cool touch of it a jolt against Max’s inner thigh. The sensation was a jarring blend of discomfort and something else entirely. Then, a piece of cold, polished metal, and traced a line up his ribs, sending a shudder through his body. He gasped, his body arching helplessly against the mattress. Bradley seemed to find a new delight in each different surface and texture, and with every touch, Max’s body responded with a new, agonizing wave of sensation. His earlier fears and protests were now a distant memory, drowned out by the fiery current of his own desperate desire. Max whimpered, his mind a haze of pleasure and shame, completely lost to the exquisite, terrifying torture.

Bradley moved, a shadow falling over Max's face as he climbed onto the bed. He settled himself directly on Max's straining erection, still fully clothed, the heavy denim touching Max's eructed member.  "Aren't you going to take off your clothes?" Max asked with a gasp.

Bradley tilted his head. "Why would I do that?"

"Aren't we going to have sex?"

Bradley's eyebrows shot up, and then he threw his head back, a harsh laugh filling the small room. He pounced, his face dangerously close to Max's, his eyes glittering with a predatory glee. "You don't get to see me naked, Max. You're not even worthy of breathing the same air as my bare skin, let alone having me inside you. You're a pathetic, desperate little thing, and I wouldn't waste a single thread of my clothes on you."

Hurt and a searing insecurity fueled Max's anger. "Then why did we get this room?" he snapped, his voice raw.

Bradley smirked. "I love to see your desperation for me, Max. It stokes my ego. Every whimper, every desperate plea, it just makes me stronger." And with that, he thrust hard. Max threw his head back, a raw moan tearing from his throat. "Yes, Maxie," Bradley laughed, his voice a dark caress. "Moan for me."

The lies you tell, aren't meant to deceive
They're not there for me to believe
I've heard, your vicious words
You know by now, it takes a lot to see me hurt

And I couldn't take it any other way
But there's a price I have to pay

Bradley began to use every trick he had, his hands a tormenting dance over Max's body, tracing familiar lines and finding new ways to elicit a response. Max was unable to hold in the sounds, the moans and gasps that would make Bradley laugh at his expense. By now, Bradley knew every spot that made him whimper, every touch that would send shivers down his spine. He knew Max's body better than Max did himself.

"Oops, almost forgot," Bradley said, his voice laced with a cold amusement. He leaned down and attacked Max's neck, his lips pressing hard against the skin. Max tried to push him away. The old hickey was finally fading, and he didn't want another one, didn't want a fresh reminder of his humiliation. But Bradley's grip was like iron, holding him still. He sucked and bit down as hard as he could until Max could feel his skin break. Bradley let go, pulling back to observe his work. "Can't forget to leave my mark now, can I?" he whispered cruelly.

Bradley began to thrust into him again, a relentless rhythm that left no room for thought. Max was completely hot and on edge, his entire being focused on a single point of release. He was so close to climax, the sensation so intense it was all he could feel.

And then, as usual, Bradley stopped. He left the bed and looked down, his gaze a cold, assessing weight on Max's body. Max was left in a state of complete frustration, still breathing hard, his body trembling from the denied release. He didn't understand the point of this. Why was Bradley looking at him in this state so intently, so deeply, as if trying to savor this moment of Max at his most weak and humiliated? Maybe it was to replay it in his mind later, a perfect image of his victory.

Dangerous
The way you leave me wanting more
Dangerous
That's what I want you for
Dangerous
When I am in your arms
Dangerous
Know I will come to harm

The music abruptly stopped, and the silence of the room was just as jarring as the noise had been. Bradley, without a word, came to the bed and unlocked the shackles and handcuffs. "We’re done for today, Maxie," he said, his voice clipped and casual, as if they had just finished a workout. "You can get your clothes and get out."

Max was still on edge, his body in a painful lurch of unfulfilled need. He managed a weak glare at Bradley, who was returning the tools to their box with an almost cheerful precision. "This is the last time I let you do this to me," Max managed to say, his voice thick with loathing. "I'm never coming back here again."

Bradley gave him a condescending look, not even pausing his work. "Oh, you will come back."

A mix of humiliation and desperation washed over Max. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Is it the X-Games? Are you trying to make me forfeit?"

Bradley chuckled. "I told you, Max," he said, the words a familiar, cruel mantra. "Seeing you want me so bad, seeing you give in, it stokes my ego. I'm a narcissist. I like it when people worship me."

Whore. That was what Max felt like as he left the bed and began gathering his clothes, a rumpled heap of denim and cotton on the floor. A cheap, discarded thing used for someone else's pleasure and left behind.

Just then, Bradley's phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand. He glanced at the screen and an amused look crossed his face. "Oops," he said casually, "It's my mom. Gotta take this." He picked up the call, holding the phone to his ear. "Turn off the lights, will ya? And lock the room after you leave. Chao!"

And with that, he walked out of the room and into the hallway, a normal student on a call with his mother. Max was left standing alone in the center of the room, naked, the bundle of clothes still in his hands. The air was cold, the silence deafening. This wasn't some dark, complicated affair. It was nothing. To Bradley, it was a simple ego boost, a transaction he could walk away from with a flip of his wrist. Max was left with the horrible realization that to Bradley, he wasn't a rival, a forbidden lover, or even an enemy. He was just a tool to be used and discarded, a pathetic source of amusement that could be switched off like a light.

Max’s eyes fell upon the mirror, and with a shudder, he moved towards it. The harsh light of the room showed him the full extent of his humiliation. The old, faded pink mark on his neck was a pale memory compared to the fresh one. It was a vicious, deep purple-red bruise, swollen and raw where Bradley’s teeth had broken the skin. He looked at his own reflection, at the pathetic, broken boy staring back at him.

~*~*~*~*~

Max walked out of the lecture hall, the professor's final words echoing in the vast space behind him. He hadn't listened to a single word, just like the day before, and the day before that. As he walked down the crowded hallway, he felt the familiar sting of people's gazes. A few students approached him, their questions like daggers.

"Hey, Max! Why aren't you practicing anymore?" one guy asked.

Max tugged at his scarf, making sure the fabric was high enough to cover the mark on his neck.

"Is it your breakup with Mona?" a girl asked, her voice dripping with sympathy.

"Aww," another one chimed in. "He can't forget about her."

Max pushed past them, the whispers following him like ghosts. He just wanted to disappear. He walked faster, then slammed against a hard body. It was Bradley.

"Watch your way, loser," Bradley sneered, but Max caught him mouthing something else just as he passed: "See you tonight."

Hot, furious anger shot through him, replacing the humiliation. He turned and started running, his legs pumping with a desperate energy he hadn't felt in days. He ran until he reached his room, praying it was empty. It was. He slammed the door shut and flung himself onto his bed, his body wracked with deep, gasping sobs that he had held in for far too long.

Hours later, Max was still perched on his bed, staring at nothing, feeling numb and hollow. A persistent knocking rattled the door, and Max yelled, "Whoever it is, go away!" If it were PJ or Bobby, they would have used their keys by now, so Max knew he didn't want to see whoever was outside.

The knocking continued. Max huffed in angry frustration, swung his legs off the bed, and went to open the door.

Bradley was standing in the hall. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked past Max into the room, his gaze sweeping over the unmade beds. "You didn't go to the motel room," he said, stating the obvious.

"I'm never going there again," Max shot back.

Bradley tilted his head, a patronizing smile on his face. "C'mon, quit the charade and let's go."

"I mean it this time," Max said, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and a desperate hope that Bradley would just take a hike. "I'm done, Bradley. I don't want anything from you anymore."

Bradley shook his head, his smile unwavering and amused. "You don't mean that."

Max pointed an angry, shaking finger at the door. "Get out!"

Unbothered, Bradley walked over to Bobby's bed and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest as if he owned the place. Max's fury erupted. "Get out! Get out!" he yelled, the words raw and choked with emotion.

"Make me," Bradley said, his voice a low, taunting challenge.

A fresh wave of fury surged through Max, wiping away the fear. He marched forward, grabbing Bradley by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. But Bradley was too fast. He shoved Max onto the bed, jumping on top of him and pinning his hands down. Max wasn't having it. He used his legs, twisting and kicking hard until his foot connected with Bradley's stomach. Bradley let out a grunt of pain, his breath leaving him in a whoosh. He stumbled back and fell onto Bobby's bed with a heavy thud.

"I hate you!" Max screamed, tears finally blurring his vision. "I don't wanna see you again, get out now!"

Just then, PJ rushed into the room. "What's going on?" he yelled, his eyes wide with confusion. Max saw him take in the scene: Bradley clutching his stomach with one hand, a look of shocked pain on his face; himself on the bed, shaking with anger and grief. For a tense moment, Bradley's eyes met Max's, and a silent, furious promise passed between them. "This isn't over!" Bradley growled before he turned and stormed out of the room.

PJ was at Max's side in an instant. "What happened? What was he doing here?"

Max brushed the tears away, shaking his head. He couldn't say a thing.

PJ grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. "Max, talk to me. What did Bradley do? Did you two have a fight? Did he hurt you?" PJ's concern, his fear for Max, his love for him, were too much. Max broke, letting out a fresh wave of sobs against PJ's shoulder as his friend held onto him tight.

~*~*~*~*~

Max was still perched on his bed, leaning against the wall, as PJ sat beside him, gently massaging his arm. "Now," PJ said, his voice soft. "Are you ready to talk about it?"

Max looked at him, and his heart dropped. PJ's gaze was fixed directly on the hickey on his neck. Mortification surged through him, and he instinctively hid his face between his knees.

"Did you hook up with a girl?" PJ asked, sounding genuinely confused. "Did Bradley want her? Was that why you two were fighting?"

The scenario PJ had just concocted, a jealous rivalry over a girl, was so simple, so mundane, and so unbelievably far from the horrifying truth. It hadn't even crossed PJ's mind that the hickey could have come from Bradley. The idea of being with Bradley was so outrageously wrong that his best friend wouldn't even consider it. Max's stomach churned with the horrible thought of PJ knowing the truth, of all of his friends being ashamed of him, especially Mona. He looked at PJ again, and the fear must have been reflected on his face, because PJ looked alarmed.

"PJ," Max said, his voice quiet. "I still can't talk about it, but I promise it's over."

PJ nodded, the concern never leaving his eyes. "Don't sweat it, man. I hereby decree that all official Best Buds Club activities shall from this day forth consist solely of fun, food, and the relentless pursuit of goofing off."

A real chuckle finally escaped Max's lips.

"C'mon, raise your hand," PJ insisted.

Max shook his head, a faint smile on his face. "PJ..."

"I know you still remember it," PJ said. "Come on, raise your hand."

Reluctantly, Max did. Together, they recited the oath from their childhood treehouse, the words comforting and familiar. "We, Max and PJ, vow to be best buds forever. Pledge allegiance to fun, food, and the pursuit of goofing off."

They both laughed, and Max felt a warmth seep inside him. "PJ," he said. "Don't you wish we could go back to those simpler times?"

PJ shook his head. "Nu-uh. I much prefer the college years. Things are finally going well for me now." Max supposed PJ did have it much better now, a lot better than back then, when his dad would endlessly torment him with chores and emotional manipulation.

"Hey," PJ said, a look of fierce loyalty in his eyes. "It'll work out for you too. I promise."

Max nodded. "I hope so, Peej."

PJ had been quiet for a while, and Max had let the silence settle, a peaceful, temporary calm after the storm. "We're going to a party tomorrow night."

Max stiffened slightly. "A party?"

"Yeah. At the sorority house Tina just joined. All of us are going, Bobby, Vicki, the whole gang." PJ leaned in, a conspiratorial look on his face. "Tina's been talking about this friend of hers, Sarah. She thinks you two would hit it off."

Max wanted to decline, wanted to stay at his quiet, dark room. He couldn't face a party, couldn't face people, and definitely couldn't face the idea of a girl. But the words were on the tip of PJ's tongue, the unspoken question about Bradley still hanging in the air. If he refused, PJ would just keep asking.

"Fine," Max said, sighing in defeat. "I'll go." He watched as a smile spread across PJ's face, his worry temporarily replaced by excitement. "But I'm not making any promises about Sarah."

PJ laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's all I ask, buddy. Just come. It'll be good for you."

Max nodded, a small, hollow gesture. He knew PJ meant well, but the thought of a party, of people, of any girl who wasn't Mona, felt like a heartless joke.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Bradley lay in his bed, his cellphone cool against his ear. On the other end of the line, he could hear his mother taking a deep, shuddering breath, followed by a series of thin, wet coughs that seemed to go on forever.

"Mom?" he said, worried. "Did you take your medication?"

Her reply was raspy. "I'm fine, sweetie. Just a little tickle in my throat." She didn't answer his question. "I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Your father's taking me."

Bradley stared up at the ceiling, a familiar tension coiling in his gut. He remembered seeing her over Christmas and New Year's, her skin had been less sallow, her smile more genuine. He had allowed himself to hope, but now, hearing that hacking cough, he wondered if it had all been an act. Was she just putting on a brave face to make him feel better, even now? The thought made his blood run cold, a mix of anger and a strange, detached admiration for her manipulation.

"How's life at college, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice turning bright and airy as if she could simply will away the sound of her sickness.

"Everything's going well," Bradley said. "Classes are fine. The art club is great. You know, things are really looking up." As he spoke, his eyes swept around the room, taking in the full scope of his work.

The walls were not decorated with posters or college paraphernalia. They were covered in canvases, each one a different portrait of Max, captured in moments of raw, unfiltered desperation. There was the painting of Max on Bobby's bed in his dorm room. Another showed him on the ramp, head pillowed with his upturned skateboard. A third, still unfinished on an easel, captured Max's expression in the motel room, naked and bound on bed, that perfect, agonizing blend of desire and terror that had so thrilled Bradley. Every canvas was a different moment of Max's anguish, rendered in stark colors and harsh lines. His own cruel masterpiece.

A slow smirk spread across Bradley's face as his eyes lingered on the paintings. "Things are more than good, Mom," he said, his voice laced with a cold, triumphant satisfaction. "They're really looking well."

~*~*~*~*~

The brush in Bradley's hand moved with a vicious purpose, a single-minded focus on the canvas before him. He was painting Max again, this time capturing the exact angle of his jaw and the tight strain around his mouth, a perfect reflection of his frustration. The image was vivid, almost alive. Max's anger was a dark color, and his anguish a sharp, cutting line. Bradley felt a thrill of victory as the portrait came to life.

He turned his head, and there he was, the real Max, tied to the rusty bed in the motel room, just as he had left him. Max’s naked body was jerking against the leather cuffs that held him in place, his chest heaving as he gasped desperately for Bradley. A slow, cruel smile spread across Bradley's face as he moved towards the bed. The sight of Max's raw, uncovered desire for him was a rush, a thrill that made Bradley's blood surge and his insides throb. A wave of heat overtook him as he stared at Max's perfect, athletic body and the handsome features of his face, which were now twisted in a mask of frustrated need.

Bradley lay down in the bed next to him, the soft mattress giving way under his weight. He could feel the lean, solid muscles of Max's abs and arms, and his own heart skipped a beat with a thrill he couldn’t name. He got closer, his face just inches from Max’s, feeling the heat of Max's quick, desperate breaths on his cheek. In a moment of complete, undeniable yearning, he moved, his lips brushing against Max's, and for the first time, he dipped in for a kiss.

Bradley's eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. The motel room was gone, replaced by the familiar walls of his own room. "Shit!" he cursed, his voice a low growl. He looked around the room, at the canvases surrounding him. They were all there, staring back at him: Max in the balcony of the club, Max on the bed, Max on the ramp, all of them rendered in strokes of raw desperation.

He swore again, the word a furious gasp of disbelief. His obsession with surrounding himself with images of Max bound and desperate had somehow bled into his subconscious. He couldn't possibly be attracted to that lowlife. A senior, the president of his own fraternity, heir to a well-known family fortune, there was no way he would ever be drawn to the likes of Max: an unknown with a loser father from some low middle-class household. He was a thief, a parasite whose very presence threatened to steal the effortless perfection of Bradley's world. This pathetic, academically challenged nineteen-year-old teenager was nothing more than a plaything. Bradley had been so focused on breaking Max in the most intimate and sensual way possible, and now his own twisted game had started to play tricks on his mind.

~*~*~*~*~

The art instructor walked the length of the classroom, her voice a soothing drone as she spoke of the suggestion box and the creative ideas within it. Bradley, however, wasn't listening. His gaze had drifted across the room, past the easels and charcoal sketches, to Mona. She was sitting at her own desk, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on some distant, invisible point. She looked numb, her usual energetic self replaced by a listless stillness. Her skin was pale, and the vibrant spark that had always defined her was gone, leaving behind a hollow emptiness. Was that what someone looked like when they had been dumped by Max Goof? The thought filled Bradley with a cold, resentful anger. She hadn't looked half as bad as this when she had broken up with him. Her grief felt like a personal insult, showcasing her indifference to him.

"Bradley?" the instructor's voice cut through his thoughts, and he snapped to attention.

"What?" he asked, the word coming out sharper than he intended.

"We're going to start with your idea," she said, a smile on her face. "Drawing the human body in its natural element." She gestured toward a senior student who had volunteered to be the model. The girls in the class gushed, "That's Joey from football!" The jock moved to the center of the room, his movements easy and confident, before he began to strip off his robe.

The instructor's voice was calm and deliberate. "Alright, everyone, pencils down for a moment. The human form is the most challenging subject there is. Before we even begin to sketch, I want you to simply observe. Look for the play of light and shadow on his skin, how the muscles create volume and mass. Don't think about 'a leg' or 'an arm', think about the pure line, the gesture, the flow of the body's natural form. For the first ten minutes, I just want you to look. Absorb the form. Your mind's eye is the first tool you use."

Bradley stared at the flawless body before him, a sculpted, textbook example of male physique. But his mind took him somewhere else. He was no longer in the classroom. He was in the motel room, and flashes of Max's naked body came rushing back: his arms bound over his head, his legs stretched, his stomach clenching, his entire body shivering with desperation. Max wasn't a sculpted statue; he was a living, breathing testament to a pain that Bradley had inflicted. The reality of that memory, of the fear and desire in Max's eyes, was a thousand times more attractive than the perfect form in front of him. He felt himself get hot all of a sudden, a wave of heat that had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with the images seared into his mind.

This heat was an alarming sensation, a betrayal from his own body. It wasn't the simple pride of a rival's defeat. It was something else, something deeper and far more unnerving. It was impossible. He was the one with the power, the one who controlled every gasp and every shudder. This heat was nothing more than the thrill of complete domination, the pleasure of seeing another person reduced to a state of absolute submission. The idea of it being anything else was so preposterous it was almost laughable. The perfection of the model in front of him was what was supposed to inspire him, not the image of a shaking, broken boy. But even as he told himself this, the vision of Joey's flawless physique began to blur. The sharp lines of the jock’s abs softened, his sculpted shoulders seemed to give way. The image of the model in front of him was completely replaced by Max’s body, vulnerable and trembling on the cheap motel bed, completely his to command.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley walked through the bustling college halls, the lingering scent of turpentine from the art studio still clinging to his clothes. He was deeply, profoundly disturbed. The image of Max's body, superimposed onto Joey's, had rattled him more than he cared to admit. It was the constant exposure, he reasoned, the endless hours spent rendering Max's raw desperation onto canvas. The memory of his frustrated whimpers, his choked moans, they were too vivid, too real. It wasn't healthy. He needed to pull back, to regain control of his own mind.

Lucky for Max, he thought with a detached, almost clinical assessment. No more tormenting for a while. Not until Bradley got a handle on this unsettling reaction, until he could compartmentalize the pleasure of power from whatever this... thing was trying to become.

"Bradley!" a familiar voice called, cutting through his thoughts. He turned to see Tank lumbering towards him.

"Thought we agreed to catch up," Tank said, a wide grin on his face.

"How about we do it now?" Bradley replied, seizing the opportunity for distraction. "Are you free?"

"Yeah, man. Bean Scene?"

Bradley grimaced. "Anywhere but there." The thought of the campus coffee shop immediately brought a flicker of Max's face to mind. Not that Max left his dorm room much these days. He'd been secluding himself in that tiny space for a while now, a self-imposed prison. Still, the risk, however small, was enough to make Bradley wary. He needed a place free of any potential Max sightings, a neutral zone where his thoughts wouldn't be hijacked by unwanted images. He needed to purge his mind of that nobody.

Bradley and Tank sat at a small, wobbly table in a different coffee shop, one that smelled of burnt sugar and old paper instead of the sweet, floral scents of Bean Scene. Tank was talking animatedly about his new passion for wrestling, his hands gesturing wildly as he described holds and techniques.

"Wrestling?" Bradley said, a dismissive tone in his voice. "How… predictable."

Tank laughed and smacked Bradley on the back so hard his coffee rattled in its saucer. "I still like your blunt personality, Bradley."

Bradley didn't miss the way Tank's smile faltered for a half-second before the laugh, or the way the smack held a little too much force. It was a sign, a small fissure in the facade of their friendship. It was clear that Tank wasn't truly okay with his blunt personality, but Bradley had trained him to be.

"What about you?" Tank asked, his demeanor shifting back to easygoing. "I don't see you at practice with the other Gammas."

Bradley shrugged. "I've found myself getting into art more lately."

"Ah, like mother like son," Tank said, a flash of something in his eyes. He took a giant gulp of his coffee, the sudden motion drawing attention away from the comment. "How's your mom, anyway?"

"Not well," Bradley said, the words coming out flat and honest. "She's been coughing a lot. She has an appointment today."

"I wish everything's okay," Tank said, his face a mask of genuine sympathy.

Bradley's lips formed a small, automatic smile. "Thanks."

"Hey, why don't you come to the party with me tonight at the sorority house?" Tank asked, changing the subject with a casual grace.

"Sorority?" Bradley asked.

"Yep, my girlfriend is the president of the Sigma Slacker," Tank said proudly. "They're known to slack off and party."

Bradley's eyebrows shot up. "Girlfriend, Tank? Impressive!"

"What about you? Any new girl in your life?" Tank leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "Or not a girl?"

Bradley rolled his eyes at the whisper. While being gay wasn't a crime in the peak of the new millennium, it was still something to be shushed about. Tank was the only one who knew about Bradley's experimenting in that department back in their sophomore year, when he was Max's age. The thought of Max made him tense up. He couldn't tell Tank about the "Break Max" project. He couldn't risk exposing his vulnerability. As far as Bradley knew, Tank liked Max, just like the rest of this stupid campus.

"So, no one special in your life yet it seems?" Tank pressed.

"Special?" Bradley scoffed, the sound cold and dismissive. "No. Not at all."

"What do you say about the party?" Tank insisted, undeterred. "You may meet that special someone there."

Bradley shrugged, letting out a small sigh of defeat. It was a better option than being trapped in his room, surrounded by canvases of Max.

~*~*~*~

The Sigma Slacker sorority house was a chaotic symphony of booming music, flashing lights, and a crowd of college students who had clearly embraced the "slacker" part of their name with a zealous dedication. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and sweat. Bradley had to admit, the girls knew how to throw a party. He was in the middle of the living room, in a fast-paced dance with Irene, Tank's girlfriend and the sorority's president.

"You know, for an official slacker, you're a pretty good dancer," Bradley yelled over the music, his voice barely audible.

Irene laughed, her dark hair flying as she spun around. "Hey, a slacker's gotta have some rhythm! It's a natural counterpoint to our general inertia." She leaned in. "So what about you, Gamma president? Is it as hard to herd your guys as it is to get mine to show up for a study session?"

"Only when it's a dry event," Bradley shouted back, a smirk on his face. "Anything with kegs is guaranteed attendance. It's the only rule that really matters."

Irene nodded in mock solemnity. "Ah, the golden rule of Greek life. I'll have to remember that one for our next philanthropy meeting."

The song screeched to a halt, and a slower rhythm took over. Tank arrived, and Irene immediately clung to his giant neck, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Why would you leave the fraternity?" she asked, her voice soft with affection for her boyfriend. "Bradley seems like a cool president."

Bradley and Tank shared an uncomfortable glance, the brief camaraderie between them evaporating instantly. The question of Tank's sudden departure was a sore subject, one they never spoke about.

Tank shrugged, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I just lost interest in the X-Games. The Gammas are pretty centered on all that stuff." It was a lie, a simple excuse that had become the official story.

Bradley decided to give them their space, the mood turning sour. "I'll leave you two alone and go mingle," he said, and turned away before either of them could respond. The conversation had served its purpose, a momentary distraction from the thoughts that still haunted him. He was alone again, left with his own unsettling company.

The party continued its chaotic hum, but as Bradley walked among the various "weird characters" that populated the sorority house, the lights suddenly dimmed. A romantic slow song began to play, its melody weaving through the crowd, and couples began to sway. Bradley's casual meandering stopped dead. His heart ceased its rhythm, his breath caught in his throat.

Across the crowded room, among the swaying bodies, he saw them. Max and a pretty brunette, dancing together, their bodies intimately close. Max's face was flushed, just like it was when Bradley touched him, and he was conveniently wearing a scarf, undoubtedly to cover Bradley's mark on his neck. That little weasel.

"That's Sarah," a voice said to his right. It was PJ, Max's overgrown golden retriever of a friend, looking entirely too smug as he stared at Max and the girl. "Don't they look good together?" PJ added, his gaze pointed, almost challenging.

Bradley raised an eyebrow, a cold suspicion coiling in his gut. Had Max told him? Had he dared to reveal what was going on between them? "Max has been talking to her for more than an hour," PJ continued, oblivious or uncaring of Bradley's internal turmoil. "They seem to be hitting it off."

Bradley's eyes narrowed at Max's timid smile, a smile that looked far too genuine for Bradley's liking. "Is that right?" he drawled, his voice dangerously low. Then, he watched in horror as Sarah began to lead Max up the stairs, their figures disappearing into the dimness above. Max wasn't going... he wasn't... Bradley watched them vanish, a wave of incandescent anger swelling inside him. A guttural grunt almost escaped his mouth, but then he found himself looking directly into PJ's serious, unwavering eyes.

"If I ever catch you near Max, Bradley," PJ said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual good humor, "I swear I will end you."

Bradley was taken completely off guard by the dangerous glint in PJ's eyes, a raw, protective fury he hadn't anticipated. "What?" he managed to ask, openly surprised.

"I know you're hurting Max in some way," PJ continued, his voice a low, steady threat. "Every time he's around you, he gets depressed and lifeless. You stay far away from him, do you hear me?"

A profound sense of relief washed over Bradley, so potent it almost made his knees buckle. Max hadn't told him. PJ knew something was wrong, but he didn't know the truth. The secret was still safe.

Bradley stared at the empty space on the stairs where Max and Sarah had disappeared, a growing terror seizing his chest. The thought was a sickening punch to his gut: Max was going to be with her in bed. His little gasps and moans, the sounds of his desperation that Bradley had so meticulously and cruelly coaxed from him, sounds that Bradley believed were reserved just for him, were now being given freely to the girl. The idea was a profound, terrifying violation of the unspoken rules of their twisted game. He had carefully and meticulously cultivated every shudder, every whimper, every gasp of pleasure and pain. He had earned those sounds. They were a testament to his power, to his dominance.

The thought of someone else sharing that intimate space, sharing in the vulnerability and desperation he had so expertly crafted, was a horror unlike anything he had ever felt. It was a violation of his private work, a theft of his carefully curated masterpiece. That girl was going to be granted access to a part of Max that was meant to be his alone, a part forged in torment and shame. The rage swelled inside him, a possessive, territorial fury that made him want to rip the house apart. The thought of Max, unclothed and on a bed, his body arching with pleasure that was not a product of Bradley’s doing, was an unbearable and agonizing vision.

Bradley stormed away from PJ, the image of Max and the girl ascending the stairs a tormenting loop in his mind.

"Leaving already?" PJ's voice called after him. "What's the matter? The party too wild for the Gamma president?"

Bradley ignored him, shoving past students and not caring as he jostled them. He burst out of the house and into the cool night air, but it did nothing to cool the fire in his veins. The fury was a living thing inside him, a hot, throbbing beast that demanded to be let loose. He needed to hit something, to break something. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. The image of Max, of his smile, of the way the girl's hand rested on his back, fueled the rage until it felt like it would tear him apart.

He found himself on a tree-lined street. He stopped, his chest heaving, his body shaking with the need to lash out. He grabbed the trunk of a large oak, his fingers digging into the rough bark. He screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure anguish and rage that echoed in the quiet street. Heads turned, and people walking by stared at him in alarm, but he didn't care. He kicked the tree, the satisfying thud doing little to quell the storm inside him.

He cursed Max, cursed himself, and then, a new, single-minded purpose took hold. He had to go to Max. He had to see him, talk to him, remind him of who he belonged to. He ran, his feet pounding the pavement, his fury carrying him to the dorms. He walked through the halls, his appearance in the building causing more than a few students to stare and whisper about why the Gamma president was in their territory. He ignored them all, his gaze fixed on a single destination.

He stopped in front of Max's room, the anger still a hot, pulsing thing inside him. He pulled the key he'd had made and, with a shaky hand, unlocked the door and let himself in. The room was empty, cold, and dark, just as he had left it. He remembered Max's last words to him, the raw, furious screams of "Get out!" that still echoed in his mind.

Bradley walked over to Max's bed and sank onto it, clutching the sheets in his fists. The anger that had fueled his frantic journey was now a gnawing emptiness in his stomach. He imagined Max right now, buried deep inside that girl, giving her a taste of his shivers and gasps and moans, the sounds and sensations that were reserved just for Bradley. He pictured the glazed look of pleasure he had so meticulously cultivated on Max's face, a look he had believed was his alone. The thought of that look being given to someone else, to some sorority girl, was a tormenting, visceral image that made his hands shake and his stomach knot.

For more than an hour, Bradley sat on Max's bed, the heart-twisting agony of every passing second a testament to his imagination. He pictured the girl enjoying his boy, her hands on parts of Max's body that Bradley had claimed as his own, her mouth on his neck, leaving a mark to replace Bradley's own.

Then, he heard the jingle of keys in the door. His angry gaze burned into the lock. The door opened, and Max walked in, looking slightly gloomy, his shoulders slumped. The moment Max saw him, the keys dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Max demanded, his voice a disturbed shock.

Bradley stood up, his eyes filled with a simmering rage. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the boy. Max instinctively backed up until his back was against the door. With a single hand, Bradley shoved the door shut, the resounding thud echoing in the empty room. He stood so close to Max that their breaths were mingling. The sweet, feminine stench of perfume wafted off of Max, and Bradley’s fury boiled over. Max had been with her.

"I asked you," Max said again, his voice cracking with anger. "How did you get in here? Who let you in?"

Bradley grabbed Max by his upper arms, his fingers digging into the firm muscle, and slammed him against the wall with a resounding thud. "Take off your pants," he said, the words a low, dangerous command.

Max’s eyes were wide with shock. "What?"

Bradley’s grip tightened, his rage escalating with every defiant second. "I said, take off your pants," he repeated, his voice laced with a fury far colder than before.

Max shoved him away, his own anger flaring to life. "What the hell, Bradley? I told you we're done! Get the hell out of here!"

His words were a match to Bradley's kindling rage. Bradley lunged, tackling Max and throwing him to the hard floor. He was on him in an instant, pinning Max’s arms above his head and holding him in place. Max bucked beneath him, his legs kicking, trying to throw him off, and he almost did, so Bradley began to thrust his body against Max, a steady, grinding rhythm, knowing exactly how to make Max’s resolve crumble.

He leaned his face closer to Max’s ear, and the sweet, sickeningly floral stench of her perfume was all over him, an invasive stain on his boy's skin. The smell made Bradley’s blood run cold with a savage fury. He kept rubbing and writhing on Max, the friction a desperate, frantic effort to erase the scent. He bit Max's ear to replace her memory with his own. He wanted to claim every inch, to scrub his boy clean with his own skin, to remind Max of who he belonged to. The more he moved, the more his anger and his perverse desire twisted into a single, overwhelming need to possess, to dominate, and to finally, once and for all, erase the smell of anyone else.

Bradley rose, his eyes fixed on Max’s flushed face. He still held Max’s wrists above his head, the pressure of his grip a single point of cold focus amidst the swirling chaos of his mind. He held both wrists with one hand, his grip now a death lock, and with his free hand, he reached down to Max’s neck. He pulled the scarf away, revealing the hickey he had bitten into his skin. It was still there, a faint bruise against Max's pale skin, a reminder of his power. His hand then went to Max’s pants, his fingers fumbling with the button. Max’s body bucked beneath him, his legs kicking, desperate to throw Bradley off.

"Hold still!" Bradley snapped. He ripped the button off viciously and threw it away, sliding Max's pants down until he saw with his own eyes what his body had already known. The proof of Max's desire was undeniable. Bradley let out a shuddering sigh of relief, a wave of calm washing over him. The girl’s scent no longer mattered; his control had been reasserted. "There's a good boy," he said, his voice soft with satisfaction.

Max's eyes stared up at him, burning with a mix of shame and raging fury. "I hate you!" he spat.

"And by God, I hate you too!" Bradley snapped back, a vicious, possessive hunger taking hold. He lunged at Max’s neck, his mouth finding the same spot where the hickey was. He bit and tore at Max’s flesh until he tasted the salty tang of his blood. The sight of the glistening red against Max's skin filled him with a profound pleasure.

He rose to his feet, leaving Max's body on the floor, raging with tremors of pure rage. He turned to leave, the impulse to abandon the scene taking hold. But before he could get to the door, Max's hand shot out and grabbed his leg, his grip surprisingly strong. Bradley looked down. Max looked up at him with tearful, angry eyes.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Max’s voice was raw, filled with a confused, wrenching pain. He pushed himself up, pulling up his pants, and looked at Bradley with a sincerity so clear and honest it was jarring. "You said you didn't want me, that I meant nothing to you. Why do you keep coming back?"

Bradley just stared at him, unable to form a response.

"What is it?" Max pressed, his voice breaking. "Do you really hate me so much that… to the point where…" Max swallowed, his eyes dropping to the floor. "I can't bring myself to leave the bed. Is that what you want? It's the X-Games, isn't it? You want to make sure I don't win."

Bradley stood there, stunned into silence. He hadn't thought that far ahead. Max had laid bare his own defeat, a perfect, bitter surrender, and yet Bradley felt no victory.

"Well, congratulations," Max said, raising his arms in a gesture of defeat. "I haven't been on my skateboard for days. I may as well forfeit." He walked to the door, opened it, and without a word, shoved Bradley out.

Bradley stood in the empty hallway, the closed door a final barrier between them. Max's words filled him with a profound numbness, an unsettling emptiness that replaced the usual joy of watching him humiliated and defeated. The game was over, and Bradley, for the first time, didn't know what to do.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley lay on his bed, the familiar ceiling of his Gamma fraternity room a silent observer. The walls around him were bare, stripped of the dozens of canvases that had once meticulously documented Max’s anguish. He had taken them all down, a frantic, desperate act after Max had shoved him out the door. Max’s last words echoed in his mind, his voice ringing with a sincerity that had replaced all the manufactured sounds Bradley had so cruelly engineered. Why do you keep doing this? The question, so simple and so genuine, had left Bradley feeling hollow, his usual twisted satisfaction replaced by a profound and unsettling numbness.

Suddenly, his cellphone on his nightstand blared. The jarring, generic tone shattered the oppressive quiet, not the familiar, melodic Beatles song that was his mother's ringtone. His heart leaped, a knot of dread twisting in his stomach. He snatched up the phone and his eyes fell on Dad. His heart sank. He knew, instinctively, that this call was different.

"Dad?" Bradley's voice was thin, laced with a fear he hadn't felt since childhood. "What's wrong? What's wrong with Mom?"

His father's voice was a low, gruff rumble over the line. "Your mother isn't feeling well, son. She wants to see you." The words hung in the air, weighted with an unstated finality. "I can book you a flight for tomorrow at noon, but you'll have to go to the dean's office first thing in the morning."

Bradley's chest tightened, the dread so sharp he could barely breathe. "Dad, tell me what's wrong," he pleaded, his voice cracking.

His father’s tone hardened. "Take a hold of yourself, Bradley. You're a man. Your mother wants to see you. That's all." And with that, he hung up, leaving Bradley alone in the silence of his room.

Bradley swallowed, a lump in his throat too big to dislodge. The phone slid from his trembling fingers, landing silently on the bed. The numbness he had felt from Max's words was gone, replaced by a deep, cold, and dreadful fear. The future, a terrifying void he had no control over, was finally closing in on him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley lay on the floor of Max’s room, his body heavy, and Max’s beneath him. Their movements were a desperate rhythm, a silent dance of bodies that was both chaotic and perfectly in sync. Bradley’s hips moved, pushing against Max’s, and Max moved with him, his own thrusts matching Bradley’s. A low groan rumbled in Max’s throat, a sound Bradley had thought he knew so well, a sound of pain and submission. But now, it wasn’t that. It was something else, something warm and alive.

Bradley looked down, his eyes locking with Max's. The usual look of fear and humiliation was gone, replaced by a raw, uninhibited desire that was so clear, it was unnerving. Max's eyes were filled with a wild hunger, a need that was a perfect mirror of Bradley’s own. It was a sight so powerful, so disarming, that the pleasure of the rhythmic grinding wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be enough. Bradley's body screamed for more. He wanted his skin to touch Max’s, to feel the heat of his bare body against his. He wanted to feel the wet heat of his own tongue in Max’s mouth, tasting his breath, tasting the shame and the desire all at once. He wanted to be inside him, to lose himself in Max’s body, to possess him fully. He wanted him all.

Bradley’s eyes snapped open. He was in his own bed, his body covered in a cold sweat. The morning light was creeping through his blinds, casting long, dusty lines across the floor. He sat up, his heart pounding, the horrifying images of his dream still burning in his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling of Max's body against his, the taste of his breath on his tongue.

The last few days had been a tormenting cycle of rage, confusion, and now these dreams. He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep pretending this was just about a game. He needed to leave, to get away from the boy whose body now haunted his every waking and sleeping thought. If there was ever a good time to leave campus for home, it would be now.

Hopefully, a trip home would stop these disturbing dreams. A time away from Max would be a relief. He had to talk to the dean first.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley sat in the common room, his cellphone still warm against his ear. He had just finished a call with his father, who, as expected, had smoothed everything over with the dean. A few well-placed words, a subtle reminder of the family's generous contributions to the college, and Bradley's sudden absence for the next few days or even weeks was perfectly understandable. He felt a flicker of the usual satisfaction that came with his family's influence. Now, he just had to get back to the Gammas house and pack.

He walked into the empty hall, a sudden quiet replacing the usual campus bustle. He stopped dead. Coming from the opposite direction, his head down, was Max. Their eyes met across the deserted corridor, and a thick silence descended, broken only by the distant hum of the building's ventilation. Max was the first to break eye contact, his gaze dropping to the floor as he continued his way toward the common room.

Before Max could pass him, Bradley raised a hand, his palm flat against the cool, painted wall, his arm stretched out, blocking Max's path. He moved slightly, and Max instinctively backed up until his back was pressed against the wall. Bradley raised his other arm, caging Max between his body and the wall, blocking him from both sides. He looked directly into Max's eyes, a fierce intensity in his gaze. Max, surprisingly, met his stare, his own eyes holding a complex mix of anger and something unreadable.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words and simmering tension. Then Bradley spoke, his voice low and steady. "Whatever's between us is over. I'm leaving today."

Max's lips curved into a slow, sarcastic smile, a flash of his old defiance. "Finally! I was starting to think I'd need an exorcist to get rid of you."

Bradley felt a sudden, unexpected heat bloom in his chest, a reaction to Max's proximity. The scent of him, the subtle musk of his skin mingling with the clean, fresh scent of a recent shower, was intoxicating and infuriating all at once. Max's hot breath mingled with his own, and Bradley's eyes dropped to Max's lips. For the first time, a raw, undeniable urge to plant his own lips on them, to taste him, to claim him, surged through him. He had never kissed Max, had always maintained the cruel charade that Max wasn't good enough to be kissed by Bradley, that he was beneath him. But now, the desire was a burning ache.

Eventually, Max broke the spell. "Can I leave now?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Bradley looked into Max's eyes, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them. Then, with a sigh, he removed the arm blocking Max's way to the common room. Max immediately started walking away, his steps quick and purposeful.

"I'll be back for the X-Games qualifying rounds," Bradley called after him. "See you there."

Max stopped, turning to stare at him, a look of genuine surprise on his face. Bradley simply nodded, and then turned and walked away. He didn't want Max to forfeit. He wanted to beat him at his best event, to conquer him when Max was at his peak. Only then would the victory truly be his.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

The alarm blared at 4:00 AM, and Max quickly silenced it before PJ and Bobby could wake up. He stared at the ceiling, his mind already racing. Bradley's final words to him - I'll be back for the X-Games qualifying rounds, see you there - echoed in his head. He couldn't shake the image of Bradley’s mocking smile, or the sudden, gut-wrenching feeling that his torture was far from over. Max dragged himself out of bed, grabbing his skateboard and heading for the campus skate park. If he was going to stand a chance against Bradley's twisted games, he had to get back in shape, to shake off the rust that had been gathering for the last few days.

He arrived at the park, the air still cool and crisp, and was surprised to find he wasn't alone. Mona was already there, her board a blur of motion as she carved a graceful arc down the side of the vert ramp. She was good, her body a fluid line of motion that spoke of long hours of practice. When she saw him, she faltered for a moment, her landing a little less sure, and she came to a stop.

"Hey, Max," she said, her voice a little breathless. "I'm surprised to see you here. I usually come this early because... well, I haven't been doing it a lot lately."

Max nodded, a hint of a sad smile on his face. "Same here."

He stepped onto the cold concrete of the vert ramp, the familiar grip tape a small, fleeting comfort under his worn sneakers. He pushed off, gathering speed, the wind a brief, familiar rush against his face. But as he began to carve the arc, a flash of memory, sharp and unwelcome, seized him. He was back on this exact ramp, the chill of the concrete against the back of his head, the heavy, deliberate weight of Bradley’s body pressing down on him. He could almost hear Bradley’s low, taunting whisper, "Maybe you're more attracted to me than you are to Mona," the words a venomous poison seeping into his mind. He felt the phantom shiver that had run through him then, the agonizing stretch of his body as he bucked, desperate for a release that never came. He saw Bradley’s smirking face, eyes glinting with cruel triumph, looking down at his half-naked, twitching body, savoring every tremor of unfulfilled longing.

His mind, instead of mapping the lines of the ramp and the angles of his board, was fogged. The images of Bradley’s condescending smirk, the humiliation of being left exposed and aching on this very spot, were too vivid, too real. He tried to execute a simple kickflip, a trick he could do in his sleep, but his feet were leaden, disconnected from his brain. His front foot slipped, his back foot missed the tail, and the board spun wildly out from under him, clattering loudly against the concrete. Max stumbled, arms flailing, barely catching himself before he crashed. He was a mess, his body rigid with remembered shame, his muscles refusing to obey.

"Max, are you all right?" Mona's voice was filled with worry as she skidded to a stop beside him.

Shame shot through him, hot and sharp. He hated looking so pathetic, so incompetent in front of her. He couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze, his eyes fixed on the scuffed concrete below. He was so far from the skater he used to be.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "You've got this, Max," Mona said, her voice soft and encouraging.

Max saw her offered hand in his peripheral vision. He hesitated, his pride warring with his need for help. Reluctantly, he accepted it, and she helped him up to his feet. She didn't let go right away, instead giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing it. She offered him an encouraging smile, her eyes genuine and kind. "Try again," she said. "You'll do better this time."

Max took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. He picked up his board, placing it on the top of the ramp and settling his feet in place. He pushed off, the sound of the wheels a familiar comfort. He went faster this time, carving a deeper arc. He was going to do it. He was going to land it this time.

But the moment he hit the ramp's slope, the memories came. He was lying on this exact same ramp, his head pillowed by the upturned skateboard. He could almost feel the phantom weight of Bradley's body on top of him, could almost hear his mocking, condescending voice as he had delivered some cruel German words and then left him there, half-naked and humiliated. The feeling of being exposed and stranded on the ramp, his body twitching with unfulfilled desire, was overwhelming. His vision blurred, his mind fogged, and he missed his mark. His board went one way and he went another. 

Max landed on his knees, the jarring pain in his joints nothing compared to the hot flash of shame that consumed him. He punched the rough concrete of the ramp with a frustrated, angry fist. "You loser," he muttered to himself, the words filled with self-loathing. "Useless. What the hell is wrong with you?"

A moment later, a pair of Nike Air Jordans entered his field of vision. Mona was there, standing over him, his skateboard in her hands. She held it out to him, and the sight of it sent a fresh wave of panic through his body. Bradley had made it part of his humiliating act as a reminder that he had screwed Max on the very thing he once used to win. He snatched the board from her hands and tossed it aside, the clatter against the ramp a jarring echo of his broken focus. Burying his face in his hands, he cursed himself again, desperately trying to block out the memory.

Mona sat down beside him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Max," she said. "You're just out of shape. You'll pick it up soon."

He knew she was just being kind. He had watched her minutes ago, her flawless moves, the grace of her turns, the effortless way she handled her board. Her every motion had been perfect. He shook his head, the feeling of incompetence overwhelming him.

Mona didn't press. She just sat with him in the silence, her hand still resting on his shoulder. Then, she asked, "Hey, are you ready for the duo dance routine?"

Max blinked, confused. "The duo dance routine? What do you mean?"

Mona held her hands out, a gesture of disbelief. "You haven't checked the list of competition rounds? They posted it on the bulletin board in the student union."

Max shook his head. Nope, he'd been too busy playing Bradley's twisted games. A weary sigh escaped his lips. "Aren't they the same as last year?" he asked, remembering the old competition formats.

Mona’s eyes lit up with a hint of genuine excitement. "Last year didn't include female competitors. But things have changed now. For the X-Games, a male skater and a female skater have to do a stunt together, a collaborative routine."

She paused, a shadow of disappointment crossing her face. "I was supposed to do it with Bradley," she said, her voice turning soft. "But… he hasn't been here for a while, so we have James as backup."

Max picked up his skateboard and ran his fingers over a nick in the nose, a small blemish on the otherwise perfect board. He was so consumed by his own frustration that he forgot Mona was even there. "Well, at least Bradley isn't here," he muttered, the words a bitter jab at the absent rival he so desperately wanted to defeat. He glanced at Mona, expecting her to roll her eyes or offer some form of agreement.

Instead, her smile vanished. The easy warmth in her eyes was replaced by a deep sadness. "His mother is sick, Max. She has  leukemia."

Max instantly regretted the little jab he had made moments before; the words felt in bad taste, and a heavy shame settled in his stomach. He lowered his head. "Oh," he said, the word barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that."

Mona's expression softened, and she gave him a small, sympathetic smile. "My parents are coming to watch the qualifying rounds," she said, deliberately changing the subject to a more neutral topic. "Is your dad coming?"

Max shook his head. "No. He started this new job, and I don't want him to miss days of work." He paused. "Especially in case I blew it."

Mona scoffed, the sound filled with genuine affection. "Max Goof blowing the qualifying rounds? Remember that stunt you did last year? It was incredible."

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "You saw me out there, Mona. I suck."

"You're not a machine, Max," she said, her voice filled with a quiet certainty. She took a step closer, her hand gently reaching out to his. "You're in a slump, but you'll get past it. And you'll be great."

He looked at her, truly looked at her for the first time in months. The compassion in her eyes, the faith she had in him, was a warmth he hadn't felt in so long. A sincere smile broke across his face. "I really missed you, Mona."

She returned his smile with a genuine one of her own. "I missed you, too, Max." In her eyes, he could see something more than just friendship. It was love, honest, unconditional, and pure. He looked away, his heart twisting with a fresh wave of shame. He was not the same guy she liked anymore. He was a hollow shell of his former self. If she knew about the disgusting things he had allowed Bradley to do to him, she wouldn't look at him twice.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max returned to his dorm room, dropping his skateboard with a clatter. He glanced up and stopped dead. PJ was sitting on his bed, hands folded neatly in his lap. Tina was perched primly in front of the computer, the screen a blank, dark rectangle. Bobby stood against the bunk bed, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression strangely grave. They all looked like they were about to stage a coup.

"Were you guys having a meeting without me?" Max asked, a grin playing on his lips. "And where are the tiny paper hats? I thought that was a prerequisite for secret meetings."

They all looked at each other awkwardly. PJ cleared his throat. "Max," he began in an overly serious voice, "we have been thinking about how to approach you in a way that… honors your feelings while still communicating our collective… distress."

"This is PJ talk for 'we're having an intervention for you, bud'," Bobby deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

Max's grin vanished, replaced by an expression of mock offense. "An intervention? For what?"

Tina finally turned from the computer, her expression a mix of concern and exasperation. "Think of it as a friendly check-in."

Max stared at them, and Tina continued, the humor draining from her voice. "We've been counting on you, Max. For all the heavy lifting in our routines, for the leadership. You're the best, you know? But lately, since… well, since everything, your heart hasn't been in the game. We've noticed."

Bobby nodded solemnly. "Yeah, we were thinking of promoting Tina to leader. If you ignore the bird's nest of a hair and the body of a skeleton, she's really good."

Tina’s eyes went wide. "Hey!" she yelped, then paused, considering the compliment. "Or possibly… thank you?"

Max let out a short laugh, the tension finally breaking. "Guys, don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

PJ narrowed his eyes. "Where have you been all morning, then?"

"Practicing," Max said simply. "For the X-Games."

Their faces lit up as if someone had flipped a switch. "Really?" PJ and Bobby shouted in unison. They lunged for him, pulling him into a crushing, group hug that nearly knocked the wind out of him.

After they finally released him, Max looked at Tina. "About that duo dance section, Tina," he said, a genuine smile on his face. "Would you be my partner?"

Tina squealed, a sound so high-pitched it was almost a whistle. "Yes! Yes, of course!"

"What's with that monkey squeal?" Bobby glared at her, a mischievous leer on his face. "Do you have a crush on the Max-Man?"

Tina's face flushed a furious red. "What? No! I just…"

"Ignore him," Max said, cutting her off, his eyes still on Tina. "Now let's talk strategies."

~*~*~*~*~

The skate park was a ghost town under the pale glow of the streetlights. The only sounds were the soft clatter of four skateboards against the concrete and the distant hum of the campus dorms. It was the way Max wanted it, no prying eyes, no one to witness his failures. He pushed off the vert ramp and attempted a simple kickflip, but his body stiffened, and his board tumbled out from under him.

"Sorry, Tina," Max said, picking up his board. "I'm just holding you back."

With her wild blond hair a halo around her kind blue eyes, Tina glided up to him effortlessly. She stopped and gave him a gentle smile. "You're thinking too much about doing well," she said, her voice soft and reassuring. "You need to think about something not skate related. That's what I do. I always think about a song my mom used to sing me when I was little. It always works."

Bobby, leaning against a quarter pipe, snorted. "My mom used to sing me 'Brown Sugar.' She was a big Rolling Stones fan and, you know, a little bit of a racist."

PJ, polishing his board meticulously, didn't even look up. "My mom swears she used to sing me 'Ten Little Monkeys,' but all I remember is my dad's version." He put on a deep, serious voice. "'Ten little monkeys, sleeping on the floor / One of 'em's getting a letter from the landlord for back rent from a month before / The others are screaming and yelling, but they're too broke to do nothing else / They'd better get it together, because tomorrow they'll have to take care of themselves!'"

Tina laughed, then looked at Max. "What about you, Max?"

"My dad used to bore me with our ancestors' stories," Max said, a weary smile on his face. "Does that count?"

"Whatever works for you," Tina said, giving him a playful shove. "Now come on. Let's try it again."

Max stood on the ramp, his mind still a chaotic mess. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to remember a story. His dad’s voice, so often a drone he'd tuned out, came back to him with startling clarity. They were living in a trailer, his dad's voice a low rumble against the sound of the rain. His dad was sitting across from him, holding up the skateboard he'd just bought Max with his minimum wage paycheck, and forcing him to listen to another ancestor story, this time about his dad's aunt, Patti Goof. She was a fiery, no-nonsense pioneer of the sport, the first female skateboarder known to the world who faced incredible hardship in a male-dominated world. As his dad spoke, Max remembered the defiant glint in his great-aunt's eyes from her old photo in his dad's photo album.

The memory grounded him. He opened his eyes, a new sense of calm washing over him. The ramp was no longer a place of shame. It was a place of history and legacy. He took a deep breath and pushed off.

They moved as one, a seamless extension of each other. Max slid down the quarter pipe as Tina ollied up and over him, their bodies passing within inches. They landed in perfect sync, their boards gliding down the ramp's incline side by side. Next, they approached a long rail. With a perfect jump, they performed a Tandem Boardslide, both of them sliding down the same rail, Max in front and Tina tucked right behind him, their balance flawless. Finally, they came to the big vert ramp. As Max dropped in, Tina followed, their bodies mirroring each other's movements. At the bottom, Max bent his knees and jumped, doing a hand-to-hand grind as Tina jumped and placed her hands on his, her body a perfect silhouette as she rode the rail, her wild blond hair flying behind her.

They landed, their boards coming to a stop in perfect synchronicity. Max looked at his friends. PJ was standing there, his jaw slightly agape. Bobby was just shaking his head, a stunned smile on his face.

"Okay," Bobby said, "Max, you were great, and I take back everything I said about Tina-Nina being washed up. You're a genius."

"Hey!" Tina said, her kind blue eyes widening. She punched him on the shoulder, and Bobby winced, but his grin didn't falter.

Max didn't pay attention to Bobby's teasing. He was too busy watching Tina. Her movements were so fluid, so elegant. She was not just a girl on a skateboard; she was a force of nature, a testament to the strength and resilience of all the women who had come before her, including his own great-aunt. The way she had moved with him, trusting him, had been breathtaking. Max had always thought he was the best, but watching her, he knew he had found his match.

~*~*~*~*~

The campus skate park was a different world in the afternoon sun. Gone was the quiet emptiness of night; in its place was a loud, bustling crowd of college students. Max felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach as he surveyed the onlookers. He glanced at his friends, who stood close by, offering silent support.

"Just remember," Bobby said, leaning in. "You're the best. You've got nothing to fear out here."

PJ nodded solemnly. "You're a legend, Max. The crowd knows it."

They were right. The moment he stepped onto the ramp, the crowd erupted in cheers. A wave of voices called out his name, "Max! Go Max!" The pressure to perform, to live up to their expectations, was immense. His legs felt heavy, and his mind, despite his efforts, was already replaying images of his past failures.

As he stood at the top of the ramp, his board at his feet, he heard Tina's voice from the crowd below. "Patti Goof!" she yelled, her kind blue eyes meeting his.

Max’s body relaxed. The name, a reminder of his great-aunt's strength, instantly brought him back to his dad's stories. He took a deep breath, and pushed off, his focus no longer on the crowd or the ghosts of his past, but on the history of his family and the grit of the woman who had paved the way. He performed a flawless routine, a series of powerful ollies, graceful kickflips, and a perfectly executed boardslide. The crowd roared with every trick.

When he finished, he coasted to a stop at the bottom of the ramp, his heart pounding with a familiar, exhilarating beat. His friends rushed to his side, slapping him on the back and cheering.

"Good to see you back on the ramp, sweetheart," a deep voice rumbled from behind him. Max turned and saw Tank, his large form a reassuring presence.

"Hey, Tank," Max said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. It felt good to see a familiar, non-threatening face. "It's weird not to have you on this year's X-Games."

Tank shrugged his massive shoulders, a hint of his usual good-natured humor in his eyes. "Yeah, well, there's only so much room in the world for an X-Games champion and a professional wrestler. I had to pick one."

He looked around the park, his expression searching. "Have you seen Bradley?" he asked. "He's supposed to be here today."

Max’s smile faded. "I thought his mom was sick," he said, the words a hollow echo of the previous night's conversation.

"She's doing better, last I talked to him," Tank replied, his tone softer. "He needs to get back to practice for the X-Games. He's got a reputation to uphold."

Bobby cut between Max and Tank, pointing a dramatic finger at the top of the vert ramp. "Whoa, check it! Tina-rina's about to drop a 540 McTwist! I'm gonna go boo on her, make her, like, totally wipe out, ya know? It'll be, like, so gnarly!" Bobby then made a series of exaggerated booing sounds, his arms flailing.

Max shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. But then, his smile vanished. At a distance, walking ahead of the Gammas, who were clad in their signature black and red uniforms, was Bradley. And walking beside him, a few steps behind, was Mona. Bradley’s gaze swept over the park, landing on Bobby and Tina at the top of the ramp.

"Clear off, you two!" Bradley shouted, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Time for a Gamma performance!"

Bobby retorted, "Unfair, Brad-wad! You Gammas have your own ramp at your frat house!"

Bradley's Gamma brothers, a phalanx of muscle and arrogance, moved in, shooing Bobby and Tina off the ramp with dismissive gestures. Bradley then extended a hand toward Mona, a clear invitation for her to walk with him to the top of the ramp. But she didn't take it. She simply walked ahead, her expression unreadable. Bradley’s face tightened, clearly displeased, but he followed her, his stride stiff.

Max watched them, a knot forming in his stomach as they stood together at the top. Then, they dropped in. Their routine was precise, almost clinical. Bradley executed a powerful frontside air, soaring high above the coping, while Mona performed a graceful fakie ollie over a pyramid ramp, landing perfectly. They moved with a practiced fluidity, Bradley’s power complementing Mona’s elegance. They performed a double grind on a long rail, their boards sliding in perfect parallel, a testament to their coordination. The crowd cheered, impressed by their synchronized display.

When they coasted to a stop at the bottom, Bradley attempted to give Mona a side hug, his arm going around her shoulders. Mona stiffened, her body language clearly signaling her discomfort, but she reluctantly accepted the embrace. Max felt a surge of anger on Mona’s behalf, a sickening wave of dread washing over him. His mind, unbidden, conjured horrifying images of Bradley forcing Mona into sexual acts, just as he had done to Max. The thought made his blood run cold.

He pushed through the lingering crowd, his jaw tight. When he reached them, he looked directly at Bradley. "Hey, Brad, can we have a word?"

Bradley’s eyes, cold and assessing, fixed on him.

"Maybe you should lay off Mona, all right?" Max said, his voice low. "She's clearly not interested."

Bradley’s facial expression shifted, the cool indifference replaced by a flicker of offended anger. He moved fast, pushing Max against the wooden ramp, his face so close that Max could feel the heat of his breath on his cheek. "What?" Bradley mocked, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "You jealous, freshman?"

Max shoved him back, the rage finally breaking through his fear. "Just leave her alone."

Bradley tilted his head, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Playing Mona's white knight, are we?" His gaze dropped to Max's skateboard, which Max still held in his hand. "Ah, I remember this skateboard. What a hot, intense night that was, Maxie."

“It reminds me of another event,” Max said. He gestured to his blue and yellow uniform. “This was me, winning. You should try it sometime.”

Bradley chuckled. Then he moved, suddenly standing directly in front of Max, his breath hitting Max's ear as he whispered, "What would Mona say if she knew that her little white knight liked to beg me for more touch, whimpering for it like a dog?"

Max pushed Bradley back with all his might, his voice raw with fury. "You sick bastard! Did you try your sick games on her?"

Bradley tisked. "Max, Max, Max, what kind of gutter trash do you think I am?" He took a step back, straightening his perfectly tailored uniform. "Mona is a lady, a great artist and a brilliant skateboarder. She’s earned my respect." His fingers darted out. He pinched the spot on Max's neck where the last faint traces of the hickey lingered. "Unlike someone else," he finished, a cold smirk on his lips. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

Max stood there, trembling, the adrenaline slowly draining from his body. He felt a sudden, uncomfortable awareness of eyes on him. He glanced back and saw Tank watching them, his expression unreadable. Max felt a fresh wave of mortification. He turned and walked away, needing to escape the skate park, needing to escape the suffocating weight of Bradley’s presence.

~*~*~*~*~

The night before the X-Games qualifying rounds was quiet and still. Max had just finished a solitary practice session, his body humming with exhaustion but his mind finally clear. He coasted to a stop at the top of the vert ramp, the moonlight a soft, silver glow on the concrete. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment of peace he had found on the board.

"You're getting better."

Max's eyes opened. Mona stood at the base of the ramp, her silhouette framed by the park's sparse lights. He smiled and waved her up. She walked to the top, her board tucked under her arm, and sat down beside him.

"You really are getting better," she said again, her voice soft. "Your head's in the game now."

"Thanks," he replied, and the silence stretched between them for a moment. He couldn't shake the image of Bradley and Mona together on the ramp, the way he had tried to put his arm around her. "Hey," Max began, his voice low. "Did… did Bradley ever try to take advantage of you?"

Mona’s shoulders stiffened, her eyebrows knitting in confusion. "Why would you ask that?"

"I saw him trying to get close to you during practice," he said, his gaze fixed on her.

"Oh," she said, the tension leaving her. "No, he never took advantage. Our relationship is strictly practicing for the X-Games." She paused, her gaze dropping to her hands. "But… there is something I think I should tell you. I didn't think it mattered, but..." She looked up at him, her kind blue eyes holding a profound truth. "After you and I broke up, Bradley tried to get together with me. It seems he's never gotten over me."

Max swallowed, the news hitting him like a punch to the gut. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. All of Bradley’s cruel games, all of his taunting, it was all just a ploy to break them up. But if Bradley wanted Mona, why would he still go after Max? The question gnawed at him. Max looked at Mona, seeing the warmth in her eyes, the way she was looking at him right now, and a new, horrifying thought crept into his mind.

Unless... Unless Bradley saw the way Mona still looked at him. Unless Bradley wanted to punish Max for it, to use Max’s own body as a weapon against him. It was a sick, twisted game of jealousy and control, and Max was trapped in the middle of it.

Mona’s voice broke his train of thought. "Can I lay my head on your shoulder?" she asked, her voice small.

Max knew he shouldn't. He knew he'd be giving her false hope, leading her on. He still cared for her, deeply. He would love to get back with her, to be the person she thought he was. But the thing that had happened with Bradley, the humiliation, the violation, was so huge it couldn't be dismissed. He felt tainted. Mona would hate him if she knew about the creepy, one-sided lust he had with Bradley, about the disgusting person he had become.

He swallowed hard. "I think I better go," he said, the words feeling like a betrayal.

He felt bad at the look of disappointment that crossed her face. "Good luck tomorrow," he said, his voice softer.

She managed a weak smile. "Good luck to you, too."

He slid off the ramp, his board a familiar weight under his feet, and skated back to his dorm room, a world away from the girl he had just let go.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The day had finally arrived. A massive crowd filled the stands, their excited chatter a loud, electric hum that filled the air. The buzz was contagious, a raw energy that was half anticipation, half adrenaline. Max felt it too, a familiar thrill that had been buried under months of pain and doubt. He stood with PJ, Bobby, and Tina, his board gripped tightly in his hand, his heart pounding in his chest.

Suddenly, a voice boomed from the speakers, an announcer’s voice, loud and full of a wild, high-octane energy that made the crowd roar. "Welcome to the Seventh Annual College 'X' Games!" the announcer yelled. "The contestants are gonna fly, flip, and grind like there's no tomorrow! Today's qualifying rounds will determine who will compete in the semifinals!"

Tina bounced on the balls of her feet, a wide, joyful grin on her face. Her wild blonde hair seemed to bounce with her, a chaotic blur of excitement. "This is it! I can't believe we're here!" she shrieked, her voice a mix of awe and pure joy.

"Whoa, chill out, Tina-rina." Bobby smacked the girl on the back, almost tripping her. He leaned in close to Max and PJ and whispered, "Freshmen, am I right?"

Max lifted an eyebrow. "Dude, you were just as excited about this last year," he said, nudging Bobby with his elbow.

PJ piped in. "You even bowed."

Bobby’s face flushed a furious red. He threw his hands up in the air. "Hey, that’s, like, totally not chill to air my dirty laundry, ya know? I was just... appreciating the moment, man! And, you’re just jealous because you can’t get your bow to be as graceful as mine!" Tina stood next to him, glaring, and smacked his back until he bowed again to the field of ramps.

The arena was a blur of noise and color, the energy a palpable thing that vibrated through the air. Max stood with his friends, his board tucked under his arm, his heart pounding with a nervous rhythm. The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, a high-octane soundtrack to the day.

"And now, we're kicking off the individual rounds! First up, giving us the poetry of motion, it's the one and only, PJ!"

Max watched as PJ skated to the center of the arena, his usual meticulous nature taking over. He executed a flawless routine, a series of complex ollies and grinds that showcased his technical skill. Max felt a surge of pride as he watched his friend, and then his eyes found Vicki in the crowd. She was on her feet, a huge smile on her face, and cheering louder than anyone. A warm feeling spread through Max’s chest. He was proud of PJ, and he was happy to see him so confident and skilled.

"Give it up for PJ!" the announcer's voice bellowed, and the crowd roared in approval.

Next up was Bobby. The announcer's words were loud and boisterous, matching Bobby's persona. "And now, bringing his own brand of chaos to the skate park, it's the dude with the moves, Bobby!"

Bobby skated to the center, striking a series of wild poses. He began his routine, a whirlwind of energy and unbridled style. He executed a perfect kickflip over a ramp and followed it with a boardslide down a rail. His movements were fluid and free, a testament to his natural talent. At the end of his routine, he pointed a finger directly at Tina, shouting, "This dance is for you, Tina-lina!" He then launched into a wild, improvised dance, wiggling his butt in a ridiculous, funny way that made the crowd howl with laughter.

Tina’s face flushed a deep red. She buried her face in her hands, muttering, "Why is he always on me? It's so embarrassing!"

Max, watching her, couldn't help but laugh. "That's Bobby's flirting," he said, rolling his eyes. "Didn't graduate grade school's playground."

Tina's nose wrinkled in a mix of confusion and disgust. "Flirting?" she questioned.

"He clearly digs you," Max said, a mischievous grin on his face.

"What? Ew, gross!" Tina said, her face scrunching up in revulsion.

Max just shook his head, a genuine smile on his face. He was happy to be back with his friends, in a place where he felt like he belonged.

Finally, it was Tina’s turn. She had been nervous, but the moment her name was announced, she straightened her posture and skated to the center of the arena. Bobby, from the sidelines, made a series of wild, inappropriate gestures, yelling, "Tina-wina, crush it! Plummet it!"

Tina just gave him a withering look before she began her routine. Max watched her, a knot of pride in his chest. She was amazing, a graceful blur of motion and raw talent. She performed a series of technically difficult stunts that left the crowd in awe, a perfect handstand grind on a rail, a heelflip that had the judges on their feet. The crowd roared in approval, and Max couldn't help but smile.

The announcer's voice, a hyped-up roar, finally called his name. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for the man who defines extreme - Max Goof!"

A wave of sound hit Max, a mix of cheers and expectant murmurs from the packed stands. He felt the familiar weight of his board under his arm, the rough grip tape a comforting presence. He took a deep breath, the air cool in his lungs, and whispered, "Okay, Great Aunt Patti Goof, let's roll." It was a a silent invocation of the ancestor who had paved the way.

He dropped into the half-pipe, the rush of air exhilarating. He attacked the ramps with a renewed ferocity, his movements fluid and precise. He launched into a series of frontside grinds that stretched impossibly long, followed by backside 540s that seemed to defy gravity. Every trick landed with a clean, confident thud, each turn a testament to hours of solitary practice and the quiet strength he'd found within himself. He felt a surge of pure, unadulterated joy, the kind that only came when he was perfectly in sync with his board, the world blurring into a dizzying rush of speed and air.

Then came the moment for his new move, the one he'd invented in those lonely, early morning sessions: the Goof-Grab 720. It was dangerous, a little crazy, a stunt that required a backside 720 spin with a mid-air tail grab. He felt completely in control as he launched himself skyward, twisting, grabbing, and then landing with a powerful, almost effortless grace. The crowd exploded.

The roar was deafening, a wall of sound that enveloped him, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. For the first time in what felt like forever, the shame and the self-loathing receded. He was just Max, a skater, doing what he loved, and the acceptance of the crowd was a balm to his bruised soul. He felt human again.

The announcer's voice roared over the speakers, almost lost in the din. "Unbelievable! A perfect stunt! Max Goof, ladies and gentlemen! He is the best skater State College has, and he's got the potential to go pro!"

The judges' scores flashed on the big screen: straight tens. Every single one.

Max's gaze immediately found his friends. PJ was jumping up and down, waving his arms like a madman. Bobby and Tina cheered his name, then, caught up in the excitement, found themselves hugging and jumping before suddenly recoiling from each other. Then, his eyes landed on Mona. She was beaming, waving to him with an undeniable pride in her kind blue eyes. A warmth, soft and comforting, seeped into his heart.

But then, his gaze shifted, almost unwillingly. Across the arena, amidst the sea of Gamma uniforms, Bradley's eyes met his. Cold. Calculating. And then, Bradley's gaze flicked to Mona and back to Max, a silent message passing between them. Just like that, the warmth in Max's heart turned to ice, replaced by a familiar dread that chilled him to the bone.

The crowd's roar still echoed in Max's ears as he coasted to a stop near the edge of the ramp, his heart thrumming with adrenaline and a sense of exhilaration he hadn't felt in months. He found his friends waiting for him, their faces split into wide, ecstatic grins.

Before he could even fully stop, Tina launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug. "Max! You were totally shredding out there!" she yelled, her voice hoarse with excitement.

PJ and Max's hands met, a familiar series of fist bumps and finger wiggles flowing between them, their secret handshake, perfected since childhood.

Then Bobby clapped him on the back with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. "Maximum! Maxi-madman!" Bobby bellowed, his voice loud enough to cut through the lingering cheers. He shoved a crumpled towel into Max's hand.

Max wiped the sweat from his face, feeling the familiar burn in his muscles. "Man, I gotta go hydrate," he gasped, already craving the cold, refreshing bite of water.

As he turned to head for the coolers, Tina called after him, "Hey, don't forget! We still got the duo routine!"

Max looked back at Tina, his eyes gleaming with renewed determination. "Don't worry," he said, his voice firm and steady. "We've got this. We're gonna nail it."

Then, a sudden yank from behind sent Max stumbling behind the half-pipe, and he spun around to see Bradley's hand clamped on his arm. "Not if I nail you first," Bradley growled.

"You're looking green, Brad," Max shot back, ripping his arm away. "Catch my tens?" he asked, a smug grin spread across his face. His score was the top among all the competitors. He'd seen Bradley hit some decent nines, but he was nowhere near Max's level today. Bradley could out-flex him with money or grades, or even in bed, but when it came to shredding, Max was undeniably the king of the park.

Bradley scoffed, his gaze flicking to the crowd. "What did you do to Mona? She was off her game today. Did you brainwash her into skating less skillfully?"

Max’s eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you serious? Mona was exceptional! Her handstand grind was flawless, and her heelflip was insane. She's a natural."

Bradley pointed a finger at Max, his eyes blazing. "Don't lie to me, Max. I know you two had your secret night meeting. And the looks you exchanged today? Obviously, you're hiding something."

Max felt a surge of indignation. "Were you spying on us yesterday?"

Bradley snapped his fingers, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Aha! So you admit it!"

Max shook his head, a weary sigh escaping him. "You need help, Brad." He turned, attempting to leave, but Bradley was too quick. He grabbed Max again, slamming him against the cold, metal half-pipe. The impact rattled Max's teeth. Then, Bradley's hand moved, cupping Max's crotch, his fingers squeezing.

Max gasped, a choked sound of surprise and pain. "What are you doing, you loon?"

Bradley leaned in close, his hot breath on Max's ear. "Never forget your place, loser." He gave Max a final, hard shove against the half-pipe and then, without another word, turned and walked away, disappearing into the bustling crowd.

Max stood there, trembling, his body still tingling from Bradley's touch. Old feelings of self-loathing and insecurity began to creep back in, a cold, insidious poison. He hated how Bradley made him feel like the dirt underneath his shoes, like something insignificant and easily manipulated. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his head, trying to remember that he had just aced his qualifying round, that he had just proven himself. Bradley was just being a jealous ass. That was all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"And now, for a dynamic duo that promises to redefine synchronized skating, give it up for Bradley Uppercrust the Third and Mona!"

Max watched from the sidelines, a knot of anticipation and dread in his stomach. Bradley and Mona skated to the center of the arena, their matching Gamma uniforms sharp and precise. They dropped into the half-pipe, their movements fluid and confident. Their routine started off great. They executed a perfectly synchronized boardslide on a long rail, their bodies moving as one. The crowd cheered, and the announcer was already showering them with compliments. "Look at that precision! Flawless execution from the Gamma president and his partner!"

They moved into their next sequence, a complex double-grind on the vert ramp, a move that required perfect timing and trust. Max held his breath. Bradley launched first, his board hitting the coping with a familiar thwack. Mona followed, her body mirroring his. For a split second, they were perfectly aligned, gliding down the rail. Then, Bradley’s back foot slipped. Just a fraction of an inch, a subtle wobble that was almost imperceptible. But it was enough.

His board veered, throwing off Mona’s balance. She tried to compensate, her body twisting in mid-air, but it was too late. They both tumbled, their boards clattering loudly against the concrete. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath, followed by a ripple of murmurs.

The announcer, momentarily stunned, quickly recovered. "A little hiccup there, folks! But they're back on their feet, showing that Gamma grit!"

Bradley was on his feet in an instant, his face a mask of furious frustration. His eyes immediately darted to Max, shooting daggers as if Max himself had somehow reached out and tripped them. Max felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

Despite the fall, they managed to salvage the rest of their routine, finishing with a series of less ambitious but well-executed tricks. They ended with a synchronized ollie, landing in unison, but the earlier stumble had broken the illusion of perfection. The crowd offered polite applause, a stark contrast to the roaring cheers Max had received.

The announcer's voice boomed, cutting through the lingering murmurs from Bradley and Mona's routine. "And now, for our final duo performance of the day, representing Team 99, it's Max Goof and Christina Davis!"

Max felt a familiar jolt of adrenaline, but it was quickly overshadowed by a wave of nausea. He glanced at Tina, her blue eyes filled with excitement, and a small, genuine smile touched his lips.

He looked out at the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the faces until it landed on Bradley. Bradley was standing a few rows back, just behind Mona, his eyes fixed on Max. A slow, spiteful smile spread across Bradley's face. He held up his skateboard and turned it upside down, his thumb deliberately stroking the space between the wheels.

Max's breath caught in his throat. The arena, the crowd, Tina beside him, it all vanished. He was back on that ramp, Bradley pinning him down, his own skateboard, the one under his foot right now, used as a pillow. He felt the phantom weight of Bradley grinding on top of him, heard the cruel words whispered in a language he didn't understand, but whose meaning was brutally clear. You're nothing.

His hand shot out, grabbing Tina's arm before she could push off. She looked at him, her brow furrowed with concern. "Max? Are you okay?"

More flashbacks attacked him, a relentless barrage of images: him bound and naked in the motel room, his body twitching with unfulfilled desire, Bradley's cruel voice in his ear, "You don't get to see me naked, Max. You're not even worthy of breathing the same air as my bare skin, let alone having me inside you." Max was shaking all over, his vision blurring. He tried to speak, to explain, but the words caught in his throat. "Tina… I… I don't…"

Tina ran a soothing hand on his trembling back, her touch a small anchor in the storm. "Calm down," she whispered, her voice gentle. "Remember your dad's story."

But all Max could hear was Bradley's voice, echoing over and over, "You're a pathetic, desperate little thing, and I wouldn't waste a single thread of my clothes on you." The words were a physical weight, crushing him.

The announcer's voice, amplified by the speakers, broke through his torment. "What's going on with Team 99? Why aren't Max and Tina starting?"

Max squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to calm himself, focusing on the small circles Tina's hand was rubbing on his back. He felt like he was drowning in shame and fear. And then, he heard a voice, a voice he hadn't heard in what felt like an eternity.

"Maxie! Go, Maxie!"

His eyes snapped open. He looked at the bleachers, his gaze sweeping frantically through the crowd until he saw him. His dad. Standing among the audience, a huge, beaming smile on his face. And next to him, his girlfriend, Miss Marpole, equally enthusiastic. His dad was holding a giant poster, a crudely drawn but instantly recognizable image of his great-aunt Patti Goof, her arms triumphantly raised. Both his dad and Miss Marpole were cheering, "Go, Max! Go, Max!"

"Dad?" Max whispered. He couldn't believe it. He'd explicitly told his dad there was no need to come, that he should save his attendance for the semifinals, just in case Max actually made it.

"PJ invited him," Tina explained, sensing Max's shock. "He thought you'd love to see him."

Max's eyes glistened. His dad, oblivious to anyone but Max, was jumping wildly, his massive Patti Goof poster flailing. It clipped the man's wig next to him, sending it askew, and then his foot bumped the woman's head in front, knocking her glasses right off her face. Yet, he just kept cheering, a pure joy radiating from him.

That single cheer ignited a chain reaction. PJ and Bobby, at the sidelines, picked up the chant, their voices booming. Then Mona began cheering with them, her voice clear and strong. Bradley, behind her, glared, his face a mask of furious resentment. But it didn't matter. The energy was infectious. The entire audience, sensing the shift, began to cheer, a wave of support that washed over Max, pushing back the darkness.

Max swallowed, the lump in his throat slowly dissolving. He looked at Tina, who gave him an encouraging smile, her eyes filled with unwavering faith. "Are you ready?" she asked.

He nodded, a new resolve hardening his jaw. "I hope so."

They dropped into the half-pipe, the rush of air a familiar friend. Max had never felt so in sync with a partner. Their routine began with a tandem drop-in, both of them launching simultaneously, their boards hitting the concrete in perfect unison. The announcer's voice, now imbued with a fresh wave of excitement, boomed over the speakers. "And they're off! A perfect synchronized drop-in from Max and Tina!"

They moved as one, a blur of coordinated motion and raw talent. Max launched into a frontside invert on the coping while Tina performed a graceful fakie tailspin below him, their bodies weaving around each other in a breathtaking dance. They followed it with a synchronized boardslide on the longest rail, their boards parallel, scraping in perfect harmony. "Unbelievable!" the announcer shrieked, his voice climbing with every trick. "That was a display of pure telepathy! They're absolutely shredding this park!"

For their finale, they approached the towering vert ramp. Max dropped in, building speed, and then launched himself into his signature Goof-Grab 720. But this time, as he twisted in the air, Tina launched from the opposite side, performing a daring ollie-to-grind on the coping, right above him. They seemed to hang suspended, a perfect tableau of mid-air mastery, before landing in flawless sync, their boards kissing the concrete with soft thuds.

The park erupted. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a tsunami of cheers that shook the very ground. Max felt a profound sense of triumph, a joyous exhilaration that surged through every fiber of his being. He had done it. They had done it.

The audience began chanting his name, "Max! Max! Max!" He turned to Tina, her face flushed with excitement and pride. He grabbed her hand, lifted it high above their heads, and pointed directly at her, sharing the glory. The crowd understood, their cheers immediately shifting to a thunderous roar for both of them. "Team 99! Team 99! Max and Tina! Max and Tina!"

The roaring cheers slowly subsided, replaced by the excited chatter of the crowd and the amplified voice of the announcer. Max and Tina stood side-by-side, their chests heaving, adrenaline still coursing through their veins. The judges' scores flashed on the massive screen, and Max's heart pounded with anticipation.

They received excellent scores, with high marks for originality, execution, and control. However, a small deduction appeared next to their final tally. The announcer's voice, slightly more subdued now, explained, "Team 99 loses one point for delay of start at the beginning of their routine."

Despite the slight deduction, the final numbers flashed across the screen: Max and Tina had the best score in the duo category, securing their spot in the semifinals.

A fresh wave of cheers erupted, and Max and Tina grinned at each other, a shared look of triumph. They skated off the ramp, heading straight for their waiting friends. PJ was there first, and Max left Tina's side to meet him, pulling him into a tight embrace. "We did it, man!" Max exclaimed, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Bobby, meanwhile, scooped Tina up in a bear hug, spinning her around in circles. "Tina-mina! You were gnarly out there!" he bellowed, setting her down gently. Tina just shook her head, her face flushed with happiness.

Then, Max saw his dad beaming and Miss Marpole, her face radiant with pride, pushing through the crowd. Max pulled away from PJ and launched himself into his dad's open arms.

"I'm so glad you came," Max mumbled into his shoulder, tears pricking his eyes.

Goofy's own eyes were suspiciously bright. He choked out a tearful, "Gawrsh, glad I did too, Maxie!" He squeezed Max in a bone-crushing hug.

Over his dad's shoulder, Max peered at PJ, silently mouthing "thank you." PJ responded with a thumbs-up and mouthed back, "You got it, buddy."

~*~*~*~*~

The next few days were a blur of triumph. It was like the universe had finally decided to hit the rewind button, taking Max back to the start of the year, to that feeling of being on top of the world. Everywhere he went, the energy was electric. In classes, students would subtly nudge each other, pointing, a low murmur of appreciation following Team99 as they walked in. During lectures, if one of them answered a question, a ripple of quiet cheers would spread through the hall. The cafeteria now felt like their personal dining room; trays of food seemed to materialize, the best seats always open, and friendly faces would flash them smiles, some even offering a quick "great job on that last run!" People were actually writing poems about their excellent work, little odes to their creativity and skill, and reciting them in the Bean Scene.

But the skate ramp? That was where they truly reigned. Every trick, every grind, every air was met with a roar of approval. The crowd, usually a mix of casual observers and rival crews, now felt like their personal fan club, their cheers fueling every move. Even just walking down the streets of campus, they’d get high-fives, shouts of encouragement, and genuine respect. Invitations to parties piled up, and at every gathering, people would flock to them, not just to hang out, but to ask for tips on how they pulled off their stunts, how they coordinated, how they stayed so focused. It was exhilarating. Max was finally back to himself. The weight that had been pressing down on him for weeks had lifted, replaced by a lightness he hadn't realized he'd missed so desperately.

That perfect bubble burst in the quiet hum of the library. Max was hunched over a textbook, PJ and Bobby on either side of him, the low murmur of turning pages and hushed whispers the only sounds. Suddenly, a small, folded piece of paper dropped onto his open book. His eyes flicked up, but no one was there. His brow furrowed as he picked it up, the paper surprisingly heavy in his fingers. Unfolding it, he saw only two lines, scrawled in a familiar, aggressive hand: 'Meet me at the Gammas House, Bradley.'

Max's chest tightened, a cold, hard knot forming right beneath his ribs. It was like a switch had been flipped, and the vibrant, sunlit world he’d been inhabiting for days was instantly plunged into a suffocating darkness. He quickly folded the note, shoving it deep into his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly. PJ had caught Max's sudden stillness. His gaze, full of unspoken questions, met Max's. Max forced a reassuring smile and tried to resume his studies, his eyes scanning the words without truly seeing them. He could tell by the slight narrowing of PJ's eyes that he wasn't buying it.

The dread that had settled over Max in the library only intensified with each step he took towards the Gammas House. The grand, imposing structure seemed to loom larger with every block, its windows dark and uninviting. When he finally reached the front, Bradley was already there, standing on the porch, a smirk playing on his lips. As Max approached, Bradley began to slow clap, the sound sharp and mocking in the evening air.

"Well, well," Bradley drawled, "if it isn't the campus champion, gracing us with his presence."

Max's jaw tightened. "What is it, Brad?" he asked, his voice flat.

Bradley's smirk widened. "Follow me."

Max hesitated for a moment, his gaze sweeping the surroundings. As he reluctantly walked up the porch stairs, his eyes landed on Tank, standing a few yards away on the pavement with his girlfriend in his arms. Tank was staring directly at Max, his eyes unreadable, a silent, heavy presence. Max didn't say a thing; he simply turned and followed Bradley inside.

Max had never stepped a foot inside the frat house before. The air was thick with an unfamiliar scent, a mix of stale beer, old cologne, and something vaguely antiseptic. He felt out of place, his skin prickling with unease. The house seemed eerily quiet; he didn't see any of the other Gammas, which only added to the unsettling atmosphere. Bradley, already halfway across the foyer, gestured impatiently for him to follow him up the stairs. Max did, each step a leaden weight, the dread inside him coiling tighter with every creak of the old wood.

Bradley led Max down a dimly lit hallway, the silence of the house pressing in on them. He stopped at a door, pushing it open without a word and gesturing for Max to walk in. Max stepped tentatively across the threshold, his senses on high alert. The large room was unmistakably Bradley's; a neatly made bed dominated one wall, and on the nightstand next to it, a framed picture showed a younger Bradley smiling alongside a woman Max assumed was his mother.

But what truly seized Max's attention was in the middle of the room: a huge, unsettling arrangement of canvases, all covered by a uniform, dark cloth. They formed a rough circle, and Bradley, with an almost imperceptible flick of his head, motioned for Max to walk inside it. Max obeyed, his heart beginning to thump an anxious rhythm against his ribs.

"What is it, Brad?" Max asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the question laced with a growing sense of unease. "Why am I here?"

Bradley's lips curled into that familiar, infuriating smirk. "I wanted to show you my latest pieces," he said, his tone casual, almost playful, yet menacing. Then, without another word, he began to remove the cloths covering the canvases surrounding Max.

Max felt his heart seize, a cold dread spreading through him faster than a wildfire. The first cloth fell, revealing a canvas that made his stomach churn. It was him, unmistakably him, on a bed, his body twisted in an unnatural, erotic pose, his "junk" shamelessly exposed. His breath hitched. Before he could even fully process it, another cloth was pulled away, then another, and another. Each reveal was a fresh punch to the gut. There he was again, lying on the skate ramp, the blatant exposure of his "junk" made his vision swim. And then, the last one, the one that made him feel truly sick: a naked depiction of him in the motel room, a scene he had thought was private, sacred, his own.

Pure, unadulterated horror engulfed Max, so potent it made his knees weak. His blood ran cold, then hot with a sickening flush of shame and violation. He felt a profound, visceral disgust, not just at the images, but at the realization of how exposed he was, how completely his privacy had been invaded. His stomach lurched, threatening to betray him, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from retching. Fear, sharp and icy, pierced through him. This wasn't just a prank; this was a calculated, malicious act, a public humiliation waiting to happen. He was trapped, surrounded by these grotesque, twisted reflections of himself, each one a testament to Bradley’s chilling obsession and his own terrifying vulnerability. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, suffocating, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out, leaving him to drown in a sea of his own violated image.

Max felt a primal surge of rage, so potent it drowned out the fear. He lunged, his hands tearing at the nearest canvas, ripping the fabric, twisting the frame. He attacked another, then another, a desperate frenzy to destroy the horrifying images. Each tear, each crack of wood, brought a fleeting, hollow satisfaction. Through his blurring vision, he noticed Bradley. The older boy hadn't moved, just stood there, a chilling smirk etched onto his face, watching Max's destructive outburst.

"Why aren't you stopping me?" Max choked out, his voice hoarse from the exertion and emotion.

Bradley's smirk only intensified. Max's breath hitched as a terrible realization dawned on him. "Because you made copies of these, didn't y…"

His words died in his throat. His gaze, still darting around the ruined canvases, snagged on one he hadn't fully registered before. It showed him, sleeping, in his own bed, in his dorm room. A cold, heavy dread settled in his gut. How could Bradley—? Then it clicked. He remembered Bradley waiting for him in his room after the sorority party, a casual presence he hadn't questioned at the time.

"You have a key to my room," Max whispered, the horror solidifying into icy certainty. His voice rose, tinged with disbelief and revulsion. "You go into my room at night and draw me while I'm asleep?" He yanked at his own hair. "What sick creep are you?"

Bradley's laugh was sharp, devoid of humor. "The sick creep who has many copies of these paintings hidden in various places, and a bunch in my computer." He nodded towards a sleek, modern computer on a nearby desk.

Max lunged, desperate to smash the machine, to obliterate any trace of the images. But Bradley only laughed again, a sound that grated on Max's raw nerves. "Yes, Max, break my computer. Don't you think I've backed them up in my email? Oh right, I forgot I was talking to lower class trash. Have you even heard of an email?"

"What is it that you want?" Max snapped. His voice, when it came, was choked with rage and desperation.

"Ah, that's what I'm talking about." Bradley's tone shifted, becoming almost conversational, chillingly calm. "Look, I'll keep those hidden in the security of my room and the other ten places I've hidden them in, in exchange for you modeling for me."

"Modeling?" Max asked, the word alien and grotesque in this context.

"I've been drawing these out of memory," Bradley explained, gesturing vaguely at the ruined canvases. "And while it's proved that I do have excellent memory, nothing beats actually drawing with a model in front of you."

"So, let me get this straight," Max said, trying to process the insane proposal. "In exchange for not showing these disgusting paintings in public, you want me to help you make more of them?"

"In a nutshell," Bradley confirmed, a smug satisfaction in his eyes.

Max shook his head, a desperate, guttural "No, no way" escaping his lips. "This is insane even for you, Bradley."

"Here are my conditions," Bradley said, his voice dropping, "you choose to accept them, or else…" He let the sentence hang in the air, a silent, menacing threat.

Max stood there, a profound emptiness hollowing him out, his gaze darting helplessly between the untouched canvases and Bradley’s computer. He felt utterly alone, trapped in a world controlled by a sadistic maniac. His eyes found the polished wooden floor, and for a desperate moment, he wished it would crack open and swallow him whole, erasing him from this nightmare. Then, he saw Bradley’s shiny, expensive shoes step into his line of sight, planting themselves precisely in front of Max’s worn sneakers.

"Here's the deal," Bradley’s condescending voice cut through the silence. "You show up everyday at the motel room at 5 PM sharp and model for me."

Max slowly lifted his head, a strange disassociation settling over him. For some reason, Bradley seemed impossibly taller than usual, a towering, malevolent figure. "And this modeling gig," Max managed, his voice thin, "is for how long?"

"Until I get bored."

Max stared at that hateful face, a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted to spit, to defile that smug expression, but he held back. Instead, a desperate, risky thought surfaced. "I know you're doing this because of Mona," he stated, his voice unwavering despite the tremor in his hands.

Bradley's stare turned instantly cold, a dangerous glint entering his eyes.

Max pushed on, emboldened by the reaction. "It must eat you up that she still loves me, even after I broke up with her."

The sharp crack of Bradley's hand across Max's face echoed in the room. The sting was immediate, but Max barely registered it. He knew he'd struck a nerve. A raw, dark satisfaction flared within him, momentarily overshadowing his fear. "It hurts, doesn't it, Brad?" Max goaded, a defiant smirk twisting his lip. "This sophomore got the girl and the X-Games. People cheer my name everywhere I go. Must sting, knowing you’re always playing second fiddle."

Bradley’s grimace shifted, morphing into a look of pure, concentrated hatred. "So, I guess we don't have a deal then?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Who do you want me to send the first batch of paintings to? Mona or your dad?"

Max’s heart plummeted. The image of his dad seeing that filth. A cold sweat broke out on his skin.

Bradley continued, relentless, twisting the knife. "I already have copies I wanna send out to your friends, and a specially wrapped package for the dean. Your professors would love seeing these."

"Stop," Max whispered, the word a desperate plea, barely audible. "Please."

"So, we have a deal?" Bradley's voice was an insidious murmur, weaving its way into Max's crumbling resolve.

Max's hands balled into shaking fists at his sides, his nails digging painfully into his palms. His chest felt heavy, as if an invisible weight pressed down on him, crushing his lungs. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest, revolted by the idea of becoming Bradley’s twisted muse, of participating in his own degradation. The thought of those images, out there, for everyone to see, his friends, his dad, the dean, Mona, sent shivers of pure terror through him. His carefully rebuilt world, the one where he was the celebrated champion, was teetering on the edge of an abyss. He was cornered, trapped, and the bitter taste of helplessness filled his mouth. His mind raced, frantically searching for an escape, any crack in this unbreakable prison, but there was nothing. Only Bradley’s cold, triumphant gaze.

Max's breath was shallow when he mumbled, "Okay."

Bradley clapped his hands together. "Wonderful! But first…" He turned, walking towards a large mahogany desk in the corner of his study. He returned moments later with a stack of papers and a sleek, expensive-looking pen. "My lawyer insisted on these. Just a little something to make sure you can't try to sue my ass down the line. Standard model consent, you know? Just sign here, and we're all good." His tone was smug, almost jovial, nothing like Max's internal turmoil.

Max swallowed hard, taking the pen. The words on the page blurred, a hazy, indecipherable mess through the film of dread that coated his vision. He didn't read them. His hand, still trembling slightly, scrawled his signature where Bradley pointed.

Bradley nodded, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. "And we're done here. I'll see you tomorrow at five PM sharp. Don't be late."

Max walked out of the room numbly, the vibrant colors of Bradley's room fading into a grey haze. Each step felt disconnected, as if his legs belonged to someone else. The hallway seemed longer than before, the silence of the frat house now heavy and oppressive, a perfect mirror of the suffocating weight in his chest. He passed closed doors, wondering what lurked behind them, if other dark secrets were kept within these walls. The earlier feeling of being out of place intensified; he was an alien here, a pawn in a game he never agreed to play.

His feet found the stairs, and he descended, one step at a time, each creak of the wood echoing the fracturing of his world. The grand foyer, which had felt intimidating on his way in, now seemed like the gaping maw of a beast that had just consumed him whole. He felt hollowed out, stripped bare, the humiliation of what he'd just seen, and the terror of what was to come, gnawing at his insides. The air outside the Gammas House felt no different than the air within; the night was just as heavy, the campus lights just as indifferent. He was still trapped, no matter where he stood.

Max was halfway down the Gamma House driveway when a voice called out, "Max!" He turned to see Tank standing by the pavement, his girlfriend was not there. Tank's expression was serious, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Is there something going on between you and Bradley?" he asked, his voice low but clear.

Max swallowed a hard lump in his throat. The words felt like ash. He shook his head, offering a response that even to his own ears sounded unconvincing: "There's nothing."

Tank studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Max, be careful," he warned, his voice grave. "Bradley can be unhinged when he wants to be."

Too late, Tank, Max thought, a bitter retort he couldn't voice. He simply nodded again and kept walking.

A car full of students passed him, slowing slightly as they recognized him. "Max! Max! Max!" they cheered, their voices bright with admiration and excitement, hands waving from the windows. Max just stared at them, his face devoid of emotion. Their cheers, an hour ago a source of immense pride and validation, now sounded hollow, almost mocking. He was the champion, the king of the X-Games, the celebrated student, yet he was also Bradley’s puppet, bound by a grotesque secret. The dichotomy between the image they had of him and the reality he was living felt like a cruel joke. He felt a profound sense of isolation, a chasm opening between his public persona and his private torment. Their adoration, meant to lift him, only served to highlight the heavy, suffocating truth he carried. It was a suffocating feeling, like drowning in their praise.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Bradley moved silently through the dim dorm room, a shadow among the deeper shadows. This had become a habit, this nocturnal pilgrimage to Max’s bedside. The thrill of slipping past the sleeping forms of Max’s roommates, of standing over the oblivious boy, was a potent drug. He knelt, his gaze tracing the curve of Max’s jaw, the slight pout of his lips. A raw, insistent desire clawed at him, a sudden urge to take the boy right here, right now. He was drawn to those lips he’d never touched, to that mouth he’d never tasted. And he never would. That was the rule, the ironclad boundary he’d set for himself. The only way to keep things going with Max, to maintain this twisted dance of control and craving, was to give the boy less, to always keep him wanting, yearning for more. If Max ever suspected the growing inferno of Bradley’s own desire, the power would shift, and Bradley would lose his upper hand. That was unthinkable.

He stood, the quiet rustle of his clothes unnoticeable, and drifted towards Max’s desk. He opened the top drawer, a faint grin touching his lips as he saw a new package, already opened, from Max's dad. He slipped his hand inside, his fingers brushing against a stack of photographs. The first was of a young Max, no older than eight or nine, his eyes sparkling with mischief, a black and gray cat perched precariously on his head. "Max and Waffles" was scrawled underneath in a childish hand. Another showed the same young Max with a younger PJ and a tiny girl with pigtails, all crammed into the back of a beat-up station wagon.

Then, his gaze snagged on a more recent image. An older Max, presumably in high school, sat on a small backyard ramp, his skateboard in one hand. He was giving a side hug to a pretty redhead, her smile wide and bright. Bradley's lips twisted. The boy had always had that infuriating swagger, hadn't he? Always so… likable. He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping, unaware Max, a cold certainty settling in his gut. The kid's head had been getting too big for his own good. He needed a dose of humility.

Bradley carefully slipped the picture of Max and the redhead into his pocket, confident Max wouldn't notice it missing, just like the other things he’d collected. Some were things Max had dropped by accident, like a few well-worn cassette tapes or a movie stub from a terrible horror flick. Others were things Max had simply left unattended: his keys, a chipped keychain, a cheap plastic guitar pick. Small, insignificant items that, in Bradley's possession, became trophies of his silent incursions.

He closed the drawer with a soft click, then returned to kneel beside Max’s bed. He smirked down at the boy's oblivious face, the innocent, peaceful expression. "Tomorrow at five pm sharp," he whispered. "We're gonna have so much fun, little freshman."

~*~*~*~*~

The college cafeteria buzzed with the lunchtime rush, a cacophony of chatter and clanking trays. Bradley sat alone at a corner table, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten on his plate. His gaze, however, was fixed across the room, pinpointing Max's usual table.

On Max's right, PJ and his cappuccino girlfriend were lost in a poetic discussion, their heads close, their voices a soft murmur. On his left, Bobby and that blonde freshman girl they'd picked for their team were locked in a heated argument over the value of snack-sized portions in a bulk purchase. And in the middle of it all, there was Max. Alone, lost in his own world, completely unengaged with his friends. His food lay untouched on his tray, his gaze distant, hollow. Bradley smirked. He must be thinking about their little "date" at five.

A finger tapped his shoulder, startling him. He spun around, his irritation barely concealed. It was Tank. "You scared me, you giant tool," Bradley chided. 

Tank’s eyes, however, were not amused. They followed Bradley’s gaze to where Max sat, miserable and withdrawn, then flicked back to Bradley. "I know there's something going on between you and Max," Tank stated, sounding serious.

Bradley crossed his arms, affecting an air of bored indifference. "So?"

"Bradley, I know you're jealous of him," Tank pressed, his gaze unwavering.

Bradley scoffed, a short, sharp sound. "Jealous? Of that gopher-boy? Please."

"Don't punish that boy for your own inadequacies," Tank countered, his voice firm.

Bradley’s jaw tightened. "Why are you sticking your nose in my business, Tank?"

"He saved my life last year," Tank stated simply, his eyes a steady challenge to Bradley's. "I owe him that much."

Bradley grunted, looking away. Tank pressed on, gaining a slight edge. "You don't want to repeat the crap of last year, do you? What would your mom say if she knew?"

"Leave my mom out of this!" Bradley snapped, his control slipping.

Tank held his ground, his gaze unwavering. "Just think about it, Bradley. Is it really worth it?"

Bradley looked back at Max, at that hollow stare, at the untouched food on his tray. The mischievous glint Bradley had seen in Max's childhood photo yesterday was entirely absent. In fact, the audacious confidence Max used to possess, the very spark that had initially drawn Bradley’s attention and made him notice the boy, had ceased to exist. Max was a shadow of his former self.

A strange, unfamiliar feeling stirred in Bradley’s chest, a fleeting sensation he quickly suppressed. He immediately resorted to anger, letting it surge through him like a protective barrier. What did Tank expect from him? To feel sorry for Max? Bradley was the one who had engineered this. He was the one who had brought Max to this point, to the brink where everything that made Max Max had been stripped away. And good. That was exactly what Bradley had wanted. To break the kid. And he'd got more in store for him. Max hadn't seen anything yet.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley moved about the motel room with practiced efficiency, a quiet hum on his cellphone the only sound besides the rustle of new canvases. He propped one against the far wall, its pristine surface awaiting the chaos of paint. His mother’s voice, though still a little thin, sounded better than when he’d last seen her at the hospital. He’d spent a couple of weeks by her bedside, holding her frail hand, carefully spoon-feeding her broth when she was too weak to lift a spoon herself, reading aloud from her favorite classic novels, and sitting for hours in silence, just letting her know he was there. He’d even learned to adjust her IV drip and administer her medication with a steady hand. He had been her nurse, her constant shadow, during his entire stay.

"So, what are you doing now, dear?" his mother asked, her tone light with renewed energy.

Bradley carefully arranged a set of charcoal sticks and sketching pencils on the easel he'd set up, his movements deliberate. "Just waiting for someone to come over," he said.

"Someone?" His mother’s cadence brightened, a hopeful lilt to it. "Oh, are you dating again, honey?"

A faint smirk touched Bradley's lips. "No, Mom. He’s just some guy."

"Ah, a new friend?" she mused, a touch of wistfulness in her expression. "Will he be graduating with you this year?"

Bradley picked up a turpentine-soaked rag, polishing a palette knife with unnecessary vigor. "No, he's younger than me."

"Oh, I can't wait for your graduation," his mom sighed. "I wish I could be there."

"You will be there, Mom," Bradley insisted. He walked over to the window, pulling the heavy drapes shut, plunging the room into a softer, more private gloom. "Please don't talk like that. Anyway, Tank says hi, by the way."

"Aw, he's a sweet boy," his mother cooed, clearly pleased by the mention of his loyal friend. "Now that's a friend who will graduate with you, right?"

Just then, the distinct sound of keys jingling in the lock echoed from the door. Bradley’s smile widened, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. "He's here, Mom," he murmured into the phone, his gaze fixed on the door handle as it began to turn.

"Okay, honey. Have fun."

"Believe me," Bradley said, his fingers idly tucking at the thick, cold chains he’d carefully arranged on the bed. His eyes never left the door as it slowly began to open. "We will."

Bradley’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk as Max stepped into the motel room. The door clicked shut behind him, and Max stood there, his face expressionless, almost blank. It was perfect.

"Welcome," Bradley began, his voice laced with an exaggerated, patronizing warmth. He gestured grandly around the room, as if presenting a masterpiece. "Welcome to our first art session. I trust you're ready to create something… memorable."

Max’s eyes slowly swept over the room. He took in the white canvases propped against the walls, the glint of chains meticulously laid out on the bed, and a mysterious box overflowing with tools Bradley knew Max wouldn't recognize. His gaze lingered briefly on the dusty boombox sitting on the rusty nightstand. Then his gaze brushed on the covered pieces of furniture, their identity a mystery to be seen in future sessions. Finally, Max’s eyes settled on Bradley, but he said nothing, simply waiting.

Bradley let the silence stretch, savoring Max’s quiet anticipation. "Before we begin our, shall we say, masterpiece," Bradley drawled, pointing a condescending finger towards a slightly ajar, broken door on the right, "you might want to avail yourself of the facilities. Art, after all, takes a great deal of time."

Max, without a word, simply did as he was told, disappearing into the cramped bathroom. Bradley watched him go, then turned to the boombox. He reached for an old Powerline cassette tape, its familiar label faded with age, and slid it into the player. The faint click of the tape settling in the deck filled the brief silence.

He waited. The moment Max emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his wet, gloved hands on his pants, Bradley moved. He walked towards Max, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. "So, my present was delivered on time, I see," he murmured, his gaze falling to Max's hands. Max wasn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed on the grimy carpet. "Time to unwrap my present now."

Bradley took hold of Max’s right hand, his touch slow, almost sensual. He gently, deliberately, took the hem of the glove and slid it off, his fingers brushing against Max’s bare skin. Max flinched, his head turning sharply away in a clear display of embarrassment. Bradley mirrored the action with the other hand, removing the second glove with the same agonizing slowness. He saw Max’s shoulders stiffen.

Next came the shirt. Bradley reached for the hem, pulling it up slowly. As it cleared Max's torso, Bradley let out a low, appreciative whistle. Max’s head jerked away, his cheeks flushing crimson. Bradley continued, peeling the shirt up and over Max's head, the fabric dragging across his skin for what felt like an eternity. Max’s breath hitched, his embarrassment profound.

Bradley then knelt, unlacing Max’s sneakers with deliberate slowness. He pulled them off, one by one, then peeled off the socks, his fingers lingering on Max’s ankles. Each touch, each removal of clothing, made Max squirm, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the floor, avoiding Bradley’s eyes.

Finally, Bradley stood, his eyes never leaving Max’s face as he reached for the waistband. He slowly unbuttoned them, the sound a soft pop in the quiet room. He unzipped them, the metallic rasp echoing loudly, and then, with agonizing slowness, he pulled the pants down Max's legs, letting them pool around his ankles. Max stood there, completely naked in the middle of the room, his body rigid, lips tight, and his eyes staring ahead.

Bradley circled Max slowly, a triumphant smirk on his face. He let out a low, drawn-out whistle, his gaze sweeping over Max’s exposed form. Max remained unmoving, his face burning with humiliation. He bowed his head, desperate to disappear.

A slow, cruel smile spread across Bradley’s face. "Max," he drawled, "you do know how to dance, right?"

Max’s head shot up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "I'm not dancing naked, Brad."

"Oh, you will," Bradley countered, his smirk widening. "Especially to this song." He pressed play on the boombox, and the familiar, pulsating beat of Powerline’s "I 2 I" blared through the motel room. Max’s eyes widened in shock. Bradley had pieced it together, the whispered conversations he’d overheard, especially Bobby’s giddy recounting of Max’s impromptu performance with the pop sensation on pay-per-view. One more cool thing Max had done in his life, one more shining moment that Bradley was going to meticulously ruin for him.

Bradley walked to a worn armchair and settled into it, crossing his arms, his gaze fixed expectantly on Max. "Dance," he commanded.

Max stood mortified, his fists clenched, his head bowed. Bradley waited, savoring the moment, the smirk never leaving his face. But then, Max’s head snapped up, furious defiance blazing in his eyes. "I didn't consent to naked dancing," he spat, his voice shaking with anger. "Just to model for paintings."

Bradley raised an eyebrow, a condescending look of impressed surprise on his face. "Wow, Goofball," he said, "you should major in law. You've got quite the way with technicalities."

Max just stared at him, hate glistening in his eyes. Bradley chuckled, then smacked his thighs. "Well, that's disappointing," he sighed dramatically. "Guess we better start working on those… poses then." He reached over and flicked off the music, plunging the room into a sudden, tense silence.

He walked towards Max, a sense of controlled anticipation humming beneath his skin. He guided him to the bed, the boy’s body stiff and unresponsive. Bradley gently, but firmly, laid him down, then grabbed the waiting restraints. He cuffed Max's hands over his head, securing them to the headboard, and then fastened his ankles to the foot of the bed. Max’s naked body was splayed out before him, vulnerable, exposed. Bradley stood back, admiring the view, a slow, possessive grin spreading across his face. Max was still looking anywhere but at him, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his jaw clenched.

Bradley reached into the box he’d brought, pulling out a soft, feathered tickler. He leaned over Max, beginning with light, teasing strokes on Max's inner thigh, watching for the subtle shiver that ran through him. He moved it higher, around Max’s inner hip, then across his stomach, delighting in the gasps Max tried to suppress. Next, he brought out a small, vibrating massager, tracing circles on Max's chest, then lower, closer to Max’s burgeoning erection. Max’s breath quickened, his hips beginning to writhe subtly against the restraints. Bradley watched, detached and clinical, as Max’s body responded despite himself. He brought the toy closer, teasing, building the tension, pushing Max to the very edge. Max whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut, his body trembling, desperate for release.

And then, just as Max was on the verge of climax, Bradley stopped. He turned off the vibrator, the sudden silence heavy in the room. He walked back to the easel, picked up a sketching pencil, and began to draw, occasionally glancing at Max’s straining form, enjoying the little sounds of frustration that escaped the boy's lips.

Bradley sketched, his gaze darting between the canvas and Max’s straining form. Max was a mess, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat. The small whimpers and frustrated groans Max tried to stifle were like music to Bradley’s ears. Every trembling muscle, every ragged breath, every sound of distressed longing was for him, only for him. It didn’t matter if Mona didn't want him, or anyone for that matter; Max did. Max craved him.

Bradley had never seen anyone want him so desperately, so completely, and he was hooked on it. He was addicted to the way Max’s thighs tensed, to the involuntary arch of his back, to the frantic clenching of his hands around the restraints. He loved the flush on Max's neck, the rapid pulse throbbing visibly at his throat. Most of all, Bradley was mesmerized by Max’s forbidden lips, the lips he’d never touched, the mouth he’d never tasted, the one part of Max he would always deny himself.

Bradley’s eyes, keen and analytical, registered the subtle shift in Max’s breathing, the slight relaxation of his muscles. The frustrated whimpers had subsided, replaced by the slow, steady rhythm of a body attempting to recover.

Bradley set his sketching pencil down with a soft click. He returned to the bed, his shadow falling over Max's body. He leaned over, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path down Max’s chest, circling one nipple. Max gasped, his body jerking, and Bradley felt a surge of satisfaction. He continued to torment the hardened peak, then moved his hand lower, stroking Max’s member with a languid, teasing rhythm. Max’s hips began to buck, and soft moans, unbidden, escaped his throat. Bradley loved the sounds Max made, loved how quickly the boy reignited, how completely he responded to his touch. He pushed Max higher, faster, driving him to the very edge of control, until Max was writhing against the restraints, his body screaming for release.

Then, just as Max was on the verge, Bradley pulled his hand away. He watched Max’s body convulse with suppressed need, the raw frustration evident in every trembling limb. Bradley turned, walked back to the easel, picked up his pencil, and resumed sketching, occasionally glancing at Max’s tormented form.

Then Bradley noticed that Max’s heavy breaths and little gasps had stopped. He looked at him, and though Max’s body was still flushed and throbbing with desire, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, distant, unseeing. Max was clearly on a different planet, his mind miles away from Bradley, from the motel room, from the agonizing moment. Bradley would not have that. He wanted Max engaged, every fiber of his being, physically and mentally, present in this instant.

Bradley pushed the easel, scraping it across the floor until it stood close to the bed, the canvas a stark white rectangle looming over Max’s head. "Max," he called, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

Max’s eyes slowly, reluctantly, drifted from the ceiling to Bradley’s face. Bradley’s hand moved, hovering a few inches above the throbbing tip of Max’s erection, not quite touching, just teasing the air around it. "Thrust against my hand," Bradley demanded, his voice low and firm.

Max stared at him, a look of pure murder in his eyes, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched in his cheek. Bradley waited, a smirk playing on his lips. "Thrust against my hand," he ordered again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You want some touch, you have to work for it."

Max swallowed, his throat bobbing. Bradley expected a fight, a defiant refusal, but then, slowly, tentatively, Max began to thrust upward, his hips straining against the restraints, his body arching against the bed. He pushed against the empty air, trying to bridge the agonizing gap between his skin and Bradley’s palm.

"Keep doing it until I tell you to stop," Bradley commanded. His other hand, almost instinctively, grabbed the sketching pencil. He leaned into the canvas, his eyes darting between Max and the emerging lines on the paper.

Max’s breath came in ragged gasps, each thrust a visible effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples. His muscles, already exhausted from the earlier torment, quivered with the exertion. A low, guttural moan escaped his lips with every upward lunge. His eyes were now unfocused, glazed over with a singular focus on the impossible touch. Bradley watched, a cold satisfaction settling deep in his gut, sketching furiously, capturing every nuance of Max’s torment, every tremor, every sound of his unraveling.

Bradley finally leaned back from the easel, a slow smile spreading across his face. The sketch was finished. Now came the precise, careful work of tracing the lines, then the vibrant, expressive act of painting. He looked at Max, his body still straining in a rhythm of futile thrusts.

"Stop," Bradley commanded.

Max’s body went limp, his shoulders slumping. His heavy breaths eventually subsided, and he lay there, completely spent. "Are we done?" Max managed, his voice hoarse, filled with a distressed weariness.

Bradley smirked. "Art shouldn't be rushed, Max." He decided a brief interlude was in order, a small break before the next stage. He walked around the bed and lay down beside Max, settling his head on the pillow next to Max’s. He breathed in the scent of Max’s thick black hair, a mix of sweat and the faint, clean scent of shampoo. His hand drifted over Max’s abs, tracing the strong core that allowed him to perform those outrageous stunts in the X-Games. He moved closer, one arm slipping under Max’s back, pulling the bound body gently towards him. His other hand began to lazily play with Max’s chest, fingers toying with a nipple. He nestled close, enjoying the warmth radiating from Max's skin, the subtle rise and fall of his chest. It would have been more intimate had Bradley been naked as well, but that was a boundary he steadfastly maintained.

"How was your math exam?" Bradley asked, as if they were simply two friends lounging in a dorm room.

Max’s body stiffened, a subtle shift that Bradley relished. "Okay," Max mumbled, his voice flat.

"And your dad?" Bradley continued, still in that unnervingly normal tone. "After he graduated, did he finally get a proper job?"

"He did," Max replied, his voice barely a whisper. He shifted his weight slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, even with his limbs still bound and Bradley’s weight pressing down on him. The tension radiating from Max was a delicious current that hummed against Bradley’s skin. Max was clearly disturbed by the small talk, by the grotesque normalcy of their situation.

"Professor Davies still droning on about post-modernism in class?" Bradley murmured, his fingers playing with Max's already erect nipples, drawing a soft gasp from the bound boy. He felt the involuntary shiver that ran through Max's body, a clear sign of his unwilling arousal. Bradley loved it, the contrast between Max’s discomfort and his body’s undeniable response.

"Yeah," Max mumbled, his voice tight, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

Bradley chuckled, nuzzling deeper into the soft, messy strands of Max's hair, inhaling the faint, clean scent mixed with the musk of sweat. It was intoxicating. "And what about the cafeteria food?" he asked, his lips brushing Max’s ear. "Still serving that mystery meat surprise every Tuesday?"

"Pretty much," Max replied, his voice barely a whisper now.

Bradley hummed, his hand drifting lower, stroking the length of Max’s member with slow, teasing presses. He reveled in the small sounds Max made, the quick, shallow breaths, the subtle tightening of his muscles. This casual conversation, juxtaposed with the profound intimacy and Max's absolute vulnerability, was exquisitely delicious to Bradley. He asked about the upcoming midterms, about the new student union building, about the latest campus gossip, mundane questions that served only to highlight Max's helpless position, his inability to control the situation. Max continued to answer in clipped, one-word responses, his body growing increasingly tense, yet entirely at Bradley's mercy. Each reluctant word, each shuddering breath, was a testament to Bradley's complete control.

Bradley leaned in closer, his lips brushing Max’s ear. "Do you have anything you want to ask me?" he murmured, his fingers still toying with Max's chest.

Max’s eyes, fixed on the ceiling, finally darted to Bradley’s face. "When will this be over?" he managed, his voice strained.

Bradley’s only response was to twist Max’s nipple sharply. Max bucked against the restraints, a gasp of pain escaping his lips. "I'm serious," Bradley insisted, his voice hardening. "Ask me anything."

Max’s chest heaved, his gaze returning to the ceiling. He took a few ragged breaths, then he asked, "How's your mom?"

Bradley’s hand froze on Max’s chest, the air in the room suddenly thick with an unspoken tension. "Why are you asking about my mom?" he demanded.

"Someone told me she was sick," Max answered, his voice barely audible.

Bradley’s eyes narrowed. "I don't suppose that person was Mona." Max’s face flushed, an uncomfortable blush spreading across his cheeks, and he nodded. Bradley didn't comment on that, he just let out a long, shuddering sigh.

"She's... not doing well," Bradley admitted, his chest tightening. "She was in the hospital when I went to see her before the qualifying rounds. I didn't come back until the doctors released her home."

A heavy silence descended, broken only by Max’s ragged breathing. Bradley’s thoughts drifted, pulled back to the sterile white walls of the hospital room, to the sight of his mother, so frail and weak, tubes disappearing beneath the blankets.

"I'm sorry," Max whispered, his voice quiet but undeniably genuine.

Bradley’s throat closed. He blinked, fighting back the sudden sting of tears in his eyes, his shaky breath hitting Max’s cheek. The reality of his mother's worsening condition, coupled with the unexpected sincerity in Max’s voice, hit him with a physical force. The unexpected empathy from Max, the very person he was tormenting, twisted something inside him.

A sudden, unexpected bang of rage swelled within Bradley. The raw, genuine sincerity in Max's voice and the unasked-for pity twisted into a knot of furious disgrace. How dare Max offer sympathy? How dare Max, bound and vulnerable, presume to look at Bradley with anything but fear or desire? That wasn't the plan. Bradley wasn't supposed to be showing vulnerability. Max wasn't supposed to be nice to him. This was Max's torment, not Bradley's moment of weakness.

He suddenly sat bolt upright, straddling Max's hips. Max, still bound, looked up, confusion clouding his face at Bradley’s abrupt shift in demeanor. But Bradley paid him no mind. He began to thrust against Max, roughly now, hard and angry. The coarse denim of his jeans grated against Max's bare flesh, a brutal friction that served only to inflame his fury. Max gasped, his body arching, not in pleasure, but in shocked pain and alarm.

Bradley kept thrusting, the cold rage in his eyes boring into Max’s face, where a grimace tightened his jaw, baring the edges of his teeth, while his eyes, wide and unfocused, shimmered with a raw mixture of confusion and pain. This little conniving, manipulative virgin! Bradley screamed internally. He had asked Max mundane questions, offered Max a chance to ask any question, and Max had chosen to pry into something intimate, something that touched on Bradley’s deepest vulnerability. Max was supposed to be broken, begging, suffering. Not offering unwanted pity, not reminding Bradley of his own weaknesses. Bradley leaned in, his face inches from Max's, his teeth bared in a silent snarl, punishing him for the audacity, for the unexpected kindness that felt like the sharpest, most humiliating cut of all.

Bradley’s fury still burned, a hot, acrid taste in his mouth as he dismounted Max, leaving him sprawled and bewildered on the bed. He stalked back to the easel, snatching up a charcoal stick, darker, bolder than the pencil he’d used before. He began to trace over his earlier lines, pressing hard, making the figure on the canvas leap into plain visibility, each stroke a testament to his raw anger. He then grabbed a handful of brushes, dipping them into vibrant, clashing colors. Yellows, reds, and harsh blues splattered onto the canvas, reflecting the turmoil raging inside him.

He glanced at Max, whose gaze was fixed on him, a muddled expression on his face. Max clearly didn't understand what he had done wrong to provoke such a violent shift. And Max couldn't understand. Bradley couldn't be vulnerable with Max, couldn't show weakness. If Max saw even a crack, he would have the upper hand, and Bradley would lose control. The harsh lines on the canvas, the aggressive splash of paint, all made this piece an angry, chaotic reflection of Bradley's momentary loss of control. He wasn't supposed to have an intimate moment with Max, not like that. Max was nothing but a plaything, a tool, a means for Bradley to exert his power and punish the world that had dared to make him feel small.

They were not equals in any way. Bradley was an Uppercrust, the son of a millionaire, destined for greatness. And Max was just… just… Bradley glanced at Max again, their eyes meeting. Max’s large eyes were unreadable, holding a quiet dignity even in his humiliation. He was the X-Games champion, Mona’s white knight, beloved by his goofy dad and loyal friends, the hero who had saved Bradley’s best friend. And that, Bradley realized with a fresh surge of bitterness, was precisely the problem.

Max was everything Bradley was supposed to be: naturally talented, genuinely liked, effortlessly good. Bradley had to work, to scheme, to manipulate to maintain his position, while Max simply existed, shining without effort. Max’s innate goodness, his unassuming heroism in saving Tank, his effortless charisma that drew people to him like a moth to a flame, these were qualities Bradley yearned for but could never truly possess. Max's very existence, his simple, unadorned light, was a constant, infuriating reminder of Bradley's own carefully constructed facade and the hollowness beneath it. He couldn't stand the thought of Max having everything he secretly desired, especially when Max didn't even seem to try for it. That was why Max needed to be broken; only then could Bradley truly feel superior.

This, then, was Bradley’s absolute conviction: he could not allow himself to be drawn into Max’s insidious web of goodness. He had to tear himself away, to create an irreparable chasm between them. The only way to achieve this was to humiliate Max, to inflict pain, to drive the boy to absolute hatred. If Max hated him, truly despised him, there would be no more lingering kindness in those wide eyes, no more treacherous sincerity in his voice, and certainly no more of these disturbing, intimate moments that blurred the lines of their carefully constructed power dynamic. Their interactions needed to be clinical, cold, nothing more than the sterile agreement Max had signed, a model for Bradley’s artistic whims, a blank canvas upon which Bradley could project his will, stripped of any inconvenient humanity.

Bradley finally stepped back from the easel, charcoal smudged on his fingers, a profound sense of satisfaction settling in his chest. This piece, unlike anything he’d created before, crackled with a raw, almost violent energy. The harsh, aggressive lines, the furious splashes of paint, it was a true reflection of his uncontrolled fury, a vibrant testament to the volatile anger that had seized him.

He glanced at Max, still gazing at him with that quiet, unnerving stillness. Bradley's lips twisted into a condescending smirk. "There," he announced, his voice tight, rougher than he intended. He turned the canvas around, presenting it. "Done. You look… ravishing, Max. A true muse." The word "ravishing" came out choked, a desperate attempt to maintain his composure and the illusion of control.

Max’s eyes simply stared at the painting. Bradley watched his face, searching for a flicker of shame, a hint of outrage, anything he could latch onto. But Max’s expression remained blank, a perfect, unreadable mask. Bradley’s frustration simmered. He wanted a reaction, a crack in that quiet dignity. Eventually, he let out a frustrated sigh. He couldn't get into Max's skin.

With a shrug that felt more like a concession, Bradley moved to the bed. He unchained Max’s wrists, then his ankles. "I'll see you here again tomorrow at five," he stated.

Max sat up slowly, a grunt escaping him as he swung his legs off the bed. His limbs were stiff and sore from being tied for so long. Bradley watched him, a silent observer as Max, moving with a deliberate slowness, collected his clothes from the floor and began to dress. Max pulled up his pants, then stopped, his gaze lifting to meet Bradley’s.

"Done admiring the masterpiece, Brad?" Max asked dryly. "My modeling for the day is over."

Bradley’s nostrils flared. He turned away sharply, beginning to gather his own sketching materials and paints as Max continued to pull on his shirt, then his socks and shoes. The atmosphere in the room grew thick and quiet, heavy with unspoken tension.

As Max headed for the door, Bradley felt an urge to snatch back one last shred of control. "Tomorrow at five!" he yelled after him, his voice cracking slightly with the effort to sound menacing. "Not a minute late!"

Max stiffened at the door, his back to Bradley. Then, without looking back, he left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Bradley alone in the silent, tense room.

Bradley's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching furiously in his temple. The rage, which had momentarily subsided during his forced artistic endeavor, now surged back with a vengeance. Max's blank face, his dry wit, his infuriating composure, it was all a deliberate defiance, a mocking indifference to Bradley's power. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Max was supposed to be subservient. But Max, with his quiet resilience and unexpected defiance, had twisted the knife in a wound Bradley hadn't even known was open. Tomorrow, Max would learn. Tomorrow, Bradley would unleash a hell so profound, so humiliating, the sophomore wouldn't even recognize himself. He would shatter that infuriating composure, strip away every last shred of Max's dignity, and ensure that the boy would never again dare to look at him with anything but pure fear.

~*~*~*~*~

The dorm room was quiet, sunlight streaming through the blinds in dusty shafts. Bradley let himself into Max, PJ, and Bobby’s room with the spare key he’d duplicated long ago. He moved with a quiet fury, his anger a low, constant hum beneath his skin. Max had dared to defy him, to mock him, and now Bradley needed something more, a new weapon to wield in their twisted game. He needed a weakness, something he could exploit, something that would truly break the boy.

He started with Max’s desk, rummaging through drawers, sifting through notebooks and discarded papers. He moved to the small closet, running his hands over Max’s clothes, his nose wrinkling at the scent of cheap laundry detergent. Nothing. Just the mundane clutter of a typical college student. His frustration mounted with each empty search. Max was too simple, too… ordinary. Where were the hidden vulnerabilities?

Then, tucked beneath a stack of old skate magazines on a dusty shelf, he found it: a small, battered photo album. Bradley’s fingers twitched as he opened it. Inside were dozens of pictures, mostly candid snapshots of Max’s life before college. There were goofy photos with PJ, awkward school pictures, and then, a recurring face: the redheaded girl he'd seen in the photo he'd taken. Her smile bright, her arm often slung around Max’s shoulders. Pictures of them at a park, at a school dance, laughing together on a faded porch swing. Could she be his sweetheart? His Achilles' heel? A fresh, predatory glint entered Bradley’s eyes. This wasn't just a casual friend; this was someone deeply ingrained in Max's past, someone who clearly meant something to him.

A slow, satisfied smirk spread across Bradley’s face. He carefully replaced the album, returning every single item to its original, undisturbed position. He didn't want Max to suspect his presence. Once the room was meticulously restored, Bradley slipped out, the door closing silently behind him.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb already dialing a number. It rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "Tony? It's Bradley Uppercrust. I need you to look someone up for me."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley traced the outline of the redheaded girl's smile on the stolen photograph, his thumb brushing over Max's arm slung around her. The backyard ramp, the easy laughter, the undeniable affection in their eyes, it was a snapshot of a life Max had lived, a happiness Bradley intended to shatter. Roxanne, the girl from the photo he'd taken, the one Max had clearly held dear. Bradley knew exactly how to make Max pay for his earlier insolence.

The door clicked open, and Max stepped inside, his face a mask of weary resignation. He closed the door behind him. Bradley let him stand there for a moment, absorbing Max’s quiet submission.

"Welcome back," Bradley drawled, his voice a silken thread of condescension. He gestured toward a cold metal chair bolted to the wall, its sides flanked by chains and shackles. The chair had been conveniently draped with cloth, awaiting its purpose. "Let's begin our session, shall we? I have a very specific vision for today."

Max remained silent, his gaze fixed on that intimidating chair. Bradley moved with deliberate slowness, circling Max, his eyes assessing, calculating. "And of course, for a true artistic rendering, we'll need to remove these pesky distractions." Bradley's gaze swept over Max's clothes. "Undress," he commanded with a dry tone. He knelt against the wall, watching Max take off his clothes with stiff movements, placing them next to the door. Max stood naked, trembling slightly in the cool motel room air.

Bradley then guided Max to the hard, cold metal chair. He forced Max to sit, his body rigid in protest. With practiced efficiency, Bradley secured Max’s arms, chaining them to the wall on each side of his head, pulling them taut. Then came the legs. Bradley gripped Max’s ankles, slowly, deliberately, forcing them outwards, pushing them into a full 180-degree split, far to the back, until Max’s privates were displayed in full, agonizing view. He secured Max’s ankles to chains on the wall, ensuring the pose was fixed and unyielding. The boy was flexible, Bradley noted with a detached appreciation; a true athlete, after all. Max’s body quivered with strain, but the pose held, a perfect, humiliating tableau for Bradley’s artistic vision.

This was the Max he wanted: an object, a mannequin, his vulnerability highlighted for Bradley's perverse pleasure.

Once Max was positioned, trembling slightly, Bradley pulled out his cellphone. He scrolled through his contacts, a triumphant gleam in his eye, and pressed a number. He put the call on speakerphone.

"Hello?"

Max’s eyes, which had been fixed on the floor, snapped up, widening in horror as the feminine voice answered.

"Hi, Roxanne," Bradley said cheerfully. He savored the horrified expression that bloomed on Max’s face, the sudden, desperate flicker of panic in his eyes.

"Who's speaking?" Roxanne’s voice came through the speaker.

"I'm a friend of Max Goof," Bradley replied, his gaze never leaving Max.

"Oh, Max!" Roxanne's voice brightened considerably, a wave of warmth emanating from the phone. Max’s head dropped, his shoulders hunching, as if trying to shrink into himself. His breath hitched, a small, choked sound.

"Yes, Max is here," Bradley continued, enjoying every nuance of Max’s agony. "We were just having a friendly debate. He was just telling me he was prom king at his senior prom, and I said, 'No way!' I mean, Max? Prom king?"

A light laugh bubbled from the phone. "Yes, he was!" Roxanne confirmed, her voice full of genuine amusement and affection. "He looked so surprised when they announced it!"

Figures, Bradley thought resentfully. "Well, he's here now," he said, forcing a cheerful tone. "He says hi."

"Oh, can I speak to him?" Roxanne asked eagerly.

Bradley moved the phone close to Max’s ear. Max hesitated, his body trembling. He finally managed to whisper, his voice thin and shaking, "Hey, Roxanne."

"Max, are you okay?" Roxanne's concern was immediate. "You sound… weird. Do you have a cold?"

"Yeah," Max croaked, his gaze darting to Bradley, then back to the floor. "Just… a cold."

Bradley took the phone, removing it from speaker. "Sorry, Roxanne," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for Max to hear every word. "Max is a little under the weather, but he wanted me to tell you he's going to send you a special photo. You know, a real keepsake. And he said he knows your address."

He ended the call, a triumphant smirk on his face. Max’s eyes, wide and terrified, were fixed on him. Bradley walked to his bag, pulling out a cheap, plastic prom crown, the kind one might buy at a party store. He approached Max, placing the flimsy crown on his head. "Roxanne deserves to see a real picture, don't you think?" he purred. He then produced a digital camera.

"No!" Max finally cried out, his voice raw, desperate. "You said! We agreed! You’re going to keep our modeling sessions a secret!"

Bradley laughed. He raised the camera, aiming it at Max’s disgraced, crowned form. "Our agreement was not telling your dad and the people on this campus. Roxanne doesn't go to this college, does she?" He snapped the picture, the flash momentarily blinding Max, capturing his agony in a single, damning frame.

Bradley lowered the camera, his gaze cold and calculating as he looked at Max, still shackled and crowned. "Now, the question is," Bradley mused aloud, his voice dripping with false contemplation, "should I send this little keepsake to Roxanne or not?"

Max’s body trembled, his eyes wide with terror. "No! Please, no!" he choked out, his voice raw with desperation. "Don't... don't send it to her! I'm begging you!"

Bradley’s smirk widened. "Begging, are we? Good. Then you'll understand the conditions." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, menacing drone. "First, you don't say a word while we're here. You forget you have a working voice. And second, you do whatever I ask, no questions asked." He grabbed Max’s chin, his fingers digging in slightly, forcing Max’s eyes to meet his. "Do I make myself clear?"

Tears brimming in his eyes but holding them back, Max nodded, a single, jerky motion of his head.

"Good," Bradley muttered, releasing his chin.

Bradley walked back to the easel, positioning himself behind the canvas. A wave of satisfaction washed over him. This was better. This was control. He picked up his charcoal, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. No more intimate moments with Max, no more unsettling urges to kiss him. Max was nothing but a canvas, and he did nothing to Bradley. He ignored the way Max, still bound and trembling in that degrading pose, was making Bradley hot despite himself. He would simply channel that forbidden arousal into his art, turning Max’s humiliation into his triumph.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Max sat on his bed, his back pressed against the cool wall, knees drawn up to his chest. His face was half-hidden by his arms, folded on top of his upturned knees. His drained eyes stared blankly ahead, fixed on the empty space between Bobby and PJ's bunk beds, seeing nothing and everything at once. Exhaustion, bone-deep and pervasive, weighed him down, rendering him incapable of even the simplest action.

It had been more than a week now, nine grueling days to be exact, since his life had shrunk to this unbearable cycle. He'd missed classes, his skateboard lay untouched in the corner, and he hadn't left his room except for the scheduled sessions with Bradley. Hours spent in that motel room, performing acts that even porn channels lacked the imagination to conceive. He squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face in his arms as he recalled yesterday's pose, the memory a fresh, visceral wound.

The constant threat of exposure hung over him, a suffocating weight. Bradley had physical evidence of every demeaning moment, every compromising pose captured on canvas. If Max so much as sneezed wrong, Bradley might unleash the paintings, the countless degrading versions of him, for all the world to see. There were a few, mercifully, that depicted him innocently: sleeping, studying, or simply sitting in class, lost in thought about Bradley's next sick demand. But the vast majority were humiliating, a persistent reminder of his captivity. And then there was that photo, the one of him crowned and exposed, the chilling promise to send it to Roxanne if he dared to break either of Bradley's two conditions: speak a word or refuse an order.

Max let out a choked sigh, feeling defeated. He slowly lay back, pulling the blanket over himself, as if the thin fabric could somehow shield him from his reality. His eyes, heavy and despairing, regarded the clock on the nightstand. 3:41 PM. Soon he would have to go back to that motel room and endure it all over again.

A soft knock broke the silence of the dorm room.

"Hey, Max," PJ whispered. "Bobby and Tina are hitting up the FroYo joint. Want to come?"

Max just wanted the world to disappear. He didn't have the energy to move, let alone pretend to enjoy a frozen treat. "Nah," Max mumbled, his voice muffled by the blanket. "Just gonna lie here for a bit before my tutoring session."

PJ didn't move, and Max felt his friend's gaze linger. "That tutoring session," PJ said slowly, a hint of concern in his voice. "You've been going consistently, but you're still not hitting up any classes."

Max's eyes flickered open, annoyance creeping through his exhaustion. "Your point?"

"Max, I have every right to be suspicious," PJ retorted, his voice gaining a desperate edge. "You're not yourself."

"PJ, could you just leave me alone?" Max snapped, covering himself entirely, trying to disappear.

Suddenly, PJ's voice choked, making Max look up. Tears welled in his friend's eyes, glistening. "Max," PJ whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Just tell me what I should do? I can't stand seeing you like this."

Max closed his eyes again, a fresh wave of exhaustion washing over him. Pretending to be okay had been a chore at the beginning, a draining effort to maintain the illusion of normalcy for his friends. Now, it was torture. The weight of his secret was crushing him, and he knew if he let down his guard, even for a moment, they would press him, push him, until the truth spilled out. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't risk them finding out, couldn't risk them seeing the disgusting reality of his days. He had to go back to pretending. He had to force himself to be the Max they knew.

With a superhuman effort, Max sat up, plastering a weak smile on his face. He even managed a sarcastic chuckle. "Whoa, buddy. You're gonna short-circuit your tear ducts with that waterworks display." He clapped his friend's shoulder, the gesture feeling alien and forced. "How about that frozen yogurt?"

PJ flinched, startled by the sudden shift in Max's attitude, by the return of his usual playful sarcasm. Max saw the confusion on PJ's face, but he just maintained the strained smile. He had to keep pretending. He had to force himself back into classes, into the familiar routine of the Bean Scene, onto his skateboard. He had to become Max Goof again, or risk losing everything.

~*~*~*~*~

The fluorescent lights of the FroYo joint seemed too bright, the cheerful chatter too loud. Max picked at his frozen yogurt, a sickly sweet concoction he barely tasted. He forced a grin, nudging Bobby. "So, you guys think pineapple belongs on a pizza and in a FroYo? What's next, a pineapple-flavored toothpaste?" He even managed a strained laugh.

Bobby clapped him on the back, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Dude! You're back! The slump is officially over!"

Tina, however, looked at him with a different kind of intensity. "Max," she said gently, "if you're feeling down, that's what therapy is for. It's not..."

"Whoa, T! Chill!" Bobby cut in, giving her a playful shove. "Max isn't crazy! He just needed a little Goof-time R&R, you know?"

Tina rolled her eyes. "Bobby, therapy isn't just for 'crazy' people. It's for anyone who needs to talk through stuff, to get help when things feel heavy."

Max quickly interjected, plastering his most convincing smile. "Guys, I'm fine. Really. I'm okay now."

Tina's brow furrowed. "But Max, those panic episodes you had on the ramp... remember?"

"I'm over that," Max insisted, a forced lightness in his tone. He caught PJ's eye across the table. PJ was watching him, a silent, unreadable gaze that felt like it saw too much.

Max glanced at the clock on the joint's wall. It was 4:50 PM. His stomach clenched. "Alright, guys, gotta bounce," he announced, pushing his half-eaten FroYo away. "Big tutoring session. Math, you know."

PJ, surprisingly, stood up. "Actually, I could use some math tutoring too. Mind if I tag along?"

Max felt a jolt of panic. "Uh, maybe next time, PJ. My tutor's got a strict one-on-one policy."

"How about now," PJ countered, a challenging glint in his eye, his arms crossed.

"Let me just check with the tutor first, okay?" Max said, his voice betraying a tremor he hoped PJ wouldn't notice.

PJ shrugged. "Fine."

Max spun on his heel and practically fled to the pay phone stand near the exit. His hands were clammy, fumbling with the coins. He could feel sweat prickling on his forehead. His heart hammered against his ribs. He punched in Bradley's number, his finger shaking so badly he almost missed a digit.

Bradley answered on the first ring, his voice flat. "Why aren't you on your way here? Only ten minutes till it's five."

"I... I won't be able to come today," Max stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

A chilling, humorless laugh came from Bradley's end. "That's not part of the deal, Max."

"PJ's starting to suspect something," Max pleaded, his gaze darting to the glass storefront where his friends were still visible, oblivious.

"Not my problem, Max," Bradley's voice cut in, cold and sharp. "If you don't show up today, I will display the canvases all over campus. With a specially wrapped package sent directly to your dad."

Max squeezed his eyes shut, a defeated sigh escaping him. "Okay, okay. I'm coming."

He hung up the phone, staring at the brightly lit FroYo joint through the glass, at the blurry figures of his friends laughing inside. He pressed his eyes shut again, a silent scream building in his chest. Then, he started to run. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, pushing past the pain in his lungs, his only hope to get to that motel room on time, before Bradley unleashed hell.

Max’s lungs burned, a searing pain with every desperate gasp for air. He burst through the motel parking lot, his legs screaming in protest, the neon glow of the "Vacancy" sign mocking his frantic pace. He reached the door, his trembling hands fumbling with the keys, each second an agonizing eternity. The lock finally clicked, and he shoved the door open, stumbling into the stale, unbreathing air of the room.

Bradley was already there, sitting casually on the edge of the bed, perfectly composed, an air of expectant menace about him. He pointed a finger at his expensive watch, a glint of cruel amusement in his eyes. "Seven minutes late," he stated.

Max stood panting, his chest heaving, trying to force words past the constriction in his throat. "I… I was…" he began, but Bradley’s eyes shot him a cold, unwavering stare, a silent warning that cut through Max's fear. Max clamped his mouth shut. He had forgotten the first condition.

"Close the door," Bradley ordered, his voice sharp, "and take off your clothes."

Max kicked the door shut, then began to undress. His gloves, his hoodie, then his pants, his socks, his shoes. Each item of clothing peeled away felt like shedding another layer of his rapidly diminishing dignity. He folded them neatly, placing them on the worn chair by the door, then stood naked, awaiting Bradley's next command.

Bradley reached beside him on the bed and picked up a black whip, its braided leather glinting under the dim light. Max’s entire body tensed, a cold dread seizing his chest. He's going to whip me, the thought screamed in his mind, his breath catching.

But Bradley merely held the whip, not raising it. "Stand at the foot of the bed," he instructed, his gaze sweeping over Max’s exposed form. Max shuffled forward. Bradley then stood, retrieving a set of heavy, clanking chains from beneath the bed. He reached up, fastening them to a sturdy, reinforced beam he’d installed discreetly in the ceiling directly above the foot of the bed. He gestured for Max to turn around until his back was to the bed, and to raise his hands over his head. Max complied, his arms aching as he stretched them upward. Bradley swiftly snapped the shackles around Max’s wrists, chaining them to the overhead beam. Max tugged, an attempt to lower his arms, but they were forced rigidly above his head, holding him in a position of unbearable defenselessness.

Bradley then sauntered over to the wooden box Max dubbed the "Mary Poppins box" and rummaged inside. He pulled out a red leather collar, studded with small, sharp-looking spikes. Max stared at it, feeling a strange sense of detached acceptance. After nine days of wearing humiliating crap, a collar wasn't so bad now. It was almost… expected.

Bradley approached, a condescending smirk on his face as he fastened the collar around Max’s neck. "There," he purred, adjusting it slightly. "Fits you perfectly. Looks like you were born to wear it."

Max sighed as the familiar routine began, the usual teasing and fondling now accompanied by new tools that, despite everything, still managed to push him closer to ecstasy. Once Bradley deemed him adequately "painting worthy," he stepped back to the canvas, picking up his charcoal. Max’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body a battlefield of torment and sensation, struggling desperately to control the hot waves that wracked him. He stared at a point on the far wall, a chipped patch of paint, and began his escape routine.

This mental retreat had become his lifeline, a fragile tether to sanity in most of the degrading poses he was forced into. When Bradley began to draw, Max would focus on a specific spot in the room, and his mind would simply… leave. Sometimes Bradley caught him, his sharp eyes noticing the subtle disconnect, and Max would pay for it. But other times, he got away with it. His mind would drift to simpler times, usually childhood memories, a refuge from the present horror. He remembered the time Pete had forced him and PJ to take Pistol to an abandoned circus. Pistol had been dead serious about saving all the neglected animals. Another memory surged, vivid and warm: when Max had desperately wanted a pet of his own. He’d found what he thought was a dinosaur egg, and his dad, Goofy, had been dead set on Max getting a small, manageable pet. So Max, with PJ’s reluctant help, had hidden the egg, even convincing PJ to sit on it to keep it warm. Then, against all odds, the egg had hatched, and out popped Bubbles. Max had gone to great lengths, inventing elaborate schemes, to hide her from his dad and Pete.

His musings, however, were brutally interrupted. A sharp, stinging slap across his thigh brought him crashing back to the present. He stared at Bradley’s angry face. "Eyes on me," Bradley commanded.

Max’s gaze, now fully returned, met Bradley’s. He looked silently at Bradley as he continued to sketch him. He felt the ceaseless ache in his shoulders and arms, held unnaturally high by the shackles. The cool motel air sent shivers across his bare skin, making the tiny hairs stand on end. His body, slowly calming from its frustrated, overstimulated state, now settled into a low, simmering hum of tension. It was a familiar pattern, one he knew all too well. The calm meant only one thing: Bradley was going to fondle him again.

Bradley moved in, his arm wrapping around Max’s torso, pulling him tight against his clothed body. At the same moment, his other hand found Max’s member, beginning to squeeze with firm, calculated pressure. Max gasped, a raw, choked sound escaping him as his head instinctively fell onto Bradley’s shoulder. He inhaled sharply, the faint, clean scent of expensive cologne filling his nostrils. Bradley’s nose nuzzled into the hair at the back of Max’s head, a habit that had formed whenever their heads were close. Bradley pulled him even closer, and Max’s head settled on the older boy’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt a soft was smooth against Max’s cheek. That brief, unsettling moment of intimacy was abruptly shattered by Bradley gripping and twisting harder on his member. Max bucked and writhed, a desperate, animalistic response to the agonizing pressure. He was squeezed and fondled into a state of painful, unbearable frustration, every nerve ending screaming a silent plea for release that Bradley simply ignored.

Finally, just as Max felt he couldn't take another second, Bradley pulled away. Max was left again, flushed and trembling, his breathing ragged, his body aching with need. Bradley returned to the canvas, picking up his charcoal to complete the sketch, his eyes occasionally flicking back to Max, admiring his handiwork.

Max swayed slightly, his legs aching, a dull throb that resonated from his frantic run to the motel. He hadn't sat down since bursting through the door, and every muscle screamed in protest against standing for so long. He prayed Bradley wouldn't take long with the sketch, then the painting, but who was he kidding? Bradley always took an excruciatingly long time, meticulously dragging his canvas to perfection, while Max had to endure, his body fighting a losing battle against the gnawing frustration of unfulfilled desire.

He is was, at least, grateful that Bradley hadn’t used the sex tools this time. The memory of them made his skin prickle, a phantom echo of the sharp, pinching sensation that had often brought tears to his eyes and made his teeth clench in silent agony during past visits. He’d been sure Bradley would use them today as a punishment for being late. Yet, for now, there was only the constant, teasing fondling and the relentless strain of his position, leaving him suspended between torment and a desperate, agonizing need.

After a long hour, probably two, of Max standing rigid, of Bradley pausing his brushstrokes only to fondle him back into that preferred state of aroused frustration, Bradley was finally done. He stepped back from the easel, a triumphant glint in his eyes. It had become a twisted ritual, this moment: the unveiling of the finished art piece. Bradley would turn the canvas, presenting it to Max. And every single time, without fail, Max would be hit with a deep sense of mortification, a wave of sickening shame as he imagined his dad or his friends looking at that piece, at him, exposed and degraded for Bradley’s twisted amusement.

Bradley surveyed his finished canvas. He then turned to Max, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips. "Alright, Max," he said, his voice holding an ominous cheerfulness. "Time for the second piece."

Max’s breath hitched. A second piece? His stomach clenched, a cold dread seizing him. How long would that take? This was it, then. Bradley’s punishment for being seven minutes late. He felt a wave of despair, his body already protesting the thought of more hours of torture.

Bradley moved with unhurried purpose, walking to the head of the bed. He reached up, unfastening the shackles that had held Max’s arms suspended for what felt like an eternity. A brief, exquisite wave of relief washed over Max’s shoulders and arms, the strained muscles screaming in protest but finally allowed a moment’s respite. But the relief was fleeting, brutally short-lived.

"Down," Bradley commanded, pushing Max firmly to his knees. He then produced a coil of rough, itchy rope, pulling it from the same "Mary Poppins box." Bradley grabbed Max's left wrist, pulling it to the sturdy pole at the foot of the bed. He wrapped the rope around it, pulling it tight, so tight that Max actually hissed, a low grunt of pain escaping him as the coarse fibers dug into his skin, bruising already tender flesh. Bradley did the same with Max's other wrist, securing it to the opposite pole, leaving Max’s arms stretched wide and taut. Max tugged to ease the pressure, his eyes darting to Bradley, trying to convey the searing pain, but Bradley ignored him, his gaze already moving on.

He forced Max's legs to extend straight back, underneath the bed frame, leaving him balanced precariously on his knees, his torso arched forward. Max's arms, already strained from the previous pose and given no time to recover, were now stretched in an unmoving, agonizing spread. Bradley then brought the black whip into play. He tapped Max’s inner thighs with the whip's tip, a light, teasing pressure that made Max flinch. "Spread your thighs," Bradley instructed, "More. Give me some room." Max complied, his body trembling, as the whip gently guided his legs further apart, ensuring his most private parts were visibly presented for the coming sketch.

Bradley stepped back, eyeing him critically, a chilling satisfaction on his face. Max was now perfectly positioned, his body held in agonizing tension, completely exposed. "There," Bradley purred, his voice laced with mock admiration. "You look like a star, Max."

Max tugged on the blood-cutting ropes, a low whimper escaping him, desperate to convey the raw agony blossoming in his wrists.

Bradley’s eyes narrowed, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Oh, what's this?" he scoffed, his voice dripping with malice. "Already whimpering? Looks like you're enjoying the pose too much, little Maxie."

Max’s mind screamed for a swift conclusion, a desperate hope that Bradley would simply sketch him now and be done with it. But that wouldn't do, of course. Bradley needed him fully erect, his body a trembling testament to a complete state of agonizing torment. Bad enough he was already in pain, his bruised wrists throbbing, his strained muscles screaming; he also had to suffer the relentless burn of painful arousal.

Bradley crouched in front of him, his gaze piercing, and began to fondle Max's privates. Max felt a wave of profound degradation, like he was in some animal trade market, a prize bull being inspected, prodded, and assessed for worth. His body, betraying him, responded despite his revulsion, swelling under Bradley’s touch. After an immeasurable span, when Bradley was satisfied Max was on the verge of imploding, he finally stood and returned to his easel, beginning to sketch.

Max’s muscles screamed, a deep ache in his arms from being pulled taut and high, a searing burn in his thighs from the unnatural splay. But overshadowing it all was the raw, throbbing pulse of unfulfilled arousal, a relentless, burning need that twisted his gut. The combination of pain and desire was overwhelming, a cacophony that consumed his senses, trapping him entirely in the moment. He couldn't escape, couldn't find his usual mental refuge. His mind was locked in the mortifying reality of his body.

Max's mind endlessly circled the same excruciating question: When would these sessions finally be over? Bradley had delivered his chilling pronouncement only once: they would end when he grew bored. Max had pondered that every night, the terrifying uncertainty gnawing at his soul. Would this nightmare stretch until Bradley graduated this year? Or would Bradley still demand his humiliating presence even after he left college, probably returning to torment him during breaks, or even after he started his illustrious career? Bradley could easily marry some high-class socialite, father a brood of spoiled, rich kids, and still he'd want to keep up this twisted game.

And if, by some miracle, it ever did end, what would Bradley do with all these canvases, these damning portraits of Max's humiliation? He'd most likely use them as leverage, a silent threat to keep Max in line, a personal slave for eternity, bound not by chains but by shame and fear. Max had come to this grim conclusion a few nights ago: he would never live a normal life. His good days, filled with laughter, skateboarding, and the easy camaraderie of friends, were far behind him. If this continued, Max knew, he would be a hollowed-out shell, stripped of the passion to pursue anything he once loved, incapable of forming a healthy, stable relationship with anyone. His future was a desolate landscape, barren of joy or hope.

Bradley crouched in front of Max again, his gaze lingering on Max’s strained form, the forced arch of his back, the exposed vulnerability. He reached out, his fingers closing around Max’s privates, beginning the familiar, tormenting rhythm. Max heard Bradley’s voice, a low purr, "Truly stunning, Max. Absolutely delicious in this pose. You really do have a knack for it, don't you?"

Max’s eyes, though still wide, were fixed on some distant point beyond Bradley’s shoulder, a new, unsettling blankness settling over them. There was no fire, no anger, no desperate plea left within him. His body still responded, a faint tremor running through him, a subtle hardening under Bradley’s touch, but it felt almost mechanical, a reflex devoid of will. Max’s lips, slightly parted, offered no sound, no gasp, no whimper. It was a jaded, numb reaction, a profound emptiness that had taken root deep inside him.

"Such a natural," Bradley continued, his voice laced with mock admiration, squeezing gently. Max felt the pressure, the sensation, but it was distant, as if happening to someone else. He heard the words, "You make this look effortless, freshman. As if you were born for it." Bradley leaned closer, his breath warm on Max’s skin, but Max remained unmoving, his gaze unwavering, like a statue carved from despair. The frantic bucking, the desperate wiggling of previous sessions, were absent. Max simply endured, his body a canvas for Bradley’s art, his mind seemingly miles away, a fortress Bradley couldn't breach. He felt the ceaseless pressure, the agonizing buildup, but his spirit had retreated, leaving only a shell to bear the torment.

After what felt like endless hours of agony, of humiliating fondling and relentless verbal teasing, Bradley’s second piece was finally over. It looked more mortifying than the last one. His body screaming in protest, Max felt a deep, profound sense of relief. It was over for the day. Or so he thought.

Bradley stood up, looking down at him, a chilling glint in his eye. "It's a shame to ruin this perfect pose," Bradley said. "Tell you what, for your punishment for being late, you're gonna stay in this pose until our session tomorrow."

Max’s blood ran cold. Horror, raw and visceral, seized him. His body convulsed. The ropes, still digging into his wrists, now felt like searing brands, each throb of pain echoing through his arms, which felt like they were being torn from their sockets. His shoulders burned, his chest muscles screamed, and his thighs, splayed and exposed, quivered with exhaustion and strain. He tried to speak, to protest, but only a desperate hiss escaped his clenched teeth, followed by a low, guttural grunt. He looked at Bradley, his eyes wide and pleading, desperately trying to convey the agony in his wrists, nodding frantically towards them.

Bradley, however, merely smirked, misinterpreting Max's distress. "What's that, freshman? You're enjoying this too much, aren't you?"

The taunt, the complete lack of understanding, snapped something in Max. "My wrists!" he choked out, the words ripped from him.

Bradley’s eyes flashed with instant anger. He stepped forward, grabbing Max’s chin, his fingers digging in. "Did you forget the conditions, Max? One more word, and that photo goes straight to Roxanne."

But then, Bradley stopped. Max’s eyes, glistening with unshed tears of pure pain, were fixed on him, and he nodded again at the raw, chafed skin where the ropes bit deep. Bradley’s gaze dropped to Max’s wrists. Max heard a sharp hiss from Bradley, a sound of genuine shock. "Shit," Bradley muttered, his voice uncharacteristically devoid of its usual condescension.

Quickly, Bradley began to cut the ropes. The coarse fibers parted with a series of sharp snaps. When the last one gave way, Max’s arms dropped against his sides. Bradley crouched in front of him, gently taking Max’s wrists in his hands. Max looked down, and a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Angry red welts circled his wrists, the skin chafed raw, already beginning to swell, with thin lines of broken capillaries visible beneath the surface. Bradley’s face was etched with genuine horror as he stared at the damage.

Max wanted nothing more than to collapse, to simply sit down. His knees and thighs were screaming, stiff and sore from hours of holding that excruciating pose. Bradley seemed to understand. Without a word, he gently guided Max, his touch surprisingly careful, helping him to lower himself to the floor. Max’s muscles screamed in protest as he shifted, a shuddering collapse that ended with a grunt as he finally sat, the relief immediate yet accompanied by a fresh wave of throbbing pain as blood rushed back into his extremities.

Bradley stood up urgently, moving to his bag. He quickly pulled out a first aid kit. He knelt before Max again, his expression now solemn, almost grim, as he began to clean and treat Max’s raw wrists. Max stared at Bradley’s face, watching the unexpected concern etched there. As Bradley worked, his touch surprisingly gentle, he finally spoke, his voice low and sincere. "I'm sorry, Max. I didn't know they were hurting you too bad."

Max felt a strange, unsettling sensation. After weeks of relentless cruelty, of calculated torment and cutting taunts, this sudden gentleness from Bradley felt bizarre, completely out of place. It was a kindness Max hadn't expected, and it left him feeling more confused than ever.

Bradley finished treating Max’s raw wrists and he carefully secured the gauze with medical tape. He then sat back, his gaze meeting Max’s. "That," Bradley stated, his voice returning to its usual detached calm, "doesn't mean you're not going to be punished." He paused, a cruel glint in his eyes. "You're staying the night here, Max."

Max’s breath hitched. PJ and his friends were already suspicious. If he didn't show up at the dorm room, if they woke in the morning and his bed was empty, they might call the police. He opened his mouth, a desperate plea forming on his lips. "But PJ…"

"Shh," Bradley interrupted, firmly pressing a finger to Max's lips. His eyes held a silent, chilling warning. Max clamped his mouth shut, the words dying in his throat.

Bradley then helped Max, who was still naked, to the bathroom. Max stood inside, his mind racing, his stomach clenching with dread. What would happen if he didn't show up? If PJ and Bobby woke up in the morning and his bed was empty? The thought of their worry, their possible search, was a stark contrast to his present helplessness.

After Max was done, Bradley led him back to the bed. He laid Max down, then, with practiced ease, chained his arms to the headboard and his legs to the foot of the bed. Max wished desperately that Bradley would leave his arms unchained, just for tonight. They were throbbing, a deep, persistent ache from hours of being stretched and tied.

Bradley climbed onto the bed, settling beside him, and used Max's sore upper arm as a pillow. Bradley’s presence beside him was a familiar weight now, something he'd grown accustomed to in this perverse routine. Bradley often lay beside him, bending one knee to rest a thigh and leg across Max’s hips, while a hand would leisure out across Max’s chest. Sometimes, Bradley would even drift into sleep, his breathing evening out, and in his own profound exhaustion, Max would often succumb to slumber as well, depleted by the relentless tension and the physical demands of each day’s pose, never granted the release his body craved.

Now, as Bradley lay beside him, his slightly taller frame casually draped over Max's hip, Max tried to conjure an image of Mona, to imagine they were simply two people in love, entangled on a bed. But the illusion was too fragile, too impossible to maintain. Bradley's presence, both in his reality and his haunting thoughts, was far too consuming. He'd been exposed to Bradley's cruel intimacy far more deeply than he'd ever been with Mona. He thought about Bradley constantly, and not just the dread of what fresh humiliation Bradley had in store. He thought about Bradley's touch, Bradley's nose as it occasionally nuzzled into his hair, Bradley's hand as it sometimes brushed gently against his chest, those small, scattered moments of fleeting, almost accidental, gentleness. He closed his eyes, pretending they shared an equal relationship, just two people unwinding after a long day of classes and campus chaos. But that fantasy was shattered by his naked, bound body pressed against Bradley’s clothed form. Max had never seen Bradley naked; Bradley had made it explicitly clear that Max was not worthy of such a sight. Bradley looked down on him for being younger, for being from a lower class, for not being as academically sharp, all things Bradley had meticulously drilled into him while relentlessly taunting him about his one-sided infatuation. Max couldn't deny that he craved Bradley in every form, a desire as clear as the midday sun. And Bradley was using that very craving for his own twisted amusement. It wouldn't hurt so much, Max thought bitterly, if Bradley actually found him attractive, if Bradley wanted him back, if Bradley yearned for him even a fraction as much as Max yearned for him, if Bradley actually… liked him.

But Bradley didn't. That was the harsh, cruel fact of it. Max was nothing to him. Max was just an object, a toy for Bradley's casual entertainment. It had hurt from their very first sexual interaction in Max's dorm room, when Bradley had simply laughed at him, reveling in the fact that Max harbored such an uncontrollable attraction towards him.

He felt Bradley shift, his weight settling more heavily on Max’s arm, which was already excruciatingly sore. Max shifted too, a useless attempt to find comfort against Bradley’s imposing weight and the searing pain that radiated from his upper arms, through his strained shoulders, and throbbed in his aching wrists. His back, still stiff from hours in contorted poses, protested with every minor movement, and his thighs, rubbed raw from the earlier chaining, burned with a dull, persistent ache. He was trapped, completely immobile beneath Bradley, knowing that this was how he would spend the entire night: naked, bound, and in relentless physical misery, waiting for Bradley’s inevitable return.

A soft chuckle vibrated through Max’s arm. Bradley stirred, then rose from the bed with a languid stretch. "Almost fell asleep," he murmured, a laugh in his voice. "Should get back to the Gammas' house. Early class tomorrow." Max’s jaw clenched. He too had classes, a full schedule he was now missing. But that didn't seem to cross Bradley's mind, or maybe, Max thought bitterly, Bradley simply didn't care.

Bradley ran a soft hand over Max’s stomach, then up his chest. "It's an exciting thought," he mused, a wistful quality to his voice. "Me in my bed, thinking about my boy, bound and waiting for my return." Max resented the casual dismissal of his existence outside these four walls. Bradley didn't care that his "boy" had a life beyond this room: classes, friends who worried about him, a real world that he was now entirely cut off from.

Bradley pulled a thin blanket over Max. "Sweet dreams, my little freshman."

The door clicked shut, plunging the room into a heavy silence. Max lay there, staring miserably at the ceiling. His wrists burned beneath the gauze. His shoulders screamed, muscles stretched beyond their limit. His knees and thighs, raw from hours of kneeling, pulsed with dull pain. A hollow ache spread in his stomach, he hadn't eaten anything all day but that frozen yogurt. The hunger gnawed at him. He dreaded the long, lonely hours ahead, bound and naked, trapped until five PM tomorrow, when Bradley would return to continue his torture.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The sliver of sunlight sliced through the gap in the cheap motel curtains, laying bare the room's grimy secrets. Dust motes danced like tiny, triumphant demons in the golden shafts, illuminating stains on the faded carpet Max hadn't noticed in the dim light of the previous evening. The once-white walls, now a jaundiced yellow, seemed to sag with the weight of countless forgotten occupants. A faint, cloying smell of stale cigarettes and disinfectant hung in the air, a nauseating combination that made his stomach clench.

Max tried to shift, but the attempt sent a fresh wave of agony through his limbs. His arms, bound tightly above his head to the headboard, were numb from the shoulders down, a dead weight that throbbed with pins and needles when he tried to force blood back into them. His wrists, chafed raw from the coarse ropes, burned with a dull, persistent ache. His neck was a stiff, unyielding rod, protesting every slight movement, and his lower back screamed in protest from the unnatural arch of his spine. Every muscle in his body felt like a twisted knot, crying out for release. He was parched, his tongue a sandpaper strip in his mouth, and his stomach rumbled with a hollow, unsatisfied hunger that gnawed at his insides. More than anything, a desperate, insistent need to use the bathroom clawed at him, a humiliating reality that added another layer to his misery.

What time was it? Probably early, but not early enough. He had social sciences at 11 AM, and he actually liked that class. Dr. Evans' lectures were always engaging, pulling him into discussions about societal structures and human behavior. He could almost feel the cool, reassuring weight of his textbook in his hands, hear the murmur of his classmates, the scratching of pens.

Tears, hot and stinging, pricked at his eyes, blurring the ugly details of the room. The sheer, suffocating loss of control choked him. His life was now dictated by someone else's volatile mood swings, subject to their whims and desires. How had it come to this? When did this whole messy nightmare even begin? What had he done to deserve this? Was this some twisted cosmic joke, karma for being a dick to his dad growing up? Especially last year, when his dad was struggling through his final year of college.

Another wasted day would pass with him lying here, his arms getting no reprieve from the constant tension since 5 PM yesterday. He imagined Bradley returning, a new canvas, a new pose, the humiliating ordeal stretching into infinity. Would he be forced to sleep here again? The idea of another night like this was almost unbearable. He should say something, protest, tell Bradley off, yell, scream. But Bradley already had too many degrading paintings, a photograph, too much leverage. He couldn't risk upsetting him, not with the chilling knowledge of the lengths of Bradley's twisted insanity.

The sudden jingle of keys in the motel room door was the sweetest sound Max had heard in what felt like an eternity. A surge of relief, almost dizzying in its intensity, washed over him. Bradley was back. Early. Maybe he’d finally come to his senses.

The door swung open, and Bradley marched in, his face a mask of grim, almost sickly, solemnity. There was no gleam in his eye, no sadistic smirk. He looked… broken. Wordlessly, he went to the headboard and fumbled with the ropes, his hands trembling slightly as he unchained Max's wrists. The sudden release sent a jolt of pins and needles through Max’s arms, but he barely registered the pain.

"There will be no sessions for the next few days," Bradley choked out, his voice raw and thick with unshed tears. Max could see the redness around his eyes, the glistening tracks on his cheeks. Bradley moved to his ankles, his movements jerky, agitated.

"What's wrong?" Max's voice was a rough whisper, parched from disuse and anxiety.

Bradley didn't answer. His lips quivered, and more tears welled, threatening to spill over. A cold dread settled in Max's stomach. He knew. Instantly, he knew. It was the only thing that could break Bradley like this.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Bradley," Max said, his voice imbued with a sincerity that surprised even himself.

Bradley looked up, his eyes meeting Max's, just as he freed his last ankle. The dam broke. Bradley couldn't hold it in any longer. He sank to the floor, a coarse sob tearing from his chest, his body wracked with tremors.

Max managed to grab the rough motel blanket and wrap it around his naked body. His legs felt like jelly, barely able to bear his weight, but he forced himself to move, shuffling slowly towards Bradley, who was now clutching the foot of the bed.

Max crouched down beside him, the cheap carpet rough beneath his knees. He did what Tina had done for him that day he’d been spiraling during the qualifying rounds. He reached out, his hand tentatively finding Bradley's back, and began to rub in slow, comforting circles.

Bradley shifted, his body seeming to stiffen slightly under Max's touch. He lifted his head, his disturbed gaze meeting Max’s for a fleeting moment before he buried his head against Max's bare shoulder, his body heaving with desperate, ragged sobs. The blanket, loosely draped, slipped from Max's shoulders and pooled around his hips. He wrapped his free arm around Bradley, holding him as the other man cried into his embrace. Max had never dealt with someone losing a close relative before, not really. His own mom had died when he was an infant, a grief he'd never truly known. Awkwardly, uncertain of what else to do, he ran a hand through Bradley's hair, a gesture of comfort he hoped was enough.

Bradley pulled back, just slightly, his face still streaked with tears, but his eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, met Max’s. His expression was shattered, a raw depiction of grief Max had never witnessed so intimately. It was as if every fragile piece of Bradley had crumbled. Max felt a strange, uncomfortable pang in his chest, a flicker of something akin to sympathy.

Then, Bradley’s gaze dropped, lingering on Max’s lips. The shift was subtle, a barely perceptible flicker in the depths of his broken eyes, but Max felt a sudden, inexplicable heat spread through him. Bradley’s head dipped, his breath warm on Max’s face, his lips hovering mere inches from his own. Max held his breath, a confusing mix of apprehension and a strange, almost morbid curiosity swirling within him.

But just as quickly as it had appeared, the moment ended. A chilling, almost clinical shift came over Bradley. He shot up to his feet, his movements jerky and violent. Before Max could even register what was happening, Bradley’s hand clamped around his throbbing upper arm and he was slammed onto the bed with a sickening thud. The sudden impact jarred every protesting muscle in Max’s body.

Bradley was on him in an instant, straddling his hips, his face contorted with a tearful, animalistic growl. "You think you can pity me?" he roared, his voice thick with a venom that belied the tears still streaming down his face. "You are nothing! You're less than nothing!"

His hand shot down and grabbed Max’s privates. Max gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath as pain, hot and intense, lanced through him. Bradley squeezed, a brutal, deliberate pressure, and then thrust his hand, grinding down against him.

"You're just a plaything, do you understand?" Bradley snarled, his eyes burning with a cruel fire. He gave one last, harsh shove against Max's hip, grinding his hand in a final, agonizing twist, before he finally pulled away.

He strode out of the room, the door slamming shut with a resounding thud that echoed the emptiness now settling in the room.

Max lay on the bed, his body aching, his mind a jumble of conflicting emotions.

~*~*~*~*~

Max limped back into the dorm room, the ache in his muscles a dull, constant throb. He pushed the door open to find PJ and Bobby sitting on Max's bed, both looking grim. "Hi, guys!" Max chirped, forcing an enthusiastic lilt into his voice, aiming for normalcy, for a return to the easy camaraderie he cherished.

PJ didn't miss a beat. "Bobby, leave us alone."

Bobby cast Max a long, disappointed stare, then, without a word, grabbed his social science book and headed for the door. "Hey, wait up, Bob-Man!" Max called out, pointing at the textbook. "I've got that class too! We can walk over together."

"No, you stay with me," PJ said, his voice flat, intercepting Max’s attempt to escape.

Max managed a weak chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. "What's with the heavy vibes, Peej? Did you accidentally use dish soap in your laundry again?"

PJ looked past the act, his expression unwavering. "Where have you been, Max?"

Max put on his best rogue grin. "Oh, you know, met a girl. Spent the night at her place." He whispered, leaning in conspiratorially with a wink, "She was wild."

PJ’s gaze landed on the edge of the gauze peeking from beneath Max’s hoodie sleeve. Before Max could react, PJ’s hand shot out, seizing his arm and yanking the fabric back. Max tried to appear casual, meeting PJ’s questioning stare with a forced nonchalance, praying his mounting panic wasn't visible. PJ carefully peeled the gauze away, revealing the angry, chafed skin beneath.

"Who did this to you?" PJ demanded, looking horrified.

Max instantly snatched his hand back, pulling his sleeve down and patting the gauze with a dismissive gesture. "Told you she was wild," he said lightly, forcing a laugh that sounded thin and brittle even to his own ears.

PJ sighed, clearly not buying it. "Max, why didn't you wait for me about going to the tutor?"

"Told you," Max feigned exasperation, "he doesn't like me bringing new tutorees. Too much of a distraction to his… intense focus."

"Well," PJ said pointedly, his gaze sharp, stressing the word, "I could have at least met him."

Max forced another lighthearted chuckle, even as his stomach clenched. "Don't worry about him, Peej. I dropped him." He turned, limping towards his desk to gather his social science book and notes, his legs protesting every stiff movement.

"What do you mean?" PJ pressed.

Max grabbed his things, turning back to his friend. "I won't be going to him anymore. Honestly, the guy barely helped with my math, and let's be real," he paused, forcing a wry grin, "I'm still as brain-dead as I was when I started with him." He gave PJ a quick side hug, wincing as a sharp throb shot through his sore shoulder and upper arm. "Don't worry, Peejster. You've got me the whole day. And tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow."

He limped towards the door, PJ calling after him, "Max, are you sure you're okay?"

Max lifted a shaky thumb up, his back to PJ. "Never better, buddy! Just a little extra pep in my step from all that... wildness!" He pulled the door shut behind him, escaping any other questions from PJ.

Max leaned back against the cool wood of the door, letting out a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His limbs throbbed with a dull, pervasive ache, his wrists still burning beneath the gauze. But the physical pain, severe as it was, felt almost secondary to the heavy, crushing weight on his chest. It was the culmination of ten days of agonizing torture at Bradley’s hands, a relentless suffering that now paled in comparison to the immense burden of having to pretend he was okay for his friends and the rest of the world.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Bradley stood in his Gamma house room, a glass of Penfolds Grange, deep ruby in color, in his hand, his gaze fixed on his latest creation. The canvas depicted Max on his knees, the vivid red collar seemed to burn against him, his hands bound tightly to the bedposts. It was a masterpiece of degradation, a testament to Bradley's power. Nothing he enjoyed more about these sessions but to capture Max's raw humiliation. The way Max’s eyes would widen in terror, the way his body would flinch, the desperate, silent pleas. That was the point.

He brought the glass to his lips, the rich, complex wine warming his throat. As the sophisticated notes of fruit and oak settled on his tongue, his senses, unbidden, took him back. He felt the firm, yielding pressure of Max’s muscled upper arm as he'd used it for a pillow, the faint musky scent of Max's thick black hair filling his nostrils. His mind conjured the lean, taut expanse of Max's abs beneath his hand, his fingers tracing the contours of muscle, a memory both illicit and intensely pleasurable. He swallowed, the taste of the wine now mingling with a more primal, unwelcome sensation.

This quiet, casual closeness, he found, was something he surprisingly enjoyed. In those moments, when the posing was done and the canvas put away, simply lying next to Max in bed, sometimes even dozing off, provided an unexpected reprieve from the constant tension. He’d deny it, of course, to anyone, even to himself. He’d rationalize it as a practical matter, a way to pass the time, to ensure Max remained subdued. But there was a strange, almost comforting rhythm to Max’s breathing beside him, the faint scent of his hair, the warmth of his skin. Sometimes, a fleeting thought would cross his mind, a whisper of regret that he’d imposed the "no talking" rule. He'd almost adored that time when he’d asked Max those mundane questions about college life, a casualness that felt oddly normal.

He dismissed it all as irrelevant, a fleeting distraction. What truly mattered was control. He walked to his own plush bed and lay down, stretching out. A slow, possessive satisfaction spread through him as he thought of Max, still tied naked to the motel bed, shivering slightly under that thin blanket, helplessly waiting for him. Max was truly under his mercy, a captive yearning for his return, for his touch. He was Bradley's, to do with as he pleased. And Max liked it. He craved it. He ached for Bradley to offer him more, to push him further. Bradley’s breath hitched, his body growing hard at the thought of Max’s whimpers and moans, his flushed face beneath Bradley’s touch. He lost himself in the intoxicating fantasy of Max’s complete surrender.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of his phone shattered the silence, ripping him from his reverie.

The generic trill of his phone ripped Bradley from his blissful, arousing thoughts. He glanced down at his insistent hard-on, still tenting his pajama bottoms. Flustered, and far from ready to answer, he reached for the device, his eyes darting to the name on the screen: Dad. He took a few shaky breaths, trying to rein in the spreading heat in his body, cleared his throat, and managed a curt "Hello?"

"Bradley." His father's voice was quiet, strangely muted. Not the usual strong, confident tone, but a tight, thin thread, like a string pulled to the point of snapping. "I need you to come home immediately."

Bradley’s chest seized. He could hear the controlled tremor in the syllables, the careful modulation that spoke of immense effort. It was the sound of a man battling a devastating wave, trying desperately not to let it break him. "Is Mom okay?" he asked, sounding somewhat frantic.

Over the phone, his dad took a shuddering, ragged breath, tearing through the silence.

Bradley knew then. He knew it with a brutal stab to the heart. "No way," he denied, the words a desperate plea. "She talked to me this morning. She sounded better."

"I'll arrange your flight for tomorrow at noon," his father's voice came back, strained, rigid with an unyielding grief.

"No, Dad," Bradley choked out, his voice already cracking in its raw disbelief. "There's no way. You're not serious. She's not..." The words dissolved into a harsh, ragged sob that tore from his throat. His father, who had always reproached him for any perceived weakness, for not acting like a man, remained silent on the other end, letting Bradley shatter.

Bradley slammed the phone shut, then hurled it. It spun through the air, hitting the canvas of Max's degrading pose with a sharp thud, sending the easel and the painting crashing to the floor. Bradley himself crumpled onto his bed, burying his face in his hands as deep, wrenching sobs wracked his entire body.

He lay there, a broken heap amidst the plush bedding, the expensive fabric cold beneath his clammy skin. Each sob tore through him, a raw sound ripped from the deepest part of his being. His chest burned, his throat felt constricted, and his whole body shook uncontrollably. The tears flowed unchecked, scalding trails down his cheeks, soaking into the sheets. The world had tilted on its axis, and he was falling, spiraling into a void he couldn't control. All the carefully constructed walls, the arrogance, the icy control had shattered, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to a pain so immense it threatened to consume him whole.

His ragged sobs slowly eased as the first hint of dawn began to bleed into the sky outside his window. His body felt heavy, hollowed out by grief. He knew, with a dull certainty, that he needed to talk to the dean about his immediate departure, unless his dad had already handled it. He also needed to pack for the noon flight, but the thought of moving, of getting out of bed, felt impossibly heavy, like pushing against a concrete slab.

His bleary gaze landed on the canvas lying face down on the floor, where it had fallen. A sudden, sharp groan escaped him. Max was still bound in the motel room. He couldn't possibly leave him trapped there while he traveled back home, not knowing when he might return.

With a monumental effort, Bradley forced himself out of bed. He changed out of his pajamas, stuffing his motel keys into his pocket, and bent to retrieve his cellphone from the floor. His eyes fell on the sleek Ericsson R380, and sharp, painful memories flooded his mind. His mom comparing their phones, both of them meticulously checking features, laughing over some trivial technological detail. The crushing realization that he would never again call her, never again talk for hours, just to hear her voice, ripped through him like a physical wound. His chest ached, a deep, unbearable heartbreak that resonated with the silence of her absence. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle another sob, then fiercely wiped the tears from his face. He stumbled out of the room, heading for the motel to free his prisoner.

~*~*~*~*~

The funeral was a bleak, muted affair, a suffocating blur of hushed condolences and the scent of lilies. Bradley moved through it in a daze, a phantom limb where his heart should have been. Kind words were offered, hands squeezed his, but the faces attached to them were largely anonymous, distant relatives he couldn't place, their sympathy a dull hum in the background of his profound emptiness. He nodded, mumbled thanks, his own voice sounding alien and hollow.

Later, as the final mourners began to disperse, his father’s hand, surprisingly gentle, rested on his shoulder. "Do you want to say goodbye to her, son?"

He looked at his dad, whose composed face was a brittle mask over the sorrow in his eyes. Bradley walked to the open casket, his steps heavy, each one a struggle against an invisible current. He looked down. His mother. Even in death, she possessed an undeniable grace. Her skin was a serene, almost translucent alabaster, her features composed, peaceful. No wig. He had fought his aunt, a battle waged in hushed, furious whispers over the sterile scent of antiseptic and lilies. Clinging to appearances, his aunt had insisted on a wig, a final attempt to mask the ravages of his mom's illness. But Bradley, in a rare act of defiance against his family’s rigid expectations, had refused. He wanted her to be her, even in this final presentation. He had won. Her scalp, smooth and pale, was a testament to her battle, and to his desperate need for her to be authentic, even now.

He didn't say a word, couldn't have even if he tried. He just stared, letting the flood of memories wash over him, a torrent of vivid images that simultaneously warmed and tore at his soul. He saw her in the sun-drenched studio, her hand guiding his over a canvas, teaching him the delicate stroke of a brush. He saw her in the sprawling garden, dirt smudged on her cheek, laughing as they planted roses, her fingers strong and sure. He remembered late nights, bent over textbooks, her patient explanations guiding him through complex school projects, her belief in his intelligence unwavering.

Then, the memories shifted, darkening, bleeding into the sterile white of hospital rooms from last summer. He remembered her cries muffled by the thin walls as the chemotherapy ravaged her. He'd been there, a constant presence, holding her hand, wiping the tears that streamed down her face, murmuring reassurances even as her body shook with pain. Her voice, thin but resolute during his last visit, her eyes fixed on him, repeated her singular desire: to see him in love, truly, deeply in love with a special person. The words echoed in the cavern of his grief, a final, impossible burden.

He felt his dad’s presence beside him again, a gentle pressure on his back. "It's time, son," he murmured, his voice tight, betraying his own barely contained grief.

Resentment flared through Bradley. Time? How dare he? How dare he deprive Bradley of this, this last, precious chance to be with her, to look at her peaceful face, to absorb every last detail before she was gone forever? This was his final connection, his last tangible link, and now his dad was rushing this final, sacred moment. He wanted to scream, to rail against the injustice, against the finality of it all, against the suffocating weight of her last, unfulfilled wish. He wanted to stay there, to cling to the image of her, to somehow absorb her essence into his very being before she vanished completely. The thought of the lid closing, of her disappearing from his sight forever, was a fresh, agonizing twist of the knife.

Bradley finally tore his gaze from the casket, the image of his mom's peaceful face seared into his memory. As he turned, his eyes scanned the thinning crowd, a sea of dark suits and somber dresses. And then he saw her.

Mona.

She stood near the entrance, her dark brown hair a striking contrast to the pale faces around her. His mother’s words, a ghostly echo in his mind, repeated: "...in love with a special person."

Mona approached, her expression one of profound sympathy. "Bradley," she murmured, her voice soft, "I'm so sorry for your loss." She offered a gentle hug, and Bradley leaned into it, a few hot tears finally slipping down his cheeks. He thought of that Christmas, the one he should have brought her to. The perfect Christmas Max had stolen from him. That Christmas would have been a cherished memory for his mother, a picture of her son, settled and happy, with the "special person" she so yearned for him to find.

Later, after the somber ritual of the burial, the earth receiving his mother with a final, echoing thud, he and Mona walked together through the cemetery. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp soil and pine. Rows of silent headstones stretched into the distance, a stark reminder of life's brevity.

"All the Gammas send their love," Mona said, her voice quiet, "but I was the only one who managed to get away. Everyone else is swamped with midterms."

Bradley remained silent, his hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the freshly turned earth.

"Nice to see all these people showing up," Mona continued, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "Your mom must have been an amazing woman, for all these people to come say goodbye."

"You could have met her," Bradley mumbled, the words raw, aching.

Mona gently shifted the subject, her voice trying to lighten. "Your dad's holding up remarkably well, considering. He has such a strong presence."

Bradley didn't want to change the subject. He stopped, turning to face her, his anger flaring, hot and sudden. "Mom would have loved you, Mona!" he spat, the words laced with bitterness. "We were perfect together. We were compatible. But you chose a teenager who still needs a fake ID to buy beer!"

"Bradley," she said gently, her voice firm, "this isn't about Max. Or me. This is about you, and your loss."

He looked at her then, truly looked. She was undeniably beautiful, her features sculpted with an almost ethereal grace, her presence radiating a quiet strength and dignity. His mother would have loved her. Bradley could have asked her to marry him. They were both twenty-one, both adults, their lives stretching out before them. His mom could have attended their wedding, seen him settle down. Mona could have been pregnant with his child by now, a little girl, and he would have named her after his mother. The thought brought a fresh wave of grief, a painful vision of what could have been, snatched away by a cruel twist of fate.

Mona touched his arm. "You're shaking," she murmured, her concern genuine.

Bradley tried to compose himself, to pull himself together, but Mona pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping around him, holding him close. And at that moment, in Mona’s comforting embrace, Bradley's mind and body betrayed him. He was on the motel room floor, by the foot of the bed, his head buried against Max’s bare shoulder. An unfamiliar solace had enveloped him as Max’s hand gently caressed his hair, the other rubbing slow, comforting circles on his back. He saw Max's sympathetic face, and his gaze snagged on those slightly parted lips, an unwelcome magnetism pulling him in.

No.

He shouldn't be thinking about Max, not now, not while Mona was holding him. Max was beneath him, a lowlife loser under his mercy, a mere object for his amusement, with his rumpled clothes and the lingering scent of cheap dorm soap. Mona, on the other hand, was a figure of unapproachable perfection, a woman of exquisite poise and radiant beauty, whose very presence seemed to elevate the space around her. She was untouchable, a being of a higher order, effortlessly embodying the grace and sophistication that Max simply couldn't comprehend. Max was dirt; Mona was the sky. He clung to that distinction, desperately trying to reassert the order of his world.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley led Mona through the hushed hallways of his family home, the rich tapestries and polished wood a silent testament to a life of curated perfection. They reached his private art room, a spacious chamber filled with easels, canvases, and the faint, comforting scent of oil paint. Here, amidst the muted light, hung the portraits of his mother.

Mona walked slowly, her gaze thoughtful, stopping before a particularly poignant piece, a large canvas depicting his mother in the later stages of her illness, her frame delicate, yet her eyes retaining a profound serenity.

"Bradley," Mona whispered, her voice soft with admiration, "these are incredible. The way you've captured her beauty, even in her moments of weakness." She turned to him, her eyes bright with a fervent belief. "This is what art is truly supposed to do. You took her misery, the pain of her declining health, the struggle of losing her hair, and you transformed it into something beautiful, immortalizing her strength. This is the power of art, to elevate, to make people stronger, to turn suffering into triumph."

Bradley listened quietly, his hands clasped behind his back. He offered a noncommittal hum, a polite acknowledgment that masked the churning thoughts beneath. He saw the truth in her words, the noble aspiration. Art as solace, as transcendence. But his mind, darker and more pragmatic, knew another truth entirely. Art could also be a weapon. It could be used to break, to humiliate, to expose, to bind. It could immortalize a person's degradation, turning their agony into a permanent, chilling display. He thought of the canvases hidden away in his room at the Gamma house, of the precise torment he inflicted, the stripping away of dignity, not to elevate, but to control, to destroy. His mother's beauty, rendered eternal; Max's shame, equally indelible. Mona believed art was a shield; Bradley knew it could also be a blade.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley took a seat next to his father in the lawyer's office, facing the somber lawyer across the large, polished desk. The task at hand was grim: dividing his late mother's belongings, her life distilled to a list of assets and sentimental items. Bradley felt a dull throb behind his eyes, a phantom ache for the woman they were discussing in such clinical terms.

The lawyer cleared his throat. "Mrs. Uppercrust's will specifies certain bequests. To her son, Bradley, she has left her personal art collection, which includes all sketchbooks and completed canvases in her private studio, her jewelry, and her personal journals."

Bradley barely registered the art or the jewelry. His gaze snagged on the word "journals." He looked up as the lawyer placed a small, elegant book on the table, its cover a deep, classic green, intricately painted with swirling gold leaf. It was the physical manifestation of his mother's innermost thoughts. A strange mix of trepidation and longing fluttered in his chest.

Later that night, back in the quiet expanse of his old room in the mansion, Bradley lay on his bed, the weight of the journal in his hands. The familiar scent of her favorite rose perfume still clung faintly to its pages. He opened it, the smooth paper cool beneath his fingertips, and began to read.

He read for hours, the meticulously penned words unfurling the depths of his mother’s spirit. She wrote of compassion, of finding beauty in the most unexpected places, of understanding the struggles of others. He saw her devotion to lifting people, not just with kind words, but with her art. She described how most of her paintings, especially the portraits of acquaintances or community members, were silent gifts, meant to brighten someone's day, to remind them of their own inner light.

"I paint for others more so than myself," one entry read, "for true artistry is in the giving, in alleviating burdens, not in accumulating trophies." She rarely kept these pieces, finding greater joy in seeing them bring solace or a momentary smile to someone else. She was a saint, Bradley realized with a pang, a beacon of empathy in a world he often found cold and calculating.

He closed his eyes, the journal still clutched in his hand. The bitter irony of his own actions twisted in his gut. His latest obsession: meticulously rendering Max in the most humiliating light, using his art to tear down and destroy. He remembered Max’s soft, sympathetic voice, a gentle current against the rough tide of the treatment he was subjected to. "I'm sorry for your loss, Bradley." The unexpected kindness, the embrace after Bradley had broken down, could only be interpreted one way: Max was trying to pity him, to belittle him in his moment of grief. He was surely finding Bradley’s weakness, seizing it as vengeance. People couldn't be genuinely good after weeks of mistreatment, could they? Max’s dad was a kind man; perhaps Max had inherited that capacity for compassion. But then, Bradley's own mother had been a saint of a woman, and she would have been crushed if she knew even half of what he’d done to Max.

Tears pricked Bradley's eyes. He remembered lying in bed with Max, asking all sorts of superficial questions about classes and schedules. Then, when Max was finally given a chance to ask anything, anything at all -even a justified "Why are you being such a dick to me?"- Max chose to ask about his mother. "How's your mom?" he had asked, knowing she was sick and suffering. It was a question a friend would ask, not a plaything constantly ridiculed and humiliated.

Bradley stared at his mother's journal, opening it again, his finger tracing the word 'compassion'. A profound chasm opened between them. She was a person who elevated others, who sought to mend and to soothe. He, on the other hand, was a person who systematically dismantled them. He remembered last year, when news reached her that he’d cheated in the X-Games, endangering lives for his own selfish desire to win, to finally make his perpetually dissatisfied father proud. Her quiet demeanor, the way she couldn't even look him in the eyes, had shattered him more profoundly than any reprimand. Her silent disappointment, so unlike his father's furious lectures about his unethical methods, was a far more cutting rebuke than all his dad's harsh words and anger combined.

~*~*~*~*~

Two weeks later, Bradley was back in the Gamma house. The air felt subdued, tinged with an awkward solemnity as his brothers offered their condolences. Most gave a solemn nod, a quick hand on his shoulder, then retreated, unsure how to approach the quiet, unapproachable Bradley.

Mona, however, lingered, her presence a comforting anchor in the swirling unease. "Bradley," she said softly, her hand resting gently on his arm, "we're all here for you. Whatever you need."

He gave her a tight nod. "I just... I need to be alone right now," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

He made his way to his room, using the key he always kept on him. He pushed his large suitcase against the door before locking it securely behind him. In the hidden corner of his room, tucked away beneath several old blankets and forgotten clothes, was his private shrine: the collection of Max paintings. He pulled back the makeshift coverings, revealing the canvases. He stared at Max's face in each one, a parade of vulnerability. Max’s eyes never met his, always downcast, filled with a deep, crushing shame. His mouth was a thin line of silent endurance. Every painting, Bradley mused with a detached satisfaction, projected complete submission and degradation.

His phone rang, startling him. It was a number without a name. He answered, his voice still rough. "Bradley? It's Tank. Just... wanted to say I'm sorry about your mom, man. Heard the news. Wanted to see how you're doing."

"We have a class together tomorrow morning," Bradley replied, his tone flat, "We can meet then." He didn't feel like meeting anyone.

He pulled his mother's journal from his suitcase, then moved to lie on his bed. He’d been reading it on the plane, finding solace in her words, in the tangible connection to her thoughts. He flipped to the page he’d left off. His mother's elegant script chronicled his freshman year, his first X-Games win, the thrill of holding that trophy. "So proud of my boy," she had written, "captured his triumph today, a small gift for my champion." He remembered that moment vividly: her beaming face, the carefully wrapped painting of him, cup in hand, radiating a youthful, arrogant joy. He loved that painting more than the cup itself. And then, the following entry, a casual mention of feeling "unusually tired," of a doctor's visit, the first veiled hint of what would later be diagnosed as leukemia.

His gaze drifted to the canvases huddled in the corner. The jerk who had deprived him of his win last year, the very reason his mother had been denied the joy of witnessing another triumph. The thought brought a fresh wave of bitter disappointment. She'd been too sick by then, too frail, to even lift a brush, let alone create a painting to uplift him in his moment of sorrow and defeat.

~*~*~*~*~

The lecture hall hummed with the drone of the professor's voice, but Bradley heard little of it. He'd arrived late, sliding into a back-row seat, which meant he hadn't had a chance to speak with Tank before class. The last two weeks had been a blur of grief and numbness at the mansion, and now, back on campus, the familiar routines felt alien.

When the lecture finally concluded, Tank moved through the dispersing students toward Bradley's seat. They met in the aisle, Tank pulling him into a firm, brief embrace. "Man, I wish I could've been there for the funeral," Tank said, his voice genuinely regretful. "Your mom… she was always so nice to me."

Bradley offered a tight nod, a bitter realization forming in his mind. None of them. None of his Gamma brothers had made the journey, except for Mona, his ex-girlfriend. A dull ache, a feeling akin to disappointment, tugged at his chest. Perhaps the cost of a last-minute plane ticket was prohibitive for them, or perhaps, and this thought carried a sharper sting, he and Tank simply weren't as close as they used to be, a distance that, he knew, was largely his own doing.

Tank's girlfriend, the president of the Sigma Slackers, approached, her expression appropriately somber. Bradley vaguely recognized her face, but her name eluded him entirely. She offered her condolences in a hushed tone, then asked if he'd be heading back home for spring break in a few weeks. Bradley merely shrugged. He wasn't sure about anything, didn't even feel like getting out of his room most days.

"It's understandable, sweetheart," Tank interjected, squeezing her hand, saving Bradley from having to elaborate.

A small crowd of students then converged, their initial condolences swiftly morphing into questions about the upcoming X-Games semi-finals. "Guys, it's really not the time to talk about that," Tank intervened, his voice firm, trying to deflect their competitive enthusiasm.

"Yeah, but Team 99's practicing hard," one guy pressed, oblivious to the atmosphere. "If the Gammas want to win this year, they should be doing the same. Especially since it's your last year, Bradley."

Bradley’s jaw tightened. He imagined Max, probably out there right now, practicing, showing off his effortless talent to his gaggle of adoring groupies while Bradley had been at his mother’s funeral, enduring the crushing weight of loss. Life was profoundly unfair.

"I'm just gonna go," Bradley mumbled, pushing past Tank and the small crowd, an overwhelming urge to retreat back to the sanctuary of the Gamma house, to the quiet solitude of his room, pressing down on him.

The walk back to the Gamma house was a gauntlet of hushed condolences. Students he barely knew, or only recognized by vague association, offered solemn words as he navigated the crowded hallways. Each "sorry for your loss" felt like another tiny pinprick, reminding him of a grief he desperately wanted to contain. Then, through the shifting bodies, he saw them.

Max.

Laughing, completely carefree, his head thrown back as he walked with PJ and the their bald pal, Bobby. A tight line formed in Bradley’s mouth, a surge of raw resentment. He watched Max’s easy smile, the genuine warmth shared with his friends, and something twisted in Bradley’s gut.

Then, Max’s eyes flickered, catching Bradley’s gaze across the hall. The transformation was instantaneous, chilling. Max’s laughter died, his body stiffened, stopping dead in his tracks. The carefree energy drained from him, replaced by a palpable tension. PJ, noticing Max’s sudden rigidity, looked at him in concern, then followed his line of sight. His eyes landed on Bradley, and the concern on PJ’s face morphed into a grimace of distaste.

All three had stopped in the busy hallway. Bradley met Max’s gaze with an icy stare. Max, clearly uncomfortable, took a hesitant step forward. "Hey, Bradley," he mumbled, "Sorry for your loss."

Bobby, their third wheel, let out an awkward little sound. "Yeah, Gamma King, too bad about your mom, man."

PJ offered a curt nod, his eyes pointedly avoiding Bradley's, and muttered, "My condolences."

Bradley’s gaze remained locked on Max. A flicker of satisfaction, cold and sharp, ignited within him. He liked this. He liked the immediate, negative effect he had on that boy.

PJ nodded subtly to his friends, a clear signal to move on. As they passed him, Bradley’s hand shot out, seizing Max’s arm. His fingers tightened for a fleeting moment against Max’s skin. Leaning in close, he whispered, "Five o'clock tomorrow." He released Max’s arm immediately and walked away, deliberately not looking back to gauge Max's reaction.

~*~*~*~*~

The stale air of the motel room hit Bradley first, a cloying mix of dust and disuse. The owner clearly hadn't bothered to air it out in the two weeks he'd been gone. Bradley surveyed the dingy space, the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet. He'd purposely chosen this particular room, not just for its seclusion, but for its cheapness. He wouldn't spend lavishly on Max clearly. He set down the new, tightly stretched canvas against the wall, alongside a fresh box of sketching pencils and a pristine blending stump. Every item was untouched, ready for the renewed torment.

Max had enjoyed his reprieve these last couple of weeks. It was time to show the goof that he couldn't just go on laughing with his friends, attending classes, and skateboarding, all carefree and happy, while Bradley had been in the pits of despair. The universe, it seemed, delighted in rewarding that infuriating jerk.

The faint sound of keys rattling in the lock jolted him. Bradley straightened, his posture rigid, watching the door. It swung open, and Max stepped inside, quietly, almost hesitantly. He stood just inside the threshold, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his baggy jeans, his shoulders slightly hunched. They stared at each other across the dingy room, Bradley sitting on the edge of the bed, Max a still figure by the door.

Bradley had forgotten the charming air that seemed to cling to Max. That perpetually messy black hair, falling across his forehead in a way that looked effortlessly cool. Those boyish good looks, the kind that made girls swoon and tabloids fawn. Even his mismatched, slightly baggy clothes, which on anyone else would appear sloppy, somehow contributed to his public image of rebellious charm. A bitter taste rose in Bradley’s throat, a surge of pure spite. "What are you waiting for?" he muttered, his voice low and sharp. "Take off those clothes now."

Max began to undress, his movements quiet, almost mechanical. Bradley watched him, a fresh wave of irritation washing over him. There were no traces of fear, no visible shame, no flicker of anger in Max’s expressionless features. Just a blank, almost vacant compliance.

As Max piled his clothes together next to the door, Bradley ordered, "Come closer."

Max walked forward, stopping just in front of him. Bradley rose from the bed, relishing the few inches he gained in height over Max. He began to circle him slowly, his nose scrunched in disdain. The jerk seemed to have forgotten his place, forgotten the precariousness of his existence. Bradley was going to remind him exactly who held the leash.

He stopped in front of Max, his gaze sweeping over the lean, athletic frame before him. "On your knees," he commanded. Max complied, sinking to the worn carpet. "Now, hands behind your back. Interlace your fingers." Max did so, his shoulders pulling back, his chest expanding slightly, exposing his torso. Bradley then produced a length of soft, luxurious silk rope from his supply bag, not wanting a repeat of the coarse, bruising fibers he'd used before. He knelt, his eyes briefly flicking to Max's wrists, noting with a detached observation that the raw skin had healed over the last two weeks, a faint pinkness remaining. His thumb brushed Max's wrist, a fleeting, almost unconscious caress on the mended skin, before he efficiently tied Max's wrists together.

He glanced at the hook on the wall a few steps away, then roughly grabbed Max's arm, yanking him to his feet. He dragged Max to the wall, pushing him back down onto his knees, his back pressed against the cool plaster. Bradley positioned himself directly in front of Max, requiring an awkward reach to fasten the silk. His arms went around Max's back, one from each side, his chest pressing against Max's bare chest, his face peering over Max's shoulder as he fumbled with the silk. The heat of Max’s body, radiating against his own, was a profound distraction. Max’s soft, warm breath stirred the fine hairs on the back of Bradley's neck, stealing his focus, blurring his intent.

He was instantly transported to that raw, agonizing moment following his mother's passing, to Max's unexpected embrace. Max's bare body had been pressed against him, a solid, comforting anchor in his sudden descent into grief. Bradley found himself letting go of the unfastened silk, his hands now resting on Max’s lower back, pulling him closer, pressing his own shirt-clad chest hard against Max’s exposed skin. He buried his face in the nape of Max’s neck, inhaling deeply, his senses firing at the musky, natural scent of Max's skin, moving up to the thick, dark hair. He let out a heavy breath, pulling Max even harder into him, his eyelids slipping shut as he drowned in the overwhelming sensation of Max's scent and the hard, muscled body against his own.

A slight shift from Max, an awkward, questioning sound, snapped Bradley from the sensation he was drowning in. His eyes snapped open, a jolt of stark awareness hitting him like a physical blow. What am I doing? He jumped back, stumbling, and landed hard on his backside on the carpet. Blood rushed to his cheeks as he stared into Max’s confused and uncomfortable gaze.

Bradley scrambled to his feet, desperate to regain control. "Part your thighs," he barked, his voice hoarse, raw with suppressed panic. "More. More. Chest out. Head bowed slightly, but your eyes on me. Look at me. That's it." He rushed to his canvas, almost tripping over his own feet, forgetting completely the usual procedure of arousing Max first to make the humiliation sting deeper. He didn't trust himself to get any closer to Max, not right now.

He grabbed a sketching pencil, its tip poised above the canvas. He looked at Max, held in that humbling pose. But Bradley couldn’t bring himself to draw. A heavy feeling settled in his chest, a profound artist's block. He gazed at Max's pose again, hoping it would spark the usual artistic interest. Instead, Max’s dark eyes, staring back, hollow and numb, conjured only the echo of his mother’s words about her paintings, uplifting people’s spirits, helping them in their moments of need. Bradley swallowed, the irony a bitter bile in his mouth. He tried to sketch Max’s hair, thick and messy and black. Just hair, he told himself, nothing degrading about that. Just hair, with the most addictive scent. The pencil shook in his hand. His chest felt hollow, and his senses were consumed by the boy looking right back at him, his chest rising and falling with each breath, the only sound in the room the frantic, heavy thumping of his own heart. Bradley put down the pencil, shaking his head.

"This wouldn't do," Bradley muttered. The canvas stared back, blank and mocking, refusing to accept the disgrace he intended to depict. The hollowness in his chest felt colder than the motel room floor. He walked over to Max, his movements stiff, almost wooden. Without a word, he grabbed the silk tying Max’s wrists and ripped it away.

"Just get out," he said, the command harsher than intended, filled with a frustration that had nothing to do with Max, and everything to do with himself. "Be back tomorrow at five."

Max, silent as always, slowly pushed himself to his feet. He walked to his clothes, still piled by the door, and began to dress. Bradley walked back to the empty canvas, his back to Max, but he could feel Max’s gaze, a dull weight against his shoulders.

He turned, his anger flaring, sharp and sudden. "What?" he demanded, his voice slicing through the quiet. "Do you have something to say? Or did that sudden rush of decency leave you speechless? Oh, that’s right. You can’t talk. It’s part of the rules. Yes, keep that mouth shut. Not that any pearls of wisdom would fall out of it anyway."

Max just stared, that unnerving, unreadable expression fixed on his face. No fear, no defiance, just a profound emptiness that gnawed at Bradley's nerves. Without another sound, Max finally turned and left, the door clicking shut, but not quite closing, leaving a sliver of the outside world exposed.

Bradley glared at the canvas, his fists clenching. Rage simmered beneath his skin, hot and volatile. He hated this. He hated that he'd struck out today, unable to capture the very image he desired. He hated the way his carefully constructed plans had imploded, all because of a sudden, unwelcome wave of grief and an even more unwelcome surge of something else he couldn't name, but felt acutely.

"PJ?" Max's shocked voice drifted clearly from outside the window, cutting through the thick silence of the room.

Bradley’s breath caught in his throat.

"Max, what were you doing in this dump?" Max’s 'poetic' friend asked, his voice loud and clear, carrying straight into the room through the half-open window.

Bradley’s eyes darted to the window. His gut twisted. He wanted to peer out, but he knew he couldn't. He couldn't risk being seen, his meticulously crafted image of detached superiority shattering in the eyes of others.

"You were there with Bradley, weren't you?" PJ’s voice landed like a punch to Bradley’s stomach.

He heard Max's indignant reply. "You were spying on me!"

"Someone had to!" PJ snapped back. "Is this where you disappear to at five o'clock?"

"Listen, PJ, go back to the dorms and I'll talk to you there," Max said, his voice dropping, tinged with a rising panic.

"I'm going inside, Max!" PJ threatened.

"No!" Max shouted, a raw desperation in his tone. "I swear I'll tell you everything at the dorm room, okay?"

A tense silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Bradley’s breath was caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stared, wide-eyed, at the ajar door, his ears straining. Had PJ gone? Was he really coming in? Footsteps approached, distinct and heavy, growing louder. Bradley’s panic surged, cold and sharp. His meticulously built fortress of control felt like it was crumbling, exposed to the judgmental gaze of the outside world. He braced himself, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Then, a shadow fell across the sliver of light from the doorway, and the door was pushed open slowly.

To Bradley’s immense, shuddering relief, it was Max.

Max looked at him, his face etched with genuine panic. "I knew PJ would try and find out," he rushed out, his voice a frantic whisper. "What should I tell him?"

Bradley forced himself to appear composed, to project an air of nonchalant superiority, despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. He arched an eyebrow, a flicker of disdain crossing his features. "Why on earth would that concern me? It's your mess, not mine."

"Don't you care?" Max asked, his voice rising in astonishment, a new anger beginning to simmer beneath his fear.

Bradley looked at him, a contemptuous smile playing on his lips. "There's nothing here I'm ashamed of. I'm just an artist, pursuing my vision. And you?" He paused, letting his gaze sweep over Max, "You're merely my willing model. An object for my creative expression."

"Willing?" Max scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Last I checked, 'willing' usually implies mutual consent, not a damn contract forged from blackmail."

Bradley approached Max, satisfaction building as he watched the conflicting emotions of fear and defiance warring in his big eyes. He placed his elbow on Max's shoulder, leaning into him with that familiar condescending weight, the same gesture he'd used the very first time they met last year. "Go ahead," he whispered, his voice dangerously low, "tell him the truth. Tell him how much you let yourself be touched and exposed by me before the 'contract.' Tell him what you let me do to you on your friend's bed, on the ramp, on the balcony at the dance floor, in this exact hotel when you stripped naked for me for the very first time. Tell him how much my touch excites you, how much you yearn for me to give you more." Bradley leaned closer to Max’s downcast, shame-ridden face, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. "Tell him how it absolutely kills you that you do nothing for me."

Max’s shoulders stiffened, a sharp intake of breath. His jaw clenched, muscles working furiously, and his eyes, when they finally flickered up, were blazing with a silent, desperate agony that brought a perverse thrill to Bradley. Max’s hands balled into tight fists at his sides, trembling with suppressed rage. With a sudden, violent twitch, he shook Bradley’s elbow off his shoulder and, without a backward glance, stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud.

What Max didn't know, and to Bradley's immediate, crushing shame, was that just by standing that close, Bradley was already acutely aroused. His body, traitorous and insistent, had hardened. Bradley cursed in self-loathing, and walked back to the bed, throwing himself onto it. Why? Why was he getting turned on by that lowlife, that pathetic goofball? Too much exposure to that idiot, naked and vulnerable, must have simply desensitized him. Yes. That was the only logical reason. It had to be.

Bradley lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and in the dim light, he saw his mother's face. Her gentle spirit, it seemed, wouldn't leave him alone. Her words in the journal had resonated deeply today, particularly her artistic quest to find beauty in the unpleasant, to glimpse happiness within the agony of suffering. That very philosophy had him fail today, had him mercifully sparing Max from another hour of degradation. Her presence lingered in his mind, and the words of her journal, her light still captivated him. He felt bound to the life of purity she'd left behind, a path he was, at this moment, incapable of walking.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Max stood outside his dorm room door, his hand hovering over the cold metal. His stomach churned with a familiar dread. He closed his eyes, bargaining with the universe. Maybe PJ wasn't inside. Maybe he'd accidentally stapled his tongue to his textbook. Or maybe he'd finally been abducted by aliens, beaming up into the cosmos for a deep-space poetry slam. Anything, anything but seeing him right now. He took a huge, shuddering breath, steeling himself, and reached for the knob.

Just as his fingers brushed the handle, the door swung inward with a whoosh, revealing not PJ, but Bobby and Tina, mid-conversation, their faces alight with post-argument relief.

"Max, dude! What's up, weasel?" Bobby exclaimed. He threw an arm around Max's shoulders, pulling him into a rough, friendly hug. "We were just debating the major English debate in Professor Albright's class. I nailed my argument that, you know, Shakespeare would've totally preferred MTV to sonnets, bro! Tina-Mina here doesn't share my enlightened vision."

Tina shook her head. "Still can't believe freshmen and sophomores are in the same classes for some of these. It's weirdly cool."

Bobby scoffed, nudging Max with his elbow. "Tina, my little freshman sprout, we were sharing classes with the Gamma dudes last year, and they were ancient juniors. So, chill your tiny, little, freshman brain, alright?"

Tina rolled her eyes. "Well, some of the sophomores in class today seemed like they should have stayed in eighth grade."

Bobby's grin hardened, his eyes flicking to Tina's slightly tousled blonde hair. "Yeah, well, some girls should probably hit the beauty salon once in a while instead of, you know, waking up like this." He winked at Max, oblivious to the way Tina's smile faltered, a faint blush creeping up her neck.

Max noticed and felt the sting of her hurt. He frowned at Bobby, but before he could speak, Tina piped up, a little too brightly, "Well, see you sophomores tomorrow at Performance Art!" She gave a quick wave and hurried off.

"Smell ya later, freshman!" Bobby called after her, then turned back to Max, grinning. "What, dude? Why the long face? You look like you just discovered that your favorite band is actually a boy band."

"Bobby, you were being a jerk," Max said, his voice flat. "You hurt her feelings."

Bobby waved a dismissive hand. "Dude, chill. We're just messing around. Tina's not a big softy like you, Maximus. She can take a joke." He clapped Max hard on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "Anyway, I'm totally starving. Gonna go get us boys some fuel. Any special requests from the sensitive soul?"

Max punched him lightly on the arm. "No."

"Alright, cool. Don't cry about it later, bro!" Bobby laughed, already halfway down the hall.

Max eased open the door to his dorm room, peeking inside with the caution of a cat burglar. The room was blissfully empty. He let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, pushing the door shut with his foot. He barely had time to turn around before the door swung open again, revealing PJ, leaning casually against the frame.

Max jumped, startled, his heart leaping into his throat. "Hi, buddy!" he chirped, forcing a wide, awkward smile. "Hey, did you hear Tina's joining us for Performance Art tomorrow? I guess Mr. Russo really wants to see some diverse interpretive dance moves."

PJ's face remained passive, not even a twitch of a smile. Max's grin faltered. "Hey, I ran into Vicki on the way home," Max tried again, a nervous chuckle escaping him, "apparently, you guys are having a karaoke night at The Bean Scene tonight? Reciting Coleridge and Poe to the tune of finger snaps and existential sighs? Sounds intense."

"Cut the crap, Max," PJ stated, his voice flat and serious. "I want answers now."

Max opened his mouth, ready with another quip, but PJ raised a hand, a sharp, silencing gesture.

A heavy silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. PJ pushed the door shut, the soft click echoing in the small room, then turned and stood directly in front of Max. Max, unable to meet his gaze, fiddled nervously with the hem of his red shirt, his eyes fixed on the worn carpet.

"It's Bradley, isn't it?" PJ's voice was low.

Max's fingers tightened on the fabric. "Why would you say that?" he mumbled, still not looking up.

"It doesn't take a genius, Max." PJ stepped closer, his hands finding Max's shoulders and squeezing, a firm, insistent pressure. "Two weeks with him gone and you were finally Max again. Then, suddenly, he's back, and you went back to being mopey. It's not rocket science, dude."

Max remained quiet, the truth was that he'd been pretending to be okay in those past two weeks. He'd become a pro at acting okay, at masking the gnawing emptiness. The true him was the mopey version. It was just infinitely easier to wear the mask when Bradley wasn't around, when the constant threat wasn't looming.

"I knew you were going to disappear at five o'clock," PJ continued, still trying to catch Max's gaze, which stubbornly remained fixed on the floor. "I followed you. I waited outside that motel room, thinking you'd be in there for hours, like usual, when you disappear at five and don't return until eight or nine. I was surprised, to say the least, to see you get out barely half an hour after you went in."

Max yanked PJ's hands from his shoulders and threw himself onto the bed. He buried his face in his hands, pressing them hard against the pillow, desperate to disappear, to silence the memories of today. There was no way. No way he'd say anything to PJ, or to anyone. No way he'd tell them about any of the humiliating things Bradley was doing to him and making him do. He felt the bed dip as PJ sat down next to him. A hand gently squeezed his shoulder again.

"Talk to me, buddy," PJ's voice was softer now, full of genuine concern. "I won't judge. I promise."

Max shook his head, face still buried in his hands, pressing harder against the pillow.

"He's threatening you, isn't he?" PJ's voice hardened, a dangerous anger simmering beneath the surface. "Is it something about your dad? Is it some messed-up college initiation? Something to do with the X-Games?"

"PJ…" Max mumbled into his hands, the word muffled. Where would he even begin? The night Bradley had shown up at his dorm room, injured and desperate, asking for a place to hide from another fraternity. Max had been in the room alone, trying to study for a math test. Bradley, with his casual cruelty, had started the fondling game right there, on Bobby's bed. Oh, man! He pressed harder on the pillow wishing it would swallow him.

Max shook his head harder, the unspoken words a suffocating weight. "I can't. I can't."

"I swear I won't flip out or anything," PJ insisted, his voice firm. "Just tell me. Please."

Max tried to take a deep breath, but his nose was pressed so hard against his hands and the pillow that it was difficult to draw air. He slowly raised his head, still not looking at PJ. He sat up, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze directed across the room at Bobby's empty bed, the silent witness of the beginning of his journey into shame and disgrace. He hid his face in his hands again. "Bradley does have something on me," he admitted, his voice strained. "I have to see him at five o'clock every day or he'll…" Max felt a thick lump in his throat, unable to complete.

"What does he have on you?" PJ pressed, his voice tight with urgency.

"I'm not ready to tell you that, PJ. It's just… it's bad. Really bad."

A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Then, PJ asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "Bradley was the one who hurt your wrists when you came back that next day, right?"

Max slowly lowered his hands, gaze firmly fixed on his knees. "It wasn't intentional," he admitted, the words tasting like ash. "He didn't mean to…"

"He didn't mean to?" PJ interrupted incredulously. "Max, you showed up with your wrists looking like you'd wrestled a barbed-wire fence! How do you 'accidentally' do that?"

Max’s gaze remained firmly fixed on his rocking knee. That night, Bradley truly hadn't meant to hurt his wrists, not intentionally. But he wouldn't allow Max to talk, wouldn't allow him to voice the sharp agony, to tell him how much it burned. Instead, Bradley had bound him to the bed and simply left him there, alone, for the entire night. Max knew, with a chilling certainty, that had Bradley's mother not passed away he would have left Max for a whole day, tied to the bed, no food, no access to the bathroom, until he returned that evening at five. Max had sunk too deep, far too deep into this twisted reality. He didn't see himself ever rising again.

PJ's hand gently, but firmly, covered Max's rocking knee, stilling its nervous movement. "What does he do to you every day?"

Max squeezed his eyes shut, as if the darkness behind his eyelids could block out the parade of painful images. Every humiliating pose, every degrading item he was forced to wear flashed through his mind: from the doggy collar digging into his neck, to the absurd, frilly tutu, to the way he'd been made to parade around in nothing but strips of glittery duct tape, positioned strategically to mock and expose. His voice, when it came, was a shaky whisper. "I can't. It's too bad. It's too bad."

Silence stretched between them, thick with Max's unspoken pain. "Okay," PJ whispered wearily, "How long is this going to go on?"

Max swallowed, the dryness in his throat making the words scrape. "I don't know," he finally managed. "Until he gets bored."

PJ's hand tightened on Max's knee. "I'm gonna kill him," he growled, the words vibrating with a contained fury that began to simmer just beneath his skin.

Max slowly raised his head, his gaze finally meeting PJ's. He saw the unmistakable and chilling murderous glint in the depths of his eyes, a fury so intense it actually warmed Max's heart. "Please," he whispered, his voice cracking, "don't tell anyone about this."

PJ patted his shoulder. "Of course," he said. Then, his expression hardened again. "Are you going to that shady motel tomorrow at five?"

Max let out a weary sigh. "Yes."

"Alright," PJ said, his voice firm, "when you come back, I'll have your comfort food ready: a double cheese pizza, extra greasy, just how you like it. And I'll write you a long, comforting poem, just for you."

Max managed a weak chuckle. "I'll take the pizza, but please, spare me the poem."

PJ stared at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You know, if I could afford a lawyer, I'd march right into that cow fraternity of his and murder his ass, right?"

Max smiled. "I wouldn't expect anything less from my best bud."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sterile light filled the performance studio. Max, PJ, Bobby, and Tina had snagged a spot in the front row, a prime vantage point for whatever artistic chaos was about to unfold. Max shifted in his seat, feeling a nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin. This class, with its promise of "interpretive expression," felt like a minefield.

The youngest professor on campus, Mr. Russo, a whirlwind of wild, dark hair and sparkling, zealous eyes, bounded to the front. "Ah, buongiorno, my artists! Today, we embark on a journey, a viaggio into the very soul of human experience!" His hands swept through the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra. "Our next project, my friends, is one of profound depth, of verità! It is 'The Unseen Weight'!"

He paused for dramatic effect, letting the title hang in the air. "This, my carissimi, is a collaborative performance. Each duo will explore themes of invisible burdens, the things people carry but do not show, forced compliance. It can be physical theater, interpretive dance, a staged, symbolic act, anything that speaks to the cuore!"

Mr. Russo's gaze lit up the room as he scanned the students. "And, my dears, I want to see your rough versions performed tomorrow! We will approve or, perhaps, I will ask for a piccolo change."

A collective grumble rippled through the students. "Tomorrow? That's too soon!" someone called out. "We just got the prompt!" another added.

Mr. Russo threw his hands up, a dramatic flourish. "Too soon? Ragazzi! Do you not see the world around you? We live in a mondo veloce! A fast world! The internet, it is starting to take over! Information, art, it moves with the speed of light! We must adapt, we must create with immediacy! Now, find your partners! Avanti!"

Before Mr. Russo had even finished the word "duo," PJ's elbow nudged Max. "You're with me, right?" he whispered.

Max gave a small nod, a wave of relief washing over him that he wouldn't have to navigate this with a stranger.

Bobby, however, wasn't so subtle. "Oh, great," he groaned, loud enough for half the room to hear. "Guess I'm stuck with Tina-Dina here. Just what I always wanted: a partner who thinks Shakespeare wrote for Sesame Street."

Tina's eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. "For your information, I'm teaming up with Alex." She straightened, a defiant glint in her eyes.

Bobby snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "Alex? Oh, you mean giant sweaters Alex who looks like she's perpetually lost in a fog of existential dread? Good luck with that, Tina-Lina. You'll be performing the 'Unseen Weight' of her overthinking everything."

Tina's lips thinned, but instead of arguing, she simply pointed. "Actually, I'm teaming up with that Alex."

Max and PJ followed her gaze. Across the room, leaning against a wall, was a guy who looked like he'd stepped off a magazine cover: tall, muscular, with a shock of dark hair and a jawline that could cut glass.

Bobby's mouth dropped open. Tina leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially in his ear, "He's a senior."

Bobby's face crumpled, his earlier bravado deflating like a punctured balloon. "A senior? What?! Tina, you're abandoning your freshman brethren for some ancient dude who probably remembers dial-up phones?! You're gonna miss all our inside jokes about how lame everything is!"

With a faint smirk playing on her lips, Tina simply ignored his escalating dramatics, gathering her bag and giving a small, triumphant wave to the "ancient dude" Alex, who offered a charming smile in return.

Max bit back a laugh, nudging PJ. "Looks like the Bob-Man's 'unseen weight' is the crushing burden of being dumped for a bulkier uomo. Maybe he can perform his solo act of dramatic despair."

PJ chuckled. "And speaking of 'subtle restraint,' apparently, it's Tina's restraint in not just telling him to take a long walk off a short pier. Good luck with the existential dread, Bobby!"

Bobby, still sputtering, turned to them, his face a mask of outrage. "You guys are not helping! This is a crisis!"

"They did put 'cry' in crisis, Bobbster," Max remarked dryly, mimicking one of Bobby's go-to groaners.

Bobby slapped him on the head. "Play nice! My artistic vision is shattered! I'm gonna be stuck with some random weirdo who probably talks to pigeons!"

Max and PJ exchanged a look, and then in a swift, coordinated maneuver, Max grabbed one of Bobby's flailing arms while PJ snagged the other, effectively hoisting him from his seat. Bobby let out an undignified squawk as they began to drag him towards the door, his feet leaving faint scuff marks on the pristine studio floor. "Hey! My artistic integrity!" he protested, his voice echoing comically as they unceremoniously hauled the future pigeon whisperer out of the classroom.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max and PJ snagged a small table at The Bean Scene Cafe, the air thick with the comforting aroma of roasted coffee beans. "I'll go get us coffee," PJ offered, already heading towards the bustling counter.

Bobby materialized beside Max, still mumbling indignantly. "Can you believe that Tina? Picking that stamps collector. So un-duely!"

"Did you find a partner, though?" Max asked, knocking Bobby's bald head for good measure. "We have to perform the rough version tomorrow."

Bobby puffed out his chest. "Obviously, dude! I'm popular with the ladies. I was able to snag a gal just like that." He snapped his fingers with a flourish.

PJ returned then, two steaming mugs in hand, setting one down for Max. "Don't tell me you're doing the project with Giant Sweaters Alex?" PJ deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.

Bobby's bravado deflated slightly. "Hey, man," he whined, "inside those extra-large, shapeless sweaters, there's a human being. A human being with the personality of a damp dishrag, but a human being nonetheless!" He then slammed his head repeatedly onto the table, a dull thud accompanying each groan. "I'm doomed! Doomed, I tell you!"

Max watched Bobby's head thump against the table with amusement. PJ just set his own coffee down. "Careful, Bobby," PJ commented dryly, "you're going to give the table an 'unseen weight' of its own with all that forehead trauma."

As Max took a sip of his coffee, his gaze drifted across the crowded cafe. His breath hitched. Bradley sat at a nearby table, alone, his eyes already locked on Max. A slow, chilling wink spread across Bradley's face, and he subtly raised his hand, splaying five fingers: five o'clock.

"What's wrong?" PJ asked, noticing Max's sudden stillness.

Max lowered his head, a heavy feeling settling in his chest, cold and familiar. He heard PJ say a soft, knowing "Oh."

"Oh, look, there's Vicki!" PJ suddenly exclaimed, his voice remarkably cheerful, as he started walking away from their table. Max watched as PJ walked straight past Bradley's table, his shoulder "accidentally" connecting with Bradley's with just enough force to send a cascade of hot coffee spilling down Bradley's pristine white shirt and splattering onto the floor.

"Oops, sorry, dude," PJ called over his shoulder, a hint of fake innocence in his tone.

Bradley's face, visible even from a distance, was a mask of furious disbelief, his jaw tight.

"Yes! Get some, P Junior!" Bobby cheered, pumping his fist in the air. "That's what you get for being a total coffee spill-ebrity! Maybe try wearing a bib, bro!"

Max looked down at his coffee, a small smile touching his lips.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Okay, so for the opening," PJ mused, hunched over his laptop at the desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I'm thinking we start with you, totally free, right? Moving around the stage, all... unrestricted. Then, subtly, we introduce the 'weight.'"

Max sat cross-legged on his bed, the worn quilt bunched around him, listening to PJ's first pitch.

PJ paused, tapping his chin with a pen. "Maybe like, you're trying to reach for something, but an invisible force just pulls you back."

Max's stomach clenched, and it wasn't because of the faint, lingering smell of Bobby's nachos. He picked at a loose thread on his red shirt. "Invisible force?" he mumbled, his voice a little too tight. "Like, a strong breeze?"

PJ ignored the sarcasm. "No, dude, more profound! Like, psychological chains! We could even use actual, like, yarn or something wrapped around your wrists or ankles, symbolizing how we're tied down by anxieties. You struggle, but you can't break free. It's about forced compliance, right? What you have to do versus what you want to do."

All Max could think about were the cold, biting chains and rough shackles that had dug into his wrists and ankles. "Sounds... intricate," he managed, forcing a weak smile. "Isn't that a bit on the nose for 'unseen' weight?"

"No, that's the genius!" PJ exclaimed. "It’s subtle, but you feel it. And then, for the climax, we could have you in the center, totally constrained, maybe a spotlight, and you're just... silent, expressing all that internal conflict with your body. Like, the immense pressure of holding something back." He spun his chair around, his eyes alight with artistic fervor. "What kind of weight do you think we should embody, Max? What do you know about feeling, like, truly helpless?"

Max’s gaze darted to Bobby’s empty bed, then to the closed door, the space feeling suddenly claustrophobic. The vivid memory of being tied to the bed, the cold plaster against his back, the desperate, silent pleas that no one would hear. He knew exactly what it felt like to be helpless, to be constrained, to have an unseen burden. He lived it every day at five o'clock.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I... I guess the kind that makes you want to crawl out of your skin," he mumbled, trying to keep his voice even, to sound appropriately philosophical instead of terrified. "The kind that makes you question everything."

PJ nodded vigorously, completely oblivious to the raw anguish in Max's voice. "Yeah, man! Deep! See, I knew you'd get it."

"Actually, PJ, I'm not so sure about this," Max admitted, his fingers beginning to nervously trace the worn stitching on his jeans.

PJ's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, 'not so sure'? If you don't like it, why don't you come up with something else? The deadline's tomorrow, man, we need to think fast!"

"Yeah, maybe another, less heavy idea," Max mused, almost to himself.

PJ stared at him, aghast. "We can't just perform anything mediocre, Max! This project is forty percent of our grade. It has to be perfect, and I think the idea we already have is good enough."

"But it's your first pitch, isn't it?" Max pressed, trying to keep his tone even. "Let's just try thinking again."

"It would have been fine if we didn't have to perform it tomorrow!" PJ retorted, his voice rising in frustration.

Max looked at him, a weary understanding dawning in his eyes. "You're already in love with your idea, aren't you?"

PJ's shoulders slumped slightly. "Yes! It's poetic, it's artistic. I wanna have its babies."

Max let out a long, slow sigh, the fight draining out of him. "Fine, man, whatever you say."

A wide grin spread across PJ's face. "Cool! So, you just need to practice for the performance."

"Right," Max said, his gaze distant. "And what about you? What would you do on stage?"

PJ threw up his hands. "Hey, I'm the idea guy, the scriptwriter! I can't do everything." He paused, a questionable look on his face. "You're cool with the whole... subtle restraint thing, right?"

Max's eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, a shuddering breath catching in his throat. He opened them, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle and hollow even to him. "Sure, Peej. Totally. Who knew performance art was just... adult charades with extra trauma?"

PJ practically vibrated with excitement, his fingers flying across the keyboard, clicking with a zealous energy usually reserved for video games. But as Max watched him, a cold dread began to seep in. His eyes flicked to the digital clock on his bedside table: 4:32.

"Put a raincheck on the practice, Peej," Max said, his voice strained, "I need to get going."

PJ looked at him in confusion. Max just pointed at the clock as he started jamming his feet into his sneakers. "Oh," PJ finally said, "When do you think you'll come back?"

Max ran a hand through his hair. "It depends on Bradley's mood swing. I'll try to be on his good graces as much as I can, and maybe I'll get back before seven."

PJ's expression softened, a look of genuine sympathy in his eyes. "Your pizza with double cheese will be ready for you when you get back."

Max swallowed hard, the kindness a lump in his throat. He nodded softly. "Thanks." He turned and walked out of the room, the click of the door echoing behind him.

As Max stepped out, the air felt heavy, each breath a conscious effort. A knot of resentment twisted in his gut, bitter and sharp. He hated this. Hated the clock dictating his life, hated the forced smiles and placating words he’d have to dole out. He felt small and trapped. He wasn't just walking away from a friend and a project; he was walking back into a cage, and the thought of Bradley's unpredictable temper made his stomach churn with anxiety. The promise of double-cheese pizza felt like a hollow gesture against the weight of the evening ahead.

~*~*~*~*~

The rusty motel bed springs groaned under Max's weight as Bradley humped on top of him. Surprisingly, Bradley seemed to be in a relatively good mood today, or at least, a less volatile one. Max lay naked as Bradley, still fully clothed, began his familiar, unholy ritual.

Bradley's mouth found Max's nipples, attacking them with a savage hunger. Bites and sucks, rough and demanding, bloomed into angry red marks. "This is for the coffee incident today," Bradley whispered, his voice a low growl. "I know you told your pudgy loser pal about us."

Despite the accusation, there was no familiar click of chains. Max's limbs were free, not bound to the headboard as they so often were. He wrapped his legs around Bradley's waist, pulling him closer, his hands tangling in Bradley's hair, almost encouraging the torment. His body, against his will, ignited with a raw, undeniable desire.

Bradley eventually lifted his head, leaving Max's nipples throbbing, bruised monuments to his pleasure. He looked down at Max, a slow smile spreading across his face as he noted Max's ragged breathing. "You liked that, didn't you?"

Max was completely lost in a haze of pure ecstasy. Bradley's lips moved up his neck, a teasing trail of heat, before he breathed hot air into Max's ear. Max's control shattered, a helpless moan escaping him. Then, Bradley shifted, burying his face in Max's hair and taking a deep breath. Max had noticed this peculiar habit before: Bradley really seemed to like smelling his hair, inhaling the scent with the intensity of someone craving a strong drug.

As Bradley lingered, his breathing deepening against Max's scalp, Max shifted his head slightly to the left. His eyes landed on the canvas, white and untouched, standing silently in the middle of the cramped room. No initial sketch, no demand for a pose yet. How long would this torturous, exquisite foreplay last before the inevitable degradation began? How many long, silent hours of sketching and painting lay ahead? Max knew he couldn't speak, but a frantic urgency pulsed beneath his skin. He needed to hurry this along, needed to get back to PJ and their project.

Bradley shifted again, settling onto the bed beside Max and pulling him close. His face buried in Max's hair, he whispered for Max to hold him. Max complied, wrapping an arm around Bradley and resting his head on Bradley's shoulder, an intimate embrace he might have appreciated if not for the looming forty percent grade for the project he desperately needed to work on with PJ.

After a few minutes of contented silence, Bradley propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at Max. His expression was genuinely curious, a softening around his eyes that Max rarely saw. "What do you enjoy more," he asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle, "nibbling on your ears or your nipples?"

Max just stared, remaining silent. Bradley rolled his eyes. "You can speak, you know."

Max met Bradley's gaze, which, despite the eye-roll, remained earnest. This unexpected shift in Bradley's demeanor was unnerving, almost unsettling. He was actually giving Max a chance to speak, a rare and fleeting opportunity. Max wasn't about to waste it on picking between being deafened or perpetually cold.

He tried to keep his voice level, betraying none of the frantic urgency that gnawed at him. His eyes flicked subtly towards the untouched canvas across the room. "When do you plan to start painting?"

Bradley’s expression changed drastically, as if Max had slapped him across the face. The warmth vanished, replaced by a chilling coldness in his eyes, his mouth setting into a rigid, unforgiving line. "Is that all you care about?" he demanded, his voice suddenly sharp with anger.

Uh oh. Max knew, with a sickening lurch in his stomach, that he had unleashed the monster. He tried to soften the blow, to backtrack. "I was just…"

A stinging slap cut him off, the sharp crack echoing in the small room. Max gasped, silenced, his cheek burning. He stared up at the furious blue eyes in shock. Bradley had never laid a hand on him like this before.

In one jerky, furious movement, Bradley scrambled off the bed, grabbing Max's arm. He dragged him roughly, so roughly that Max tumbled off the mattress, landing painfully on the floor. "Get up! Get up, you pathetic slut!" Bradley yelled, yanking harshly on his arm.

Max scrambled to his feet, his body still reeling from the fall, only for Bradley to shove him onto a heavy wooden chair. Max watched, a tremor of unsettling nerves running through him, as Bradley moved with jerky, agitated motions to retrieve ropes from a drawer.

Bradley’s eyes, still blazing with cold fury, snapped back to him. "Hands behind your back," he commanded. Max obeyed instantly, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Bradley roughly tied his wrists together, then secured them tightly to the back poles of the chair.

"Part your thighs," Bradley demanded. Max did as he was told, his muscles tensing. Bradley grabbed one of Max's ankles, yanking it back to the chair's rear foot and tying it fast. He repeated the brutal process with the other foot. Max squirmed at the unnatural angle of his legs, pulled back and wide. His genitals were fully exposed, vulnerable, it was exactly what Bradley wanted.

Bradley stood, a dark silhouette against the dim light, his gaze colder and more hateful than Max had ever seen. He stared back, a shiver running through him, partly from a sudden cold draft, partly from the sheer terror now gripping him.

"You try to be nice to them and they end up taking advantage," Bradley sneered, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Nothing works with lowlifes like you but a whip."

He leaned in, planting each hand firmly on Max's thighs and pressing down with brutal force. Max hissed, a sharp gasp of pain escaping him as the unnatural angle of his bound legs intensified the pressure. "Seems you really think of yourself as some hot model, don't you?" Bradley taunted, his voice dripping with contempt. "You like modeling your junk to me, you little slut?"

The pressure on Max's thighs was agonizing, but he clamped his jaw shut, refusing to give Bradley the satisfaction of a whimper. He stared back evenly into Bradley's repulsed gaze, a defiant spark in his own eyes.

"Well then," Bradley said, a cruel smile twisting his lips, "let's make you more canvas worthy."

His hand moved, a swift, brutal grab at Max's privates. Then, a hard squeeze. Max let out a pained scream. This was no longer the rough foreplay, the twisted pleasure he sometimes found in their encounters. This was pure agony. Bradley kept squeezing, relentless, until Max's vision swam and he was on the verge of passing out.

Finally, Bradley stood up, his eyes fixed on Max. He watched him gasping for breath, his body still writhing weakly against the ropes, a look of cruel satisfaction spreading across Bradley's face. Without another word, he turned and walked to the canvas, picking up a charcoal stick, and began to sketch.

A pained breath hissed through Max's teeth as he instinctively, yet uselessly, tugged at the unyielding ropes, his only response to the burning agony. Every muscle screamed in protest against the harsh angles of the heavy wooden chair. His thighs throbbed where Bradley had pressed, and a searing ache radiated from his violated manhood. He tried to shift, to find even a sliver of relief, but each small movement only intensified the bite of the ropes and the awkward strain on his limbs, reminding him of his vulnerability. His breath hitched in his chest, still ragged from the assault, and a cold sweat slicked his skin despite the cool air. He could feel the dried tear tracks on his face. His mind darted frantically between the agony of his body and the dread of the hours stretching before him.

Adding to the crushing weight of his present ordeal was the suffocating thought of the project PJ wanted him to perform tomorrow. The idea of stepping onto a stage, baring any part of himself in front of his professor and peers filled him with a profound, almost paralyzing dread. The thought of their scrutinizing eyes, of being judged for a performance when his reality was far more terrifying, made his stomach churn. How could he possibly pretend to embody the "subtle restraint" of PJ's vision when his own body and mind were being so brutally unrestrained? The very thought of it, compounded by his current state, felt like an impossible, mocking task.

Across the room, Bradley worked in silence, the soft scratching of charcoal on canvas the only sound. Occasionally, he would pause, his eyes lifting from the sketchpad to sweep over Max's body. Each glance felt like a fresh invasion, making Max flinch internally, though he forced himself to remain still. He focused on a tiny scuff mark on the wall, anything to avoid meeting Bradley's cold, appraising stare. The humiliation burned hotter than the sting on his cheek from when Bradley slapped him, knowing he was being meticulously rendered, his suffering captured in strokes of charcoal.

Suddenly, the scratching ceased. Max's heart pounded. Bradley was in front of him in an instant. Max stiffened in the chair, the ropes biting into his wrists. Bradley’s touch was slow, deliberate, as his fingers found Max's member, beginning a light, taunting stroke. Max clamped his jaw shut, willing himself to remain unaffected, to deny Bradley the satisfaction. But then Bradley leaned in, his breath warm against Max's ear. "Your friend PJ knows all about what his little whore of a friend does every day at five o'clock. Do you think he's fantasizing about what I'm doing to you right now?"

A wave of incredible heat flushed through Max, staining his skin with undeniable humiliation. Bradley thought he’d told PJ everything. He didn’t know PJ knew nothing of the canvases, the degrading poses, or Max's own inexplicable, sickening attraction to him. Max fought harder, battling the traitorous warmth that began to spread through his lower belly, refusing to give in to the rhythm of Bradley's hand.

"We both know I turn you on," Bradley whispered, his voice silken, close to Max's ear. "Don't torture yourself trying to keep your little sounds of pleasure from me."

Then, Bradley's lips found Max's ear, warm and wet, sucking gently. A sharp gasp tore from Max's throat, involuntary. A low moan escaped him as Bradley’s strokes intensified, quickening, pulling him deeper into a swirling vortex of sensation. Max’s hips bucked subtly against the restraints of the chair, his head falling back, eyes clenched shut as half-groans and half-whimpers escaped him. He was drowning, a helpless current of pleasure dragging him under.

"You want me so much, don't you?" Bradley's voice was thick with satisfaction, a triumphant sneer audible even through Max's haze. "You could have had more, but you, being the goof you are, you ruined everything."

Bradley stood then, stepping back, leaving Max suspended in a tortured pleasure. With a final, satisfied glance at Max's quivering form, Bradley turned and resumed his work on the painting.

Time bled on, stretching into what felt like an infinity. Max's thighs began to tremble uncontrollably, a deep, weary ache settling in from being restrained at such an awkward angle for so long. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, a dull throb permeating his limbs from the constant, unyielding pressure of the ropes. Bradley’s hand would return every now and then, a light, taunting touch that jolted Max between agony and unwanted pleasure. The ticking of a non-existent clock echoed in his ears to remind him of the project he should have been working on, of PJ and their looming deadline. He doubted he'd have enough power or will left to even practice for it tonight. All he craved right now was the oblivion of his own bed. He just wanted this to be over.

Finally, Bradley stepped back, dropping the charcoal stick with a soft clatter that echoed in the quiet room. "Finished," he announced. He walked to the easel and turned the canvas to face Max. "Behold, my masterpiece. A true reflection of your current state, wouldn't you agree?"

Max's gaze lifted slowly to the painting. He stared at his own image, rendered with chilling precision, bound to the chair, legs splayed, privates exposed, head thrown back in a silent scream. But Bradley hadn't merely captured his physical humiliation; he had stripped him bare, revealing a raw, writhing vulnerability Max desperately tried to keep hidden. The lines of charcoal weren't just shadows; they were the physical manifestation of his pain, the dark smudges under his eyes, the hollows in his cheeks, all screaming the agony of forced compliance. His mouth was open, but no sound escaped the painted lips, emphasizing his helplessness, his voicelessness. The canvas seemed to mock him, reflecting not just his body, but the shattered remnants of his pride.

He imagined PJ seeing this. Max could almost hear the disgusted gasp, see the repulsion contorting his friend's face. PJ would look at this, look at him, and see something irrevocably tainted, something too weak, too pathetic to ever be worthy of respect again. No one would ever want to be friends with someone who would let this happen to them.

Bradley finally stepped away from the finished canvas and walked back to stand directly in front of Max. He regarded Max with a smirk, letting the silence stretch for a full minute, allowing his gaze to linger over every detail of Max's bound, exposed form. Max hated when Bradley made him feel like some animal in a zoo, looked at and inspected.

"Well," Bradley finally said, "since you love posing for me so much, I'm thinking maybe you should remain in this pose until our session tomorrow."

A chilling dread speared through Max. He pictured the long, desolate hours stretching before him: the suffocating silence of the motel room, the dim, flickering light, the creeping cold, his muscles screaming in protest, the biting ropes digging deeper into his skin. He imagined the shame of simply being there for an entire night, then a full day, until Bradley decided to return.

Bradley walked back to the easel, retrieved the painting, and positioned it directly in front of Max, tilting it slightly. "There," he said. "Something for you to enjoy. To pass the time until I return." He took a step back, surveying his handiwork, clearly relishing Max's humiliation.

And then, in a moment of complete defiance, Max said, strongly, "No!"

Bradley’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing into sharp, cruel slits. "Did you dare speak?" he demanded.

"No!" Max repeated, his voice surprisingly steady despite the terror coiling in his gut. "You can't leave me tied like this overnight."

Bradley leaned in, his face inches from Max's, his breath cold against Max’s cheek. "I sure as hell can," he sneered, his eyes glittering with malevolent pleasure.

"That's not what we agreed on!" Max retorted, desperation lending an edge to his voice. "The deal was posing for paintings. That's it! There was nothing in it about extended stay options for your personal mannequin."

Bradley straightened, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across his face. "If you haven't picked a major yet, you should really major in law."

"Yeah, sure," Max retorted, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Because, you know, 'Hostage Law and Motel Room Etiquette' is a real growth industry, and I'm getting a ton of hands-on experience." He let out a deep breath. "Listen, Brad, I have this presentation with PJ tomorrow. It's forty percent of our grade. I can't skip tomorrow's lecture."

His dad had practically bled his heart and soul for that college fund; Max certainly wasn't about to waste it, wasn't about to flunk out because Bradley decided his artistic muse required an involuntary, long-term tenant in a seedy motel room. Bradley, with his inherited silver spoon and likely a trust fund that could buy several small countries, clearly wouldn't know sacrifice if it bit him. His own father could probably buy the entire campus and turn it into a private polo field if he wished.

"Forty percent?" Bradley scoffed, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Oh, Max. As if a little academic hiccup would dent your sparkling future. Besides, think of the artistic integrity! My masterpiece demands sacrifice, and yours is the most convenient."

"Brad, please!" Max pleaded, a desperate tremor in his voice. "PJ's counting on me. It's his grade too! He doesn't deserve to fail his first big project because of me." Max knew, with a bitter sting, that he didn't deserve this either, but Bradley, of course, couldn't care less about him.

Bradley placed a hand dramatically over his heart, a mock gesture of profound thought. "Tell you what, Goof," he said, his voice dripping with false magnanimity. He walked to the bed, retrieving a small, glinting utility knife from his bag. "I'll leave this little beauty right here." He placed it precisely in the middle of the mattress. "You get to it. Free yourself." He straightened, a wicked grin stretching his lips.

"You know that's impossible!" Max exclaimed, exasperation warring with his terror.

"With a strong will, anything's possible," Bradley countered, his eyes glinting with amusement. He laughed and turned to leave.

"Bradley, please!" Max yelled after him, his voice raw. "You have to cut me loose! This project isn't a game, it's a serious…"

The click of a switch silenced him. The room plunged into darkness, the only faint light coming from the streetlamp outside, casting the painting in an eerie, distorted glow. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing with chilling finality, leaving Max completely alone.

Panic, cold and suffocating, seized him. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden silence. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, his chest tightening as if an invisible hand were squeezing the air from his lungs. He stared at the painting in front of him, his own distressed face staring back, a grotesque mirror of his current terror. Then his gaze flicked to the knife, a distant, unreachable glint on the bed, a symbol of impossible freedom. The room spun, a dizzying vortex of fear. He was trapped. Completely trapped.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the images away, trying to remember PJ's calm voice, the warmth of their dorm room. Breathe, Max. Just breathe. He tried to take a deep, calming breath, but it caught in his throat, a pathetic wheeze. He couldn't flunk this project. He couldn't let PJ down. He had to calm down. For PJ. For his own sanity. He focused on the distant hum of traffic, on the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke that clung to the motel room, anything to ground himself, to pull himself back from the precipice of pure, unadulterated terror. Slowly, painstakingly, the frantic rhythm in his chest began to subside. The dizziness receded, replaced by a dull ache in his head. He opened his eyes, the darkness less menacing now, just empty. His arms throbbed, his thighs screamed, and his ankles burned, a constant, physical reminder of his predicament. But the panic, for now, had retreated, leaving behind only the cold, hard reality of his confinement.

The silence of the motel room pressed in on Max, amplifying the frantic rhythm of his heart. His eyes fixed on the distant gleam of the knife, a sliver of impossible hope on the unmade bed. He pushed, straining against the ropes, trying to leverage his bound body to budge the heavy wooden chair. The chair, however, remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, a dead weight.

He tried again, twisting, grunting with effort, attempting to drag the chair inch by painful inch across the rough carpet. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated, a desperate dance of limbs that refused to obey. With a sickening lurch, the chair tilted, then toppled. Pain shot through his left shoulder and arm as they bore the brunt of the fall, slamming against the gritty floor with a jarring thud. His breath rushed out of him in a pained gasp, his face scraping against the coarse fibers of the old carpet. The air smelled of dust and stale cigarettes, pressing against his nostrils.

For a moment, he lay there, stunned, the fresh agony in his shoulder overshadowing all else. He was a beached whale bound to his wooden tormentor. He inhaled and exhaled and began to crawl, dragging the fallen chair with him. His bound ankles scraped, his knees burned, and his already sore wrists strained against the ropes. He gritted his teeth, digging his elbows into the carpet, pulling, pushing, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. It was a slow, agonizing shuffle, the heavy chair a constant, mocking anchor. Each inch was a victory, each grunt of effort a testament to his dwindling reserves.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of desperate, humiliating exertion, he reached the side of the bed. He was gasping, completely out of breath, his body trembling with exhaustion. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his muscles quivered uncontrollably. He looked up, unable to lift himself high enough to get to the knife.

A desperate, wild hope ignited in him. The knife was out of reach, but the bedsheet wasn't. He strained, contorting his neck, until he could clamp his teeth onto the edge of the sheet, rough cotton grating against his gums. He pulled, a guttural grunt escaping him as he tugged with all the force his bound body could muster. The sheet barely budged. He pulled again, harder, his jaw aching, his teeth clenched around the fabric. His head throbbed, his shoulders screamed from the awkward angle, and his entire core burned with the effort. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the sheet began to ruck, a tiny ripple forming on the mattress. He imagined the knife sliding, inch by painstaking inch, closer to the edge. But the sheet was tucked in tightly, resisting his every desperate tug. Each meager gain was met with immediate exhaustion, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Max's jaw ached, his teeth sore from the relentless grip on the sheet. His shoulders trembled, and every muscle in his neck screamed in protest. He had nothing left. With a defeated whimper, he let go, the sheet snapping back into place with a soft thwack. He lay his head on the rough carpet, his chest heaving, gulping in air that still felt insufficient. Each breath was a monumental effort, his lungs burning, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. Exhaustion seeped into every cell of his being, a weight more crushing than the chair itself. He closed his eyes, no longer fighting the encroaching blackness, and welcomed the oblivion as he lost himself to darkness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max jerked awake, disoriented, his body being moved with a jarring motion. He blinked his eyes open, slowly taking in his surroundings. He was still in the motel room, the latest degrading painting starkly illuminated directly in front of him. The lights were on, casting a harsh glow on the scene. The chair he was tied to was back upright, and his head throbbed with a dull, insistent headache. Then, he felt someone's hand on his bound wrists behind the chair. A moment later, the ropes loosened, and his wrists were free.

He almost toppled forward, too tired, too weak to sit upright without the support of the ropes. But an arm reached around him, firm against his chest, holding him back, preventing his fall, and then gently letting him rest against the back of the chair. Next, one ankle was freed. With a groan, Max managed to move his leg, a stiff, painful lurch forward, easing the agonizing pressure on his strained thigh. Then the other ankle was released. He stretched both legs out with immense difficulty, willing the blood to rush back into his numb limbs, a pins-and-needles sensation prickling his skin. He turned his head back, catching a glimpse of Bradley's back as he placed the small utility knife inside the nightstand drawer, the glint of metal disappearing into the shadows.

Max watched, every muscle protesting, as Bradley walked towards the door, his shadow dark against the faint light filtering in. Just as Bradley reached for the knob, Max cleared his throat, the sound rough and unused.

"I can't do this, Bradley," Max's voice was hoarse, but steady, gaining strength with each word. "I can't live in dread, wondering if you're gonna lock me in this room, if I'll find myself tied up for days on end."

Bradley stopped by the door, his back to Max.

"This is the last time I let you treat me like this!" Max continued, finding a reservoir of anger he hadn't known he possessed. "I signed up for poses, that's it! I didn't sign up to be your personal slave!"

Still, Bradley remained in place, no movement, no sound. Max gathered all his strength, pushing with his arms, trying to force his trembling legs to hold him. But his limbs were too weak, screaming from the recent ordeal, and he collapsed back to the floor with a pathetic thud. That, at least, got a reaction. Bradley finally turned, looking back at him. Max, even in his haze of pain, could have sworn he saw a flicker of concern in Bradley's eyes, though he doubted it instantly.

Max pushed himself up onto his elbows and hands, glaring up at Bradley with a newfound ferocity. "You can't silence me anymore!" he spat, his voice trembling but resolute. "I'm gonna talk, and I'm gonna give you my two cents from now on! And if you want to send that picture to Roxanne, be my guest!" Max paused, gathering his breath, a cynical smirk twisting his lips despite his weakness. "While it's gonna be humiliating as all hell having her call me about it and probably demanding a full refund on all our past dates, frankly, she's not even in my life anymore. So, knock yourself out, Picasso. You're just hitting the delete button on someone who's already been permanently archived."

Bradley stared back at him, his expression unreadable, a blank wall Max couldn't penetrate. Max, fighting the tremor in his legs, tried with difficulty to rise to his feet. "From now on, no more mute guy!" he declared, his voice raw but firm. "I'm done with this shit! I'm done letting you control my life." He reached out, grabbing the stand of the canvas, using it to steady himself as he pushed upward. His pathetic, painted face, contorted in silent agony, was inches from his own, a mocking reflection.

Bradley finally spoke, his voice surprisingly calm. "Does that mean you won't be showing up tomorrow?"

Max glared at him, hating the weakness in his limbs, but hating his own answer even more. "Obviously I will," he said bitterly. "The Roxanne thing… that's nothing compared to my dad and friends finding out. I won't be able to live down the whole campus knowing about this." Finally managing to stand, he felt a strange sense of defiance, a fragile dignity despite being nude. He felt taller, looking Bradley directly in the eye, even though he was a few inches shorter. "From now on, we only do poses and paintings. That's it!"

Bradley frowned, a subtle shift in his otherwise impassive face.

"As shocking as that might sound to you," Max continued, the words tumbling out, fueled by anger and exhaustion, "I do have a life outside this stinking room. I can't stay here more than an hour. You do your painting, and I'm out of here. No more keeping me chained till the next day, no more forced cuddling sessions where I pretend you're not a sentient, narcissistic brick wall." He finished, his voice firm. "It's over, Brad." Max must have been facing a hell of a headache because he swore he could see a flicker of hurt in Bradley's eyes, a fleeting shadow quickly gone.

Okay. He'd said his piece, and now he just needed to get back to the dorm room, finish that project, and hopefully eat the pizza PJ had promised him.

He took a shaky step towards where his clothes lay next to the door, where Bradley was still standing. But as he drew near, Bradley moved, grabbing him by the arms, then pulling him close, pressing him against his body. Max’s bare chest flattened against Bradley’s, his hands slipping to Max's back, holding him closer.

Max looked up in anger, ready to unleash another torrent of words. "What the hell, Brad?"

Bradley leaned in, his head tilting, and brushed his lips against Max's. Max was too stunned to react, frozen in place, his anger momentarily forgotten. Then, Bradley deepened the kiss, a soft pressure at first, then more insistent, more demanding. Max’s initial shock gave way to a dizzying rush. He felt himself yielding, his body softening, leaning into the unexpected warmth. His own lips parted, responding, a desperate hunger rising within him as he kissed Bradley back, passionately, desperately, losing himself in the unexpected, confusing embrace.

Max felt Bradley pull away, and he breathed heavily, opening his eyes only to see Bradley smirking at him. Shit. Max realized, with a sickening lurch, that he had completely let his guard down.

"Cuddling time on the bed isn't over, apparently," Bradley drawled, his smirk widening. He knelt down, gathered the crumpled bundle of Max's clothes, and handed them over. "See you tomorrow at five," he said with a lopsided grin, then turned and walked out, the click of the door echoing in the suddenly silent room.

Max stood there, the clothes clutched uselessly in his hands. The lingering warmth of Bradley's lips, the phantom press of his body, warred with the biting chill of the motel room and the cold dread in his stomach. He felt extremely bewildered, adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. Shame burned through him for having responded to Bradley, for having given in to the kiss, for showing any vulnerability to the very person who continually exploited him. Yet, beneath the shame, a confusing flicker of longing persisted, a dark, unwelcome spark he desperately wished he could extinguish. He was a tangled mess of fear, anger, humiliation, and a perverse, undeniable desire. The thought of tomorrow, of five o'clock, now held a new, terrifying complexity, a promise of both degradation and a bewildering, dangerous intimacy.

Stepping out of the motel room and into the cool evening air, Max pulled on his clothes, each movement a fresh wave of pain. The fabric scraped mercilessly against his bruised and abraded skin. His shirt chafed his raw shoulders and elbows. His pants pressed against his scraped knees and the tender, strained muscles of his thighs, making every step a wince-inducing effort. The material around his wrists and ankles felt like sandpaper against the rope burns. He felt every ache, every bruise, every raw patch of skin with excruciating clarity.

Max stopped short when he saw PJ perched on a bicycle on the sidewalk across from the building, a worried frown etched onto his face.

"What are you doing here?" Max asked, indignation sharpening his voice. An interrogation was the last thing he needed right now.

"You were hours late," PJ said, dismounting his bike. "I got worried. And then I came here and saw Bradley walking back in." His frown deepened. "Did he just leave you in there by yourself? Why didn't you just leave?"

Max remained on the motel steps, far enough that PJ couldn't make out the glassy sheen in his eyes. He felt on the verge of imploding but refused to burst into tears. That would just invite more questions, more demands for explanations he couldn't give. As PJ began to approach with his bicycle, Max fought desperately to keep his composure, wrestling with the raging emotions churning inside. PJ stopped close enough for his gaze to linger on Max's stinging chin, clearly seeing the abrasions. "What's wrong with your face?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

 Max took a shaky breath, descending the remaining steps to meet PJ. "Good thing you got the bike," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. "I don't think I can walk all the way back to the dorms." He swung a leg over the back, settling onto the seat with a soft groan.

PJ looked at him, his gaze a complex mix of sympathy and palpable frustration.

Max sighed. "Let's go, Peej. We have a project to work on."

Silently, PJ obeyed, pedaling them both back towards the dorms.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Back in the dorm room, PJ was already reading him the script for their performance, oblivious to the storm brewing inside Max. Bobby wasn't around; he'd apparently decided to spend the night at Giant Sweaters Alex's place, probably "collaborating" on their project. Max had only managed one cold, rubbery slice of the pizza PJ had ordered hours ago, not knowing Max wouldn't be out of the motel room until ten. He instinctively reached under his long-sleeved shirt, scratching at the stinging abrasions on his arm, then his wrist, attempting to soothe the raw skin.

"Okay, so for the opening," PJ enthused, his hands shaping the air as he paced in front of Max's bed, "you'll be moving freely, right? But then, we introduce the 'unseen weight.' Imagine it as invisible strings, pulling you back, subtly constraining your movements." He gestured, demonstrating a slow, painful pull. "It's about the internal struggle, the things that hold us, even when no one else can see them."

Every word PJ spoke was a fresh stab, a painful echo of the past few hours. Invisible strings, constrained movements, internal struggle. Max felt the phantom bite of ropes on his wrists, the heavy drag of the chair, the chilling memory of being left bound and helpless, abandoned in that room. It was too much. He couldn't go on pretending. A tremor started in his hands, then spread through his entire body.

PJ stopped, his brow furrowing with immediate concern. "Max? What's wrong?" He leaned in, his gaze scanning Max's face, then his body. "Did that jerk hurt you somewhere? Are you bleeding?"

Max shook his head, a shaky breath catching in his throat. "I'm just… I'm tired, man. So tired. I just want to sleep."

PJ stared for a moment, then, his voice gentle, asked, "Is it okay if I look at your arm?"

Max panicked, his hand instantly freezing on his arm. "What? Why?"

"I promise I won't ask any questions," PJ reassured him, his gaze direct. "But looking at your chin and the way you keep scratching your arm, you obviously need some medical attention. It's better to treat it now or it will get infected."

Max tried to slip his body under the covers of his bed. "I'm tired. I just want to sleep."

PJ moved gently, stopping him by holding his shoulders. Max winced, a sharp pang in his shoulder, the one that had hit the floor when the chair toppled. "Please, just let me take a look," PJ pleaded, his voice soft but firm. "I promise, no questions and no judgment. Okay?"

Max's gaze shifted frantically around the room, landing anywhere but on PJ's unwavering eyes. Finally, with a weary sigh, he pulled off his shirt. PJ gently examined Max's left arm. The upper arm was already a landscape of mottled purple and green, a deep contusion from the fall. His elbow was scraped raw, a wide, weeping abrasion where it had dragged against the carpet. Around his wrist, angry red rope burns stood out starkly against his pale skin, some areas already beginning to swell. Wordlessly, PJ moved to their first aid kit, returning with antiseptic wipes, gauze, and ointment. He began to treat the visible bruises, including the one on Max's chin. Max watched him, a strange mix of profound relief and simmering humiliation warring inside him. PJ's quiet, careful attention was overwhelming, and it made the dam holding back his emotions tremble.

After he was done with the visible bruises, PJ looked up. "Are there any more?" he asked, his voice still gentle, his eyes searching Max's face.

"No," Max whispered, unconvincingly.

PJ stared at him for a long moment, then said, "If you don't mind, I want to see your legs."

Max couldn't stop the hot tears of humiliation that burned in his eyes.

"I won't say a word. I promise," PJ said, his voice unwavering.

Max sniffed, then slowly, reluctantly, lowered his pants. His thighs were a tapestry of deep purple and red where they had been forced into an unnatural angle and pressed down, crisscrossed with faint red lines from the restraint. His knees were raw and scraped, large patches of abraded skin where he'd crawled. Down by his ankles, angry rope burns mirrored those on his wrists, swollen and tender, some already blistering. PJ began to treat them in silence, his touch careful and deliberate. Max wiped his tears with the edge of the blanket, his lips a rigid, thin line as he stared fixedly at PJ. PJ, meanwhile, was gently applying a cool, soothing cream to Max's knee, rubbing it in slow, circular motions.

Once PJ was done, he gently helped Max to his bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin. PJ then crouched beside Max's head, his expression earnest. "If you want, we could talk to Mr. Russo. Push back our presentation."

Max shook his head weakly. "Nah, it's cool. We'll do it tomorrow."

"He'll get it," PJ insisted softly. "We can just tell him you wiped out on your skateboard."

Max shook his head again, strongly this time. "No. I don't want anyone knowing about this."

PJ let out a long sigh. "Alright, then I'll perform tomorrow, and you can just do the narration."

"No way," Max countered, pushing himself up slightly on an elbow. "You're way better at narrating than me. Don't worry, I can handle the performance."

PJ stared at him and then nodded. "We can practice tomorrow morning, when you've gotten some rest." He squeezed his shoulder. "I'm going for a walk to clear my head. I'll be back."

Max nodded, closing his eyes. The moment PJ's footsteps faded and the door clicked shut, he finally let the tears flow, hot and heavy.

~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, PJ had seized the opportunity, while Bobby was still absent, to reapply soothing ointment to Max's raw skin before they left the dorm. Now, in the Performance Art studio, Max sat stiffly in the front row alongside PJ, Tina and Senior Alex. Bobby, as predicted, was conspicuously absent, likely still at Giant Sweaters Alex's place. Max watched as the first teams presented their "Unseen Weights."

One duo performed an interpretive dance involving a lot of flapping fabric, meant to symbolize the "weight of societal expectations." Mr. Russo, ever the passionate critic, clapped enthusiastically. "Magnifico! The fabric, it truly felt... oppressive! Perhaps a little less flapping, more subtle, no? We want the weight to feel internal, like a bad pasta in the stomach, not just a drafty curtain." Another pair presented a silent, symbolic act involving one student repeatedly pushing against an invisible wall. "Ah, bravissimo!" Mr. Russo exclaimed, gesturing wildly. "The struggle is clear! But where is the passione? The heartbreak? Remember, even a wall, it can have anima!"

Each critique, each instruction for improvement, sounded vaguely menacing to Max. He felt a cold knot in his stomach, the "unseen weight" of his own reality pressing down on him.

Finally, it was their turn. PJ patted Max's knee. "This is it, bud," he murmured, his voice low. "Ready?"

Max nodded, but he wasn't at all ready. His gaze went to the audience and found Bobby sitting a few rows back. "Break a leg, roomies!" Bobby yelled and wrapped an arm around Giant Sweaters Alex, pulling her close, then tossed a scathing glare at Tina. Tina merely rolled her eyes and inched closer to her own buff Alex.

The small performance space felt vast and bare under the harsh fluorescent lights. Max could feel the weight of every gaze on them, a pressure that amplified the tremor in his hands. He took a deep breath, trying to focus on PJ standing beside him, ready to begin. But then, his eyes landed on the seated students in the back, and his blood ran cold.

Bradley was there.

He sat with an unnerving stillness, a dark bruise blooming around his left eye, as if someone had landed a solid punch. His gaze, however, was fixed on Max, passive yet intense, a silent, unsettling observation.

"Bradley's here," Max hissed to PJ, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.

PJ followed his gaze, his jaw clenching, a flash of anger momentarily hardening his features. He turned back to Max, his eyes firm and reassuring. "Don't pay him any mind," PJ said, his voice low but resolute. "If you cower, that means he won. Let's do our performance as if he wasn't even here."

The music started, a low, melancholic melody PJ had chosen. Their concept, "The Unseen Weight," began to unfold. Max started with slow, deliberate movements, exploring the space with a sense of hesitant freedom. Then, PJ began his narration, his voice a rich, resonant tone filling the silence. He spoke of invisible burdens, the weight of expectations, the unseen forces that subtly control our actions.

As PJ’s poetic words painted a picture of constraint, Max’s movements became more restricted. He introduced subtle gestures, a hand reaching out but then retracting, a slight hunching of his shoulders, a dragging of his feet as if tethered to an invisible anchor. But with every subtle shift, every carefully choreographed step, Max was acutely aware of Bradley's unwavering gaze.

A particular sequence involved Max slowly wrapping his arms around himself, a gesture meant to convey the feeling of being constricted by inner turmoil. But the movement sent a flush creeping up Max's neck, a stark reminder of the ropes, the chair, the feeling of being truly bound and helpless in the motel room. He pushed through the discomfort, focusing on PJ's voice, on the story they were trying to tell, willing himself to embody the abstract concept of constraint rather than the horrifying reality he had lived.

Later, a segment where Max was meant to stumble and catch himself, portraying the struggle against an unseen force, felt disturbingly familiar to the clumsy, desperate attempts to reach the knife. He could feel Bradley’s eyes on him, a silent, knowing scrutiny that made his skin crawl. Yet, somehow, fueled by a fierce determination not to let Bradley see his fear, his shame, he managed to sell the performance. He channeled his raw emotions, twisting the memory of his torment into a portrayal of universal struggle.

In that moment, without uttering a single word, Max was unleashing his darkest secret upon the unsuspecting audience. Each strained movement, each subtle tremor, each choked breath on stage was a visceral echo of his private anguish, a horrifying re-enactment of the torment inflicted by Bradley. He was laying bare the raw, humiliating truth of his unseen burdens for all to witness, his body a silent testament to his suffering, his very performance a defiant scream against the chains that bound him, a declaration to Bradley that his silence was finally, irrevocably broken.

PJ’s narration continued, weaving a tapestry of evocative language, his words flowing with the natural rhythm of a poet. He spoke of the resilience of the human spirit, the quiet strength found in bearing invisible burdens. His voice was a grounding force for Max, a lifeline in the sea of his anxiety.

Finally, the music faded, and Max stood still, his chest heaving slightly, the weight of the performance, and the memory, settling heavily upon him.

Mr. Russo clapped, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Bellissimo! Max, PJ, that was truly moving! The subtle physicality, Max, the way you embodied the feeling of constraint without resorting to anything overt – magnifico! And PJ, your words, oh, la tua poesia! It resonated deeply. For your final performance after spring break, I would suggest exploring the moments of resistance a little more, perhaps a flicker of rebellion against the weight. But overall, eccellente! A truly promising start."

Max let out a shaky breath, a wave of relief washing over him, tinged with a lingering unease under Bradley’s unwavering stare. He returned PJ's grin and they both high-fived.

~*~*~*~*~

Max and PJ exited the Performance Art studio, the hum of fluorescent lights replaced by the murmur of students filling the hallway. Max still felt a strange cocktail of exhaustion and defiant exhilaration.

Then he saw him.

Bradley leaned against the wall opposite the doorway, the dark bruise around his left eye seemed to have darkened further. He began to clap slowly, a condescending, resonant sound that cut through the general chatter. "Bravo, Maxie! A truly moving performance," he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "So profound, so... vulnerable. Definitely worth you abandoning our little rendezvous at the motel for, wouldn't you say? Clearly, the 'unseen weight' of a C-minus was just too much for your delicate artistic sensibilities."

PJ stepped forward, his eyes narrowed, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips. "Hey, Brad," he began, his voice deceptively casual. "Nice color you've got there. Did you finally discover the joys of abstract expressionism with your face, or did you just, you know, run into some unforeseen resistance last night?"

Bradley's smirk didn't falter. "Ah, yes," he purred, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. "How kind of you to drop by for a little nightcap. Always appreciate a friendly visit." He then moved, swiftly and smoothly, placing his elbow heavily on Max's shoulder, leaning against the shorter boy. He looked directly at PJ, his gaze cold. "You can spill coffee on me, or give me a charming new accessory for my eye, but you know as well as I do, your friend here will pay for it today. Five sharp."

Max clenched his teeth, a fresh wave of fury surging through him. PJ, his own face contorted with disgust, spat back, "Rot in hell, you coward."

Bradley merely laughed, a cold, unfeeling sound. He reached out, pinching Max's nose with a playful, yet demeaning, gesture. "See you at five, champ." With that, he turned, beginning to walk away.

"Hey, Brad!" Max called out.

Bradley paused, turning back, a curious look on his face.

"Bring it on," Max stated, his voice clear, steady, and loud enough for a few nearby students to turn their heads.

A thrilling glint sparked in Bradley's eye, a flicker of genuine excitement. He seemed to relish Max finally finding his backbone, a new challenge to conquer. The smirk returned, sharper, more anticipating. Max knew, with chilling certainty, that he had just signed his own death warrant for five o'clock, but this time he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Chapter Text

Art by blue-the-bluest.

Bradley sprawled across his plush Gamma House bed, the expensive silk sheets a luxurious tangling around his legs. Sunlight, filtered by heavy drapes, barely penetrated the room, leaving it in a perpetual state of subdued opulence. In his hands, a leather-bound journal, embossed with a delicate 'A' for Amelia, lay open. His mother's elegant script filled the pages. The entry he'd been reading dated back to when Bradley was a mere toddler, barely three years old.

September 12th, 1982… I did it today. It felt… vital. After my husband sold off the Blackwood collection with such casual disregard, I couldn't bear to think of those pieces scattered, lost to their true home. He saw only numbers, profit margins, another asset to liquidate. But the carved phoenix, the illuminated manuscript… they were the soul of that old publishing house, a legacy spanning generations before he just erased it. I used my own funds, quietly, through an intermediary. It felt like an act of reclamation, a small defiance against his endless appetite for acquisition and destruction.

Bradley's jaw tightened. His dad had orchestrated a brutal hostile takeover of Blackwood & Sons, an old publishing house with a rich history, known more for its rare book collection than its failing balance sheet. Alphonse had stripped it clean, selling off the very artifacts his mom spoke of, just to squeeze out a few more million. It was pure business, his dad had explained, cold and logical.

He continued reading his mom's meticulous hand:

For months, they brought me such quiet joy, seeing them in the study, knowing I had saved a piece of something beautiful from his efficiency. But then he found out. Not how I got them, but that I had them. The arguments were unbearable. He called it an insult, a direct undermining of his brilliance. He said I was clinging to dead things, to sentimentality. He threatened to sell them again, publicly this time, just to prove his point. And the truth is, the anger in his eyes, it was ugly. It was hurting him, seeing them, remembering what I had done. So I made a choice. No object, no matter how precious, is worth that kind of poison in our home, in his heart. I made a fire in the hearth. The manuscript, the smaller carvings… they burned. Material items don't matter if they make someone hurt.

A strange, hollow feeling settled in Bradley's chest. He slowly lowered the journal, his gaze drifting across the opulent room. His eyes landed on the corner, where several canvases stood, draped in heavy black cloths. Beneath each cover was a different degrading portrait of Max, captured in vulnerable, humiliating poses.

Material items don't matter if they make someone hurt. The words echoed in his mind, his mom's gentle, firm voice juxtaposed with the stark reality of the canvases. It was art, he told himself, a profound exploration of power and control.

The silence of the room was broken by a soft vibration. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, its screen glowing. 4:15 PM. A slow smile spread across his lips, finally pushing away the lingering echoes of his mom's words. The thought of seeing Max now sparked a different kind of thrill. Max's challenging gaze in the hallway after his performance, his strong voice, no longer submitting silently to Bradley's demands, that was what truly ignited him. He sprang from the bed, his earlier contemplation dissolving into a surge of excited anticipation. It was time.

~*~*~*~*~

The cheap motel mattress groaned under their combined weight, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic mingling with a heady aroma of arousal. Max, naked but for the patchwork of white gauze clinging to his left arm and legs, revealing more than it concealed, was lost in the fierce press of Bradley's lips. Bradley's expensive cotton shirt rumpled as he devoured Max's mouth, his hands roaming over the exposed skin, the feel of Max's slight frame both intoxicating and strangely fragile beneath his touch.

They tumbled off the side of the bed with a surprised yelp from Max and a muffled thud as Bradley instinctively broke their fall. They landed in a tangle of limbs on the worn carpet.

"Well," Max gasped, a breathless laugh escaping him, his cheeks flushed a delightful pink. "That was… an abrupt change of scenery."

Bradley, propped above him, his own breath coming in ragged pants, smirked. "Couldn't wait, could we?" His gaze lingered on the exposed curve of Max's hip.

But Max had stilled, his hand gently pushing against Bradley's chest, pulling back just enough to break the intense connection. His eyes, dark and still glazed with desire, flickered down to his left thigh, where the edge of a piece of gauze had peeled away, revealing the angry red skin beneath.

"Uh," Max mumbled, gesturing vaguely at the compromised dressing. "The floor… probably not the best for irritated skin."

Guilt stirred within Bradley. He remembered the state he'd left Max in, the raw scrapes and bruises he'd inflicted. His earlier desire momentarily vanished, supplanted by the image of Max unconscious on the floor beside the bed, still tied to the heavy wooden chair, while the knife, the one Max had desperately crawled for, had gleamed, untouched, in the center of the bed.

"Right," Bradley said, his voice suddenly rough. He carefully shifted his weight, moving off Max and kneeling beside him. His fingers were gentle as he examined the peeling gauze. "Let's fix that."

He reached for the fallen strip, but it was dusty and no longer adhesive. "Damn it." He stood up, a sudden urgency in his movements. "Stay right there." He quickly located his bag, rummaging through it until he found a small, unopened pack of medical tape he'd impulsively thrown in.

Kneeling again, he carefully cleaned the exposed skin around the peeling gauze with a corner of his shirt before securing it with fresh strips of tape. His gaze drifted over the other patches of gauze, reminding him of his cruelty. His heart twisted. Yesterday, a blinding rage had consumed Bradley when Max infuriatingly resisted his sexual advances. Max's willingness to simply be an artistic subject, desperate to expedite the session and leave, had pushed Bradley past his breaking point. He'd gone too far, leaving Max bound and helpless in the suffocating darkness for hours—a punishment that far exceeded any perceived slight.

He remembered returning to the motel, the fury having burned itself out during his solitary, alcohol-fueled haze at a nearby, dimly lit bar. The image that had greeted him haunted him still: Max sprawled on the floor beside the overturned chair, his limbs at unnatural angles, the marks of his desperate crawl etched onto his skin. The sight had been a brutal cold shower, a reflection of his own monstrous behavior.

As he finished securing the gauze on Max's thigh, his fingers brushed against the still-tender skin. He looked up, his eyes meeting Max's, a raw apology he couldn't voice swirling within him. The air between them, moments ago charged with lust, now crackled with unspoken regret and a fragile, budding tenderness Bradley wasn't sure he deserved to feel, let alone express.

Still flushed from the kiss and the raw vulnerability of the moment, Max swallowed and awkwardly looked at Bradley's bruised left eye. "So," he drawled, a wry smile touching his lips. "I guess your latest art critique hit a little too close to home? Or did you just lose a staring contest with a particularly aggressive doorknob?"

Bradley's lips quirked. "Very funny. Though, judging by the ferocity of that particular 'critique,' I'd say someone's been running his mouth about our little sessions."

Max immediately shook his head, a nervous tremor in his voice. "Whoa, hold your horses. I didn't tell PJ the whole truth. Just that you had something on me, and you were, you know, being a blackmailing jerk. That's it."

Bradley's brow arched. "Then why did your guardian angel show up at the Gamma House yesterday, looking like he'd just wrestled a bear, and punch me without saying a single word?"

Max's gaze dropped to the floor, his voice barely a whisper. "Because PJ was the one who put the gauze on me yesterday."

A sudden quiet fell between them, broken only by the faint hum of the motel room's old air conditioner. Bradley wondered, for a brief, unsettling moment, what exactly PJ had imagined he'd done to Max to provoke such a furious assault.

Then, the familiar smirk returned to Bradley's face, sharper than before. He reached out, gently tapping the bruise under his eye with a finger. "Looks like you're gonna pay for this," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Today's painting is going to be extra demanding."

"Bring it on, da Vinci," Max retorted, forcing a casual shrug, but Bradley caught the anxious edge in his tone, the slight tremor that still betrayed the fear beneath the bravado.

Bradley stood, a languid stretch of his powerful frame, and walked towards the closet. He pulled out a set of chains. They gleamed dully in the motel room's dim light, heavy and cold.

"Oh, chains," Max said with an exaggerated eye-roll, trying to inject a dose of his usual sarcasm into his voice. "Original, Brad. Did you run out of artisanal hemp rope? Or you're just feeling nostalgic for your medieval torture phase?"

Bradley merely chuckled. "Sometimes, Maxie, the classics are classic for a reason. And besides," he added, a glint in his eye, "I thought we'd try something a little more… permanent." He approached Max, and with practiced ease, he took Max's wrists, bringing them behind his back. Bradley noted the fresh gauze wrapped around his wrists, a fleeting thought crossing his mind that the chains, paradoxically, might actually hurt less than the rough ropes had. He secured them, the faint clink of metal echoing in the room.

Then, Bradley sat back on the bed, patting his thighs. "Alright, naughty boy. Lay here." He made a casual gesture with his hand, a distinct, deliberate motion that left no doubt about his intent.

Max's face flushed crimson. "Oh, great," he mumbled. "Because nothing says 'apology accepted' like a good old-fashioned 'disciplinary' session."

Bradley smirked. "I just hope it doesn't turn you on. Wouldn't want to add that to your list of 'unseen weights,' now would we?"

Max mumbled something under his breath as he awkwardly got up and positioned himself. Bradley knew exactly what he'd said, or rather, what he'd thought: a terrified, reluctant acknowledgment that, yes, it probably would. Max awkwardly lay across Bradley's lap, his hands cuffed behind his back, his naked form stretching out on the bed, his bottom resting squarely on Bradley's expensive pants.

Bradley placed his hand flat on Max's bottom. "Let's see if we can make that little peach of yours a shade of angry crimson, shall we?"

"Just don't expect any applause, you sadist," Max muttered, trying to sound defiant, but his voice was tight.

Then, the first sharp crack echoed in the room. Bradley's hand came down, hard, on Max's bare flesh. Max hissed, a sharp intake of breath, his body tensing involuntarily. Again. Another stinging slap. Max arched his back, a low groan escaping him. Bradley continued, a rhythmic, deliberate assault, each spank landing with a stinging force. And with each impact, Bradley felt it, Max's erection, growing, pressing hard against his thighs through the expensive fabric of his pants.

Bradley kept spanking Max, a steady rhythm against the taut flesh of his bottom. He relished Max's sharp gasps, the way his body tensed and arched with each stinging blow. The growing erection, a clear, undeniable testament to Max's involuntary arousal, pressed insistently against Bradley's Tom Ford pants. Eventually, Bradley looked down, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips at the angry, vibrant red blooming across Max's bottom.

"Alright, Maxie," he purred, his voice a low rumble. "Consider that the opening act. The first part of our little 're-education' is complete."

He helped Max stand, a gentle hand on his arm, and then positioned him with his back to the canvas. "Today, Goof Junior, your magnificent rearend will be the star of the show." He noted the vivid crimson of Max's bottom, his cuffed hands positioned just above it, a perfect frame. He tilted Max's head, forcing him to peer over his shoulder, so he could capture his face. Bradley looked into Max's eyes, seeing the subtle tremor in his lower lip, the way his gaze skittered away, unable to meet his own, and the deep, painful flush that crept from his neck up to his ears. Bradley felt a strange, unwelcome tightening in his chest, a flicker of something he quickly shook off.

He moved behind the canvas, picking up his charcoal pencil. He peered at Max, taking in the scene: the perfectly posed, fiery red bottom, the helpless hands cuffed just above it, and Max's face, a mask of rigid control, his eyes wide and glistening, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles jumped. It was the ideal punishment for the assault on his eye, a stark visual representation of Max's defeat.

He brought the pencil to the canvas, its tip hovering inches from the pristine surface. For a long moment, it simply hung there, poised, unmoving. He inhaled slowly, a subtle tremor running through his hand that had nothing to do with artistic precision. He looked at Max's face again, his gaze drawn by the raw vulnerability etched there, the tightened jaw, the moist sheen in his eyes, the small shiver that ran through him. That strange, tight feeling in his chest intensified, twisting into something almost painful, a sharp, unwelcome pang that resonated deeper than he cared to admit. His jaw clenched. With a frustrated huff, he lowered the pencil, placing it perhaps a little too forcefully on the small table beside him.

"This pose isn't working," he muttered, the words escaping him almost involuntarily, surprising even himself with their sudden dismissal. He walked towards Max, his eyes fixed on a point just past Max's shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. He simply guided Max to the floor, back still to the canvas, instructing him to cross his legs. Without a word, he returned to the canvas, picked up his pencil, and began to sketch Max in a less degrading, more contemplative pose. Max's head remained tilted, but now it conveyed thought, not forced submission. His cuffed hands, resting behind his back, conveniently obscured what appeared on his bottom, ensuring it was no longer the focal point of the artwork.

~*~*~*~*~

Two weeks had passed, holding within them sweet and painful memories. Bradley had decided not to dwell so much on the bad as things had finally calmed down between him and Max. 

The afternoon sun, though not harsh, still beat down on the concrete expanse of the skate park, glinting off the metal coping of the ramps. Bradley, Mona, and the rest of the Gammas arrived, their boards tucked under their arms, only to find Team99 already there, a vibrant splash of yellow and blue against the grey. A familiar knot tightened in Bradley's stomach as his gaze immediately sought out Max.

Max dropped into the bowl, his body a fluid extension of the board, carving lines with an effortless grace that was almost hypnotic. He launched into an ollie, hanging suspended for a breath-taking moment against the blue sky, his lean muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his uniform. The way he moved, so uninhibited and powerful, was a visceral thing. The sunlight seemed to cling to his skin, highlighting the subtle sheen of sweat, and Bradley felt a sudden, unexpected heat bloom in his own chest, a flush that had nothing to do with the crisp spring air.

Mona nudged him. "You okay, B? You're looking a little… flushed."

Bradley scoffed, forcing a casual shrug. "Just the sun, Mona. It's a real killer today, isn't it?"

Chad chimed in, "Nah, man, it's not even that sunny. You look like you just ran a marathon."

A flicker of irritation shot through Bradley. He shoved his board down and strode towards the largest ramp, a restless energy thrumming beneath his skin. He reached the top, the concrete hot beneath his feet, and was just about to drop in when a figure appeared beside him. Max, of course, his yellow and blue uniform a bright splash against Bradley's darker clothes.

"Careful there, hotshot," Max said, a cheeky grin playing on his lips. "Wouldn't want you to accidentally impress us all with a face-plant." He walked closer and whispered, "You're more of a 'motel room' artist than a 'skate park' one these days."

Bradley's jaw tightened. He wanted a scathing retort, something that would cut Max down to size, but the truth was, Max was good. Really good. Better than him, on a board. "At least my uniform doesn't look like a melted popsicle," he managed, the comeback sounding lame even to his own ears.

Max's eyebrows shot up.

"Alright, alright," Bradley conceded, a flicker of something new, something almost like respect, mixing with the familiar friction. "You wanna shred this thing together? See who can actually hold their own?"

Max shrugged. "Whatever, Gamma."

They dropped in simultaneously, a synchronized plunge down the concrete slope. It was a dance, a fluid, improvised choreography of speed and precision. They carved and weaved, mirroring each other's movements, a strange, exhilarating synergy between them. Bradley found himself pushing harder, feeding off Max's energy, their boards a blur as they navigated the curves and dips of the park. It felt effortless, almost telepathic, as if they knew each other's next move before it happened.

They hit the opposite lip of the ramp, soaring into the air in tandem. But as Bradley landed, his foot slipped on the edge of his board, sending him off-balance. For a heart-stopping second, he felt himself tipping, ready to tumble down the concrete slope. Then, a strong arm shot out, wrapping around his waist, steadying him.

Max chuckled, a warm, breathy sound close to his ear. "Whoa there, big guy. Easy on the clumsiness. Wouldn't want you to ruin that pretty face of yours, now would we?"

Bradley felt a rush of heat, not from exertion, but from the unexpected intimacy of Max's arm still wrapped firmly around his waist. He turned his head, his gaze locking with Max's. Max's eyes widened slightly, and he seemed to realize his arm was still clinging to Bradley's waist. He quickly removed it, pulling back with a mumbled, "Sorry."

Bradley awkwardly skated down the ramp, the moment with Max still prickling on his skin. He left the bowl, feigning disinterest as he overheard his Gamma buddies chatting with Team99 about their spring break plans. Everyone seemed eager to head home, a sentiment Bradley decidedly did not share. His dad had already called and asked him to come back to help sort through his mother's things. The mere thought made Bradley's stomach clench. It felt too morbid, too final, and the last thing he wanted was extended, solitary time with his emotionally distant dad.

Max skated down then, joining them. "What about you, Max?" Mona asked, her voice bright. "Going home for spring break?"

Max shook his head. "Nah, my dad and Ms. Marpole are planning a cruise." He shrugged, a faint, weary note in his voice. "And honestly, I really need to catch up on studying. My grades have taken a bit of a hit lately."

Bradley's gaze sharpened, settling on Max. Staying on campus. Alone. The words echoed in his mind.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley hummed a tuneless melody as his charcoal danced across the canvas, the lines flowing with an almost effortless precision. The motel room, once again, felt like his private studio, Max his unwilling, yet captivating, muse. This pose, however, was a new level of audacity. Max stood precariously, one foot on each of two chairs set impossibly far apart, his body stretched taut, exposing his genitals more than any previous pose. His arms were chained, the heavy links hooked onto a sturdy fixture in the ceiling, pulling his torso into a strained arch. Max's skin was flushed, a combination of arousal and sheer terror of slipping. His body trembled, a constant, subtle vibration that Bradley could almost feel across the room.

"And… finished!" Bradley announced cheerfully, stepping back from the canvas with a flourish. He turned the easel, revealing the completed portrait to Max.

Max stared at it, his breath coming in strained gasps. "Just what I always wanted," he managed, his voice tight. "A masterpiece titled 'Impending Doom, or How I Learned to Love My Groin Exposure.' Now, if you don't mind, I'd prefer to be unchained and on solid ground before I take an unscheduled, painful dive."

Bradley chuckled. "Patience, Max. Art requires sacrifice, as you well know. Besides, where's the fun in a quick exit?"

He grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it over, standing on it to reach the ceiling hook. With a practiced movement, he unlatched the chains. Max, suddenly unsupported, almost pitched forward, his feet scrambling on the chairs. Bradley's arm shot out, catching him firmly around the waist, steadying him.

"Whoa there, big guy," Bradley mimicked, a playful smirk on his face. "Easy on the clumsiness."

"Oh, ha-ha," Max retorted, regaining his balance. "You'd be clumsy too if you were forced into this ridiculous pose for more than an hour, chained up like a prize hog."

Bradley helped Max down from the chairs. Max's legs buckled almost immediately; they were clearly numb, trembling uncontrollably beneath him. He swayed, unable to support himself. Without a word, Bradley scooped him up, bridal style, Max's bare legs tangling against his.

"Well, look at you," Bradley quipped, adjusting his grip. "Looks like someone's got jelly legs." He carried Max over to the bed and gently laid him down, then settled beside him.

Max immediately tried to push himself up. "I want to go out now."

Bradley felt a familiar, unpleasant sting at Max's eagerness to leave. He ignored it, allowing a sarcastic smile to touch his lips. "You can't go anywhere with those legs, Maxie. You'd probably face-plant before you hit the door."

"The next pose, I'll be sitting down," Max retorted, his voice still edged with defiance.

Bradley reached out to lightly flick Max's nose. "You make no decisions in this room, kept-boy."

"I made the decision to talk, didn't I?" Max countered, then paused, his expression shifting to one of sudden worry. "You, uh, you didn't send the picture to Roxanne yet, did you?"

Bradley stared at Max's anxious face, the vulnerability in his eyes. "Didn't get around to it," he said, his voice flat.

Max held up his chained hands, raising an eyebrow in a silent question.

Bradley smirked. "I have a better idea." He leaned in, capturing Max's lips in a deep, possessive kiss. He could feel Max trying to protest, a faint push against his chest, but Bradley's hand reached down, finding Max's genitals, and stroked. Max gave in, a soft moan escaping him as he melted into the kiss. The chains clinked softly as they resumed their passionate fooling around in bed.

Bradley's hands tangled in Max's hair, pulling him closer, until their bodies were pressed flush against each other on the bed. He moved from Max's lips, trailing a path of fervent kisses down his jawline, along the delicate curve of his neck. He sucked and licked, a familiar possessiveness stirring within him. He remembered the old days, marking Max with hickeys, a crude brand to stake his claim. But now, that felt almost unnecessary. The contract did the job for him, ensuring Max's daily presence, his forced compliance. It was a more absolute form of ownership.

After a while, the intensity began to wane, replaced by a comfortable languor. Bradley could feel Max's body growing heavy against his, his movements slowing. Max mumbled something, a faint protest, as if remembering he should leave, but his eyes were already drooping, fluttering shut from sheer exhaustion.

Bradley smoothed Max's hair back from his forehead, his fingers lingering. He pulled the blanket up higher, tucking it gently around Max's bare shoulders. He even reached for a stray pillow, fluffing it before carefully sliding it under Max's head, making sure he was comfortable. He felt Max's breathing even out. He was asleep.

Max's hands, still chained in front of him, lay on the bed. Bradley reached for the key, quickly and quietly unlocking the cuffs. The chains fell away with a muted clink. Then, with careful movements, Bradley pulled Max to him, Max's warm, bare back settling against Bradley's clothed chest. He pulled the blanket up over both of them, cocooning them in its warmth. Bradley rested his head on the pillow, burying his face in the soft hair at the back of Max's head, inhaling deeply. The scent was intoxicating, an addictive musk that was uniquely Max's, a blend of his natural smell, the lingering antiseptic, and something else, something sweet and entirely captivating. Bradley lost himself in it, breathing him in, a profound sense of contentment settling over him. He began to lightly play with Max's hair, idly twisting strands around his fingers, the rhythm of his breathing synchronizing with Max's.

His hand suddenly stilled. A jolt, cold and sharp, shot through him.

He slowly rose onto his elbow, staring down at the sleeping Max, his features soft and unguarded in the dim light. Max's lips were slightly parted, a faint snore escaping him, and his brows were relaxed, devoid of the usual tension. His hair, mussed from their earlier exertions, looked impossibly soft. He looked innocent, completely at peace.

"Oh my god," Bradley whispered, a horrified realization dawning on him. "I think I like you."

Bradley lay still, the soft, dark hair at the back of Max's head tickling his nose, a surprising sensation against his skin. It wasn't just the raw, undeniable pull of desire, nor the perverse thrill of control. This was a warmth that spread through his chest, settling in an unfamiliar, tender spot. He liked Max's quick wit, even when it was directed at him; he liked the way Max pushed back, even when he tried to break him; he liked the vulnerable flush that crept across Max's cheeks, and the fierce spark in his eyes when he thought Bradley wasn't looking. Every time Max recoiled, every time he visibly bristled at a touch, or, worse, when he wanted to bolt the second their agreed-upon session ended, a sharp pang went through Bradley. He pulled Max closer, tightening his embrace, a desperate, almost primal urge to hold him there, to keep him from slipping away. A cold apprehension settled over him. What did this mean? What if Max found out? What if this new, fragile feeling made him weak, made him vulnerable to someone he was supposed to dominate? The thought sent a ripple of unease through his carefully constructed world.

~*~*~*~*~

Spring break transformed the bustling campus into a ghost town. The vibrant energy of thousands of students had evaporated, leaving behind an eerie, almost sacred quiet. Dormitories stood dark and empty, lecture halls silent, and the main quad, usually teeming with life, was now just a vast, empty expanse under the spring sun. Bradley, however, was still here. He'd lied to his dad, of course, telling him he'd landed a competitive internship at the college library, focusing on "operations support" and "digital resource management." It was a convincing enough fabrication to avoid the morbid task of sorting through his mother's belongings, and the awkward, stifling silence he knew would fill their house.

Instead, his reality was far less glamorous. With Ms. Marpole off on a cruise with Max's dad, he was stuck under the watchful eye of another librarian, Mr. Henderson. Mr. Henderson was all business, a stern-faced, no-nonsense type who seemed to view every misplaced book as a personal affront. The library itself was now completely silent, save for the occasional creak of Bradley's shoes on the polished floor. Most students had fled, leaving very little in the way of inquiries or circulation desk traffic. This meant Bradley's grand "internship" had quickly devolved into monotonous shelving duties.

He pushed a heavy cart, laden with returned textbooks and forgotten paperbacks, down the long, silent aisles. The faint scent of old paper and dust hung in the air. Each book he picked up, checked the call number, and slid onto the shelf felt like an exercise in meditative futility.

Then, he heard it: the soft, rhythmic thud of footsteps. His heart gave an involuntary skip, a flutter against his ribs. He abandoned the cart mid-aisle, a sudden, inexplicable urgency pulling him forward. And there, at a large oak table near the towering reference section, sat Max. He was hunched over a monstrous textbook, its spine thick and intimidating, surrounded by a scatter of notebooks filled with dense equations and hurried scribbles. Max's brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips moving silently as he traced a line of text with his finger. He chewed absently on the end of a pen, completely absorbed, a rare sight that pulled Bradley in. The light from the tall windows caught the soft curve of Max's jaw, the slight tension in his shoulders as he wrestled with the material.

Bradley approached, a smirk already forming. "Didn't realize this was the designated 'nerd sanctuary' during break," he drawled, leaning against the table, trying for casual.

Max flinched, his head snapping up, his expression instantly sour. "I'm studying, Brad."

"I can see that," Bradley replied, gesturing at the imposing tome. "That's some serious brain food you've got there."

Max gave him a pointed look, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That's why I need the quiet. In the library."

A prickle of irritation shot through Bradley. "You could have stayed in your dorm room, you know. Without the two clowns you call friends, it'll be as quiet."

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Needed a change of scenery. And maybe some extra-strength brain juice from the forbidden stacks."

"I can help you," Bradley offered, pulling out the chair beside Max and sitting down.

"No offense, Brad," Max said, his voice dry, "but I'm really not in the mood for your kind of 'help' right now."

Bradley felt a familiar heat rise in his cheeks. He knew exactly what Max was referring to: the time he'd spun a ridiculous lie about a fraternity being after him, just to get Max to let him into his room. That night, Max's math studying had quickly devolved into a heated hour on one of his friends' beds.

"No, I mean it," Bradley insisted, trying to keep his voice even. "I genuinely want to…"

"See you at five, Brad," Max interrupted flatly, his gaze cold, cutting off Bradley's attempt at explanation. He turned his attention back to the giant textbook, effectively dismissing him.

Bradley felt the sting of a slap on the cheek. He swallowed hard, the silence of the library suddenly deafening. He pushed himself away from the table, his movements stiff, and walked back towards his abandoned cart. Mr. Henderson was standing by it, tapping his foot impatiently, his expression a thundercloud.

"Sorry," Bradley mumbled, grabbing the handle. He resumed his shelving, each motion heavy, his heart a leaden weight in his chest. Max's coldness resonated deeply; it almost shattered Bradley's resolve.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley devoured Max's mouth, a desperate hunger in his kiss. Max's wrists were cuffed above his head, his ankles shackled to the bed frame, as if these restraints alone could truly reassure Bradley that Max wouldn't bolt from the room. Bradley's hands roamed over Max's naked body, tracing the lean lines of his ribs, the tense muscles of his sides, the curve of his hips. Every inch of Max's skin felt alive, prickling beneath Bradley's touch. The kiss deepened, consuming them both, a desperate dance tasting of pure need and a burgeoning, dangerous desire.

They broke for air, Max's chest heaving, his face flushed. "So," Max gasped, his voice strained, "when are you going to paint?"

Irritation shot through Bradley. Was that all Max thought about? Just getting this over with so he could leave? Bradley silenced the question with another angry kiss, deeper, more demanding than the last. Max kissed back for a few seconds, then turned his head, breaking the connection.

"Seriously, Brad," Max said, his voice laced with genuine urgency. "I gotta prep for tomorrow's math grind. Found a senior who's got some dope tips for this calculus stuff."

"I could have helped you," Bradley retorted, his voice tight with a sudden, unexpected resentment.

Max just stared at him, his expression deadpan. "Yeah, because nothing says 'academic support' like the guy who keeps me in chains. I'm sure that's a key part of the curriculum."

Bradley's jaw tightened. "Fine," he snapped, pushing himself up slightly. "Let's try a new pose, then. Something… challenging." He pointed towards the far corner of the room. "I want you to stand on that rickety chair, then reach your leg over to the dresser, balancing on the edge. Your arms will be chained to the ceiling hook. It'll be a masterpiece of precarious tension."

Max looked at him, incredulity warring with a flash of fear in his eyes. "Are you kidding me?"

"Trust me," Bradley said, his voice low, trying to sound reassuring. "It's gonna be okay."

Max let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Trust you, Brad? I'd trust a rattlesnake with a credit card before I'd trust you."

Bradley flinched, the casual cruelty of the remark cutting deeper than any punch. He stared at Max, a raw hurt blooming in his chest.

Seeing the reaction, Max shifted uncomfortably against his bonds. His gaze, though still wary, softened slightly. "How can I ever trust you," he asked, his voice quieter now, filled with a weary disbelief, "with all these canvases you're blackmailing me with? There's no way I can trust someone who uses blackmail just to get a little touch."

Bradley opened his mouth to retort, to defend himself, to explain that it wasn't just about the touch, that it was about… something more. But the words caught in his throat. He had no defense. Max was right. He was using blackmail. He was a captor. He couldn't find a single word.

Max shifted again, pressing his hips against the bed. "Just paint me like this," he mumbled, his voice thick with resignation. "I already have my hard on. Let's just get this over with."

Bradley felt a profound disappointment, a heavy weight settling in his chest. The raw desire that had fueled him moments ago evaporated, replaced by a dull ache. He got out of bed, the silence of the room suddenly oppressive. He looked at the blank canvas, then back at Max, his naked body still bound, his face a mask of weary defeat. The thought of painting him now, capturing that hollow resignation, felt… wrong.

With a heavy sigh, Bradley walked over to Max and silently unchained his wrists and ankles. Max looked up, his eyes wide with surprise, a questioning flicker in their depths.

"You can leave," Bradley muttered, his voice flat, avoiding Max's gaze. "No painting today."

"Alright," Max said in relief. He scrambled off the bed, gathering his scattered clothes, moving with a speed that spoke of desperate urgency. Bradley watched him pull on his jeans, then his shirt, his gaze fixed on the floor, a bitter taste in his mouth. Max was gone in seconds, leaving Bradley alone in the quiet motel room, the chains lying discarded on the bed, and a hollow ache in his chest.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley sprawled across his bed in the Gamma House, the familiar leather-bound journal open in his hands. He re-read the entry, his mother's elegant script detailing the burning of the Blackwood collection. No object, no matter how precious, is worth that kind of poison in our home, in his heart. The words had echoed in his mind ever since his last session with Max. The image of Max, defeated and resigned on the motel bed, offering his body up simply to "get it over with," had gnawed at him ever since.

A sharp ring sliced through the quiet of the Gamma house. Bradley glanced at the wall clock. Five o'clock. His stomach gave a nervous lurch that had nothing to do with anticipation and everything to do with a strange mixture of dread and… hope. He slowly got off the bed, walked out of his room, and descended the grand staircase. He pulled open the heavy front door to see Max standing on the porch, looking jaded.

"New location for our daily torture session?" Max said, hands firmly stuffed into his jeans. "Have I been upgraded to your extravagant little palace now?"

Bradley ignored the sarcasm, his own throat feeling unexpectedly tight. "Follow me," he simply stated, turning and leading the way up the stairs.

Max followed, his footsteps light behind him. Bradley pushed open his bedroom door and gestured silently towards the center of the room. There, neatly stacked and wrapped in thick brown paper, were several rectangular boxes. Max's brow furrowed in confusion, then suspicion.

"What's this?" Max asked. "Am I your new moving boy? Because I didn't see that in the fine print of my 'bondage enthusiast' contract."

"In these boxes," Bradley began, his voice surprisingly steady, "are all the canvases. And all their copies. Every single one." He watched Max's frown deepen, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "We're going to burn them. All of them. In the old quarry pit out past the west campus dorms."

Max kept regarding him in confusion, his brow furrowed, a wall of suspicion still firmly in place. "What are you talking about, Brad?" he asked, his voice flat.

Bradley met his gaze, forcing himself to be steady. "I'm saying," he began, the words feeling foreign yet right on his tongue, "I want to start over. No more canvases. No more cheap motels. No more blackmail. And no more five o'clock."

Max stared, his jaw clenched, clearly not believing a word. His eyes, usually so expressive, were guarded, wary. Bradley walked to his desk and grabbed the contract, the thin, flimsy papers feeling surprisingly heavy in his hand, imbued with the weight of all the power he'd wielded. He held them up in front of Max, the bold lines of Max's signature, his fate as Bradley's art model, blatantly visible. Bradley took a sleek silver lighter from the desk, flicked it open, and brought the small flame to the corner of the papers. The edge curled, then caught, the fire quickly consuming the legalistic script.

Max stared at the papers burning in Bradley's hands with a mixture of awe and stunned disbelief. Bradley watched the flames dance, then placed the burning remnants in a small metal tray on his desk. The papers curled, blackened, and then crumbled into fine ash, dissolving into nothingness.

Bradley looked up, his gaze finding Max, who was still staring at the grey dust in the tray, the ashes of the physical manifestation of his enslavement. "We're done with the contract," Bradley said, his voice softer than he intended. "Now, the canvases." He nodded towards the wrapped boxes.

Max looked from the ashes to the boxes, then back to Bradley. "Are these all of them?" he asked, his voice hoarse, a tremor of something akin to hope in his tone.

Bradley nodded, then gestured towards his computer. "I also deleted all the pictures from my hard drive. You can take a look if you want."

Max glanced between Bradley and the computer, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, before slowly walking over. He moved the mouse, clicking through files. College theses, lecture notes, coding projects, a folder labeled "Music," another for "Research Papers." Then, a file titled "Pictures." Max clicked on it. The screen filled with images: not of him, but of Bradley and his mom, plenty of them. Max clicked on the first one, a casual snapshot of his mom laughing, her arm around Bradley's shoulders. He clicked again, and again, scrolling through years of memories. Bradley's heart clenched as he watched the fleeting pictures of his mom when she was healthy, vibrant and full of life, and then others when illness had begun to take its toll. But in every single one, she was smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners, as if she was smiling directly at him in this very moment.

Max looked up from the screen, his gaze meeting Bradley's. He stared for a long moment, a swirl of emotions crossing his face. Then, he ran an awkward hand through his hair, a gesture Bradley knew well, a tell for Max's internal disquiet.

"So," Max whispered, "what now?"

"Got a truck outside," Bradley replied, pushing himself off the desk. He felt a strange lightness, a giddy sense of purpose he hadn't known in months. "We can load these boxes up and be on our way to burn them."

Max swallowed, his eyes still wide, fixed on Bradley. He seemed to search for a catch, a trick, something to invalidate this sudden, dizzying reversal. After another hesitant beat, he simply nodded.

Half an hour later, the air in the old quarry pit just past the west campus dorms crackled with the heat of a burgeoning bonfire. The dry scrub brush and discarded debris caught quickly, the flames leaping and swirling, casting flickering shadows in the twilight. They stood side-by-side, a strange, uneasy camaraderie between them, watching the fire dance and writhe.

Bradley knelt by the first box, pulling out a sharp utility knife. He sliced through the packing tape and lifted the flaps. The top canvas depicted Max on the skate ramp. His upturned skateboard served as a makeshift pillow, his face a study in aching desire. His shirt was pulled high, exposing the sharp peaks of his nipples, and his jeans were slung low, revealing his erection. Bradley carefully handed it to Max.

The canvas trembled in Max's hands. Bradley watched him, his own chest tightening. He saw the flicker of self-loathing, the raw humiliation etched deep in Max's face as he stared at the captured image. His gloved fingers shaking as he gripped the edges. Then, with a choked cry of anger and disgust, Max hurled the canvas into the heart of the flames. It caught instantly, the painted surface blistering and blackening, the canvas edges curling inward as the fire greedily consumed it, the image of Max's exposed desire twisting and dissolving into smoke and ash.

Bradley began handing him one canvas after another. He could feel the tension radiating from Max, the deep-seated distrust that lingered despite Bradley's seemingly drastic gesture. Max needed to see them all, to be sure that every single captured moment, every degrading pose from the motel room and even the earlier, pre-contract paintings, was going up in flames. Max snatched each canvas, his eyes flicking over the painted image with a look of disdain that bordered on revulsion. Then, he threw it into the fire, each throw carrying a weight of suppressed emotion. Bradley watched, a strange mix of guilt and a burgeoning sense of hope churning within him. He saw the anger in the set of Max's jaw, the almost violent way he disposed of each canvas, and a part of him flinched at the visible pain he had inflicted. But another part saw a flicker of something else beneath the anger, a raw vulnerability that made his chest ache.

Next came the rolled-up posters, the mass-produced copies of his shame. Max didn't even bother to unroll most of them, simply tossing the tubes directly into the inferno. Bradley watched as the cardboard caught fire, the posters inside turning to ash before they even fully unfurled. Max's movements were quicker now, almost frantic, as if he couldn't get rid of them fast enough. Through it all, Bradley watched Max's face, the tight lines of his mouth, the almost frantic energy of his movements, and felt a pang of remorse for the depth of the hurt he had caused. He hoped that this act, this destruction, was the first step towards something resembling forgiveness.

The bonfire crackled and hissed, the last vestiges of painted canvas and cheap poster curling into black ash, carried away on the twilight air that carried the scent of burnt leaves. Empty cardboard boxes lay scattered beside them. Bradley glanced at Max, who stood silhouetted against the flickering flames, his gaze fixed on the dying embers. His expression was calm, unreadable, a blank slate that offered no hint of the turmoil Bradley knew he must be feeling.

Hesitantly, Bradley reached out, laying a gentle hand on Max's shoulder. "It's over now," he said softly, the words a fragile offering in the vast emptiness of the quarry pit.

Max's head snapped around, his eyes locking onto Bradley's. The look in them was pure, unadulterated hatred, a visceral wave of loathing that slammed into Bradley, knocking the breath from his lungs. He recoiled as if burned, his hand dropping from Max's shoulder as if it had touched a live wire.

Then, Max's fist connected with Bradley's jaw. A blinding pain exploded, sending Bradley sprawling backwards onto the rocky ground. He tasted blood, the metallic tang filling his mouth. Max advanced slowly, his face contorted, and then his fist slammed into Bradley's nose. A sharp, agonizing crack echoed in the stillness, and tears instantly welled in Bradley's eyes. But Max didn't stop. He started kicking, his foot connecting with Bradley's ribs, a sickening thud. Then, with a grunt, Max stomped down on Bradley's stomach, the air rushing from his lungs in a painful gasp.

The next thing Bradley knew, Max was sitting astride his chest, a relentless barrage of punches raining down on his face. Each blow was fueled by a raw, untamed fury, Max's face wet with tears of rage, his fists a blur of motion. It was as if all the bottled-up humiliation, the fear, the months of forced compliance, had finally found their violent release.

Bradley lay there, taking the beating, a sense of surrender washing over him. He absorbed Max's anger, the pain a physical manifestation of the hurt he had inflicted. He didn't try to fight back, didn't try to shield himself. He simply endured, accepting this violent catharsis as a deserved consequence of his actions.

Finally, Max's onslaught ceased. He sat on Bradley's chest, his breath coming in ragged, choking sobs, his eyes still blazing with anger. Bradley couldn't move, his body a symphony of throbbing pain. His nose was surely broken, blood streamed from his mouth and a cut above his eye, and every inch of him ached.

Max looked down at him, his chest heaving. Then, with a final act of contempt, he spat on Bradley's bloodied face. The last rays of the setting sun painted the horizon in hues of orange and purple, starkly highlighting the grim tableau. Max wiped his own tears with the back of his hand, and then, without a backward glance, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the deepening twilight, leaving Bradley broken and immobile in the desolate quarry pit.

Chapter Text

Max walked back to his dorm room in a daze, the familiar surroundings feeling alien. The lingering scent of bonfire still clung to his clothes and hair inside the sterile, quiet space. He sank onto his bed, the worn mattress offering little comfort against the raw ache in his soul. Emotions warred within him: relief, a fragile sense of victory, but also a profound disorientation. He was free. The contract was ash, the canvases burned. But now what? He felt adrift, a boat cut loose from its moorings, tossed on a turbulent sea with no land in sight.

He glanced at the landline phone on his nightstand. Two new messages blinked. He pressed play on the first, and his dad's cheerful voice filled the small room. "Ah-yuck! Hi-ya, Maxie! How ya doing, son? Me? Having a grand old time on this cruise! The buffet is somethin' else, let me tell ya! Sylvia even signed us up for a hilarious salsa class, watch out, we'll be shakin' our tail feathers when we get back! Gonna get you a real fancy souvenir, maybe a little fez or somethin'. Hope that math's not kickin' your behind too hard! Love ya, kiddo!" His goofy laugh echoed, a familiar and comforting sound, yet it felt miles away, disconnected from the grim reality of the past months. A small, sad smile touched Max's lips. He was glad his dad was finally happy after years of denying himself love and content, no longer smothering Max like he used to now that he'd found a girlfriend and a full-time job he genuinely enjoyed. And he was getting Max a fez. His dad's oblivious joy was almost painful in its innocence.

The second message was from PJ. "Hey, man. Still wish you'd come home. It's kinda lame here without you. You won't believe Dad still threatens to turn my bedroom into some kind of makeshift bowling alley." Max winced, a surge of sympathy for his friend. He knew the complicated dynamic between PJ and his dad, the constant power plays disguised as fatherly concern. It echoed, in a twisted way, the control Bradley had exerted over him.

PJ continued, "Not that I used my room much. Your dad gave me his house keys so I could water his plants. Been crashing in your old room, actually. Went to the movies with Mom and Pistol yesterday. They both send their love, by the way. And Pistol wanted me to tell you that 'fo shizzle' you must've looked dope in the qualifying rounds. Yep, she said 'fo shizzle.' Tweens, man." Max chuckled, a genuine, albeit shaky, laugh escaping him. He missed Pistol.

PJ's voice then dropped, becoming softer, more hesitant. "Hey… is everything okay? Bobby mentioned that Bradley didn't go home either. If I'd known you were both staying, I wouldn't have left. Do you want me to come back? Just say the word, man, and I'll be on the next train home."

As PJ's voice trailed off, a warmth seeped through Max, slowly displacing the cold dread that had been his constant companion. PJ's genuine concern, his willingness to drop everything and come back, hit him hard. The offer felt like a lifeline, a hand reaching out in the darkness. A tear escaped Max's eye, tracing a lonely path down his cheek. He wasn't sure what to do next, where to go from here, but one thing became crystal clear: he wasn't completely adrift. He had PJ. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start finding his way back to shore. One day, he might find the courage to actually tell PJ everything.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max thrashed in his sleep, caught in a swirling vortex of familiar sensations. It was the motel room, the dim light, the oppressive heat. Bradley's hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of his hip, stroking his inner thigh, fingers brushing, teasing, never quite releasing. Max was naked, vulnerable, his body tightening with an unbearable tension, a frantic, desperate need building, building, building…

He woke abruptly, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. His sheets were tangled around him, damp and clinging. A cold sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum in the sudden, jarring quiet. His body was rigid, a searing, unfulfilled ache thrumming through him, and an undeniable, humiliating erection strained against his boxers.

Disgust flooded him. A wet dream. About Bradley. He scrambled to sit up, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. His stomach churned with revulsion. How could his subconscious betray him like this? After the quarry, after burning those goddamn canvases, his own mind was still playing tricks, still dragging him back to that suffocating room. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the lingering phantom sensations, the memory of Bradley's touch, the agonizing lack of release.

But the physical arousal didn't fade. It persisted, a dull, throbbing ache that refused to dissipate. He felt an unsettling restlessness, a nervous energy buzzing under his skin. He swung his legs out of bed, pacing the small room, rubbing his palms against his thighs. His body felt keyed up, on edge, like a tightly wound spring with no tension to release. It was more than just the lingering effects of a dream; it was a pervasive, uncomfortable hum that made his skin crawl.

He stopped by the window, staring out at the deserted campus, the streetlights casting long, lonely shadows. The air outside was cool, but he felt a strange, internal heat, a restless energy that made him want to claw at his own skin. Why was he so… agitated? He hadn't felt this strung out since…

Since before I started going to the motel every day.

A cold, sickening realization stole the air from his lungs. Every day. For over a month, Bradley had been doing exactly this: stimulating him, pushing him to the brink, and then stopping. His body had been conditioned, trained, primed for that specific, agonizing routine. And yesterday, for the first time in weeks, there had been no motel room, no forced arousal, no Bradley to inflict that particular torment.

The horrifying truth dawned on him. His body wasn't just reacting to a dream; it was reacting to the absence of Bradley's touch. It was a physical craving, a desperate, humiliating withdrawal from the very thing his mind despised. His own body, the one thing he thought he still had control over, had become accustomed, maybe even addicted, to the very hands that had tormented him. He wasn't just free of Bradley; he was now a prisoner to his own conditioned flesh.

~*~*~*~*~

In the library, Max sat across from Emily, a senior math whiz whose patience was as finite as his current understanding of calculus. His textbook lay open, but the numbers and symbols blurred into an indecipherable mess. Sleep had been a cruel joke last night, haunted by the visceral, horrifying realization that his own body had become a traitor, craving the very touch his mind abhorred. The memory of the wet dream, the confused, unfulfilled arousal, still clung to him like a shroud.

"Max," Emily's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and impatient. She tapped a pen against the open page. "Are we doing this or not? Because if you're just going to doodle in your margins, you're wasting both our time. I didn't stay on campus during spring break for you to stare blankly at a derivative. I did this for my senior thesis on quantum entanglement, not as a personal favor, or I'd have preferred to be on a beach in Cancun, sipping fruity drinks with my parents and baby siblings."

Max flinched, snapping back to attention. "Right, sorry, Em," he mumbled, running a hand over his face. "I'll focus. Promise."

He leaned closer to the textbook, forcing his eyes onto the page. That was when he saw him. Through a narrow gap in the towering shelves of academic journals, Bradley was visible, moving slowly, deliberately arranging books. His face was a map of bruises: a swollen, purple jaw, a dark shiner blooming beneath one eye, and a faint scab tracing the bridge of his nose where Max's fist had landed.

He'd left Bradley alone, bloodied and unable to move, just yesterday as the sun dipped below the horizon. But did Bradley care when he'd left Max bound to that chair, desperately trying to contort his body to reach the knife? Sure, Bradley had come back hours later, long after Max had passed out from exhaustion, hunger, and the chill of being tied naked in a motel room in the middle of nowhere.

Still, Max couldn't shake the guilt of leaving someone helpless and potentially in need of medical attention. He wondered how Bradley had managed to get back to the Gamma house. Had someone found him? Or had he called someone for help from his cellphone?

Interestingly enough, while Bradley's face was a map of bruises from Max's assault yesterday, his posture was still casual, almost languid. He moved with poise, as if his body hadn't been brutalized just hours before. Max's gaze lingered on Bradley's lean body, encased in perfectly tailored pants and a crisp, unwrinkled button-down. Max felt a jolt, a cold clench in his gut, and quickly averted his gaze, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He tried to concentrate on the equation in front of him, a chaotic dance of Greek letters and squiggly symbols, a veritable alphabet soup of despair. He traced the lines with his finger, trying to force his brain to engage, but all he could feel was the phantom ache of unfulfilled tension in his body, a constant, humiliating reminder of Bradley's touch, and the terrifying knowledge that his own flesh had been conditioned to crave it. He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second, willing the image of Bradley away, willing his body to simply behave.

He could feel Bradley's presence, a prickling awareness at the back of his neck, even though he refused to look directly at him. A wave of nausea rolled through him, an abrupt, sickening lurch in his stomach that made it impossible to concentrate. His palms grew clammy, and a faint tremor started in his hands.

"Max!" Emily's voice snapped, sharper this time. Her pen tapped against the textbook with an impatient rhythm. "Are you even with me? We've been on this single problem for five minutes. This isn't rocket science, it's basic integration! If you're not going to take this seriously, then don't waste my time. I'll give you one more shot tomorrow morning, same time. But if you're not ready to work, I'm dropping you. I have a thesis to write, not a babysitting gig for a guy who's clearly more interested in staring at bookshelves."

"No, Emily, I get it," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. He dragged his eyes back to the page, trying to force his trembling hands to hold the pen steady, but the numbers still swam before his eyes. He could feel Bradley's eyes on him, a heavy weight from across the room, even if he couldn't see him. The nausea churned, and he pressed his lips together, desperate not to vomit right there in the quiet library.

~*~*~*~*~

Later that afternoon, the campus, though still sparse, felt less like a tomb and more like a vast, empty stage. Max was heading back to his dorm, his backpack slung heavy over his shoulder, the failed math session replaying in his mind. He turned a corner in one of the main academic halls, and there he was: Bradley.

He was walking with a professor, his head tilted slightly, a smile on his bruised face as he listened intently. Max's breath hitched in his throat. His heart began to hammer frantically, a wild drum against his ribs. A cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead and palms, even though the hall was cool. His vision narrowed, the edges of his sight growing dim, and he felt a sudden, desperate urge to escape, to turn and run in the opposite direction, to disappear.

His body, however, seemed to have other ideas. A sickeningly familiar warmth bloomed low in his stomach, a flush that spread through his groin. An involuntary physical arousal began to build, a betraying response to Bradley's mere presence, even as his mind screamed in disgust and terror. The raw hatred he'd felt in the quarry pit flared, warring with this humiliating physical reaction. He wanted to lash out, to scream, to make Bradley acknowledge the pain he'd caused, but his throat felt tight, choked. His muscles tensed, poised between flight and a desperate, useless rage. He felt dizzy, caught in a sickening maelstrom of conflicting sensations. Bradley's voice drifted to him, calm and measured, as he continued his conversation, oblivious to the silent storm raging within Max.

Max pressed himself against the wall, trying to make himself invisible, every nerve screaming, until Bradley and the professor had passed by, leaving him trembling, gasping for breath in the empty hall.

Once they were gone, he bolted. He ran towards his dorm room, bursting inside and slamming the door shut. The quiet of the room felt like an oppressive weight, trapping him with his own horrifying thoughts. He stumbled to his desk, grabbing a pen and a loose sheet of paper, his hand trembling. He wanted answers, a name for this sickening thing happening to him.

He knew the library held books on everything, from human biology to psychology. Maybe there was something, anything, that could explain this involuntary betrayal of his body. He pictured himself walking through the stacks, pulling down dusty tomes on sexual health or trauma. The thought alone sent a fresh wave of heat to his face. The humiliation of even thinking about looking up such deeply personal, shameful issues in a public place was unbearable. And then there was Bradley. Bradley, who was currently working in that very library. The idea of accidentally encountering him while holding a book about, about this, was enough to make Max's stomach clench.

It had to be just stress, right? He hadn't slept, he'd just gone through a terrifying experience in the quarry, and he was still reeling from the math session. His body was just reacting to the intense pressure, maybe it was just a delayed puberty thing, a weird rebound from weeks of… well, of that. He forced himself to believe it, to rationalize away the gnawing horror.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day, Max approached the library with a knot of anxiety tightening his stomach. He'd considered skipping his tutoring session with Emily, but the thought of her disappointed, impatient glare had propelled him forward. Besides, burying himself in calculus felt like the only way to keep the unwanted phantom sensations at bay.

He spotted Emily already at their usual table, a stack of textbooks towering beside her. He offered a weak smile as he sat down.

"Late again, Khan," she said, her tone flat. "Make it a habit, and this is really going to go nowhere."

"Sorry, Em," Max mumbled, pulling out his notebook. "Overslept." A lie. He'd barely slept at all, tossing and turning, haunted by fragmented dreams and the persistent, low thrum of unsettled arousal in his body.

As they delved into partial derivatives, Max's focus wavered constantly. Every creak of a chair, every muffled footstep, sent a jolt of panic through him. His eyes kept flicking towards the bookshelves, scanning for the familiar brown hair and lean build. He felt a perpetual tension, his muscles coiled, ready to bolt at the first sign of Bradley.

"Are you even looking at the problem?" Emily asked, her voice sharp. "Your eyes keep darting around. Is something wrong?"

Max forced a tight smile. "Just… a lot on my mind. Spring break, you know? Feeling a bit off my game." He avoided her gaze, the lie feeling clumsy and inadequate.

He tried to concentrate on the equation Emily was explaining, the numbers swimming before his eyes. He nodded along, pretending to follow, but his mind was a whirlwind of anxiety and self-disgust. He felt a sudden wave of nausea, a familiar unwelcome guest since the quarry, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep it down.

"Okay, your turn," Emily said, pushing the textbook towards him. "Try this one."

Max stared at the problem, his mind blank. The symbols looked like hieroglyphics. He felt a flush creep up his neck. "Um…" he stammered, his throat suddenly dry. "Can you… can you go over that last part again?"

Emily sighed, a long, exasperated breath. "Max, we've been over this three times. Are you deliberately not paying attention?"

"No, I swear," he said quickly, his voice strained. "It's just… I'm really struggling to focus today."

He could see the impatience hardening her features. "Look," she said, leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed. "I understand you're going through something, but I have my own work to do. If you're not serious about this, if you're just going to space out, then maybe we should reschedule when you're actually present."

The disappointment in her voice stung, but he knew she was right. He was a mess, couldn't even focus on something he desperately needed help with.

"No," Max said, his voice barely a whisper. "No, I want to focus. Just… give me a minute." He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to force the image of Bradley out of his mind, tried to ignore the persistent, unsettling hum in his body. He had to. He had to find a way to reclaim himself, starting with this damn calculus problem.

~*~*~*~*~

By the third day of this new torture, Max finally found a small release at the skate park. The rhythmic grind of his board on the coping, the wind whipping past his ears as he dropped into a bowl, the familiar rush of nailing a trick, it all helped. For a few blissful moments, the gnawing anxiety and the constant hum of unwanted arousal receded, replaced by the sheer physicality of movement. Skating, something he was good at, something he controlled, helped ground him.

He sat perched on the highest ramp, his board resting beside him, watching the sunset bleed across the sky. Three days. Three days free of Bradley, and yet, he felt anything but. His body still ached with a confused, unfulfilled tension. He tried masturbating, tried cold showers, and nothing worked. His mind was a battlefield of shame and anger. He was tired of constantly fighting himself and the phantom sensations.

"When will this crap be finally over?" he muttered, his voice raw and ragged. "When will I get my life back?" The words echoed in the vast emptiness of the park, impotent and desperate. Then, unable to contain the torment any longer, Max let out a scream of pure anguish, a primal sound that tore from his throat and was swallowed by the silence.

"You okay up there?"

Max flinched. He looked down and saw Bradley standing at the base of the ramp, his own skateboard tucked under his arm.

"Care if I join you up there?" Bradley asked, his voice calm, almost hesitant.

Every muscle in Max's body tensed, his mind screaming a silent "no." But then, he nodded, hating how his body immediately began to heat as Bradley climbed effortlessly up the ramp towards him. Bradley hadn't spoken a single word to him in the past three days. Max was too occupied with the unwanted physical sensations he was feeling to ponder on why Bradley had kept his distance.

Bradley settled beside him, his skateboard placed carefully on his lap. Max risked a glance. Bradley's bruises had faded. The swollen purple jaw was now a dull ochre, the shiner beneath his eye had lessened to a faint yellow, and the scab on his nose was a thin, almost healed line. He looked less like a victim and more like someone who'd had a rough weekend.

"How's the math coming along?" Bradley asked, his voice low, casual, almost conversational. He looked straight ahead, not at Max, as if discussing the weather. The proximity, the unexpected softness in Bradley's tone, the way his thigh brushed Max's, it was all too much. The warmth that had started when Bradley climbed the ramp intensified, coiling in Max's gut, pulling his awareness inexorably downwards. His groin tightened. Not now. Not here. He tried to mentally push it away, to focus on the fading sunlight, on anything but the man beside him.

"You're not really listening, are you?" Bradley continued, a hint of something unreadable in his voice. "I gave you space. I figured you needed it. Came back here, saw you doing your thing." He paused, then finally turned his head, his gaze settling on him. "You okay, Max?"

Okay? He was a walking disaster, his mind at war with his own flesh, branded by Bradley's touch even in his freedom. The humiliation and rage, bottled up since the first time Bradley had used him, exploded. He grabbed Bradley's shirt, pulling him roughly closer. Max's mouth crashed against Bradley's and he kissed him with a primal, suffocating need. He grinded his hips against Bradley's, seeking a release for the coiled tension that had tormented him for days.

After a stunned moment of hesitation, Bradley kissed back, fiercely, passionately, a guttural sound rumbling in his throat. His arms wrapped around Max's waist, pulling him even tighter.

They slipped.

With a startled grunt, they tumbled down the smooth concrete of the ramp, a clumsy, tangled descent. They landed in the low, flat space at the bottom, Max on top, still straddling Bradley, their mouths still locked in a bruising, chaotic embrace. Max pulled away first, panting, his chest heaving. He stared down at Bradley's flushed face, his lips swollen, eyes wide and dark. Max saw that Bradley's skateboard, which had been resting on his lap, had also slid down with them.

The sight of the skateboard, upside down, wheels pointed skyward, instantly dragged Max back. Back to that night, months ago, when Bradley had humiliated him on this very ramp. He saw himself, splayed out, his own skateboard serving as a mocking pillow beneath his head, his body exposed and violated. The memory cut through the haze of unwanted arousal.

The last flicker of confused desire died, replaced by a cold, burning hate. Max's face contorted. He snatched Bradley's skateboard, and with a swift, brutal movement, jammed it under Bradley's head like a grotesque pillow. Bradley's eyes widened, a flicker of understanding, then alarm, crossing his face. Max roughly grabbed Bradley's shoulders, positioning him until his head lay fully on the skateboard, a chilling echo of his own past torment.

Then, with raw hate and consuming fury, Max began to thrust against Bradley. He wasn't kissing him now, wasn't seeking solace or connection. This was a desperate attempt to reclaim what had been stolen. He pulled Bradley's fancy designer shirt up, bunching the expensive fabric around his chest until he saw Bradley's nipples. With a vengeful grunt, he began twisting them, deliberately trying to elicit a response. Bradley gasped, a low sound that could have been pain or pleasure, or both. Max felt Bradley's erection harden beneath him. This only fueled Max's rage. He thrust harder, faster, a furious, grinding motion. He attacked Bradley's neck, sucking and biting savagely, leaving dark, angry marks, carving his own vengeful proof of ownership onto Bradley's skin. He slid down, fumbling with Bradley's tailored pants, unbuttoning them with a violent urgency, pulling them down until Bradley's erection, thick and pulsing, came into full view.

Max knelt above him, breathing heavily, looking down with contempt. Bradley's neck was marred with angry red hickeys, his nipples were erect from Max's brutal touch, and his chest and stomach were still a canvas of mottled purple and blue from the beating Max had inflicted three days prior. And then there was the erection, standing proud and unmistakable, showing Max exactly how much he was able to turn Bradley on, even now, even like this.

The vengeful satisfaction, the closure Max was looking for, wasn't present.

Looking at Bradley like this, in this humiliating, replicated picture of his own abuse, only made Max hate himself more. It didn't feel like power. It felt like a mirror. He felt tears pricking at his eyes, and with a choked sob, he quickly scrambled away from the scene, away from Bradley, away from the sickening reflection of his own trauma.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max burst into his dorm room, slamming the door shut with a force that rattled the cheap frame. The click of the lock felt like a trap snapping shut around him. He leaned against the door, gasping, his lungs burning as if he'd run a marathon. The air in the small room felt thick, suffocating. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat that vibrated through his entire body.

He stumbled back, his vision blurring at the edges, the familiar posters on his wall twisting into grotesque faces. He felt a desperate need to break something, anything, to externalize the chaos raging within. His hands clenched into fists, trembling. He swept his arm across his desk, sending books, pens, and a half-empty soda can clattering to the floor. The crash was a momentary release, a fleeting echo of the violence he wished he could inflict on himself, on Bradley, on the world. He spun, his foot catching on his backpack, sending it flying. He kicked at a stray sneaker, then another, his movements jerky, uncontrolled. He was panting, choking on air, tears of frustration and self-loathing stinging his eyes. He clawed at his hair, pulling at the roots, a desperate attempt to ground himself, to escape the horrifying reality that his body was still a prisoner, even when the chains were gone.

A sudden, sharp rattle at the doorknob froze him mid-gasp. His head snapped towards the sound, his eyes wide with terror. Someone was trying the door. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the haze of his rage. No. Not here. Not now. He was supposed to be safe here. He'd locked it. He'd just locked it.

The lock clicked.

Max watched, horrified, as the door swung inward. Bradley stood there, Max's skateboard held casually in one hand. His gaze, cold and unreadable, swept over the chaotic room, then landed on Max, who was still heaving, still trembling, caught in the throes of his panic attack. Bradley's eyes, though still carrying the faint bruising from Max's assault, held no trace of concern. He simply threw Max's skateboard to the floor with a dull thud, then stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Rage ignited in Max's chest, momentarily eclipsing the panic. He was not safe. Not even in his own room. Bradley still had a key. Bradley could walk in whenever he wanted, violate his space, his privacy, his very sense of security, just as he had violated everything else.

Before Max could even form a coherent thought, Bradley was across the room. He grabbed Max by the shoulders and pulled him forward. Max barely had time to register the contact before Bradley's mouth was on his. Max's mind screamed, recoiled, but his body responded. A sickening warmth bloomed, a familiar ache coiling low in his gut, and for a terrifying, humiliating second, Max lost himself. He leaned into the kiss, his lips parting, his hands gripping Bradley's shirt. The world narrowed to the taste of Bradley, the press of his body, the desperate, unwanted hunger that flared within him.

Then, with a snap, the haze broke. The sheer horror of his own involuntary response flooded him. He shoved Bradley away. "What are you doing?!" he screamed, his voice hoarse, ragged.

Bradley stumbled back a step, his eyes wide, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "You're the one who came on to me," he said.

"I was doing to you what you did to me!" Max retorted, his voice trembling with fury. "I was trying to shame you! To make you feel what I felt!"

Bradley's lips curved into a slow, unsettling smile. "It only made me want you more."

Max stared at him, disbelief warring with a fresh wave of nausea. "Since when did you start to want me?" he asked, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm.

Bradley let out a humorless laugh. "You think I'm gonna kiss and fool around with someone I don't want?" He took a step closer, his gaze intense, unwavering. Max felt his breath catch. Bradley reached out, his hand hovering inches from Max's face, his eyes dropping to Max's lips with a hunger that made Max's stomach clench. "I want you so much I started to…" He trailed off, his gaze still fixed on Max's mouth.

Max took a desperate step back, swallowing hard, his throat suddenly dry. "What?"

"I started to fall for you," Bradley said, the words falling into the suffocating silence of the room.

Max shook his head. "You're lying."

"Why do you think I burned the canvases?" Bradley pressed, taking another step, closing the distance between them. "I love you, Max."

"No!" Max shouted, the word tearing from his throat. "No, you think you love me, but you don't. You just love the idea of putting me down!"

"No, that's not true," Bradley insisted, his voice hardening, a flicker of his old arrogance returning.

"It isn't?" Max's voice rose, raw with months of suppressed pain and humiliation. "You don't respect me! I'm not good enough to see you naked! I'm not good enough for sex! You just like getting me turned on to pump up your ego!"

Bradley stood before him, his gaze unwavering, and then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he began to unbutton his crisp, tailored shirt. Max watched, speechless, his breath catching in his throat. Each button released revealed more of Bradley's lean, bruised torso, the fading purples and blues stark against his pale skin, yet somehow, they only emphasized the stretched lines of his musculature. Bradley shrugged the shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall silently to the floor. Next, his hands went to the buckle of his expensive pants. Max's eyes followed every motion, a horrifying fascination gripping him. The fabric slid down Bradley's hips, pooling around his ankles, and then he stood there, completely naked, unashamed, in the center of Max's dorm room.

"Here," Bradley said, his voice low and steady, his eyes holding Max's. "You can handcuff me. Tie me up. Humiliate me." He spread his arms slightly.

Max's lips trembled, the words catching in his throat. The sight of Bradley, so exposed, yet still radiating an unsettling control, was overwhelming. "I don't want to do any of that," Max gritted in disdain.

Bradley took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Max's. "Why?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur. "I deserve it."

"Because I'm a better person than you," Max retorted, the words sharp, infused with a raw, desperate pride.

A faint smile touched Bradley's lips. "That you are," he conceded, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Max looked at Bradley's naked body, the heat from it radiating towards him, igniting a familiar, unwanted fire in his own veins. His mind raced, desperate for a solution to the torment his body had become. If he could just reach that elusive climax, if he could finally get his release, maybe then this constant, humiliating arousal wouldn't flare up every time Bradley was near. Maybe then his body would finally quiet, finally be his own again.

He looked up, meeting Bradley's eyes. "Let's have sex," he said, feeling a confidence he hadn't felt in months.

Intrigue flickered across Bradley's features. He devoured the space between them in one swift motion, pulling Max into a crushing embrace. Their mouths collided in a hard, consuming kiss that stole Max's breath. He surrendered to the raw urgency, his fingers tangling in Bradley's hair, desperate to pull him even closer. Bradley's lips were bruising, demanding, and Max met their intensity with a fierce hunger that startled him. The kiss shattered abruptly as Bradley threw Max onto the bed, following him down with a soft thud. Bradley loomed above, his eyes dark with a possessive fire. A slow, predatory smile curved his lips. "Now, Max," he murmured, his voice a low growl, "you will no longer be a freshman." Then, he descended, claiming Max in another deep, consuming kiss.

~*~*~*~*~

Max lay on his bed, his head resting on Bradley's shoulder, the rhythmic beat of Bradley's heart a dull thrum beneath his ear. His arm lay idly across Bradley's bare chest, his fingers occasionally brushing against the smooth skin, feeling the subtle give of muscle beneath. Bradley's hand was in his hair, stroking gently, then he buried his nose in Max's hair and inhaled, a familiar, comforting habit Max had come to know and, despite himself, enjoy. He had grown accustomed to these small, intimate gestures, even in the most degrading of their encounters.

His body felt heavy, pleasantly exhausted, and undeniably sore. The gnawing tension that had plagued him for days, the constant, maddening hum of unfulfilled arousal, had finally, blessedly, dissipated. His muscles, which had felt coiled and ready to snap, were now loose, almost liquid. The frantic, desperate need that had driven him to attack Bradley on the skate ramp had quieted, leaving behind a profound, if unsettling, stillness. His body lay quieted, a temporary truce declared in the war between his mind and his flesh. He felt the residual heat of their recent exertion, a warmth that was both comforting and deeply disturbing.

"This is nice," Bradley mumbled into Max's hair, his voice thick with sleep or contentment.

Max inhaled sharply, the scent of Bradley's skin, of their shared intimacy, filling his lungs. He had just had sex with his abuser, the man who had systematically humiliated him, blackmailed him, and then, only moments ago, claimed to love him. He didn't know how to feel. His mind was a chaotic tangle of disgust, relief, confusion, and a terrifying, fragile sense of peace. Lying here, naked and entwined with Bradley after such a wild, consuming experience -his first time, his actual first time- did, in a strange, undeniable way, feel… pleasant. His body, at least, seemed to think so. But how could he fully enjoy it? How could he allow himself that luxury, that vulnerability, after everything Bradley had done to him? The memory of the chains, the cold motel room, the damn heavy chair, his bruised wrists, not allowing him to speak, it all swirled beneath the surface of this fleeting calm.

"When was your first time?" Max asked, forcing his mind away from the encroaching darkness. "With a guy," he clarified.

Bradley breathed Max's scent from his hair. Max felt Bradley's chest expand beneath his arm. "I was nineteen, too," Bradley finally whispered.

Max closed his eyes, willing the swirling thoughts to cease. If this physical release actually worked, if those painful, humiliating arousals and cravings were finally going to stop after he'd finally had sex with Bradley, then he would never see him again. He would shut him out of his life for good. He would build walls so high that Bradley would never be able to breach them again. He would reclaim every inch of himself, every thought, every sensation. He would be truly free.

But what if it didn't stop?

What if, after all this, his body still betrayed him? Then what? The question hung heavy in the darkness behind his eyelids, a terrifying, unanswered threat. He willed sleep to come, to shut down the relentless questioning, to offer a temporary reprieve from the crushing uncertainty.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max woke slowly, the dim morning light filtering through his dorm room window. He was still lying next to Bradley, his head resting on Bradley's shoulder, Bradley's arm wrapped around him. He shifted, just enough to look at Bradley's sleeping face. He hated that Bradley was handsome, truly hated the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the perfect, unruffled sprawl of his hair on the pillow.

He couldn't allow himself to enjoy this moment of waking up with someone he'd just had sex with. Memories flickered of mornings with Mona. Those had been his favorite times when he'd lie awake just watching her beautiful face until her eyes fluttered open. There was no warmth like that now, no lingering tenderness. Right now, all he wanted was to escape, to get out of the bed, out of the room, away from Bradley and the tangled mess they had become. He had a tutoring session with Emily soon, a morning of math that would at least provide a distraction.

With a carefully slow movement, Max untangled himself from Bradley, slipping silently from the bed. He grabbed a pen and a crumpled piece of paper from his desk, scribbling a quick note for Bradley: "Put sheets & blanket in hamper." He laid it on Bradley's chest. Then, grabbing his towel, Max walked to the door, opened it with barely a whisper, and slipped out towards the communal showers, leaving Bradley to wake alone in the quiet room.

The rest of the day unfolded with a surprising, almost unbelievable ease. The math session with Emily was a revelation. He understood the problems, solved them with a clarity he hadn't felt in the past three days. Emily even praised him, her stern features softening into a rare, approving smile. "Whatever you're doing, Max, keep it up," she'd said, pushing her glasses higher on her nose.

Max had almost snorted. If the incessant arousal finally stops, he thought, I swear I'll never, ever repeat last night.

He felt so genuinely happy that he even offered to get Emily a soda from the vending machine on his way out. As he approached the machine, he spotted Bradley, sauntering into the library, fashionably late for his shift. Bradley looked sharp, dressed in new, expensive-looking clothes, his brown hair still damp, hinting at a recent shower. Their eyes met. Bradley's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

"Could have woken me up before leaving," Bradley said, completely unfazed by Max's abrupt departure. He gestured casually with his hand. "Though I did as your tasteful note said. Sheets, blanket, even the pillowcase are in the hamper. Surprised you didn't order me to wash them while you were at it."

Max felt his jaw clench. His momentary happiness curdled into a cold, hard resolve. He opened the vending machine door, grabbing a grape soda for Emily, then punched the button for his own cola. He didn't look at Bradley, didn't acknowledge his presence beyond the bare necessity of their shared space. The low hum of the machine, the clatter of the cans, filled the silence that stretched between them.

Bradley's smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion, then a hint of genuine hurt in his eyes. "Max?" he prompted, his voice less playful now, a touch uncertain.

Max pulled his sodas out, the cans cold against his palm. He turned towards the main library floor. He walked away without a backward glance, without a single word, leaving Bradley standing alone by the vending machine, watching him go. Max walked back to Emily, a quiet satisfaction settling over him. This was it. This was the first step. He was going to shut Bradley out, piece by agonizing piece, until there was nothing left between them but a cold, empty distance.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The day continued its stride of normalcy. Max felt a lightness in his step he hadn't known in months. He even met up with a few sophomores who, like him, had opted out of going home for spring break. They spent a good hour in the usually bustling quad, now eerily quiet, playing a furious, competitive game of frisbee golf, tossing the disc between the empty lecture halls and towering oak trees. Laughter bubbled from Max's chest more times than he could count.

Later, back in his dorm room, he noticed his bed was stripped clean, the mattress bare. Bradley had actually done it; the sheets and blanket were gone. Max sat at the desk and pulled out the math problems Emily had assigned, the ones he needed to complete before their session tomorrow morning. He glanced at his digital watch on the nightstand. The illuminated numbers glowed back at him: almost five o'clock. A cold dread used to clench his stomach at that hour, a sickening anticipation of Bradley's arrival at the motel. Thank God that nightmare was over. He took a deep breath, the lingering scent of stale air and his own nervous sweat the only reminder of past horrors. He started on the first problem, the equations flowing easily, thanks to his newfound focus. He moved on to the second.

Then it started.

A faint, familiar hum, a restless energy that began to coil low in his gut. A warmth spread, insidious and unwelcome, pulling his awareness to his groin. It wasn't as intense as the raw, unfulfilled ache from before last night, but it was unmistakably there, the conditioned response, a nascent physical craving for stimulation that his body had become accustomed to, even desired, despite his mind's screaming protests.

"No!" he snarled, the word ripping from his throat, echoing in the quiet room. "No, this is over! It has to be over!" He slammed his fist down on the desk, rattling the lamp. He'd had sex last night. He'd finally experienced fulfilled arousal. He'd reached the point of release after months of that torturous stimulation followed by no resolution. This should have stopped it. This was the point. This was the goddamn cure!

In a fit of anger, Max launched his math book across the room, sending it crashing against the far wall. Pencils scattered like shrapnel from his desk. He threw himself onto the bare mattress, landing with a jarring thud. He began to beat his head against the thin mattress, rhythmic, frustrated blows, each one a futile attempt to dislodge the insidious feeling.

"Stop it!" he screamed, his voice raw, ragged with despair. "Just stop it! Let me go!" The sounds of his own anguish filled the room, desperate and alone. Eventually, the raw fury exhausted itself, leaving him panting, lying still amidst the wreckage of his textbooks. The unwanted sensations still hummed beneath his skin. With a heavy sigh, Max slowly sat up. He couldn't stay here, suffocating in his own rage and confusion. He had to move. He had to walk it off.

Max walked the campus streets, each stride fueled by a simmering anger. He passed a few sophomores from his frisbee golf game, who called his name and waved, but Max ignored them, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He couldn't stop. Walking wasn't enough. Just like a cold shower hadn't quelled the persistent, painful arousal that still hummed beneath his skin.

He walked past the college gates, pushing further into the city, his pace quickening until he was almost running. He needed to outrun the feeling, outrun the shame. He walked and walked until the familiar campus buildings gave way to a grittier urban landscape.

Then he spotted a bar. Max wasn't the type to get drunk; that was Bobby's domain, a messy, joyful indulgence Max rarely partook in. But now, it seemed like the only solution. Anything to silence the clamor in his body, to numb the confusion in his mind.

He pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the dim, smoky interior. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and desperation. Max approached the counter. "Beer," he said, and leaned his elbow on the worn wood, resting his head heavily in his hand.

The bartender didn't even look up from wiping the counter. "ID?" he grunted.

Max reached into his back pocket, then his front, patting frantically. Nothing. He'd forgotten his wallet back in his dorm, along with his fake ID. Panic flared, quickly replaced by a desperate surge of frustration. He rummaged through his pockets, finding a handful of loose change. He slammed it onto the bar, the coins scattering.

"Look," Max insisted, leaning forward. "I'm a college guy. State College. Already an adult. I just… forgot my wallet."

The bartender finally looked at him, his eyes bored, unblinking. "ID."

Max felt a vein throb in his temple. He slammed his fists on the bar, a louder, more desperate thud this time. "I go to State College, there!" he yelled, his voice cracking with indignation. "I'm a grown ass man!"

The bartender sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of weariness. "You gotta be over twenty-one to drink in this state. Are you twenty-one?"

Max nodded vigorously. "Yes! I am!"

The bartender simply repeated, in the same flat, monotone voice, "ID."

Max groaned and smacked his head against the cool, sticky bar top. This was hopeless. He was never going to get rid of this feeling if he couldn't even get a damn beer.

"Two beers, please."

A voice Max hated more than the bartender denying him his beer came from right beside him. Max whipped his head around, his furious gaze landing on Bradley. The jackass looked perfectly at ease, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he smoothly pulled out his wallet and presented his not-so-fake ID to the bartender. The bartender barely glanced at it before nodding and turning to pull two cold cans.

Bradley turned to Max, his smile widening, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Don't sweat it, kiddo," he said. "Looks like Uncle Bradley will provide you with some liquid courage, free of charge."

Max glared, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. "I don't want anything from you," he spat, turning on his heel and pushing through the swinging doors, back out into the rapidly darkening street.

"Max, wait!" Bradley called after him, his voice surprisingly close. Max ignored him, walking faster, but Bradley's footsteps were quick, relentless. "Max!"

Max stopped, his shoulders rigid, his gaze fixed on the bruised, twilight sky, a mirror of the anger churning within him. He heard Bradley stop beside him.

"Here," Bradley said, holding out a cold beer can.

Max looked at it, then at Bradley. The beer felt like a peace offering, a symbol of a casual normalcy that Max couldn't even begin to comprehend. And then, a thought cut through the haze of his anger and the persistent hum of his Bradley Blues. Maybe he had done things wrong last night. Maybe the only way to truly get rid of this agonizing, humiliating physical craving, this constant reminder of Bradley's insidious control, was for Max to be the one in power. For Max to be the one doing the screwing, not the other way around.

He took the beer from Bradley's hand, his fingers brushing Bradley's, a brief, electric contact. Max met Bradley's gaze, his own eyes hard, determined. "Let's have sex," Max said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "But this time, I do you."

Bradley's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise, then a slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "Sold."

The streetlights cast long shadows as they both practically ran, the Gamma house a darker silhouette against the dim sky, closer to the gates than Max's own dorm. They burst into Bradley's room, the door swinging shut behind them with a muffled thud. Before the latch even clicked, Max had Bradley against the wall, his mouth crushing down in a fierce, hungry kiss. There was no hesitation, no preamble.

Max's hands were already tearing at Bradley's shirt buttons, pulling the fabric aside, while his other hand fumbled with his own belt. As they pressed against each other, Max's hip brushed Bradley's boombox, and with a soft click, a song began to spill from its cassette player, the music suddenly filling the small space.

I hurt much more
Than any time before
I had no options left again

Clothes flew, discarded in a frantic whirlwind: Bradley's shirt, then his own, then Bradley's jeans, Max's pants following. Max was already hard, a solid, aching presence, fueled by a singular, urgent purpose.

He shoved Bradley onto the bed. The older boy landed with a grunt, a surprised laugh escaping him. "Wow, Max," he breathed, looking up, his eyes dark with a mix of amusement and arousal. "Someone's decided to skip foreplay and get right to the main event."

I don't want to be the one
The battles always choose
'Cause inside, I realize
That I'm the one confused

Max silenced him with another long, consuming kiss, plunging into it with a ravenous hunger. When he finally pulled back, gasping for air, he stared down at Bradley's flushed face. "Condom," he rasped, the single word a raw command. This had to work.

I don't know how I got this way
I'll never be alright
So, I'm breaking the habit
I'm breaking the habit tonight

~*~*~*~*~

The next day, Max found himself sitting rigidly in his room, his eyes locked on the digital clock. The glowing red numbers were slowly ticking towards the dreaded hour. So far, the day had been mercifully uneventful. He'd been focused in the math session, his mind sharp, the persistent, humiliating arousal mercifully absent. But now, as the clock finally clicked over to five o'clock, the real test began.

He remembered last night with a cold, clinical detachment. After he'd collapsed on top of Bradley, the rush of release a confusing mix of relief and emptiness, Bradley had pulled him closer, attempting to cuddle. But Max hadn't cared for it. His job was done. He'd quickly pushed himself out of Bradley's tight embrace, grabbed his clothes, and walked out of the room. He hadn't even bothered to dress there, desperate to leave, the mission accomplished.

An hour passed. Six o'clock. Max felt a tentative sense of relief unfurl in his chest. He was fine. The air in his room, usually heavy with his anxiety, felt lighter, breathable. The creepy arousal that had plagued him for days hadn't returned. He was finally done with it. Exhaustion took over him, a deep fatigue from nights of restless, anxious sleep. He lay down on his bed and almost immediately began to drift into a deep slumber.

But sleep offered no true escape.

Max was inside Bradley, pushing, driving into him, and Bradley was moaning his name in pleasure. Max looked down, seeing Bradley's blue eyes, wide and filled with an undeniable desire, fixed solely on him.

He woke abruptly, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. The room was dark, silent, but the silence offered no comfort. The arousal was back, full force, an immediate, undeniable throbbing ache in his groin. All the symptoms were there: the frantic hammering of his heart, the cold sweat prickling his skin, the unsettling restlessness thrumming through his limbs. It hadn't worked. He had done it, had taken control, had completed the act, and still, his body betrayed him. Tears, hot and bitter, streamed down his face, tears of anger, of defeat, of profound despair.

~*~*~*~*~

Max walked with unsteady steps towards the Gamma house, the world tilting precariously around him. He was screwed, completely undone, the realization a bitter taste in his mouth, far worse than the lingering tang of cheap beer. He jammed strong knocks against the heavy door, the sound echoing hollowly in the quiet night.

The door opened a crack. Bradley's eye peered through the narrow opening. When he saw it was Max, his jaw tightened, and without a word, he began to shut the door.

"No!" Max roared, his voice thick with frustration and alcohol. He pounded against the wood. "Open up, you bastard! Open the damn door!"

The door swung open again, this time fully, revealing Bradley, his expression a mask of icy fury. "What, is this a drive-thru now?" Bradley snarled. "You think I'm your whore? You get to sleep with me, leave me, then come back for more? Twice in twenty-four hours, Max? Even I have standards."

Max swayed, his vision swimming, but the insult cut through the drunken haze. "You have no right to complain," he slurred, pointing a wobbly finger at Bradley. "At least I didn't leave you tied to a bed or a chair in a cheap motel room in the middle of nowhere."

Bradley's nose wrinkled in disgust, his gaze sweeping over Max's disheveled state. "Are you drunk?"

"You know it, baby," Max replied, a defiant, drunken grin splitting his face.

Bradley smirked. "Thought the bartender didn't serve little minors."

Max's eyes narrowed. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the folded fake ID and slammed it against Bradley's chest. "I can be twenty-one if I wanted to be!"

Bradley rolled his eyes and grabbed Max's arm, dragging him inside the dimly lit foyer of the Gamma house. He tossed Max into a nearby armchair, the worn velvet swallowing him. Max heard Bradley mutter something under his breath about throwing up sooner or later. He watched, dazed, as Bradley disappeared for a moment, then returned with a plastic bucket, which he hastily placed in front of Max.

"Hey!" Max protested, indignation flaring through his drunken stupor. "This isn't the first time I get drunk!"

"I bet you never got drunk before tonight," Bradley said, his voice flat.

Max opened his mouth to object, to launch into a slurred defense of his non-existent drinking habits, but the words caught in his throat. His stomach lurched, violently, and he leaned forward, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bucket with a wretched heave.

When he was done, panting and sweating, he noticed Bradley standing over him, holding out a glass of water. Max took it, his fingers brushing Bradley's. He looked at the water, then at Bradley's face, the sharp edges of his anger beginning to blur, replaced by a profound, overwhelming sadness. He whispered, his voice raw, "You won."

"What?" Bradley whispered.

Max felt the hot prick of tears behind his eyes, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him. "I'm a freak," he choked out.

Bradley knelt in front of him. "What are you talking about?" he pressed, his brow furrowed.

Max stared at Bradley's handsome face, the genuine worry in his eyes, and something snapped. It was too much. The kindness, the concern, the raw vulnerability of his own confession. In a sudden, desperate surge of anger, Max lashed out, his fist connecting with Bradley's jaw.

Max stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly, his gaze locked on Bradley, who was still kneeling, a hand rubbing his jaw where Max's punch had landed. "I hate you," Max spat, the words dripping with venom, yet his voice was thick with the remnants of his drunken despair. He lurched forward, throwing clumsy kicks and punches at Bradley, aiming for his chest, his shoulders, anywhere he could land a blow.

"I hate you! I hate you!" he yelled, each word a grunt of frustration. His limbs felt heavy, uncoordinated, and his blows lacked the power, the searing fury he wanted them to convey.

Bradley easily anticipated Max's next flailing attack. He moved quickly, catching Max's wrists mid-swing, his fingers closing firmly around them. With a practiced twist, he brought Max's arms behind his back, forcing him to kneel, chest pressed against Bradley's. Max struggled, squirming against the hold, but Bradley's grip was unbreakable. Their faces were inches apart, Max's breath ragged, hot against Bradley's skin.

"You turned me into a freak!" Max screamed, the words ripping from his throat, raw with bitter anguish.

"Calm down," Bradley said firmly, his voice low but steady, completely unfazed by Max's outburst. "Tell me what the hell you're talking about."

Max thrashed, wrenching his hands free from Bradley's grip, only to flail, his balance completely gone. He was about to topple backward when Bradley's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, pulling him roughly forward, steadying him. Max instinctively placed his hands on Bradley's shoulders, pushing himself up, using Bradley for support as he staggered to his feet.

Even through the sickening haze of drunkenness, the familiar, unwanted arousal began to stir, a low, persistent thrum ignited by Bradley's closeness, by the warmth of his hands on Max's shirt, by the firm press of his body. Max closed his eyes, a grim, self-pitying thought worming its way into his mind. He was a horrible mess, a pathetic wreck. Just a few months ago, he had started his sophomore year on such a high note. He was a respected man, with a beautiful girlfriend, loyal friends, and the popularity of a campus legend. He was confident, strong, in control. Now, he was nothing but a broken, sexually confused mess, dependent on the very person who had shattered him.

Max felt strong hands clamp onto his shoulders, guiding him away from the common room. He struggled viciously, his muscles burning with futile resistance. "Leave me alone!" he slurred, trying to twist out of Bradley's grasp.

"You need to lie down," Bradley said, his voice tight.

Bradley half-dragged, half-carried Max from the foyer to the living room. He didn't bother turning on the main light, instead flicking on a small, shaded lamp on the small table next to the sofa, casting a soft, amber glow. He eased Max onto the edge of the sofa, carefully removing Max's sneakers. Max tried to push him away, but his movements were sluggish.

"Just relax," Bradley murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle now. He arranged a cushion under Max's head, then fetched a glass of water, holding it to Max's lips. "Drink this. Slowly."

Max swallowed a few gulps, the cool water a shock to his parched throat. Bradley then found a damp washcloth and carefully wiped Max's face, tracing away the sweat and grime. Max flinched at the touch, but the coolness was a relief against his burning skin. Bradley sat on the edge of the sofa, watching him. He reached out and gently smoothed Max's hair away from his forehead. Max wanted to bat his hand away, but he was too exhausted, too disoriented.

Bradley spoke in a low, even tone, not asking questions, just murmuring calm, reassuring words about drinking too much and needing rest, as if talking to a small, frightened child. He rubbed slow, steady circles on Max's back, a grounding pressure that, despite Max's loathing, began to work its way through the chaos of his drunkenness. The world began to recede, the nausea easing, the room no longer spinning quite so violently. The hum of arousal that had plagued him all day, though still present, felt distant, muffled by exhaustion. Bradley kept talking, his voice a low, steady drone that Max's fuzzy mind couldn't quite follow, but the sound itself was strangely soothing. The last thing Max registered was the rhythmic pressure on his back, the unexpected comfort of Bradley's presence, before he finally drifted into a heavy, unburdened sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*

Max woke with a skull-splitting headache, a dull, insistent throb behind his eyes. His mouth felt like sandpaper, and his stomach churned with a familiar, bile-tinged nausea. He blinked, the dim light of the room a painful assault, and slowly became aware of the weight on the couch next to him. Bradley sat propped against the back of the couch, a thick textbook open in his lap, seemingly engrossed in its pages.

Max groaned, a pathetic sound that seemed to vibrate through his entire aching body. Bradley looked up, his expression unreadable, then closed his book and placed it on the table. "Morning, sunshine," he said, reaching over to pick up a glass of water from the table. He held it out. "Here. Slowly."

Max took the glass, his hand trembling, and swallowed a few sips. Bradley then produced two small white pills. "Aspirin," he explained. "And I've got some toast and a sports drink coming up. You really did a number on yourself last night."

Max swallowed the pills, his gaze narrowing on Bradley. He hated that Bradley was so effortlessly handsome, even in the morning light; his brown hair fell perfectly, his eyes clear and sharp. Most of all, he hated that Bradley was being kind and attentive, when all Max truly wanted was for him to vanish.

"You kept saying you're a freak," Bradley said, breaking the silence, his voice low. "What did you mean?"

The question hit Max harder than his hangover. His stomach clenched from a wave of profound shame. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth: the only person he could talk to about this humiliating, terrifying problem was the very man who had put it in him in the first place. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

"Max?" Bradley prompted, his voice gentle.

"It's… it's my body," Max mumbled, his gaze fixed on remaining water in the glass. "It… it keeps reacting. Even when you're not… not doing anything. Even when you're not around." He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. "It's like… it's like it expects it. Like it wants it. The… the arousal. It just… comes back. Even after… after last night." He couldn't bring himself to say "sex," couldn't articulate the full humiliation of his dream, of the constant, unbidden physical response.

"I thought… I thought if I finally… if I finally got… release… it would stop. But it didn't. It just came back." His voice cracked, thick with shame and defeat. "I'm a freak."

Bradley was silent for a long moment. Max risked a glance up. Bradley's face had paled slightly, his easy composure replaced by a look of genuine discomfort. His eyes seemed to flicker with something akin to unease. Max's gaze dropped back to his hands, clenched in his lap.

The world was a cruel beast. He was finally free of the contract, free of the motel room, free of Bradley's explicit control. Why, then, didn't fate just let him heal? Why did this insidious torment persist, a constant, humiliating reminder of what had been done to him?

"Max," Bradley said, his voice careful, almost hesitant. "What you're experiencing… it sounds like something that probably needs medical attention."

Max buried his face in his hands, a choked cry escaping him. "Oh god!" The idea of a doctor, of explaining this, of having his deepest shame laid bare, was unbearable.

"Hey, hey," Bradley said, his voice firm but still soft. He reached out, his hand hovering near Max's shoulder, then resting lightly on his back. "Listen. I'll talk to someone. A professional. But… as a college thesis. Something academic. I'll make sure I don't expose your problem to anyone. No one will know it's about you."

Max pulled his hands away from his face, his eyes blazing with a sudden, furious anger. He looked at Bradley, his features contorted with rage. "I hate you," he hissed, the words raw and venomous. "You did this to me. I was okay. I was fine. And you made me sick. I hate you so much."

The genuine hurt in Bradley's eyes was quickly masked by a familiar stoicism. Bradley's hand dropped from Max's back. "I'll get you that sports drink," he said softly, his voice flat, and turned to leave the room.

Chapter Text

At the library, Bradley walked directly to the circulation desk, where Mr. Henderson, the head librarian, was straightening a stack of returned books.

"Mr. Henderson," Bradley began, his voice carefully neutral. "I won't be able to work my shift today. I have an important appointment I can't reschedule."

Mr. Henderson's head snapped up, his thin lips pressing into a harder line. "What did you say?" he demanded. "You know our policy, Mr. Uppercrust. Shifts are non-negotiable." He gripped the edge of the desk. "You think you're above the rules, Rich Boy?"

Bradley met his gaze steadily, refusing to back down, though a familiar irritation flickered within him. "It's not about rules, Mr. Henderson. It's an emergency. I have to go." He didn't wait for a reply, already turning away. His priorities had shifted drastically overnight, and a library shift felt insignificant compared to the raw vulnerability he'd witnessed in Max.

As he walked past the main reading area, he noticed Emily hunched over a desk, a stack of textbooks forming a defensive wall around her. Her usually neat bun was askew, and she was muttering furiously to herself, her pen scratching angrily across a notebook. He heard fragments of her complaints: "...ungrateful jock... waste of my time."

Bradley cleared his throat, approaching her. "Emily?"

She startled, her head snapping up, her eyes wide and bloodshot behind her glasses. "Oh, it's you," she said, her voice strained. "God, I swear, this is the last time I'm tutoring anyone. They just don't get it. They don't understand the pressure we seniors are under, the deadlines, the theses…"

Bradley cut her off gently. "Listen, Emily, about Max. He's... going through something big right now. He won't be able to make it to your tutoring session today. Or, well, probably not for a while."

Emily's face hardened, her anger now fully directed at Bradley. She pushed her chair back, scraping it loudly against the floor. "Then you tell your little sophomore friend that there will be no future sessions. Period. I'm done. I will focus on my future. And he can fail his math class for all I care." She gathered her books with jerky movements, shoving them into her backpack. Bradley watched her stride away, her back rigid with indignation. He let out a long sigh.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley sat stiffly in the visitor's chair of Dr. Harris' office, the plush fabric doing little to ease the tension coiling in his gut. Dr. Harris sat behind a meticulously organized desk, her gaze patient but piercing. Bradley had framed this as a theoretical case study for an independent research project, a "college thesis" he was considering. It felt like a flimsy shield, but it was all he had.

"So, Bradley," Dr. Harris began, adjusting her glasses. "You mentioned a hypothetical case you're interested in. Tell me about it."

Bradley cleared his throat, trying to sound academic. "Right. It's about… a male subject. Let's call him 'Subject A.' He recently experienced a period of… intense psychological distress. Involved a situation where he was, ah, subjected to prolonged periods of forced arousal without resolution." He paused, choosing his words carefully, omitting the chains, the motel, the explicit abuse.

"This went on for more than a month," he went on. "Now, even after the, ah, situation has ended, Subject A is experiencing persistent, involuntary physical arousal. Panic attacks. Extreme emotional distress. He, uh, he described it as feeling like a 'freak.' He even tried a consensual sexual encounter, hoping it would stop. But it didn't. The symptoms returned." Bradley shifted uncomfortably, the clinical language feeling hollow and inadequate to describe the raw anguish he'd witnessed in Max's eyes.

Dr. Harris nodded slowly, her expression unchanging. "I see. And what is your hypothesis for this 'Subject A's' condition?"

Bradley swallowed. "I… I thought it might be some kind of conditioned response. Like… Pavlovian. His body got used to the stimulation, and now it just expects it. Craves it, even, despite his conscious mind hating it." He felt a cold sweat prickle his skin, the truth of his own actions beginning to pierce through his carefully constructed facade of academic curiosity.

"You're on the right track, Bradley," Dr. Harris confirmed, her voice calm, almost dispassionate. "What you're describing is indeed a classic example of aversive conditioning, often seen in trauma responses. The body, specifically the autonomic nervous system, becomes wired to react to certain stimuli. In this case, the prolonged, forced arousal, coupled with the lack of resolution and the inherent power imbalance, has created a deeply ingrained physiological response." She leaned forward slightly. "The arousal isn't about desire. It's about fear. It's the body's fight-or-flight system, stuck in a loop. It's a trauma response. The body is anticipating the threat, anticipating the stimulus, and reacting as if it's still happening, even when the immediate danger is gone."

Bradley felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. Max's body wasn't wanting him; it was terrified of him, reacting to the memory of terror. The detached, clinical words of the professor stripped away any lingering romanticized notions Bradley might have held about Max's reaction, about his own perverse power. He wasn't just a dominant figure; he was a source of profound, debilitating trauma.

Observing Bradley's sudden pallor and clenched jaw, Dr. Harris' expression softened, a flicker of concern replacing her academic neutrality. "Bradley," she said, her voice gentler now. "This isn't a hypothetical thesis, is it?"

"Huh," Bradley stammered, his gaze darting away, then back. "Yes, it is. Absolutely."

A small, knowing smile touched Dr. Harris's lips. "This is about someone you know. Someone experiencing this. And judging by your reaction, it's affecting you deeply." She leaned back slightly, her voice dropping to a low, reassuring tone. "You're describing symptoms of severe trauma. And if you're experiencing this, if you're the one going through this, then you need to know that you're not a 'freak.' What happened to you was abuse. And you deserve a safe space to talk about it, to process what your abuser did to you."

Bradley swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. The assumption that he was the victim was befuddling. He felt a strange, unfamiliar vulnerability bloom in his chest. His carefully constructed facade crumbled. He looked at Dr. Harris, his eyes wide and raw, and nodded slowly. "Yes," he managed to croak. "It's… it's me."

Dr. Harris's expression remained gentle, her eyes holding Bradley's with unwavering compassion. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Bradley," she said softly, her voice a balm. "What you've experienced, what you're going through, is a direct consequence of someone else's actions. The shame belongs to the abuser, not the victim."

Bradley felt a fresh wave of nausea from the searing guilt. Dr. Harris's words, meant to comfort him, only amplified the bitter irony, the profound wrongness of the situation. He was sitting here, being offered solace, while Max was out there, suffering because of him.

Dr. Harris's tone shifted, becoming more serious. "However, Bradley, what you're describing isn't something that will simply go away on its own. You've been through intense psychological distress, and your condition will likely worsen if you don't seek professional help." She reached into a drawer, pulling out a crisp business card. "I want you to see a mental health professional specializing in trauma. Given what you've explained, it sounds like a trauma response, possibly even Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, or a related condition. You'll need either a trauma-informed therapist, like a licensed psychologist or clinical social worker, who can help you process this through talk therapies like CBT or EMDR, or a psychiatrist who can also prescribe medication to manage the more severe symptoms."

She handed him the card. "This is Dr. Smith. He's a good friend of mine, and I'll speak to him first to ensure your visit is completely discreet. No one will know about this." A small, encouraging smile touched her lips. "It's very brave of you to try and deal with this, Bradley. You're taking an important step towards healing."

Bradley stared at the card in his hand, the name "Dr. Smith" blurring slightly. Had he done the wrong thing by admitting it was him? Had he just opened up a new, even more complicated mess?

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley let himself back into the Gamma house, the heavy front door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud. The living room was still dim, the only light filtering faintly from the streetlights outside. Max was sprawled on the sofa, exactly where Bradley had left him, a thin blanket he'd pulled from a nearby chair now half-slipped to the floor. Max shivered slightly in his sleep.

Bradley walked over and knelt beside the sofa, carefully pulling the blanket back up, tucking it around Max's shoulders. Then he just stayed there, kneeling, staring at Max's face. He looked exhausted, his features soft and vulnerable in sleep, with faint, bruised-looking dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. The anger and defiance that usually hardened his expression were gone, replaced by a weary stillness.

A heavy weight settled in Bradley's chest, a cold, undeniable burden. Dr. Harris's words echoed in his mind: "The arousal isn't about desire... It's about fear." Looking at Max now, so unguarded, Bradley felt the full, crushing weight of his guilt. He had twisted Max's life, inflicted this insidious plague. The casual cruelty, the twisted games, the perverse satisfaction he'd once found in Max's discomfort, it all coalesced into a sickening knot in his stomach. He wasn't just responsible for Max's physical pain; he was responsible for this deep, psychological wound. He accepted the weight of it, the heavy cloak of responsibility settling over him. He was going to fix this.

Max stirred, a low groan escaping him. His eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly against the dim light, then widening as they focused on Bradley's face.

"Hey," Bradley said softly, his voice low, careful. "How are you feeling?"

Max squeezed his eyes shut again, a wince crossing his face. "Like... like someone took a baseball bat to my brain and then decided to set my stomach on fire," he mumbled, his voice hoarse, muffled by the cushion. He shifted, trying to sit up, but groaned again, collapsing back. "Everything's spinning. And my mouth tastes like... like a dumpster fire." He sounded genuinely bewildered, like someone experiencing this particular brand of misery for the very first time.

Bradley reached over, picking up the glass of water he'd left on the coffee table. "Here," he said, holding it out. "Small sips. And don't try to move too fast." He stayed there, watching Max as he slowly began to drink.

Bradley sat on the edge of the sofa, the silence in the room thick with Max's lingering discomfort. He took a deep breath. "Max," he began, his voice low, "I went to see Dr. Harris this morning. The psychology professor."

Still nursing his throbbing head, Max looked up from where he was huddled on the other end of the sofa, his eyes wary.

"I asked her about... your situation," Bradley continued, choosing his words with painstaking care. He saw Max flinch, a subtle tightening around his eyes. "Hypothetically, at first. But she figured it out."

"She knows?" Max asked, horrified.

"I told her it was me," Bradley admitted, watching the horror in Max's face dissolve into a profound, bewildered confusion. He held up a hand, a small, reassuring gesture. "I told her I was the one experiencing it."

Max stared, his mouth slightly agape. "You... you told her it was you?" he whispered, disbelief coloring his tone. He shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around his chest. "Can you even do that? She'll know."

"Well, she didn't," Bradley said, his voice firm. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. "She said that I... that you need medical help, Max. Serious help."

Max's face crumpled, a flush of deep embarrassment spreading across his cheeks, staining them a painful red. He instinctively pulled the blanket even tighter around himself, as if to hide from the words, from the raw implication of his own brokenness.

"What you're feeling... it's a trauma response," Bradley went on, his gaze unwavering, trying to project a calm he didn't feel. "She called it aversive conditioning. Your body's stuck in a loop." He watched Max's reaction, the shame radiating off him like heat. This was going to be harder than he thought. "Look," Bradley pressed on, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the crisp business card. He held it out, his fingers brushing the soft wool of the blanket. "She gave me a referral. Dr. Smith. A trauma therapist."

Max stared at the card in Bradley's outstretched hand, his eyes numb, making no move to take it.

"I'll go in your place," Bradley said, his voice dropping.

Max's brows furrowed, his gaze fixed on Bradley, searching for the trick.

"I don't know if it's going to work," Bradley admitted. He let his hand drop, the card still between his fingers. "But I'll try. It's either that, or you go, Max. And I know you don't want that."

Max shook his head, pushing himself further into the cushions. "This is stupid, Brad. You can't fool a doctor."

"I'll try," Bradley insisted, his voice gaining a desperate edge.

"This is insane!" Max exploded, his voice cracking with frustration. He finally looked at Bradley, his eyes blazing with a bitter certainty. "You don't know what it's like, you won't be able to fool the doctor." His lower lip quivered almost imperceptibly.

"Then tell me about the symptoms," Bradley insisted, leaning forward, his voice low and urgent. He reached out, his hand hovering over Max's, not quite touching. "Tell me everything that happens, exactly as you feel it. Every detail."

Max gave a bitter scoff, turning his head away, his jaw clenching. He picked at the blanket again, his fingers tearing at a loose thread.

Bradley sighed, the sound heavy, laden with the weight of his guilt. It pressed down on him, a physical ache in his chest. He hated himself for putting Max through this, for forcing him into this humiliating choice. "Just tell me," he pleaded again, his voice softer now, tinged with a raw desperation. He finally let his hand fall, resting gently on Max's knee, a silent promise. "Tell me, and I'll try to convince him it's me. I'll make him believe it."

Max picked at a loose thread on the thin blanket, his fingers twisting it nervously. He stared at the pattern, anything to avoid Bradley's gaze. After a long moment, he began, his voice barely audible, hesitant. "It's... it's like this feeling in my gut. Like a clenching. And then there's this heat. It just spreads. It's intense. And... and it can be painful." He paused, a shiver running through him. "It just... comes back. Even when I don't want it to. Even when I'm trying to think about something else."

He took a shaky breath. "I tried to stop it. With cold showers, and... um... other ways."

Bradley's brow furrowed slightly. "What other ways?" he pressed, his voice firm. "Max, I need you to tell me everything. If I'm going to describe this to the doctor so he believes me, I need all the details. No holding back."

Max flushed, his face burning with a fresh wave of embarrassment. He mumbled the word, barely audible, "Masturbating."

Bradley nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Did it work?"

Max shook his head, looking away. "No." He picked at the thin blanket again, his voice growing smaller, almost lost in the quiet room. "It used to be constant. Before... before we had sex. Then, after that night, it would stop for hours, and then... it would come back…"

He paused, an uncomfortable glance flicking towards Bradley, before he concluded, his voice barely a whisper, "…after five o'clock."

A sharp, cold pang of guilt ripped through Bradley's already tightened chest, stealing his breath. Five o'clock. The time that now symbolized the cheap motel room, the rusty bed, the glint of chains and shackles. It was the hour of Max's muffled moans and desperate whimpers, the degrading poses, the agonizing, prolonged fondling, Max's frustrated, tormented face denied release for days on end. Bradley ran a trembling hand over his face, then raked his fingers through his hair, a silent scream of self-condemnation. At the tick of five o'clock sharp, Max's body was still waiting for him, still reacting to the ghost of their forced encounters, a cruel, involuntary craving for the very tormentor who had broken him.

"It feels like... like when addicts can't get their fix," Max continued, his voice raw. "And they feel sick. Like they're going through withdrawal."

Bradley's breath hitched. "You feel you're addicted to...?" he whispered, the question hanging heavy in the air.

Max stared at him, his gaze unwavering, full of a terrible, desolate truth. "You."

A long, suffocating moment of silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

"Going cold turkey drove me mad," Max finally said, his voice flat.

"Addiction," Bradley whispered, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.

"Yeah," Max muttered. "Like your thing with sniffing my hair."

Bradley felt a hot flush creep up his neck, his cheeks burning. "You noticed that," he mumbled, embarrassed.

Max gave him a look that spoke volumes, a silent, withering "Duh."

Bradley looked at the card in his hand. Could he really convince Dr. Smith that he was the one experiencing these symptoms? The thought felt absurd, yet the alternative -Max having to confess his humiliation to a stranger- was unbearable. He was still wrestling with the implications when Max let out a small, sharp hiss. Max's eyes squeezed shut, his head leaning back against the sofa cushions, his face contorted in clear pain.

"Is it back?" Bradley asked, his voice tight with immediate concern.

Max gasped, a weak nod his only answer, and began to squirm. Bradley was beside him instantly, kneeling on the floor. "Max, can I help? What do I do?"

Max gritted his teeth, turning his head away. "Damn it," he muttered, the word a choked curse.

"Should I get you something?" Bradley insisted, his eyes scanning Max, desperate for a clue. He noticed Max's hand, almost unconsciously, gripping his groin, rubbing hard, a frantic attempt to quell the building pressure. An impulse flashed through Bradley's mind: Maybe if I did it, it would ease the pain. But the thought of touching Max without explicit consent, especially after everything, made him hesitate. He wouldn't violate that boundary again.

Max let out a pained grunt, a raw sound that cut through Bradley's indecision. Max suddenly pushed Bradley away from the sofa, then rolled onto his back, panting hard, his teeth gritted, his body tensing.

"Tell me what I should do!" Bradley begged, desprate.

Max's eyes, filled with a raw mixture of hate and anger, met Bradley's. "You've done enough, you jerk," he spat, his voice trembling.

"Now!" Bradley insisted, leaning closer, his own frustration mounting. "What do you want me to do now?"

The hate and anger in Max's eyes dissolved, replaced by a look of pure, agonizing self-loathing. His gaze dropped, fixed on his own body, then flickered back to Bradley. "Maybe... maybe what you used to do before..." he whispered, the words barely audible, thick with shame. "Thrust..."

Bradley quickly positioned himself on top of Max, his body hovering over Max's bulging groin. He began to thrust, steadily at first, then faster, a rhythmic pressure against Max's pants. Max let out gasps and whimpers, sounds that used to thrill Bradley, used to fuel his cruel sense of power. Now, they were just breaking his heart, each one reminding him of the pain he had inflicted. Bradley kept going, his movements precise, focused solely on providing the release Max desperately needed. Max was turning his head left and right, then gasped again, his body arching slightly, clearly on the verge of release.

"Don't stop," Max gasped, his voice thin, pleading. "Don't stop."

"I won't stop," Bradley grunted, his own breath catching in his throat.

"Please, don't stop, don't stop," Max begged, his voice cracking.

Hot tears slid down Bradley's cheeks, mixing with the fresh tears that were now streaming down Max's face.

"I promise I won't stop, Max," Bradley whispered, his voice thick with emotion, recalling all the times he had cruelly stopped, just as Max was on the verge of climax. He felt the sudden wetness of Max's release on his pants, a warm, sticky confirmation. But he didn't stop. He kept going, his body moving, his focus unwavering, until Max finally, weakly, pushed at his hips, a silent signal that it was over.

Bradley remained sprawled on top of Max, his body still heaving from the exertion, the raw sounds of Max's release echoing in his ears. Max, however, had already turned his head away, his face buried in the sofa cushion, his shoulders hunched in obvious shame.

"I need a shower," Max mumbled, his voice muffled. "But I don't have clothes."

Bradley pushed himself up slightly, propping himself on his elbows, looking down at Max. "I'll go to your dorm room," he said, his voice quiet. "I'll get you some clothes while you take a shower here. There's a bathroom just down the hall."

Max twisted his head to look at Bradley, his eyes filled with contempt. "Yep. You already have keys to my room, don't you?" His gaze hardened, piercing Bradley. "There was no escape from you, was there?"

Profound shame washed over Bradley, hot and stinging. He averted his gaze, unable to meet Max's eyes. He had systematically dismantled Max's sense of safety, his privacy, his very autonomy.

Max shifted restlessly beneath him, the movement pulling Bradley back to the present. "Can you move?" Max asked flatly.

Bradley pushed himself fully off Max, rising to his knees. As he stood, he felt the dampness on his pants, a sticky wetness from Max's release. "I'll change my clothes before I leave," he said, his gaze still avoiding Max's. He turned, needing a moment, needing to process the crushing weight of Max's pain and his own burgeoning guilt.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley let himself into Max's dorm room, the familiar click of the lock feeling strangely intrusive now. He walked straight to the closet, pulling open the bi-fold doors. Max's wardrobe was sparse, unlike Bradley's own overflowing closet filled with designer labels and endless options. Here, it was mostly worn jeans, a few faded t-shirts, and a couple of hoodies. It was functional, practical, devoid of the flair Bradley associated with himself. He quickly selected a clean white hoodie, a pair of dark jeans, and some fresh underwear.

As he gathered the clothes, the landline phone on Max's desk suddenly peeped, then began to ring. Bradley watched it, then leaned to grab a pair of white socks. After a few rings, a recorded message clicked on.

"Yo, what up, it's Max!" Max's voice, laid-back and slightly distorted by the recording, filled the small room, brimming with a carefree confidence Bradley hadn't heard in months.

Then, a smooth, almost crooning voice chimed in, "And PJ, keeping it real."

Finally, a burst of energetic enthusiasm, "And the Bob-myster, bringing the funk!"

Max's voice rose again, full of playful swagger, "If you're hearing this, you missed out on something epic!"

PJ's voice cut back in, "Or, you know, we're just busy being awesome. So leave a message after the beep, or hit us up on AIM!"

A goofy sound effect, like a cartoon boing, followed, presumably Bobby's contribution, before a final, tinny "Peace out!" and the beep.

Bradley was about to turn away when PJ's voice, sharp with worry, cut through the lighthearted recording. "Max? Where are you, buddy? I've been calling you since last night. Don't tell me that jerk Bradley kept you in that motel overnight again." A pause, heavy with unspoken accusation, stretched before PJ's voice dropped, laced with genuine fear. "Max, I'm seriously worried about you. You shouldn't be alone with that asshole. You keep saying you're fine, but I know you're not. I think I'm just gonna come back." The line clicked, dead.

Bradley swallowed hard, the sudden silence amplifying the sound in his own ears. The clothes in his hand felt heavy and meaningless. PJ might not know everything, according to what Max had told him, but knew enough to call him an "asshole" and worry about Max being kept at the motel overnight. Max wasn't an isolated target; he had friends who cared, and PJ's concern sent a cold dread through Bradley. He hadn't just damaged Max's mind and body; he had jeopardized Max's entire life, his relationships, his reputation. The guilt, already crushing, intensified, twisting into a sick knot in his stomach. Max's problem was no longer contained; it was leaking out, threatening to engulf them both.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley returned to the Gamma house; Max's clothes clutched in his hand. The bathroom door opened, and Max emerged into the foyer on his way to the living room, a thin towel wrapped precariously around his waist, water still beading on his skin and dripping from his hair. Bradley's gaze flickered over Max's wet body, then quickly averted, focusing instead on the damp floor. The sight, once a source of perverse satisfaction, now only brought a fresh wave of discomfort and guilt.

"Hey," Bradley said, trying to sound casual, though his voice felt a little too tight. "While I was getting your clothes, you got a message from PJ. He sounded... worried. I think you need to call him back."

Max nodded, running a hand through his wet hair. "Right. PJ." He looked at Bradley, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, then asked, "When's the appointment with Dr. Smith?"

"Tomorrow morning," Bradley confirmed.

"You're still going as me?" Max asked, his voice hesitant.

"Unless you want to go yourself," Bradley replied, trying to keep his voice even. "I think it might be best if you went, Max."

Max shook his head quickly. "No. No, I... I don't think I can talk about it." His gaze dropped, fixed on the damp towel around his waist.

"Okay," Bradley said, a quiet sigh escaping him. "Then I'll do it."

Max nodded again, a silent acknowledgment, and turned towards the living room, the clothes still in Bradley's hand. He took them, then paused halfway, a frustrated curse escaping his lips. "Damn it. I forgot to call Emily."

Bradley bit his lip, the news about Emily a fresh sting of bad karma. He chose his words carefully. "About Emily... she, uh, she said she's not going to tutor you anymore. She's focusing on her own future, apparently." He kept his tone gentle, trying to soften the blow.

Max let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Great. Just what I need."

"I could... I could help you with the math," Bradley offered, the words coming out before he could second-guess them. He quickly added, "Don't worry, it'd be strictly studying. No funny business. Just... math." 

Max paused, a strange mix of surprise and resignation on his face. "Okay," he said, after a beat. "Maybe tomorrow, after the appointment. I'll come over with my books."

A relieved grin broke across Bradley's face. "It's a date." The words slipped out, easy and familiar, before he could catch them.

Max stared at him, his eyes widening, a silent, pointed accusation in their depths.

Bradley winced, running an awkward hand through his hair. "Or not," he mumbled, the grin vanishing. "Just... a study session. My bad."

Max shook his head slowly and then turned, walking into the living room with his clothes to get dressed.

~*~*~*~*~

The waiting room of Dr. Smith's office was quiet, almost unnervingly so. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers, and the muted colors of the decor did little to calm the frantic beat of Bradley's heart. When Dr. Smith, a kind-faced man with a reassuring demeanor, finally called his name, Bradley felt a strange mix of dread and grim determination.

"Come in, Bradley," Dr. Smith said, gesturing to his office. It was less clinical than Dr. Harris's, with comfortable armchairs and a large window overlooking a quiet street.

Bradley sat, trying to compose himself. "Thanks for seeing me, Doctor. Dr. Harris said she'd, uh, explain the situation."

"She gave me a general overview," Dr. Smith replied, his gaze warm but perceptive. "She mentioned a case of intense psychological distress, and a conditioned physiological response. She also mentioned it was happening to you."

Bradley swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Yes," he managed, the lie feeling heavy on his tongue. He took a deep breath, trying to put himself in Max's shoes, trying to recall every pained grunt, every desperate plea, every flicker of shame he'd seen. "It's... it's like my body has a mind of its own. There's this constant, involuntary arousal. It's not... it's not desire. It's just there. This clenching in my gut, a heat that spreads, intense and often painful."

He closed his eyes, old memories flashing: Max yelling, "Why are you doing this to me?" Max in his dorm room, screaming with raw, pained hurt, demanding Bradley to get out, to leave him alone, to not hurt him anymore. But Bradley kept coming back, driven by an insidious need. It was the addiction Max had mentioned. Bradley was addicted to hurting him, to abusing him, the idea of breaking him was the drug he craved. He had been the definition of a monster, sending Max into a full-blown panic attack during the qualifying rounds, right in front of the whole crowd, just before Max's turn to skate.

"Sometimes I can't breathe," Bradley said, his voice tight, remembering Max on top of the ramp, frozen, Tina by his side. "I freeze, I can't function. I…" He opened his eyes, looking at Dr. Smith, who was listening intently, a small, unblinking nod of encouragement. Bradley swallowed, the words catching. "I have panic attacks sometimes. I'm scared of people knowing." He remembered burning the canvases, naively thinking that Max would finally be free, that he would instantly forgive him. "I thought once it stopped, that everything would be all right, except… except now…"

Memories of a drunk Max coming to the Gamma House, slurring that Bradley had turned him into a freak, that Bradley made him sick, unable to function normally. "I'm a freak," Bradley didn't realize his voice was quivering, mirroring Max's despair. "I've tried everything," he continued, channeling Max's raw agony. "Cold showers. Even... self-gratification. But it doesn't work. It just comes back. Especially after five o'clock."

"Five o'clock?" Dr. Smith asked, his voice gentle, prompting.

Bradley looked at the doctor, his vision blurring in a haze of tears. "It was the time he set for me to meet him, every day, so that he…" Bradley took a shuddering breath, the confession tearing at him. "So that he would violate me."

Dr. Smith listened patiently, his expression unwavering, letting Bradley's raw confession hang in the air.

"And he was... a savage," Bradley choked out, the words tasting like bile. He saw his own hands, tying Max with rough ropes that dug into his wrists. Max's whimpers of pain, which Bradley had mistaken for whimpers of pleasure, silencing his protests, refusing to understand.

"Forced... forced things on me..." He remembered the box of sex toys, Max's terrified face. He was too oblivious, thinking Max was enjoying it just as he did, Max breaking down when Bradley finished humiliating him was his wake up call.

"That creep kept me tied up and left me in the motel," Bradley choked out, seeing himself as he truly was, a creep. Images burned behind his eyelids: Max tied to a heavy chair, the chair toppled, Max passed out on the floor, having tried to drag himself and the chair towards the knife on the bed.

"How could he do that?" Bradley's voice grew thick and heavy with anguish, the full realization of the monster he had been crushing him.

The day his mother had died. He'd left Max tied up in bed in that motel room for a whole night. And when he'd finally returned to free him, Max, despite everything, had shown him kindness. Max had hugged him, comforted him, as Bradley broke down about his mother. And right away, Bradley had paid that kindness back with further cruelty, throwing him onto the bed, aggressively hurting him, calling him a "plaything," calling him "nothing, less than nothing."

For a long time, Bradley had seen Max as nothing more than another arrogant, competitive jerk, a twisted mirror of himself. That perception shattered in the motel room. Lying next to a bound and helpless Max, Bradley had offered a chance to ask anything, and Max's question had been, "How's your mom?" Even at his most degraded, Max had shown genuine concern for others. Max was a good person, a pure goodness Bradley had desperately, perversely, wanted to crush. Mona had been right to choose Max, to fall in love with him. Max didn't possess a conniving personality; that was entirely Bradley's own projection, and he had been blind enough to believe Max was just another version of himself.

When Bradley finally fell silent, the room felt heavy with the raw weight of his words, the only sound the soft, ragged gasps that escaped him. Dr. Smith gently pushed a tissue box across the desk. Bradley snatched a handful, wiping furiously at his eyes and nose, but the severity of his actions still burned, a searing brand on his soul.

"Bradley," Dr. Smith said, his voice calm, cutting through the emotional turmoil. "What you're describing, the persistent physiological response, the panic attacks, the emotional distress, the feeling of being a 'freak', these are significant symptoms. They point directly to a form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, or a related trauma-based condition. This is not something that a person can simply 'will away.' It's a deeply ingrained response to severe trauma."

Bradley braced himself, knowing what was coming next.

"The cornerstone of recovery for this type of trauma," Dr. Smith continued, "is therapy. You would need a trauma-informed therapist who can help you process these traumatic memories. Therapies like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing are highly effective in helping survivors regain control over their emotional and physical reactions. As a psychiatrist, I will prescribe you anti-anxiety and antidepressant medications to help stabilize your mood, reduce panic attacks, and make it possible for you to engage in therapy."

Bradley nodded, the words washing over him, a blueprint for Max's healing. He could arrange this. He could help.

"Bradley, listen to me," Dr. Smith said, his eyes serious, his voice softening slightly. "What I've gathered from what you've been through is rather complex. The most critical step for healing is a total and permanent separation from the abuser."

Bradley felt his world crash down around him. The air left his lungs in a silent gasp. "But…" he stammered, his voice hoarse, "What if the… he has changed? He's been trying to help… he sincerely wants to help."

Dr. Smith's expression remained empathetic, but firm. "It's common for victims of prolonged abuse to develop a complicated dependency on their abuser, Bradley. Sometimes, the abuser's presence, even if they seem to be 'helping,' can inadvertently reinforce the trauma. It creates a cycle where the victim might feel a distorted sense of safety or even a need for the abuser's presence, because that's what they've been conditioned to. Any attempt by the abuser to 'help' would be considered part of the problem, not the solution, and would likely cause further harm. Healing can only begin once the source of the trauma is completely out of the patient's life."

Bradley stared at the man before him, feeling himself about to suffocate. The only way for Max to heal, to find peace, was for Bradley to disappear. To never see him again. The irony was a cruel, agonizing twist of the knife. He had caused this, and now the only way to fix it was to cut ties completely with the person Bradley was in love with, the person Bradley had damaged so deeply. His heart felt like it was being ripped from his chest.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley walked into the Gamma house in a daze, the plastic bag crinkling in his hand like a shroud. Inside were the medicines Max needed, the prescription from Dr. Smith feeling both like a miracle and a lie. He walked numbly to a small table in the foyer and set the bag down, the plastic rustling with a hollow, almost accusatory sound.

He had just turned away when a quick, frantic knock came from the other side of the door he'd just closed. He opened it to find Max, clutching books and notebooks to his chest, looking confused and anxious.

"Didn't you hear me?" Max asked, his brow furrowed, his voice edged with impatience. "I called your name so many times. You didn't stop."

Bradley just stared, his gaze filled with a profound, aching sadness he couldn't hide. He couldn't speak, the words of Dr. Smith, total and permanent separation, echoing in his mind like a death knell.

"Did, um, did the doctor believe it was you who, you know?" Max asked awkwardly, scratching his temple, his eyes darting away from Bradley's intense stare.

Bradley shrugged. "Guess I'm a good actor."

"No kidding," Max said, a flicker of his usual sarcasm returning.

Bradley remained quiet, his gaze fixed on Max. Those big, expressive eyes, the messy black hair, the lips he was so addicted to. Every detail of Max's presence was a fresh stab of pain, a reminder of the impossible choice laid before him.

The frown that had settled on Max's face over Bradley's silence deepened, quickly turning into panic. "What? What did the doctor say? Is it so bad?"

Bradley shook his head, finally finding his voice, though it felt thick and heavy. "He suggested some therapies that you need to start right away," he said, pointing to the plastic bag on the table, his hand trembling slightly. "And these are some medicines you need to take for your anxiety and depression."

"Wow," Max said, a cynical laugh escaping him. "You made him diagnose me with anxiety and depression? What, did you put on a full-blown performance in his office, Brad?"

"Max, I just told him what you told me," Bradley said, the dull ache in his gut seeping into his tone. "You are sick."

Max's jaw tightened, and he instinctively took a small step back, his arms tightening around his books, his gaze dropping to the floor. He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable, a silent wall rising between them. "Okay," he whispered. He looked at Bradley, then lifted the math book and notebooks in his arms. "Are we, uh, on for the math session?"

Bradley's heart ached. He was supposed to tell Max to stay away from him. But the thought of never seeing Max again, of abandoning him to face this alone, was a pain far greater than any guilt. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

"Sure," Bradley said, his voice quiet but firm. "Go to the living room. I'll be there in a sec."

He held the door of the Gamma house open for Max, watching him walk towards the plastic bag on the table. Max picked it up, holding it curiously. "Should I take these now?" he asked.

"It's better to take them with food," Bradley replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "After we're done studying, I'll order us something to eat."

Max nodded, tucking the bag under his arm, and walked into the living room. Bradley closed the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood. He heaved a long, shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd find a way for Max to heal, a way to fix this without cutting him out of his life. He had to. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

Chapter Text

Max spread his math books across the coffee table, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach as his new tutor walked into the living room. Bradley sat on the far end of the sofa, leaving a generous, almost deliberate distance between them. Max braced himself for the familiar impatience and sharp corrections he'd grown accustomed to from Emily, or the even worse, the condescending cruelty Bradley had subjected him to in the motel room.

But this session was different. Bradley's voice was low and measured as he explained a complex math problem, gesturing with an open hand, never once intruding on Max's personal space. He broke down each step, pausing to ensure Max had grasped the concept before moving on.

Max found himself staring more at Bradley than at the equations. The short-fuse, the sudden mood-swings, the predatory glint in Bradley's eyes that had been so terrifyingly present in the motel room, were completely gone. In their place was a quiet understanding that Max couldn't reconcile with the monster who had tortured him. Bradley didn't scoff at his mistakes, didn't snap when Max zoned out, didn't make him feel stupid. It was weird and unsettling.

Maybe it was guilt. It had to be. Bradley was the reason he was so messed up, wasn't he? Max was kinda diagnosed with depression because of him, and anyone would feel crappy about themselves if they'd done that to someone. Max knew he would. If he had caused someone else that constant feeling of shame, he wouldn't even look them in the eye, much less sit there with such unnerving patience and pretend everything was fine.

The math session stretched on for a solid hour. Max found himself slowly unwinding, settling into the strange but consistent rhythm of the tutoring. When Bradley finally closed the textbook, he pulled out his cellphone. Max watched him scroll through it for a moment before dialing. He couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. He wished he could afford one of those things. They were so damn convenient.

"Alright, brain break," Bradley announced, holding the phone to his ear. "How about that place, 'Vesuvio's'? They do a killer wood-fired pepperoni."

Max's eyes widened. Must be one of those über-pricey Italian joints downtown. Bradley was calling for some fancy, high-priced pizza they could've gotten from Domino's for way less. The man was still a different species.

A short while later, Bradley was in the kitchen, preparing the dining table. He pulled out placemats and set silverware with a domestic precision Max wouldn't have expected from the fraternity president. Must be his mom's influence. Max stood awkwardly by the doorway, watching him work and unsure how to act. He tried to make himself useful, reaching for the two glasses Bradley had placed and nudging them into a more symmetrical arrangement.

Bradley then returned to the table with a bottle of red wine. Max felt a blush creep up his neck. "Gee, Brad," he mumbled, a nervous laugh escaping him, "you'd think this was a real date."

Bradley smirked. "This is for me, minor," he said, setting the bottle down with a soft clink. "You can grab that last soda from the fridge."

Max arched an eyebrow. "Who are you calling a minor?"

"The guy who couldn't handle his first time getting wasted," Bradley responded.

"It was not my first time," Max shot back, his eyes darting around the kitchen for something, anything, to bring to the table. They landed on a stack of fancy, snazzy napkins.

Bradley brought two plates to the table. "Tell that to your hangover."

Max was placing a folded napkin on Bradley's side of the table just as Bradley reached to set down the second plate on his own. Their hands brushed in an accidental, fleeting contact. Bradley recoiled instantly, as if he'd been burned, his hand jerking back so violently that the plate he was holding slipped. It clattered loudly onto the table with a sickening thud but didn't break.

Max looked up, startled, to see Bradley's face had gone pale. His eyes were wide with something akin to panic. "Sorry," Bradley mumbled, his gaze fixed on the plate, and he practically bolted for one of the kitchen drawers. He fumbled, grabbing a couple of forks and knives, then returned to the table, his gaze fixed resolutely on the cutlery, avoiding Max's eyes entirely.

"Hey, are you okay? You're acting weird," Max asked, watching him arrange the fork and knife with a manic intensity as if they were expecting a visit from the freaking president.

Bradley nodded, muttering, "I'm fine."

But Max could see he was anything but.

The fancy pizza from Vesuvio's arrived a short while later. Max reached for a slice, folding it in half, and jammed it into his mouth. His eyes blinked in surprise as he looked at Bradley, who was cutting a piece of his own slice with a fork and knife. Max swallowed his food with a big gulp of soda.

"Pizza was never meant to be eaten with a fork," he declared, a grin spreading across his face.

"In Italy," Bradley replied, not looking up from his surgical dissection of a tiny pepperoni, "where pizza was invented, it's customary to eat it with a fork and knife."

"Yeah, well, we're in America," Max countered, his grin widening. "And the American way to eat pizza is to shove it in your mouth. Like this." He demonstrated, taking another huge bite, his cheeks bulging. Bradley's faint wince was not lost on him.

"You should try it. It's tastier," Max said, speaking with his mouth full and spitting a few crumbs.

Bradley pursed his lips, wincing again as Max grabbed a third slice. "You're an animal, Max," he muttered, almost to himself.

"A happy animal!" Max retorted, pointing a pizza-laden finger at Bradley with a victorious chuckle.

Bradley sighed dramatically, then with hesitant, tweezer-like fingers, he took a slice, holding it at arm's length as if it were a live grenade. He opened his mouth and barely let the very tip of the slice inside.

"All of it, Brad," Max encouraged, laughing. "Stuff it all in your mouth, man!"

Max laughed harder when Bradley, trying to force the large slice inside, immediately started to choke, ending up in a loud, dramatic coughing fit. Max smirked at him, "When it comes to eating pizza, you're the freshman."

"You have the eating manners of a monkey," Bradley mumbled, still recovering.

Max just grinned, his mouth full, noting how his own plate, fork, and knife remained shiny clean as he reached for his next slice straight from the box, like a normal person.

It was time for the pills. Bradley held up a small pill bottle in his hand. "Okay, so this is the Sertraline," he explained. "Dr. Smith said you take one pill a day. If it makes you drowsy, take it after dinner, before you go to sleep. If it doesn't, maybe after breakfast. The main thing is you've got to take it at the same time every day."

He then pulled out another, even smaller bottle. "This other one is Lorazepam. The dose is low, and you only take it when you absolutely need it, not every day. There's a risk of dependence if you use it constantly."

Max's eyes narrowed, his heart rate picking up. "You mean I might get addicted to it?"

"Don't worry," Bradley quickly reassured him. "The dose is really low. Dr. Smith suggested you take it when you start feeling... well, when you start getting that uncomfortable feeling. Like when things get too intense."

Max's insides seemed to dance with hope. "You mean it'll stop it?" he whispered, his voice tinged with a desperation he couldn't hide.

Bradley seemed to hesitate for a moment, then clarified gently, "It'll help with the panic attacks and the anxiety that comes with it." He reached into the plastic bag, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "But to actually stop the underlying issue, here's what Dr. Smith wrote down for you."

Max took the paper, but his frustration grew as he tried to decipher the cramped, nonsensical scribbles. It was the classic doctor's handwriting cliché, a series of indecipherable squiggles that looked more like a seismograph reading than actual words. Max slapped the paper back into Bradley's chest. "Dude, I can't read this gibberish! You read it."

Bradley sighed, taking the paper back. He unfolded it and scanned the dense text. "Alright, fine. It says: 'When the unwanted arousal occurs, you need to bring yourself back to the present moment. You can focus on your five senses: naming five things you can see, four things you can touch...'"

As Bradley started reading the list, as if on cue, a familiar burning heat ignited in Max's gut. He clutched the edge of the kitchen table, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. "It's starting," he choked out, his eyes wide with rising alarm.

"Okay, don't panic," Bradley said quickly, his voice tight with urgency. "Take your dose now."

Max fumbled for the Lorazepam bottle, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. He managed to push a single pill out, swallowing it dry, his throat constricting. Once the pill was down, Bradley immediately began, his voice firm. "Okay, now. Name five things you can see."

Max breathed heavily, the heat traveling, searing through his entire body. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then forced them open, his gaze locking onto Bradley. "I see you," he rasped. "The window. The fridge. The magnets. The floor."

"Good. Now, four things you can touch," Bradley instructed.

Max instinctively reached out, his trembling fingers brushing Bradley's arm. Bradley flinched, jumping out of his chair and taking a quick step back, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and regret. "Not me," he said, his voice strained. "Objects. Touch things."

Max pulled his hand back, his face flushing with fresh humiliation. He gripped the cold edge of the table. "I can touch the table," he mumbled, then reached for the cutlery. "The fork. The knife. The plate."

"Name three things you can hear," Bradley pressed, his voice firmer now.

Max whimpered, the sensation intensifying, a relentless pressure building. He started to crouch on the chair, his body trying to curl in on itself. "Max, name three things you can hear!" Bradley insisted, his voice sharper.

Max gasped, his breath ragged. "You, and..." He strained, trying to focus, to hear anything beyond the roaring in his ears, but there was nothing. The unwanted sensation was a relentless furnace, and his body was losing the battle. He dropped to the floor, instinctively rubbing hard at his burning groin, a desperate attempt to quell the agony.

"Okay, Max, name two things you can smell!" Bradley crouched beside him, his voice tight with panic. He grabbed a clean spoon from the table, holding it out. "Max, look at this spoon! Focus on it. Take a deep breath. Look at the spoon!"

Max shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. "It isn't working, God, it hurts!" The heat was unbearable, a sharp, searing pain that made him want to claw at his own skin. He tried to sit up, his gaze fixing on the shiny spoon, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath. But a sharp jolt in his groin made him gasp, his body convulsing. He looked at Bradley, his eyes filled with a deep self-loathing, even as he pleaded, "Can we do what we did yesterday? Please, it made it stop."

Bradley shook his head slowly. "No. Anything sexual between us has to stop. Doctor's orders. You need to manage your symptoms yourself."

Max groaned, crouched over himself, the feeling unbearable. He tried thrusting against the cold kitchen floor, whimpering and gasping helplessly. Suddenly, a splash of freezing water hit his face, shocking him and making him gasp and arch his back. Bradley was instantly next to him, his voice urgent. "Take off your glove and hold these ice cubes!" Max fumbled, tearing off his glove, and clasped his hand around the cubes. The intense cold was a sharp, piercing pain that momentarily eclipsed the burning in his groin. More freezing water splashed him, making him gasp again.

"Okay, Max, listen!" Bradley yelled, his voice firm, cutting through the haze of sensation. "What's the derivative of x squared?"

Max's mind was a jumble of pain and confusion, but he tried to grasp the problem. "Two... two x?" he stammered, barely coherent.

"Yes! Good!" Bradley affirmed, his tone a mix of relief and insistence. "Now, what's the integral of 2x?"

Max's mind drifted to the persistent tingling in his groin, but another splash of cold water hit his face, sharp and jarring. "Max! Focus! The integral of 2x!" Bradley demanded.

"X squared!" Max gasped, the answer tearing from him.

This went on for a few minutes, a relentless barrage of cold water and math problems. Max's initial panic slowly gave way to a desperate focus, his mind latching onto the numbers as a lifeline. He found himself answering the questions with more clarity. The burning, clenching feeling in his groin was not as intense as it had been. It wasn't completely gone, but it had receded, dulled by the cold and the mental strain.

"That's one of Dr. Smith's instructions," Bradley said, his voice calmer now, though still a little breathless. "It's a cognitive interruption. You focus on something so hard it forces your brain to get out of the loop." He gestured vaguely at the ice cubes melting on the floor. "The sudden temperature shift is part of it. I can see that worked." He paused, looking at Max's shivering, soaked form. "You can jump in a freezing shower next time. Physical activities can help, too, like jumping jacks or push-ups."

Max shivered violently in his drenched clothes, wrapping his arms around himself. "I don't know if I can manage doing that alone."

Bradley glanced at his watch. "It's almost five o'clock. This episode happened a little earlier than the others." He stood up, looking between a quivering Max and the puddles on the kitchen floor. "Maybe we should have these math sessions around three, and you can just stay until the feeling blows over."

Max nodded, still shaking.

"Wait, I'll get you something to wear." Bradley took a step toward the hallway, then stopped abruptly, looking back at Max with a flicker of awkwardness crossing his face. "I don't think my clothes will fit you."

Max as he looked at Bradley's stick-thin frame. "Yeah," he muttered, his teeth chattering, "I don't think my leg would even fit in your shirt."

Bradley made a face, then let out a resigned sigh. "I'll see if the other guys left some of their clothes."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max clutched his math book and notebooks to his chest, walking towards his dorm building. In one hand, he held a plastic bag with his soaked clothes, and in the other, a small bag containing his new medication. He was wearing James's clothes, which were a little loose on him but still comfortable. He'd always liked baggy clothes. As he walked, his mind kept replaying the events of the afternoon. This new, creepily gentle version of Bradley was unsettling, not to mention the "no-touching" thing he'd got going on. Since when did Bradley care about respecting Max's personal space? The guy had been shamelessly invading his privacy since the beginning of his sophomore year, especially after the contract.

Max wondered if Dr. Smith had told him something morbid about his condition, like it was fatal or contagious. Because the way Bradley had panic-jumped from his touch... that wasn't about guilt. That was pure revulsion.

Unless... maybe the involuntary arousal thing just grossed him out. Was he disgusted by him? Max knew it was repulsive, getting aroused for no reason. It felt perverted, even to him.

A heavy load on Max's chest didn't ease up with his long, tired sigh. He put the key in the lock and opened the door to his lonely, dark dorm room.

Which, to his surprise, was lit, and not exactly lonely.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his heart leaping into his throat. PJ was inside, his back to the door, hanging a fresh shirt in the closet. Pure happiness surged through him.

"Peej!" he yelled, dropping the plastic bags and his books on the floor in his haste to get inside. The two friends met in a tight embrace.

"What are you doing back four days early?" Max asked, pulling back from the hug with a wide smile that felt like it might crack his face. "Dude, I told you there was no need to rush."

"My dad wanted me to enter some barbecue tournament with him," PJ answered, a frown creasing his brow. "Trust me, I wanted to get back for me." He pulled back fully, a confused look on his face. "Hold up. It's five-thirty. Shouldn't you be at the motel?"

Max's smile dropped. It hit him that he hadn't filled PJ in on what had been going on. It wasn't a topic you could really get into over the phone. "That's over," he said, the words feeling strange and heavy on his tongue, a hollow announcement of a freedom he hadn't quite earned yet.

PJ's face lit up with genuine happiness. "Seriously? No more Bradley?"

"Well," Max said, the uncomfortable truth settling over them. "Not exactly."

The joy on PJ's face vanished, replaced by a deep frown. "What is it? Tell me." His gaze fell to the books Max had dropped. "Were you studying with Emily?"

"Emily's gone, too," Max replied softly. "I was... um, studyingwithBradley."

PJ's eyes went wide, and he took an involuntary step back, as if Max had just told him he'd been visited by a ghost. "With Bradley?! Are you freaking crazy, Max?"

Max picked up his books and the plastic bags, placing them on his desk next to the computer. "He's the only one willing to help. You know how bad I am at math."

"Dude, there are more people willing to help," PJ insisted, his voice rising in disbelief.

Max raised an eyebrow. "Like who? You? You're worse at math than I am."

"Still, asking Bradley to help after everything…" PJ trailed off, his eyes snagging on the plastic bag with Max's wet clothes, then moving to the unfamiliar polo shirt and baggy slacks Max was wearing. His voice lowered, dangerous and quiet. "These aren't your clothes." He moved to the bag, pulling out Max's soaked, shrunken red t-shirt. "And why are your clothes wet?"

"Well, I…" Max stuttered, and before he could finish, PJ's hand shot into the other plastic bag. He pulled out a small medication bottle, his eyes scanning the label. "Sertraline? Lorazepam? Max, these are like…" He stopped, his head snapping up to meet Max's gaze, his face a mask of dawning horror.

Max wanted to stuff his hands in his pockets, but James's slacks didn't have any. He settled for dropping his gaze to the floor.

"What's going on?" PJ's voice was filled with boiling fury. "I knew something was up! I knew I should have come back! Now you're gonna tell me what's going on, or I swear to God I'm gonna knock it out of Bradley's other eye!"

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy there, Peej! Dude, you've turned into a very violent man." Max gestured to the bed. "Sit down. I'll tell you everything."

They sat, and Max could tell from PJ's rocking leg that he was on the verge of going all Pete-furious. "Look, after you guys left for spring break, Bradley's conscience somehow awakened," Max began.

"Yeah, right," PJ scoffed, his arms crossed.

Max held up a hand. "No interruptions. Anyway, he got rid of the material he was blackmailing me for and just set me free."

PJ pursed his lips. "Just like that? He just let you go?"

Max nodded. "Yeah."

PJ's gaze drifted to the medications on the desk. "And those? What's their story?"

Max ran a hand through his hair. "Well, those are a result of, um, panic attacks I started having. I didn't want to see a shrink, so Bradley went in my place…"

"Wait!" PJ interrupted, his voice rising in disbelief. "Bradley went to a therapist pretending to be you?! Are you kidding me right now? Max, that's not how this works! The only way this should work is for you to see a therapist! What if these medications aren't suitable for you? You don't send some other guy to a doctor pretending to be you! That's insane!"

Max grabbed his hysterical friend's shoulders. "Breathe," he said firmly.

PJ inhaled and exhaled sharply, his face flushed. "You know I'm right, though. What if the dosage is wrong? Max, what were you thinking?"

Max's voice was tight with annoyance. "I was thinking I didn't want to spill my business to a complete stranger."

"Well, you have to, Max! If you're having panic attacks, you have to see a doctor!" PJ retorted.

"I don't need to anymore," Max snapped back. "Bradley went already."

PJ smacked his forehead. "God, I wanna strangle you right now."

Max took a deep breath. "Look, PJ, you said no judgment."

"Yeah, but this…" PJ started, gesturing wildly at the medications.

Max cut him off. "This is why I tell you stuff. Because so far, you haven't judged me and you haven't tried to make my decisions for me. This is my life, and I know what I'm doing."

"Okay, Max, no judgment, man, just asking," PJ said, his tone flat and betraying the very judgment he was denying. "But I'm sure the doc's gonna want a follow-up. Is Bradley gonna go in your place again?"

Max stood up from the bed, scratching the back of his neck. The tension in the room was suffocating. "I... um, I didn't think that far ahead," he mumbled, avoiding PJ's intense gaze.

PJ just nodded slowly, his eyes following Max as he moved towards the computer desk. "And you're gonna keep letting Bradley tutor you?" he asked, his voice low and cautious.

Max leaned against the desk, his hand hovering over the keyboard. "Yeah," he whispered.

PJ pushed himself off the bed and walked over, leaning against the bunk bed frame directly opposite Max. "Alright, then," he said, the finality in his voice ringing in the silence. "I'm not gonna ask and I'm not gonna say this is stupid, which it is. But if you go see Bradley, I'm tagging along."

Max's head snapped up. "What?"

"I'm going with you," PJ repeated, his eyes firm.

"Because…?" Max asked, trying to find a crack in his friend's resolve.

PJ gestured vaguely at Max's desk. "I need tutoring, too. Like you said, I suck even more at math than you do."

Max's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He couldn't find a single argument against what PJ had said. There was just no arguing with a determined Pete.

~*~*~*~*~

The next day, Max walked up to the Gamma house door with PJ right beside him. When Bradley opened the door, his face, which had been set in a calm, neutral expression, froze. His eyes flickered between Max and PJ, confusion and annoyance flashing across his features.

"Hi," PJ said, his voice cheerful and entirely lacking in social grace. "You're tutoring me too." Without waiting for an invitation, he brushed past Bradley and walked into the house as if he owned the place.

Max mouthed a quick, silent "Sorry" to Bradley, who was still standing in the doorway, looking shell-shocked. Max followed PJ inside, leaving the bewildered fraternity brother to close the door behind them. They settled at the coffee table in the living room, PJ on the sofa next to Max, and Bradley sitting opposite on an armchair. The tension in the air was so thick, Max was sure he could have hung his backpack on it. Well, instead of that, he placed it under the coffee table after he pulled out his notes and math book.

"Did the medication make you drowsy yesterday?" Bradley asked Max, his voice still that same infuriatingly calm tone.

"No," Max replied, glancing awkwardly at PJ next to him whose leg was doing its relentless drum solo of irritation against the floor.

"So, are we gonna study or what?" PJ interjected, pulling out his notebook and shooting a pointed glare at Bradley.

Bradley's jaw tightened, but he let out a long sigh and motioned for PJ to hand him the math curriculum. The math session began, and to Max's surprise, Bradley had the patience of a dial-up modem user in a bad mood. He broke down complex differential equations, explaining each step with a clear, deliberate tone. While PJ's snide remarks and sarcastic asides were constant, Bradley handled them with unnerving indifference, which seemed to upset PJ more.

But then Max did notice a difference in the way Bradley approached him and PJ. If PJ asked a question, Bradley would stand, leaning in slightly to point out a section in his notebook, his body language open and engaged. But when Max asked for clarification on a specific step, Bradley simply stayed put, his feet rooted to the floor. He gestured with his pen from across the table, maintaining the emotional and physical wall that had sprung up between them.

Max shifted uncomfortably on the couch, the memory of Bradley's disgusted reaction to his touch the day before stinging like a fresh cut. The whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth. A cold panic started to rise in his throat at the thought of PJ finding out, of PJ feeling that same kind of revulsion and disgust.

That last thought sent a jolt of ice through him. His palms began to sweat, and a faint, burning heat ignited in his gut, a familiar signal he was coming to know all too well.

"Are you okay?" Bradley asked suddenly.

"Yes," Max blurted, voice squeaking slightly. He cleared his throat. "Just… not understanding this part. Can you come closer and show me?"

Bradley's expression faltered for a moment. He didn't move. "Just tell me which part, and I'll help you," he said, his voice firm and final. Max felt a sharp sting. He looked down at the incomprehensible letters and symbols in his book, the courage that had flickered in his chest dying out like a blown-out match.

"No, I... uh... I got it," he mumbled, looking away from his book and up at Bradley. He saw the expression on Bradley's face soften at Max's obvious hurt and confusion.

PJ nudged Bradley aggressively with his foot. "Hey, what about this? I don't get it."

Bradley sighed, a long, exasperated sound, and leaned closer to PJ to explain a point in his notebook. Max watched him, his chest tightening with a dull ache. He stood up from his chair and walked around the living room, his hands fidgeting with the loose keys on his keychain. He stopped at the pool table, his eyes catching on a couple of large, two-thousand-piece puzzle sets. A Gameboy rested on top of them, and next to the puzzles was a coiled jumping rope. Bradley had set the room up, preparing it for the panic attacks. This was his "distraction" plan. He was willing to go to these lengths to help, but he couldn't bring himself to even touch him.

Max's gaze drifted to his own hands, and a sharp thought cut through the chaos: Why would I even want him to touch me anyway? He felt a deep, nauseating disgust at the thought, at the very existence of a need he didn't even understand. Man, PJ was right. I do need therapy.

Just then, a knock sounded on the front door, interrupting the suffocating silence.

"That's the food," Bradley said, his voice flat. "I didn't know you were bringing company, so PJ, there might not be enough for you."

"What'd you order?" PJ asked, unfazed.

"Beef Bourguignon," Bradley answered, a hint of haughty pride in his tone.

PJ whistled, his eyes glinting as they met Max's. "Fancy French dish. Ça sent l'amour," he deadpanned, holding the gaze.

Max felt a hot flush rush to his cheeks, mortified, but Bradley simply rolled his eyes and left the living room to answer the door.

Immediately seizing the opportunity, PJ zipped over to Max's side by the pool table. "Dude, what's with the weird vibe? Are you guys... dating?" he whispered, his voice low with disbelief.

"What?!" Max flustered, turning to face him. "Why the hell would you think that?"

"I don't know, man. He keeps his distance from you like he doesn't want me to find out or something," PJ said, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"You noticed that, too?" Max hissed back.

PJ's eyes bulged out. "Then it's true?!"

"What? NO!" Max smacked a hand over his mouth after he yelled, then leaned in and whispered, "I swear what's between me and Bradley is the farthest thing from a date."

PJ gave him a pointed look. "I hope you remember that. This is the guy who kept you in a motel room until ten at night and you came out with bruises all over your body."

Max stared at PJ, his voice dry and hollow. "Why the reminder?"

"Because I can see your sad puppy eyes," PJ shot back scornfully.

Max's blood ran cold. "I don't... it's not what you think..."

"Oh, really?" PJ interrupted. "Because this has Stockholm syndrome written all over it."

"Oh God, PJ, it's not!" Max hissed, his frustration boiling over.

Bradley cleared his throat in the doorway, the sound sharp and jarring. Max and PJ broke apart instantly, each of them fumbling to look busy. PJ dove for the Gameboy, pretending to examine the cartridge, while Max nervously coiled the jump rope around his hand.

"Food's ready," Bradley said, gesturing towards the back of the house. "Come to the kitchen."

Max followed PJ into the kitchen, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. The large wooden table was set for three, with silverware and tall glasses of water. A huge, steaming pot sat in the center, and the rich, savory aroma of beef bourguignon filled the air. It smelled incredible, a scent so good it almost made Max forget the tension.

"You got anything other than water?" PJ asked, eyeing the glasses.

"I only have alcoholic beverages, and I'm guessing you can't hold your liquor any more than your team leader over there," Bradley said with a smirk aimed squarely at Max, who rolled his eyes.

"Since when do you drink?" PJ asked Max, who wanted to smack him.

"Aha," Bradley said with a wink, "Knew it was your first time."

"It was not my first time drinking," Max argued. "I drank so many times last year, I'm pretty sure I single-handedly kept the local liquor store in business."

PJ laughed. "So many times? Max, you once sipped a wine cooler at Todd's dorm party and declared you had 'all the feelings'."

"Are you not my friend?" Max interrupted PJ venomously.

Bradley's smug grin didn't falter as he gestured for them to sit. He served PJ first, scooping a generous portion of the tender beef and vegetables onto his plate. When he moved to serve Max, he kept the pot at a careful distance, his arm fully extended. The long handle of the ladle was his only point of contact with Max's plate. He didn't bump the table, he didn't lean in, he didn't risk a single accidental touch. He placed the plate down in front of Max with a deliberate, impersonal distance. Enraged, Max jammed his fork into a piece, trying to tear it apart, but the meat was too tender to satisfy his fury.

PJ glanced down at his plate, the rich, dark stew a stark contrast to his usual fare. "So, this is the fancy French stuff, huh?"

Bradley just sighed, not looking at either of them as he served his own plate. "I didn't want a repeat of the pizza fiasco." He sat down opposite them, the large wooden table now a clear divide, two against one.

Max was acutely aware of Bradley's every move, the quiet grace with which he held his knife and fork, the way he avoided Max's gaze but seemed to monitor him in his periphery. The whole thing was a performance of carefully maintained distance. He was in full-on avoiding mode, alright. Yet somehow, this was the same guy who was ordering him fancy meals and tutoring him in math. Two contradictory realities were spinning in Max's head, making him dizzy.

Then there it was. Shit, not now! Max bit the inside of his mouth as the familiar burning sensation ignited in his gut. It started as a low, humming heat, then flared outward, a wave of unwanted, sickening arousal. He froze, the fork halfway to his mouth. He pushed his chair back violently, the screech of wood on tile a jarring sound that made both Bradley and PJ look up in alarm.

"I… I need the bathroom," he stammered, his voice thin and panicked. He didn't wait for a reply. He scrambled from his seat and rushed out of the kitchen, hearing a startled "Max!" from Bradley just before the door swung shut.

He burst into the small first-floor bathroom, fumbling for the lock. The click of the bolt was a small, inadequate reassurance. He stumbled to the shower, yanking the curtain open, his mind screaming, cold, cold, cold.

He tore off his gloves and plunged his shaking hands under the icy spray. Without hesitation, he turned the shower on full blast and stepped in fully clothed, letting the frigid torrent soak through his clothes. He gasped as a thousand needles of cold water pierced his skin, the shock a violent jolt to his system that made his muscles lock up and his lungs seize. The searing cold was the only thing he could feel.

Five things I can see. His reflection in the mirror was a miserable, shivering wreck, his face distorted by the water and his panic. He stared at it, the word a pained whisper. "Mirror." He glanced at the sink, the cold porcelain of the basin gleaming. "Sink." A muffled knock rattled the door, followed by Bradley's voice. "Max, are you okay in there?" then PJ's, "Max! Open the door!" Max's gaze shot to the door, a fresh wave of embarrassment flaring inside. "Door," he hissed, his voice tight. A towel hung from a hook beside the door, and as a sharp jolt of unwanted pain shot through his groin, he screamed, "Towel!"

The knocking intensified, a panicked rhythm against the wood. "Max!" "Max, what's wrong?!" he heard them yell.

He slid to the floor of the shower, his jeans thick and heavy with water. He began to rub his groin, desperate to quell the sensation with friction, with pain, with anything else. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the cold water. "Freak, freak, freak," he mumbled to himself, the words catching in his throat. "Disgusting. So disgusting." He continued to rub, his hands raw from the desperate attempt to punish the part of him that felt so wrong, the words a rhythmic mantra of his own horror. "Disgusting freak, disgusting freak."

"Max, open the door or I'm breaking it!" PJ's voice roared, clear and furious.

Max whimpered, squirming on the cold tile, trying to stop the feeling, but it was relentless. He could hear Bradley and PJ yelling at each other, the sharp edges of their argument cutting through the sound of the water. He gasped, trying to remember Bradley's next instruction.

Four things I can hear. He closed his eyes, straining to focus. "Yelling," he whimpered. "The water." A curse from PJ. "PJ cursing." Bradley's loud voice. "Bradley snapping."

Three things I can smell. He hissed as the pain in his groin intensified, overwhelming his senses completely.

The burning sensation in Max's groin was a relentless, escalating fire. The cold water no longer registered as a shock, but as a dull, biting chill that seeped into his bones. He was curled on the floor of the shower, his knees pulled to his chest, his hands rubbing furiously at the thick, water-logged fabric of his jeans. He could hear the loud, frantic knocks on the bathroom door, punctuated by PJ's furious shouts.

Suddenly, with a splintering crack, the door flew open, the lock giving way with a final, violent thud. PJ stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with panic and fear, before he bolted inside. Max's immediate reaction was to fold his arms over his head, pressing his face into his knees, seeing nothing but the oppressive blackness of his own despair.

He felt a hand reach for the faucet, and the icy spray of the shower stopped abruptly. The silence was deafening, broken only by his own ragged gasps and the sound of his shuddering breaths. Now, the cold was unbearable. He was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. He felt gloved hands grasp his arms, shaking him gently but insistently. "Max, Max, are you okay?" PJ's voice was a frantic blur, the words barely registering. Another jolt of intense, sickening arousal shot through his groin, and Max hissed in pain, squirming away from the touch.

Then he heard Bradley's voice, soft but clear. "It's not over yet."

"The panic attack?" PJ asked, his voice still edged with terror.

After a brief, tense pause, Bradley answered, "Yes. The panic attack."

PJ pulled at Max's arm. "Hey, buddy, let's get you out of here."

Max's mind was a single, repeating mantra: Disgusting. Disgusting. The heat in his body was a constant presence, and the shame was a physical ache. He tried to squirm further into the corner, away from their prying eyes, but PJ's hands were firm on his arms.

"Okay, PJ," Bradley's voice cut through the chaos, clear and clinical. "Help him up. We need to get him into the living room. It's warmer there. Grab a towel from the rack. And don't stop talking to him. Keep him grounded."

Max felt the water drip from his hair, down his back. The cold, wet fabric of his shirt clung to his skin, and the embarrassment of being seen like this, a groveling, miserable wreck, was a searing heat that eclipsed the cold. He felt PJ's hands on him, and nausea surged over him.

He bucked violently, shoving his friend away with a strength born of pure panic. He scrambled backward, trying to press himself further into the corner of the shower, his arms still folded tight over his head. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to see him in this state, a shivering, whimpering mess in soaking wet clothes. He didn't want their pity.

"Whoa, easy, man!" PJ said, his voice a mix of shock and concern. He held up his hands, giving Max space. "Okay, okay, I'm not gonna touch you. Just look at me. Just look at me."

"Max," Bradley snapped, his voice cutting through the sound of Max's ragged breaths. "Stop. Look at PJ. You have to focus."

Max shook his head violently, burying his face deeper into his arms. The nausea and the relentless, sickening sensation were all-consuming.

"C'mon, buddy," PJ said softly, trying to pull his arms from his face, but Max flinched away from the touch. "Just let me help you."

"Max, you need to focus on PJ and do what he says," Bradley said, his voice firm. "It's the only way to get your symptoms to subside."

"Get out. I can handle it myself," he tried to say, but the words came out as a sob muffled by his arms.

"PJ, grab a towel from the rack," Bradley's voice cut through the sound of the dripping water. "He's cold. We need to get him out of there."

"What the hell is going on, Bradley?" PJ's voice was a furious whisper. "Why is he like this?"

"I'll explain later!" Bradley snapped. "Just do what I say. Now!"

Max heard PJ fumbling for the towel, and he pressed his closed eyes tighter into his folded arms, as if the darkness could make him disappear. He felt PJ kneel beside him, his voice softer now, tentative. "C'mon, Max. Let's get you out of here."

A large, fluffy towel was suddenly draped over his shoulders. But Max couldn't move. The unwanted sensation squeezed the air from his lungs. "I can't," he whimpered. "It won't stop."

"It will. Just listen to my voice," Bradley said from the doorway. "Five things you can see."

Max shook his head violently, his revulsion with himself making his body tremble.

"Would you look at me?" PJ said gently. He tugged at the towel, trying to get Max to lift his head. "C'mon, bud. Just look at me."

"Don't," Max mumbled, but PJ's hands were on his arms, a firm but gentle pressure. The contact was a solid, undeniable thing in a world that felt like it was dissolving.

"Five things you see, Max," Bradley commanded.

Slowly and reluctantly, Max lifted his head, his eyes blurry with tears. Through the watery fog, he saw PJ's face, his brow furrowed with concern and his eyes wide with worry. He fought the urge to shut his eyes again. He hated the thought of PJ seeing him so raw and pathetic. It was different with Bradley. With Bradley, Max had long since grown accustomed to being seen as a worthless auction animal, stripped bare of his dignity. But with PJ, a part of him still clung to the idea that he was a person worthy of respect, and the thought of shattering that illusion was unbearable.

"Five things you see," Bradley repeated, his voice steady with an edge of impatience.

"PJ," Max whispered, swallowing as his gaze didn't waver from his childhood best friend, who nodded with an encouraging smile. Max took a shuddering breath and looked down, mumbling, "Towel, water, floor." He then looked up, his eyes locking on the man who was the source of his misery. "Bradley," he whispered after a pause.

"Name four things you can touch," Bradley instructed, his voice as smooth as his unreadable expression.

PJ offered his arm, and Max took it, letting the firm grip help him to his feet. "PJ's arm," he whispered, his heavy, wet clothes making it difficult to stand. He then touched the towel draped around him. "Towel." As he stepped from the shower, his wet sneaker squeaked on the tiles. He clutched the porcelain sink for support and mumbled, "Sink."

He looked up at his pathetic reflection. His wet hair hung in his eyes, plastered to his forehead, and his cheeks were streaked with tears, his eyes hollow and red. He was a defeated, miserable caricature of himself.

"One more thing you can touch," Bradley coached firmly.

Slowly lifting his wet hand, Max wiped the tear-streaked face looking back at him and mumbled, "Pathetic."

"No adjectives," Bradley's voice cut through the air. "One more thing you can touch, Max."

Fury surged through him. He glared at Bradley, the shame and helplessness twisting into a white-hot rage in his gut. Without warning, he lunged, tackling Bradley. They went down in a tangle of limbs, Bradley's back hitting the floor of the hallway with a thud, his shocked face a frozen display of surprise. Max straddled him, his hands grabbing Bradley's shirt, and he growled, "You!"

Strong hands grabbed Max's shoulders, yanking him backward off Bradley. Max shivered in PJ's grip, his angry stare not leaving the older boy's face. Bradley scrambled to his feet, his blue shirt soaked and clinging to his chest, his hair a mess. He looked genuinely flustered, his composure shattered, his stone-cold gaze replaced by a look of bewildered shock that Max hadn't seen before.

"We need him warm, right?" PJ said, his voice laced with resolve.

Still a little dazed, Bradley nodded shakily. "I'll get him some hot tea. Take him to the living room."

"I'm right here!" Max yelled, his voice a raw, hoarse croak. He shivered violently, glaring at them both, furious that they were talking about him as if he wasn't standing with them.

PJ ignored him, his hands gentle as he pushed Max down the hallway. He guided him to the living room and sat him down on the couch. Max's eyes were on their math notebooks spread out on the coffee table, a chaotic mess of formulas and scrawled notes.

"You feel better now?" PJ asked, his voice soft, as if he were talking to a spooked animal.

To Max's surprise, the burning sensation that had overwhelmed him was completely gone. All that was left was a raw, cold emptiness, the rage he'd felt so all-consuming it had crowded out the panic. He was too angry, he realized, to feel anything else. For a brief, terrifying moment, his mind went blank. Could it really be something mental?

Bradley walked back into the living room, a mug of steaming tea in his hand. He placed it on the coffee table, a safe distance from Max, and then sat down in the armchair, facing them. Max kept his gaze on the floor, on the worn-out wood, but he could feel Bradley's eyes on him. And PJ's, too. They were probably seeing a lunatic who needed to be put down.

"You're okay?" PJ whispered, his hand resting lightly on Max's shoulder.

Max just shivered, unable to speak, unable to look at them. He was a man in a boy's body, a boy in a man's clothes, and he hated it all. He was a mess, and now PJ knew. And Bradley wouldn't get near him. He felt completely exposed, the last remnants of his dignity dissolving in his cold, damp clothes.

PJ's arm slid around his shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. The contact was warm, solid, and safe. Max stared blankly ahead, seeing nothing but the memory of his own pathetic panic.

"I'll get him some warm clothes," Bradley muttered, and Max heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway.

PJ squeezed him gently. "Hey, you didn't answer me. How do you feel now? Are you okay?"

Max just stared at the empty space on the coffee table where the steaming mug of tea sat untouched.

"Tell me, Max," PJ urged, his voice soft but persistent. "Are you okay now?"

Max shifted, pulling away from the side hug. "Can you get me some water?" he murmured.

"Don't you want to drink this tea?" PJ asked, gesturing to the mug. "It'll warm you up."

"Water," Max said, not looking at him. He just wanted to be left alone.

PJ sighed and stood up. "Alright, man. I'll be right back." He walked out of the living room, leaving Max alone in the brief, desperate respite of silence.

A few moments later, Bradley returned, a small stack of clothes folded neatly over his arm. He stopped dead in the doorway, his eyes registering the empty space on the sofa next to Max. A new, suffocating kind of tension filled the room, replacing the frantic chaos of before. Bradley placed the clothes on the coffee table, a polo shirt and a pair of clean, dry sweats. He didn't move any closer. "You can change into these," he said, his voice flat.

Max's eyes flickered from the clothes to Bradley's face. He was a soggy, shivering heap on the sofa, feeling as if he were a specimen under glass.

"Why don't you come near me?" Max asked, his voice low and trembling with a fragile anger.

Bradley's head snapped up, startled. "What?"

"Am I contagious or something?" Max shivered under the towel, but his unwavering gaze held Bradley's.

Bradley's expression softened. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Max…"

"For the record," Max interrupted. He pushed himself up from the sofa, the towel falling to the floor. "You're the one who made me this way. I wasn't this disgusting mess until you started messing with me."

His angry accusation hung in the air. Bradley flinched as if struck. The sad regret in his eyes solidified into a firm, unreadable expression. He looked away, taking a deep, shuddering breath before he spoke.

"Max, it's not like that," he said, his voice quiet but intense. "Dr. Smith made it clear that to help you, there has to be a very specific protocol. And I'm not a trained therapist. I can't... I can't be a crutch. I have to help you learn how to handle your symptoms yourself." He gestured vaguely between them, the space a clear, physical boundary. "Any physical contact, any dependency on me being there to solve it, would be a massive setback."

"So you're doing this for my own good?" Max spat, the words dripping with a bitter, sarcastic venom. The cold of his wet clothes and the heat of his anger warred within him.

"Yes," Bradley said. "It is. I'm following instructions, Max. I know this is hard, but... you have to be the one to do the work."

"I did try to do it on my own. It didn't work!"

"You were trying to get away from us, Max," PJ said, his voice coming from the doorway. He walked into the living room, a glass of water in his hand, his eyes darting from Bradley's tense stance to Max, who stood shivering by the sofa. "You were having a panic attack, there's no shame in that," he added, holding out the glass.

Max took it, his eyes flickering to Bradley.

"He's right," Bradley reassured him, his gaze holding Max's. "What's happening to you isn't your fault."

"Yes, 'cause it's your fault," Max shot back.

A heavy silence settled over the room, filled with the static of unspoken words and accusatory glares. Bradley, sensing the conversation had reached an impossible impasse with PJ present, took a small step back, shifting his focus. "Did you take your Sertraline today, Max?" he asked, his tone now professional and detached.

Max blinked, trying to recall the events of the last twenty-four hours. "No," he muttered, his mind still fuzzy. "Yesterday, I took them at four... after we ate. I figured I'd do the same today." He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was almost five.

Bradley nodded. "So your body's already missing a dose. Where are your pills?"

Max reached under the coffee table, retrieving his backpack. He unzipped a small pouch and took out the pill bottle. He swallowed one Sertraline pill with the glass of water PJ had brought but didn't bother with the other one, since the attack had already passed. He shivered again, the chill from his clothes making him ache.

"I should change," he said, eyeing both boys. "That's your cue to leave."

Bradley and PJ nodded awkwardly, stepping out of the living room.

Max stripped off his soaked clothes, dropping the soggy pile to the floor. The cold air raised goosebumps on his skin, but the fresh polo shirt and soft, black slacks felt like a relief. He ran a hand over his still-damp hair, trying to smooth it down.

As he walked out of the living room, he heard the low murmur of voices from the kitchen. He paused, his heart thumping.

"You're not doing him any favors by being around him!" PJ hissed, his voice a furious undercurrent.

Bradley's voice was composed, but Max could hear the rigid anger beneath it. "I'm keeping my distance, and Max wants me to help him."

"Obviously Max wants your help 'cause you're the only one who knows what the heck is going on with him. I want you to tell me exactly what you did to him…"

A wave of pure horror washed over Max. No. PJ must not know. He quickly walked into the kitchen, his voice a blast of forced cheerfulness. "I'm all dressed up," he announced, gesturing to his new clothes. "Okay, Peej, why don't we go home now?"

PJ stared at him, then nodded silently, casting one last furious glare at Bradley. The half-eaten Beef Bourguignon still sat on the table, cold and congealed, a monument to the dinner that had never happened.

Trying to ease the tension, Max said with a lighthearted tone, "Whose clothes am I wearing today?" He directed the question to Bradley.

Bradley's lips quirked into a small smile. "Still James'." He eyed Max worriedly, his gaze softening. "How are your symptoms? All gone now?"

Max nodded, running a hand over his hair. "It's interesting how they stopped."

"Stopped?" Bradley asked, his eyebrows furrowing in thought.

"Yeah," Max said. "I was so angry at you that all I could think about was why this jerk was disgusted with me. I completely forgot about the feeling."

"Anger, you say?" Bradley said, a contemplative look on his face. He seemed to be piecing something together.

"What?" Max asked.

"I think I know a place where you can deal with your symptoms better," Bradley said. "Maybe we should try it out tomorrow."

Max nodded. "Okay."

They were standing closer to each other than they had all day, the air between them charged. Max could feel the warmth of Bradley's breath, an unspoken closeness. That was when PJ cleared his throat, a sharp, pointed sound that cut through the moment. Max's eyes widened as he realized his friend was still in the room.

"We should be leaving," PJ reminded him.

Max nodded. "Right." He glanced at Bradley. "Okay, see you tomorrow."

He walked with PJ into the living room to gather their books. The air beside him hummed with PJ's silent, fuming anger.

~*~*~*~*~

The air was thick with a silence that hadn't been there before, and Max could feel the weight of PJ's stare on the back of his head. His friend clicked the dorm room door shut. Max walked past his single bed, his eyes skipping over the books on the shelf above it. He dropped the plastic bag with his damp clothes on the floor, then slid off his backpack and placed it on the desk.

"I'm sorry I freaked you out," Max said, finally turning to face his friend. "I just... I didn't want you to see me like that."

PJ shook his head, his face a hard line of resolve. "I don't think we should go back there again, Max," he said, his voice low and serious.

Max's breath hitched, a knot tightening in his stomach. He tried to look away, his eyes catching on the large X Games poster that screamed with a youthful energy he didn't feel.

PJ crossed the room and grabbed Max by the shoulders, his grip firm. He pushed him down onto the edge of the bed, forcing Max to look directly at him. "Do you like Bradley?" his voice was low and intense.

Max's eyes widened. "Are you crazy?" he exclaimed, his voice cracking.

PJ gave him a light slap on the head, the gesture more exasperated than aggressive. "You're the crazy one," he said.

Max looked down, tracing a pattern on the comforter. "It's complicated, PJ. You won't understand."

PJ leaned forward, his voice sharp with frustration. "It's not complicated. It's because you still haven't told me the whole truth."

Max finally met his gaze, his expression pleading. "Look, I have to go to him. He can help me. He knows about my condition better than anyone."

"Because he's the reason you have that condition!" PJ's voice rose, a sharp edge of accusation in his tone. "He's the one who put it in you. If you would just tell me what happened, then we wouldn't need him."

Max's shoulders slumped, and he looked down at the floor. "I can't," he whispered.

A pause hung between them. When Max finally looked up, he saw a stricken horror in his friend's eyes. PJ leaned in, his voice a choked whisper. "Did he rape you?"

"Oh God, no!" Max exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

PJ grabbed his shoulders again, a frantic energy in his movements. "He did, didn't he?" he insisted, his eyes wide.

Max recoiled, twisting away from his grasp. "We're not talking about this, okay?!"

PJ's face hardened with determination. He grabbed Max again, this time with more force, and pushed him backward onto the bed. Max fell onto his back, his eyes wide with fear as he looked up at PJ, whose face was now right above his, his gaze burning with an intense, desperate need for the truth.

"At five o'clock, you go to see him," PJ said, climbing on bed and pushing Max down. "And then he does things to you, right? Remember them, Max. Remember one of those days when you'd go there. The things Bradley did to you, what he'd force you to do."

PJ's hands pressed hard on Max's arms, pinning him down. "Remember the first time you realized you were trapped," he insisted, "that you had no say in what he does to you."

Max stared into PJ's intense eyes, his breath caught in his throat, as his mind, as if on command, took him back. He was in that cheap motel room on the third day of his job as a paidless erotic model. He was on his knees in the center of it all, the cold draft from the window raising goosebumps on his naked body. In his mouth was a thorny red rose. He had been holding the stem for what felt like a lifetime, the sharp spines digging into his lips and the sensitive skin of his tongue. His hands were tied behind his back with ropes, their coarse texture biting into his wrists. His thighs, stretched wide and bare on the cold floor, trembled uncontrollably, threatening to give out completely.

"Stop shaking, it's only been two hours," Bradley's voice cut through the silence. "Don't make me stretch it to three."

Max tried to swallow, a difficult, painful motion that made the thorns scrape against his lips and the roof of his mouth. A bead of blood bloomed on a thorn, and he forced the moisture down, tasting his own blood.

Finally, Bradley turned the large canvas away from himself, facing Max, and the ache in Max's body eased for a split second. The painting was a degraded reflection of him, highlighting every trembling muscle and every vulnerable curve. He looked at his own face in the painting, seeing a pathetic, hollow-eyed stranger. His gaze then fell to his junk, drawn with an unflinching accuracy, the bold lines of Bradley's brush exposing them louder and more grotesquely than they really were. Soon it will be over. Soon it will be over.

Bradley walked toward him, his face a smirk, a predator observing his trapped prey. He looked down at Max, his hands on his hips. "Are you tired?" he asked, his voice dripping with false concern. "Do you want to sit down?"

Max felt himself shrink to the size of an insect. He could only manage a nod, his head bobbing slightly.

Bradley’s hand shot out, his fingers brutally grabbing the rose. He yanked it from Max’s mouth with a sharp, wrenching motion, the thorns scraping and tearing at Max's lips as it came loose.

Max finally closed his mouth, the simple action an excruciating relief after two hours of forced silence. He licked his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood mixing with the bruised flesh. His head was throbbing with a fierce headache, a dull ache that had been building since the night before, a night he'd spent tossing and turning, unable to find rest.

With a sharp jerk, Bradley yanked him up by the arm, pulling his trembling legs to a standing position. "I've got something better than sitting down," he said, his voice a low growl. "And a lot more fun."

Bradley threw himself onto the bed, stretching his arms wide. He looked at Max with a smug, knowing smile. "Come lie next to me."

Max's numb legs felt like they would give out from under him, the two hours of posing having taken every last bit of his strength. He stared at Bradley's arrogant face, a deep, weary ache settling in his bones. He was done. Done with the piercing thorns that had dug into his lips and tongue, done with the humiliated ache of muscles that refused to obey, done with the sensation of being an object to be fondled and left in a state of raw, agonizing arousal without any release. He felt so used up, and the sight of Bradley's smug smile was the final, grinding insult. He should have been running out the door, but he was a prisoner of Bradley’s two simple conditions: no talking and obeying every demand. The consequences of breaking them were too high. Bradley would send that horrible picture of him, naked with a crown on his head and his legs splayed open, to Roxanne.

Bradley raised an eyebrow, his tone firm and impatient. "Lie down now."

Max looked at the bed, the weight of sadness settling heavily on his chest. He knew what was going to happen, but there was no way to stop it. With his hands tied behind his back, he struggled onto the mattress. His tired legs stumbled, and he lost his balance, falling onto Bradley's chest, his cheek rubbing against the soft material of the man's vest. A scornful chuckle rumbled beneath him, and Bradley's hands grasped his arms, pulling him up to lie beside him. Max's head came to rest on Bradley's shoulder, the fierce pounding in his skull intensifying.

"You look exhausted," Bradley said, his voice softer now. "You can sleep if you want."

Max looked up, his eyes pleading, and wiggled his bound wrists behind his back. Bradley shook his head, a wry smirk on his lips. "Sorry, Maxie. You'll have to sleep with your hands tied up."

Max shot him a look that was the equivalent of the middle finger, but the only response he received was another derisive chuckle. He felt Bradley's hands wrap around him, pulling him close until his naked body was draped against Bradley's clothed one. It was a shivering, fragile weight against a solid, warm presence that didn't need him. Bradley buried his nose in Max's hair, his chin resting on Max's forehead, inhaling his scent like a possessive act.

Max took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wondering if he could dose off on top of another man. Something he'd never done in his life. He tried to ignore the feel of his naked skin against Bradley’s clothes, the bite of the ropes on his wrists, and the possessive grip of the hands holding him tight. He pressed his head harder into Bradley's shoulder, hoping to dull the ache in his skull, desperately wishing for unconsciousness to take him away from the pain.

Then, something happened that he couldn't ignore. The hands on his lower back that had been holding him firmly began to move. Max felt himself being shifted, rolled onto his side so that his naked back and front were both exposed to Bradley's touch.

One hand found his chest, circling a nipple with a slow, tormenting pressure. The other hand moved down his spine, its fingers pinching his buttcheeks before finally moving to his groin. Max gasped, his body arching with a violent jolt of unwanted sensation. The headache flared, a blinding white-hot pain. He opened his eyes, staring up at Bradley, his gaze a silent, desperate plea to stop.

Bradley's eyes held his. "What? You're here for my amusement," he said, his voice a low whisper. "I can play with you whenever I want."

With that, he pinched Max's testicles. Max hissed, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his forehead hard against Bradley's neck, trying desperately to block out what was happening. He hated this, wanted it to stop. He wished with every fiber of his being that he were back in his own room, with his friends, being the normal person he used to be.

An old Beatles song rang out from Bradley’s phone, the cheerful melody cutting through the charged atmosphere. "That's my mom," Bradley said in a singsong tone, his voice flipping to a sickeningly sweet pitch. He grabbed the phone and answered, "Hey, Mom."

The touching didn't stop for the phone call. Bradley's free hand continued its slow, tormenting path over Max's body, moving from his chest to other places, pinching and squeezing. "Nah, not doing anything important," Bradley said into the phone, his voice light and casual, as his hand steadily stroked Max's groin. "Got a new puppy. He loves it when I stroke him."

He increased his pressure, and a whimper escaped Max's lips, muffled as he pressed his mouth hard against Bradley's shoulder, not wanting the woman on the phone to hear him.

Bradley chuckled into the phone. "He just loves my touch." A moment later, he planted a condescending kiss on Max's head. "Isn't that right, little puppy?"

Max squirmed, grinding his face into Bradley's shoulder, desperate to muffle the moans that fought their way past his lips. His eyes were shut tight, willing his mind to take him anywhere else, to any place where no one would ever touch him like this again.

As Bradley talked casually with his mother, his free hand still treating Max's body as an object, a terrifying truth clicked into place. This was his reality: a plaything for someone who hated him, a hidden secret wrapped in a casual phone call.

"Max?" a distant voice called, "Max?"

He felt two large hands pressing down on his arms, holding him in place. Max recoiled violently, struggling to free himself. When the grip finally loosened, he scrambled backward on the bed until his back hit the cold wall. He drew his legs up to his chest, his eyes darting around the familiar room. The bunk bed loomed opposite him, the college X Games poster a splash of color on the wall. PJ was right there next to him, his face a mask of profound concern.

PJ reached for him again, his hand hovering near Max's trembling shoulder. "No, Peej," Max hissed, his voice a raw whisper. "Don't touch me. I don't want anyone touching…" He stopped himself, his eyes widening in a moment of terrible clarity. The memory was back, vivid and suffocating. "How could you, PJ?" he asked, his voice shaking with horror.

"I just wanted you to remember, Max." PJ stared at him with a deep sadness. "Because when we were over there, it looked like you had completely forgotten all the awful things he did to you."

Max rested his head on his shaking knees, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He heard PJ's apologetic voice. "I'm sorry I had to do this, Max. It's for your own good."

For your own good. The words were a bitter echo of Bradley's, a memory of him saying, "Any physical contact, any dependency on me being there to solve it, would be a massive setback."

Max snapped his head up, glaring at PJ. "My own good?" he retorted, his voice raw. "You both talk like I'm some kind of idiot!"

"You're not an idiot," PJ said, his expression softening. "You're just confused."

"I'm not!" Max snapped angrily. "I know Bradley was a jerk."

"Was?" PJ asked, a single eyebrow raised in question.

Max's eyes welled up with tears as he lay back in bed and pulled the covers over himself. He heard PJ sigh. "I'm really sorry, Max," he said, his voice gentle. "I know you must have blocked all that out, but you need those memories, man. You need them to see that monster for who he truly is."

Max had tried not to dwell too much on the ugly memories, especially after he'd given Bradley that much-deserved beating. But they weren't all ugly. PJ didn't know there were other memories, of burning the contract, of destroying the canvases, of Bradley buying him that beer can, of offering him a chance for revenge... of Bradley telling him he loved him.

It was hard to believe it was the same person who had once yelled at him, "You're nothing but a plaything!" and "You're nothing, less than nothing!" The same person who had whispered, "You don't get to see me naked, Max. You're not even worthy of breathing the same air as my bare skin, let alone having me inside you. You're a pathetic, desperate little thing, and I wouldn't waste a single thread of my clothes on you."

A fresh wave of tears welled in Max's eyes, and he shut them tight, the hurt and humiliation burning within him. He burrowed deeper into the bed, pulling the covers up over his head, desperate to hide from the past and the painful contradictions it held.

Chapter Text

The morning was as bright and confident as Bradley felt. He was practically skipping with a newfound sense of purpose, striding across campus with three tickets clutched in his hand. Yesterday, when Max had told him his symptoms stopped because his focus shifted to anger, Bradley had immediately thought of a more practical application for that principle. He figured a little controlled aggression was the perfect antidote to unwanted arousal. After all, what was a panic attack but a surge of energy with nowhere to go? The shooting range offered a safe, legal outlet for all that raw, misdirected power.

He begrudgingly secured a third ticket for Max's praetorian, knowing full well that PJ wouldn't dream of letting Max out of his sight. Once Poet Boy saw the benefits of his method, he would come around.

Bradley knocked on the door of the dorm room, a confident smile on his face. The door opened a crack, revealing PJ's grim, unwelcoming face. An immediate air of hostility filled the small space between them.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice rough with suspicion.

Bradley held up the three tickets, a gesture he hoped was a peace offering. "I figured out a way to help with Max's panic attacks," he said, stepping back slightly to show them. "Shooting range. A targeted release of hostility is the perfect solution to that pent-up energy, right?"

PJ's eyes darted from the tickets to Bradley's face. He snatched the tickets from Bradley's hand. "Thanks," he said, and started to shut the door.

Bradley instinctively stuck his foot in the way. "Wait a minute. What's wrong? Where's Max?"

PJ pushed harder on the door. "I think it's best we limit your interactions with Max to none," he said firmly. "This is what he needs."

Pain and recognition hit Bradley with a gut-wrenching tug. The words were a direct echo of Dr. Smith's: Max needed to cut ties with his abuser. With him. "What's going on?" Bradley asked, his voice tense. "Did something happen to him?"

PJ shoved the door open, forcing Bradley to stumble backward. He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. "Cut the crap, Brad," he hissed. "This sensitive, nice-guy act may work on Max, only 'cause you've messed him up, but it doesn't work on me. I know you don't give a crap about him. You're just playing with his head to hurt him again."

"Look, I know I screwed up," Bradley said, a frantic need to be heard rising in his chest. "But you have to believe me, I do care about Max, and I want to help him."

"If you really care about him, then stay away from him," PJ said sharply.

Bradley looked at him in frustrated silence. He knew that for Max's well-being, this was the right thing to do. "Okay," he said, defeated. "I got three tickets. Maybe you can exchange one for tomorrow in case it works today."

PJ nodded, his eyes still wary. "Will do."

He opened the door to their room and Bradley glanced inside, catching a brief glimpse of Max lying on his bed, completely covered by a blanket from head to toe before the door slammed shut. Bradley's heart squeezed tight in his chest. Had Max had another panic episode? That must be why PJ was so determined to keep Bradley away.

~*~*~*~*~*~

With his confident stride from the morning evaporating, Bradley walked back to his room in the Gamma House. He threw his keys onto his desk with a clatter. A deep, heavy sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping in defeat. It was for the best, he knew. Max needs to cut ties with his abuser. It was a bitter, painful truth.

He ran a hand over a stack of blank canvases in the corner. He hadn't painted a single thing since he and Max had burned the canvases that once held his twisted creativity. The muses that once fueled his art had abandoned him, leaving behind nothing but a frustrating, empty space where inspiration once lived.

He opened a drawer on his desk and rummaged through a pile of sketches and photos. His fingers brushed against the photograph he had stolen from Max's room more than a month ago. He pulled it out, his eyes instantly locking on the image of a younger Max, his face flushed with unburdened happiness as he sat beside Roxanne on a small backyard ramp. Bradley's finger traced Max's smiling face on the glossy surface, the joy in the photograph was gone, and it was all his fault.

~*~*~*~*~

"I knew I loved you before I met you," Savage Garden's hit sang on the radio. Nodding his head to the beat, Bradley busied himself with cataloging a new shipment of rare texts. Mr. Henderson had made him pay for ditching work that one morning by increasing his workload. He didn't mind; he needed the distraction. Through the towers of books, he spotted Emily throwing herself into her thesis. She had been in the library for hours. Minutes later, she stretched her arms, gathered her books and papers, gave him a farewell nod, and walked out of the library. He was all alone now, something he welcomed with a quiet relief. He resumed his job without distractions, listening to the radio on his discman.

As he was about to scan the first rare book with a hand-held barcode reader to add it to the library's digital catalog, he felt a presence nearby and looked up.

It was Max, dressed in a faded blue T-shirt over baggy jeans, a complete departure from the black slacks and Polo shirts Bradley was used to seeing him in. As if reading his thoughts, Max placed a crumpled paper bag on the table and mumbled something Bradley couldn't hear over the music.

He quickly pulled off his headphones. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said these are James' clothes," Max repeated in a louder voice, shoving his gloved hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans.

Taking the paper bag, Bradley placed it on the floor next to his chair. "Thanks," he said.

An awkward silence settled over the library. Max kept his eyes fixed on his sneakers, while Bradley stared back, an uncomfortable guilt building in his chest.

"The shooting range worked," Max said eventually, his voice soft. "I just wanted to thank you for the tickets."

"Really?" Bradley asked, leaning forward eagerly. "It worked?"

Max nodded, not meeting his eyes. "We tried to switch the third ticket to today, but they said no. Sorry we wasted your money."

"It's not a problem," Bradley said quickly, already reaching for his wallet. "If you want me to pay for today…"

Max shook his head. "No, we're not going there today." He scratched the back of his neck, his gaze still fixed on the floor. "I signed up for boxing yesterday. I'll be starting today. Figured having a coach there would be good. I made sure to schedule my sessions around the time the attacks happen."

Disappointment hit Bradley as he realized he was no longer a part of the solution. Max was doing this on his own. "What about your meds?" he asked, the words coming out more quickly than he intended. "Are you taking them at the same time?"

"Just the Sertraline," Max mumbled. "I didn't need the other one yesterday."

"That's great." Bradley forced the words out, trying to mask his conflicting emotions. Another moment of awkward silence stretched between them. "Do you... do you still need help with math?" he asked hesitantly, the question feeling like a last-ditch effort to hold on.

Max finally looked up, meeting his eyes for a brief second before glancing away. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe we can have them here? In the library instead of the Gamma House?"

"No problem. Would tomorrow morning work?"

"Sure. And PJ will need tutoring, too."

"Clearly," Bradley said with a sarcastic undertone. "I'm surprised your bodyguard let you loose today."

Max looked at him then, and for the first time, a smile touched his lips. "He cares," he whispered. "Which is nice."

Max’s simple sincerity felt like a punch to the gut, and Bradley's breath hitched in his throat. Shame rolled through him, its weight unbearable as he was confronted with the countless times he had caused Max pain. He looked down at his discman, unable to meet Max's gaze, a hollow ache spreading through his chest.

"See you tomorrow, then," Max said with a sigh.

He was about to leave when Bradley said, "Max, wait." He needed to be honest with him, to clear the air once and for all. "I need to tell you something."

Max hesitated, glancing around the library, as if to make sure PJ wasn't nearby. He then pulled a chair in front of Bradley on the other side of the table and sat. Bradley moved the books that were between them, creating a clean space. Then, his hand trembling slightly, he pulled out the photograph of Max and Roxanne and slid it onto the table, leaving it in the middle.

Max stared at the picture, and then looked up at Bradley. "How did you...?"

Bradley slipped something else onto the table, the keys to Max's dorm room.

Max swallowed hard, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Right," he said. "You stole the picture from my room." Anger flickered in his eyes as he looked at Bradley. "You used to come into my room... draw me as I was sleeping... go through my things..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the table, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. His shoulders trembled with rage, and he looked as if he was trying to contain a physical eruption.

Bradley felt so small in the vast, empty library. The table between them seemed to stretch into a chasm, and he hunched over it, his shoulders drawn in. He had never felt so exposed.

"Max," he whispered, meeting Max's resentful gaze. "I want to come clean about everything. No more secrets, no more games. Ask me anything you want. I'll answer it all."

Max silently reached for the picture and looked at it. "That night," he began, his voice flat. "When you came to my room and asked for my help because the Kappa Alphas were after you… you were lying, weren't you?"

Unable to look at Max anymore, Bradley lowered his gaze. "Yes," he answered.

"Did you stab yourself?" Max asked, his voice now a choked whisper.

Memories of that night surged through the darkness of Bradley's closed eyes.

Strong knocks on the door. 

"Max... let me in," Bradley gasped, his voice strained. A dark, rapidly expanding blood stain bloomed on his side, soaking through his shirt.

"Bradley!" Max exclaimed, grabbing Bradley's arm, pulling him inside. He slammed the door shut, twisting the lock with a frantic click. "What happened?" Max demanded. "You're bleeding!"

Bradley leaned against the door, panting, his eyes darting nervously around the room. "The Kappa Alphas," he managed. "They're after me." 

Bradley squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes," he confessed.

Max's breath came out in a ragged sigh. "Going through all that trouble... just to humiliate me…" The tremor in Max's voice was more painful than any accusation.

"I'm sorry, Max," Bradley said, his voice thick with shame.

"Look at me."

Bradley couldn't. He kept his eyes closed, the burning heat of his embarrassment too great to face.

"You don't get to hide, Brad," Max said, his voice cold and hard. "Look at me."

With a great effort, Bradley forced his eyes open, his gaze meeting Max's. The stare was a shock of cold, an unforgiving look that made him shiver to the bone.

"Let's be real," Max's tone was flat and sharp. "You pulled all that psycho-stalker crap because you couldn't handle that I won last year or that Mona chose me. But what I can't figure out is why you had a change of heart. You burned the contract, you destroyed the canvases, and you started helping me. Why?" Max's voice rose, edged with fury. "And don't even bring up the word 'love'. You don't love me."

"I do," Bradley whispered, emotion seizing his throat.

Max shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. "You don't. You can't. Stop... there's no way the guy who told me over and over that I'm nothing, a fucking toy, a slut... and treated me..." His voice choked, and tears finally spilled over. The sight shattered Bradley's heart. He was unable to find the words to make Max believe him, knowing his past actions had made it impossible.

Max wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and took a shuddering breath, composing himself. He looked at Bradley, his fury now a chilling calm. "You turned me into this pathetic, weak, desperate mess. And you want to tell me you have feelings for me? How could you possibly be attracted to someone so disgusting?"

"Don't say that about yourself," Bradley interrupted firmly.

"Why not?" Max asked, his voice raw and choked with tears. "Because it's true. That's who I am now. A disgusting freak. You of all people wouldn't be attracted to someone like that." A full-body shudder ran through him. "How could you like a person who got off on the guy who hated his guts? I let you humiliate me again and again. How could you respect that?"

He was shaking harder now, his voice trembling as a frantic confession poured out. "You got me with one touch. One touch, and I was your slave. You called me that, right? A slave... a plaything... a stinking nothing who was beneath you... I don't even get to see you naked... I'm the one who's naked... you played with me like a fucking Barbie... touched me when I didn't want it... I just wanted to go home... I didn't want to stay... I didn't want you to touch me there..."

Bradley's heart hammered against his ribs. He was watching Max unravel right there in the middle of the library. Max's rambling was becoming more disjointed, his movements jerky and out of control. Was this a panic attack? A complete breakdown? Bradley shot to his feet, the scrape of his chair loud in the silent room, and held out a hand. "Max, stop. Calm down."

But Max was shaking too hard to hear him. A low chattering sound started as his teeth began to clatter, the tremors running from his knees to his jaw. Max's voice rose, hoarse and thin, as the words tumbled out: "Not worthy... a pathetic, desperate little thing..." His entire body was convulsing now.

Bradley's heart hammered against his ribs as he scanned the empty library. "Mr. Henderson? Anyone? Help, please!" he yelled, his voice cracking with desperation.

Horror washed over Bradley as Max's body went rigid, then began to convulse. A choked curse escaped him as he rushed around the table. His mind raced, pulling up scattered memories of a CPR course. He knew he had to act fast.

He eased Max to the floor, careful not to restrain him, and gently turned him onto his side to keep his airway open. He shoved chairs out of the way, creating a clear space. With fumbling hands, he pulled off his jacket, folded it, and slipped it under Max's head. He checked his watch, but the seconds felt like an eternity. All he could do was wait and watch, his earlier shame and frustration swallowed by a terrifying panic.

The seizure was an eternity. Bradley knelt on the floor, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. All he could do was watch, willing the minutes to pass. He kept his hands to himself, even as every instinct screamed at him to hold Max still, to end the terrifying convulsions. He spoke quietly, a constant stream of reassurances he hoped Max could somehow hear. "It's okay, Max. It's okay. I'm right here. You're safe."

And just like that, it was over. Max's body went limp, the tremors fading until only a low shudder remained. His breathing was labored now, a rough, hitching gasp.

Bradley leaned closer, his voice soft with anxiety. "Max? Can you hear me?"

Max groaned softly, his eyes still closed. Bradley's hand hovered for a moment before he gently placed it on Max's forehead, a patient, reassuring touch. "It's okay," he whispered. "The seizure's over. You're okay." He traced a gentle path down Max's arm, searching for any sign of injury. This was a different touch: careful, measured, and focused entirely on keeping Max safe.

Max's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. He blinked slowly, trying to get his bearings. "W-what happened?" he mumbled.

"You had a seizure," Bradley said, his voice calm and steady. "But you're okay now. I'm right here. Just breathe. Take your time." He waited patiently, giving Max space to recover.

Comprehension dawned on Max’s face, a terrifying horror. He scrambled back, pushing himself up, his arms wrapping around his knees. His gaze was frantic, darting from Bradley's face to his hands, building to a terrifying accusation.

"You gave me epilepsy, too?!" he shrieked, the raw panic in his voice echoing in the silent library.

Bradley recoiled from the words. "Max, no! It wasn't... that's not what this is. You're not epileptic. You're okay!"

"PJ's right!" Max yelled, his voice trembling. "I need to stay away from you!" He lunged for the table, snatching the keys and the photograph from their spot and stormed out of the library.

Bradley was left kneeling on the floor, the sudden silence of the room deafening. He stared at the empty space where Max had been, a hollow ache spreading through his chest. He had tried to be honest, to apologize, but all he had done was make things worse. He had pushed Max over the edge, proving that PJ was right all along. For Max's sake, he had to stay away. This realization was a bitter pill, and as he slowly got to his feet, the weight of his guilt and loneliness pressed in, a suffocating silence after the storm.

~*~*~*~*~

Sitting at a small table in the Bean Scene, Bradley stared out the window, his half-empty mug cool in his hands. His stomach, however, churned with a nervous heat as he watched the door. He didn't have to wait long for the face he knew would be filled with hostility.

PJ stepped inside, his face a hard mask of cold anger. He walked over to the table and stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, not making a move to sit down.

"Coffee?" Bradley asked, gesturing to the counter.

"No," PJ said wryly. "I don't have time. What do you want?"

Bradley took a slow breath, gathering his thoughts. "I saw Max yesterday," he began.

PJ's eyes narrowed to slits. "I told you to stay away from him."

"He came to me," Bradley insisted. "At the library. We were talking, and he started to have a seizure."

The anger on PJ's face broke, replaced by a flash of genuine fear. "A what?"

"A seizure. He was rambling, shaking..." Bradley spoke quickly, trying to get all the words out before PJ shut him down again. "He needs professional help. I'm willing to pay for all of it: the sessions, the boxing lessons, a professional math tutor… everything."

PJ's expression hardened once more. "You broke him, and now you think you can fix him by throwing money at it?"

"I'll do whatever I can," Bradley shot back, his frustration mounting. "You're right. He needs to stay away from me. But he also needs to get better, and I can't do that for him. The only person who can help him now is you. I want to help him through you." He pulled a Nokia 3310 from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table.

PJ stared at the phone, then looked at Bradley, a mix of offense and disdain on his face. "I don't need you to buy me things. I can afford a phone."

"This isn't about pride," Bradley said, his gaze unflinching. "This is about Max's life. He needs help, and I need to be able to contact you, or for you to contact me, at any time. I'm responsible for his illness, and I'm going to help him heal, even from afar."

Shoulders slumping slightly, PJ hesitantly picked up the phone.

"Give this to Max." Bradley then handed him a small, folded piece of paper.

PJ looked at it and then back at Bradley, his expression filled with a renewed suspicion. "I'm not giving him anything from you." He crumpled the paper and threw it at Bradley's face.

Bradley didn't flinch. "Read it first," he said calmly, handing him back the paper.

Furious, PJ unfolded it and stared at the single, simple line written on it. "That's it?"

"I just want Max to know that I heard him," Bradley said, his voice barely a whisper. "And that I will stay away from him. He won't see my face again."

A buzzing ring cut through the quiet cafe just as the words settled between them. Bradley glanced down at the screen, a lead weight settling in his stomach: it was his dad. He looked up at PJ, who was already standing, an impatient look on his face. "Are we done here?" PJ asked.

"Wait, I'll just be a second," Bradley said quickly, hoping to take the call away from the table.

"I don't have time," PJ insisted, his impatience a cold wall.

Fearing PJ would walk out on him, Bradley stayed put and answered the call. "Hi, Dad. Listen, I'm kinda..."

"What do you mean you spent over two hundred dollars on a phone?" his dad's voice erupted, loud enough for PJ to hear.

"I'll talk to you later," Bradley said, his voice low and tight as he shot a glance at PJ.

"Don't tell me what to do. Have you even been practicing for the semi-finals?" his dad chided.

The College X-Games felt a million miles away, a stupid competition that had been the furthest thing from Bradley's mind since Max's problems had surfaced. He couldn't even bring himself to care about it anymore.

"Just because your mother passed away doesn't mean you get to slack off in your final year," his dad snapped, twisting the knife.

A muscle in Bradley's jaw clenched. "I've already secured an internship at the college library over spring break," he shot back, his voice venomous. "I'm there every day. I'm not slacking off."

"You sound just like your mother when she was trying to prove a point." A sharp click followed, and the line went dead. Bradley looked at the silent screen, the phone feeling heavy in his hand. He slowly lowered it, his earlier defiance replaced by a deep sense of hurt and frustration.

An awkward silence settled between them, broken only by the low hum of conversation and the clatter of mugs from the counter. Bradley stared at the cold, half-empty cup, the bitter taste of his father's words now in his mouth.

Finally, PJ sighed and broke the silence. "Dads, huh?"

Bradley let out a long breath. "He cares about the College X-Games more than I do."

"My dad doesn't care about anything I do," PJ said, his voice quiet. "Well, not anymore."

"Lucky you," Bradley mumbled. The words were a knee-jerk defense, but he instantly regretted them.

PJ's gaze was steady. "I don't know about that. Overbearing dads can be tough. Mine used to be like that, before he just gave up on me."

The shared burden of difficult fathers was the only bridge they had. "If I could," Bradley said, his voice low with conviction, "I'd drop out of the extracurricular activities just to focus on helping Max."

PJ stared at him for a long moment, a new look in his eyes, a guarded acceptance. "Fine," he said with clear reluctance. "I'll be your go-between. But from now on, anything to do with Max goes through me. You don't talk to him or write to him. Deal?"

"Deal," Bradley said, and the word sealed their fragile alliance. He hated the thought of treating Max like a delicate object to be managed from afar, and he knew Max would hate it too. Yet, it was the only way to prove his sincerity, the only way to show he was finally putting Max's well-being above his own need for control.

~*~*~*~*~

The cool, smooth leather of the armchair settled beneath Bradley. He sat with his hands clasped tightly in his lap, his gaze fixed on a small, framed photo of Dr. Smith's family on the corner of the desk. The office was quiet, orderly, and held the faint scent of antiseptic and old books.

"So, the medication," Dr. Smith began, his pen moving across a notepad. "Are you taking it at the same time each day? And how have you been managing the symptoms? Any anxiety or emotional swings?"

Bradley's eyes remained fixed on the notepad, the questions echoing in the emptiness of his thoughts.

Dr. Smith slowly set his pen down. "Something's wrong. Did the medication not work?"

"They worked," Bradley said, his gaze still on the notepad. "But not for me."

The doctor leaned in, planting his elbows on the desk. "I don't understand."

"I want to restart the evaluation," Bradley said in a rush of words.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Smith sounded confused. "Bradley, we've already been through the diagnosis, and…"

"No," Bradley interrupted, shaking his head. "That diagnosis was for someone else."

"Someone else? Then why did you...?" The question hung in the silence. After a long moment, Dr. Smith broke the quiet. "What is your relationship to the real patient?"

Bradley took a shuddering breath, finally lifting his head to meet the doctor's eyes.

"I'm the abuser."

Chapter Text

You're right. I will stay out of your way.

The small square of paper rested on Max's palm. He read the two sentences again, his stomach doing a slow twist. Looking up, he met PJ's gaze across the room. He was slumped in a chair, thumbing the buttons on a chunky black object.

"Bradley gave you this?" Max asked, gesturing with the note.

PJ gave a stiff nod.

"And this brick too?" Max's eyes went to the solid Nokia.

PJ gave a tight shrug, his fingers tracing the edges of the phone. "He just wanted a way to reach me. You know, if he needed to."

Max's laugh was short and humorless. "You're his errand boy now?"

"This isn't about me. I'm just the middleman." PJ finally looked up, his expression strained. "This is for you."

The hollowness in Max's gut curdled into a hot, angry burn. "Uh, so you two are playing nurses to the head case?"

"Max," PJ's voice was sharp with a new kind of urgency. "He wants to help, and he knows the only way to do that is through me, without being in your space." He paused, taking a breath. "He said he'd pay for your boxing classes. And your therapy."

"So that's what this is? He's buying his way back in?" Max gestured wildly, his hand nearly hitting a small bookshelf. "I don't need his handouts! I don't want anything from him!"

"It's not a handout, Max," PJ said, his own voice now rising to meet the rage. "He's just... he's trying to do something right, for once."

Max shot up to his feet on the bed, his hand sending a book flying off the shelf. Papers and a floppy disk scattered across his pillow and onto the floor. "Since when are you on Bradley's side?"

PJ's chair scraped against the floor as he jumped to his feet, knocking it over. "Since you had a freaking seizure in the library!"

The anger drained out of Max, leaving him cold and empty. He closed his mouth, a sudden, fragmented memory slamming into him. The bright lights of the library began to blur and melt, their sharp edges softening and stretching into impossible shapes. A high-pitched hum filled his ears, distorting the world, making the ground feel like an unstable surface. He remembered the feeling of Bradley's hands on his body, steadying him. The panic was instant, a nauseating fear that his body had betrayed him, that he was no longer in charge. He remembered the shame of being seen so completely broken.

PJ's voice sliced through the past, pulling Max back to the present. He took a hesitant step closer, his hand reaching for Max's arm. Max flinched, his body tensing, and PJ's hand instantly withdrew. "We just want you to get better, man," PJ said, his voice now gentle again.

"We?" his own voice hoarse with fresh panic.

"Me and Bradley."

"Bradley's just in it to quiet his guilty conscience," Max spat, the words a bitter taste in his mouth. "That is, if he even has one."

"Who cares what his reasons are?" PJ said, his voice level. "You need help."

"No, I don't." Max grabbed his boxing gloves off a hook on the wall by the door. "I need to get to my boxing class."

"Max." PJ's voice was firm, but gentle. "Did you take your meds today?"

Max scoffed. "I'm not a child! Of course I took my meds."

He paused, his eyes flicking over to the desk behind his single bed. The small, white Sertraline box sat on the corner, exactly where he had left it yesterday. He walked over to the desk, grabbed the box, and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the dorm, hearing PJ let out a long, weary sigh behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The rhythmic thud of a heavy bag echoed through the stale, sweaty air of the gym. Max walked past rows of punching bags, the scuffed floorboards sticking slightly to the soles of his shoes. The raw fury from his conversation with PJ still simmered beneath his skin, a burning coal he couldn't extinguish. He barely registered the familiar posters of legendary fighters on the walls. All he saw was a single heavy bag, a target for the rage that was eating him alive.

His coach approached him. "Hey, Max. Good to see you. How's it feel?"

"Fine," Max grunted, not meeting his eyes. He wrapped his hands, the familiar routine a welcome distraction. The coach watched him silently, a knowing look in his eyes. He didn't push. "Start with some jabs and crosses. Get the blood pumping."

Max nodded, moving to the bag. His first few punches were stiff and clumsy. The bag swayed with a listless thud. He closed his eyes, and a different face flashed behind his eyelids. Bradley's face. He adjusted his stance, took a deep breath, and let go.

His first punch was a jab, a sharp, angry strike aimed at Bradley's mocking grin. He followed with a cross, a blow for the way Bradley's tone had twisted his insides. Each punch was a memory. The soft, dull thump-thump of the gloves against the canvas bag became a steady beat for his mental unraveling.

You're pathetic, Bradley had said. A desperate little thing, and I wouldn't waste a single thread of my clothes on you. Max's knuckles cracked against the bag. He could feel the words searing into his brain again. He threw a quick combination, a jab, a cross, an uppercut, each one a desperate, failing attempt to erase the memory of Bradley's sneer. He remembered how he had felt then, and each punch was for that feeling, for the crushing weight of being reduced to nothing.

He saw the scene in his mind's eye as if it were a video playing on a loop: a crowded room, the low-light of a club, and Bradley's words sliding out of his mouth like venom.

Look at your friends, Max, dancing in the lights of the club with nothing to hide, Bradley's voice echoed in his head, a ghost in the humid air of the gym. Look at how unaware they are, unaware that their leader is hiding in the shadows, being fondled by the team's worst enemy.

Max threw a flurry of punches, a rapid-fire assault that made the bag swing wildly. His breath hitched in his throat, his vision blurring with a stinging haze. He wasn't just hitting the bag; he was hitting every moment of shame. Every degrading pose. Every time Bradley had laughed at him.

He threw another set of punches, picturing the moment Bradley had left a hickey on his neck. He punched for every time Bradley had called him "freshman," "plaything," "slut." Each syllable was a hammer, each blow a desperate attempt to break free from their weight.

The coach came over to him. "Easy, Max. You're going too hard. Control the breath. Focus on the form."

Max ignored him, his entire being consumed by the need to expel the rage. His chest ached, his lungs burned, but he didn't stop. He threw one final, desperate combination, a powerful uppercut followed by a straight right, as if he could knock the memories out of his head for good. The final blow connected with a sharp, satisfying crack.

He staggered back, panting, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, his body trembling with the exertion. He leaned against the concrete wall, slick with sweat. His anger was a hollow, spent thing now, leaving behind a profound exhaustion. He wasn't okay, but for the first time, he felt like he might be able to start breathing again.

~*~*~*~*~

The second the door swung open, a smell so strong it could curdle milk wrapped around Max's face, an industrial-grade, nuclear funk of cheese. Not just cheese, but the kind of liquefied, pressurized cheese that had no business being sold outside of a gas station.

A grin split Max's face. He stomped into the room, tossing his boxing gloves onto his bed.

"Bobby!"

His bald friend was perched cross-legged on the bottom bunk, a can of aerosol cheese in one hand. His face was a glistening yellow canvas, and his T-shirt looked like a Jackson Pollock painting done in nacho sauce. He held up a cheesy fist. "Max-A-Mundo!"

Max leapt onto the bed, landing with a bounce that shook PJ's top bunk. He tilted his head back, opening his mouth wide. Bobby aimed the nozzle, and with a satisfying hiss, shot a warm, viscous stream of cheese directly onto Max's tongue.

Wiping his mouth with the back of a cheesey hand, Max asked, "Dude, what's with the fromage fest? I thought you were on a family trip."

Bobby leaned back against the wall, a blissful smile on his face. "Oh, my 'ohana went on an adventure, my friend. A two-week saga of a family vacation to Hawaii." He gestured with his can, nearly spraying the College X-Games poster. "It's all pau hana now, though. It's over, thankfully."

"What was so bad about Hawaii?" Max asked, pulling a rogue piece of cheese from his ear.

"It's not what was bad, it was the 'kuleana'," Bobby explained.

"The what?"

"Responsibility, dude, bone up on your Hawaiian. My dad's kuleana was to find the perfect luau. Which apparently involved him yelling 'Aloha!' at every single tourist wearing a floral shirt. My mom's kuleana was to make sure we didn't get sunburned. Which meant I looked like a ghost wrapped in a towel for two weeks straight. And Billy, AKA middle schooler angsty bro, was a complete human trainwreck."

Max laughed. "Why?"

"He was so jacked up about the volcanoes that he wouldn't stop saying 'Magma is da bomb!' over and over. Like, mahalo for that, Billy."

"What about you?" Max asked, leaning against the bunkbed post. "You just, like, hung out and ate snacks?"

"That's my special skill," Bobby said, holding the can up like a trophy. "I sat in the hotel room and bonded with the vending machine. The whole family went nuts over some tourist map, so I just said 'peace out' to the madness, aloha to the craziness, and went on my own little spiritual journey. It's a miracle the whole 'ohana made it back in one piece, you know?" He ended his story with a final, long spritz of cheese.

Max grimaced playfully, watching Bobby lean so far back as he tried to squeeze the last drop out of the can.

"Ah, scrumptious," Bobby sighed, putting the empty cheese can down and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He nodded at the red boxing gloves Max had tossed on his single bed. "What's the deal with the mitts, yo? Boxing's your thing now?"

Max threw a glance at them. "Sure. It's my current jam."

"Word," Bobby said, nodding respectfully. He grabbed a can of soda from his desk and cracked it open. "So what's your story, my dude? Your spring break a snooze fest?"

"Snooze fest with boxing classes," Max said, the cheerful tone in his voice suddenly gone. "Nothing as sick as Hawaii."

Bobby shrugged, unbothered by the sudden change. "I'm starving, man. All this cheese is making me think of pizza."

Max kicked off one of his sneakers and launched it at Bobby's bloated stomach. "All that cheese is gonna put you in the grave, man."

PJ walked in through the already opened door, his nose immediately wrinkling at the pungent smell. "Yo, Bob-man, what's with the funky funk?" he said, his voice a mix of humor and disbelief.

"Peejster, my soul-brother!" Bobby yelled, pulling another cheese can out of his duffle bag. He pointed the nozzle at his face. "Have some liquid gold!"

"I'll pass, thanks," PJ said quickly, holding up a hand. "Vicki's coming back tonight." He sat on the chair. "Hey, when's Tina coming back?"

Bobby grimaced, shoving a cheese-covered finger into his ear. "Why should I know?"

PJ caught Max's eye and gave him a quick, knowing wink, but Max didn't return the gesture. He was still feeling the sting of PJ's newfound truce with Bradley.

Bobby finally put the cheese can down and grabbed a towel from the bottom bunk. "Welp, that was a long trip from Hawaii to campus," he said with a tired sigh. "I gotta hit the showers, man."

"Wait, you came straight here?" Max asked, surprised. "You didn't go home first?"

Bobby just shrugged. "That's how I roll, babe." With a final, easy-going grin, he disappeared into the hall.

The silence in the room was heavy until PJ cleared his throat. "So," he began, his voice hesitant. "How's boxing class?"

Max's gaze slid from PJ's face to the brand new, shiny Nokia in his hand. "Why? You're gonna report back to your new buddy about the basket case you guys are trying to fix?"

"Quit treating me like the enemy," PJ said, a hint of frustration in his eyes.

"Then stop rolling with the enemy," Max retorted, his voice hard and unforgiving.

PJ stepped closer, his hands held up in a gesture of peace. "You know how anti-Bradley I was since I got back. I'm telling you, the guy's legit. Can you trust me on this one?"

Max's eyes narrowed. "You know what, Peej, just go to your girlfriend, she probably misses her emotional support dog."

He watched as PJ's face crumpled, the hurt evident in his eyes. Without another word, Max turned away, unable to meet his gaze. He stared at the desk next to the window, his chest aching with a sharp pang of regret.

He heard the whisper of the door opening and then a gentle click as it closed.

PJ was gone.

~*~*~*~*~

As per the usual, the first thing a guy did after getting back from vacation was talk about it endlessly. That was definitely the case with good old Bobby. As he and Max stood at the bar of the packed Bean Scene, nursing their coffees, all Bobby could do was rave about Hawaii. "The coffee out there isn't just a drink, bro, it's a whole vibe. It makes this coffee taste like lukewarm puddle water."

Max took a sip from his mug, looking around the now-popping coffee shop that was dead a day or two ago. "I think you just miss the beach, man. And your parents' unlimited Kona coffee budget."

Just then, a voice called out, "Hey, guys!"

They turned to see Tina walking toward them, a huge smile on her face.

Max's face lit up. "Tina! You're back!" He went in for a hug, and she squeezed him back with equal enthusiasm.

Bobby, hands in his pockets, just stood there. "Sup," he said, his expression flat.

"Sup to you, too," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "So, guys, what's shaking?"

"Bobby's tum-tum," Max said, giving his friend's round stomach a friendly rub.

Bobby swatted his hand away.

"So, Tina, did you do anything cool?" Max asked, sipping his coffee.

"Nah, I just stayed at my folks'," Tina said, shrugging. "Had a blast with my brothers. We went cliff diving, tried to learn how to surf, and spent a whole day trying to beat my brother's best time kayaking down the river."

Bobby scoffed. "Sounds super boring. Like a forced family fun weekend."

Max rolled his eyes. "Don't mind the Bobster. He's just being a recess-yard goblin because he's got a crush."

"A crush? A crush?" Bobby repeated, his voice incredulous. "Please. I'm just being real. It's not my fault Tina-Rina's hair looks like a bird's nest and her clothes look like they came from the lost and found."

Tina's eyes narrowed, her smile disappearing. "And it's not my fault you smell like a pound of expired cheddar."

The sudden tension was broken by the arrival of PJ and Vicki. Tina immediately went to hug Vicki and then PJ. Max, in a more formal gesture, shook Vicki's hand and then, with a swift glance at PJ, excused himself. "I've gotta go," he said, turning away.

"You got a match?" Bobby asked, using a boxing term.

"No, he has boxing class at 4:30," PJ replied.

Max glared at him. "I can answer questions about me."

"Sorry," PJ mumbled, his girlfriend, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes at Max. "The fighter's heart is hard and cold, but inside a story yet untold."

Max stared at her, his chest tightening, and an uncomfortable silence settled over the group.

"So, um, where are you going, Max?" Tina asked, trying to ease the tension.

His mind raced for an excuse. "The skate park," he blurted out. A laugh escaped his mouth. "Oh, boy, I haven't been there since…"

He and Bradley were perched at the top of the ramp, the last of the sun's light warm on their faces. The memory unfolded in a chaotic reel: Max, seized by a dizzying mix of anger and unwanted arousal, had charged him with a bruising kiss, their bodies sliding down the ramp. It was meant to be revenge, a way to humiliate Bradley as he'd been humiliated, but it had only left him feeling disgusted with himself.

"Max?" Tina asked, her voice pulling him back to the present.

He snapped out of the memory and looked at the three expectant faces.

"Since...?" Bobby encouraged, his voice dripping with playful mockery.

Max's gaze met PJ's concerned one, a familiar face he felt suddenly disconnected from. "Since forever," he said, the words coming out fast.

"Well, Max is right," Tina said, a determined tone in her voice. "We haven't been practicing since forever. I say we all go to the skate park!"

Without another word, Max rushed out of the Bean Scene. "See you guys there," he called back over his shoulder, not waiting for a response. He needed the fresh air, the rush of the wind on his face, the thrum of the wheels on the pavement, anything to drown out the noise in his head.

~*~*~*~*~

The skate park was jampacked. Max was still getting used to campus being so alive after two weeks of a ghost town. The sound of wheels on concrete, the pop of boards, and the distant chatter felt both overwhelming and like a strange kind of home.

"Max!"

A voice he didn't realize he missed so much called his name from near the biggest ramp. His face lit up when he saw Mona, one foot on her skateboard, waving for him to come over. She was standing next to a blonde girl with a large purse slung over her shoulder.

He skateboarded toward her and pulled her into a tight hug, her damp, short brown hair sticking to his cheek. She pulled back, embarrassed. "Sorry, I'm sweating like a pig. I've been shredding this ramp all day, showing off for my roommate here." She gestured to the other girl, who was leaning against the railing with her arms crossed, looking more like she belonged at a fashion show than a skate park.

"Hey, nice to meet you," the girl said with a polite nod. "I'm Nora. I'm not much of a sports geek, as you can probably tell."

"Nora's my fashion queen," Mona said, grinning. "She's a business major planning on starting her own fashion empire someday."

Nora rolled her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. "The future is so close I can't believe we're all graduating this spring."

"Well, that's you guys," Max replied with a smile.

Nora's brow furrowed in confusion, and she looked to Mona.

"He's a sophomore," Mona explained.

Nora's expression immediately shifted from confused to interested. "Oh! You don't by any chance have Professor Feldberg's class, Organizational Behavior?"

"Yeah, I do."

"That's perfect!" Nora said, clasping her hands together. "My professor, Dr. Melton, is co-teaching with your professor this semester. Our Senior Organizational Dynamics class and your Organizational Behavior course are going to be combined into one big study group for the whole semester. We'll be working on projects together and everything." She glanced at her watch. "Now c'mon, Mona, you better hit the showers and get ready. We don't wanna miss the carnival."

Something in Max's chest went cold at that word. "The carnival?" he repeated, a feeling of hollowness seeping into him.

Nora pulled out two bright, flashy tickets from her giant purse. "Yep! The Neon Carnival. It's an annual art and music festival. You wanna join us?"

Max stared at the tickets, his breath caught in his chest. His heart began to pound a frantic rhythm as his mind went completely blank.

The air in the motel room felt heavy and stale. Max lay naked on the stiff sheets, spooned from behind by Bradley, whose wool vest scraped against Max's back. Bradley's nose invaded his hair, taking in his scent as if he were a drug. One of Bradley's hands mindlessly roamed Max's chest, his fingers lazily toying with his nipples. The other hand casually fondled his testicles. There was nothing arousing, just a leisurely, noncommittal touching. Max stared silently at the shabby wall, feeling the familiar, dull acceptance settle over him. He had long ago surrendered to the fact that his body was a piece of property for Bradley to amuse himself with.

Instead of lying there, a passive object to be handled, Max could have simply walked away. The new canvas was already painted, the kissing and groping part of that day was over. Max should be back in his dorm. The only thing keeping him in the room was a tight knot of anxiety twisting in his gut. He bit down on his lip, his hands balled into tight fists, as he rubbed his face against the pillow, inhaling the stale scent of old sweat and dust, a smell as cheap and suffocating as his current situation.

"Uh, Bradley?" The question was a strained, nervous croak.

The low thrum of Bradley's "Hmm?" vibrated through his hair.

Max swallowed hard, his throat tight. "So, my friends are gonna hit up Campus Carnival in a couple days. Starts at four, and they're probably gonna stay there all day. I kinda wanna go with them. I was thinking maybe..."

"No." The word was a firm puff against Max's hair.

"I'm not saying I won't come," Max hurried to add. "Maybe we can just do the posing earlier, like one or two..."

"Max, I said no. You will be here at five as we agreed."

Anger swelled inside Max, fueling more as the hair-inhaling and the touching increased. He grabbed the hand playing with his privates and wrenched it off him. Scrambling to his feet, he glared down at the disturbed jerkwad. "Hey, you're not sticking to the deal either, you know? The contract didn't say squat about weird cuddling hour."

Bradley pushed himself up, his expensive clothes only slightly disheveled. "Yeah, you say that, but you always stick around." A knowing smile spreading across his face, he stood, fully composed, and watched as Max's naked body gave a small, involuntary shiver. "You like it when I kiss you, when I touch you. Don't act like you're not into it."

"Well, not anymore," Max snapped, his voice tight with rage. "From now on, after the painting's done, I'm just gonna bail." He marched toward his clothes, a heap by the door next to Bradley's Air Jordan kicks, which he'd been bragging about ever since he'd bought them.

"Max, hold on," Bradley commanded calmly. Max stopped, his clothes a crumpled mess in his hands, but he refused to turn around. He felt Bradley's eyes burn into his back. "Okay, you're right. The contract can be flexible. You can go to your little get-together."

A bitter laugh escaped Max's lips as he finally turned. "Damn right I can," he spat. "I'm not your slave."

"I have a contract that says you are," Bradley said, his smirk daring Max to argue.

Jaw locked, eyes burning with powerless rage, Max muttered, "So why'd you suddenly change your mind?"

"Because I can."

Max eyed him suspiciously, his fingers digging into his clothes. "You mean it? I can go?"

"Sure," Bradley said, the smirk widening. "In exchange of more cuddling hour."

Max's shoulders slumped as an exhausted sigh escaped him. "But it's almost eight."

Bradley just crossed his arms, a single eyebrow raised. Max's gaze fell to his clothes, and he gave a heavy sigh of defeat. "Fine."

Clothes snatched and tossed aside, Max felt himself pulled against Bradley's chest, and in an instant, the senior's lips were on his. Max closed his eyes, breathing into the kiss, feeling one of Bradley's hands on the back of his neck, pulling him closer, the other holding him firmly against Bradley's chest. Max's own hands dangled uselessly at his sides. He had already been through this today, but if this meant Bradley would give him a pass on the five o'clock rule for the carnival, then so be it. He kissed back, giving Bradley what he wanted, and in return, Bradley's tongue worked a familiar, generous magic. Max moaned, his hands rising to grip Bradley's biceps, his fingers kneading the soft cotton of his Calvin Klein shirt.

Suddenly, he was lifted clean off his feet, moved around in a dizzying motion until they both collapsed onto the bed, their furious, passionate kiss never breaking. They wrestled, until Max found himself on top, his hands braced against Bradley's chest. He looked down, breathing hard, into a pair of desire-hazed blue eyes, then dove back in for a bruising kiss. In one practiced motion, Bradley flipped them, pinning Max beneath him, never once breaking the kiss. It was a dizzying dance of control and submission that left Max breathless and exhilarated.

The struggle ended abruptly when Bradley's hand reached for the nightstand. The metallic click of handcuffs made Max's stomach clench, a cold realization that "cuddling hour" would most likely go on for more than an hour. He felt Bradley gather his hands, bringing them together and fastening the cuffs, and then saw him lean back against the headboard, pulling Max to lie against his chest.

Max's naked back was pressed to the firm warmth of Bradley's body. His arms, now bound by the cuffs, were draped over Bradley's shoulders, held in place behind his neck. His fingers brushed against the soft, short hairs at Bradley's nape. He felt the steady rhythm of Bradley's heart against his back and inhaled the faint, familiar scent of fancy cologne. With his hands bound and his forehead resting against Bradley's cheek, the world was reduced to the sensations Bradley's hands brought. He closed his eyes, surrendering to this new, bound intimacy.

Every touch was a brushfire, a flicker of a hand, a casual fondling that sent shivers through his core. Unable to see, his skin was his only sight, every nerve ending alive and screaming. He felt the light graze of fingertips over his chest, circling his nipples before moving lower in a deliberate, maddening rhythm. He gasped, his breath hitching, a sound he couldn't stop. Those gifted hands left Max to rub his forehead against the older boy's cheek. His legs began to twitch, his feet rubbing desperately against the mattress.

Then, through the haze of pleasure, a sharp burst of light broke through Max's closed eyelids. A faint snick and click followed. Max's eyes shot open, his breath hitching. The first thing he saw was Bradley's phone, pointed right at him. The fact that Bradley's hand remained on him, still stroking and fondling, made Max's mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. He felt Bradley's soft chuckle against his forehead, a low vibration that horrified him. With a detached sense of dread, Max watched as Bradley held the phone up for him to see. It was a photo of him, body fully exposed, arms up over his head, his face a portrait of pure ecstasy, his eyes closed. His raw pleasure was now a permanent image.

"What the hell, Brad?" Max's voice was a furious snarl as a wave of nausea hit him. He twisted his body, bucking his legs, desperately trying to dislodge Bradley's hand from his genitals. He had to get it off.

Bradley stroked harder, and Max threw his head back, his body arching. "Bradley, stop! This isn't funny!" he grunted, the words choked out between gasps.

The hand on his privates was gone, replaced by a vise-like grip on his chin. Max's gaze was forced to meet Bradley's, whose eyes were now icy and hard. "If you step foot in that carnival, this picture will be on every bulletin board on campus. Your friends, your professors, your teammates... everyone will see you. And they will know exactly what you are."

Max thrashed against the bed, a panicked struggle to get up, but Bradley held him down with ease. Max's cuffed hands were useless behind Bradley's neck.

"Why do you keep screwing me over? What difference does it make if I come here at one or five?" As he struggled to pull his cuffed arms away, Bradley reached up, took his wrists, and placed the cuffed hands on Max's chest.

Max sat up straight, his glare burning with a mix of fury and helplessness. "You said I could go!" he snapped.

Bradley shot up, grabbed Max's arms and flung him onto the other side of the bed. He draped his body over Max's, the coarse wool of his clothes chafing against Max's bare skin. Max's cuffed hands clattered against his chest as Bradley pressed down on them, his face hovering just above Max's. Never had Max hated blue eyes as much as he did at this moment.

"The contract said five, and you're coming at five."

Max bucked beneath him. "You asshole! You said it was fine!"

"You want to go to the carnival with your friends, Max?" Bradley's voice was a low, chilling whisper. "Then you wait until we're done."

"Right, like you'd let me leave early," Max roared, bucking his hips in a desperate attempt to shove Bradley off. "You're just going to pick some messed-up pose with chains and whatever and let me rot here until the whole festival's over!" His anger was a boiling wave, so furious it was all he could see. "You gave me your word!"

"And you know what they say about words, Max," Bradley said dryly. "They're cheap."

Max's thrashing stopped, his body going unnaturally still beneath the weight. He looked up at Bradley, hoping his eyes showed the rage he felt. "You're blowing up our deal. I'm trading my time for your painting, and you just forced me to agree to something new. That's not how this works. You don't just get to demand more hours whenever you feel like it."

Bradley lifted a hand and pointed at the phone on the nightstand. "The picture in here says I get to," he said flatly. "That's my leverage, Max. You'll give me what I want, and you'll do it happily, or everyone will see you at your most desperate."

Fury burned in Max's chest as he lay pinned beneath Bradley's weight. His cuffed hands grew slick with sweat on his chest from the pressure. He tried to find a loophole in Bradley's unhinged logic, but the thought was fleeting. He knew it was useless. Bradley had never played fair, and he held all the cards. He just had to accept that his life was no longer his own, that he was a prisoner to Bradley's every mood swing and confined to the four walls of this room.

As if on cue, Bradley gripped his face and moved to kiss him. No, no, no! Max didn't want this anymore. He twisted away, struggling with a desperate energy he didn't know he had, but Bradley was too strong. His lips slammed onto Max's, and Max's scream died in his throat, swallowed whole by Bradley's kiss. He thrashed and bucked, his body shaking violently, but he was trapped. The image of Bradley's face vanished, replaced by the horrified eyes of Mona and her roommate Nora.

The world was a spinning vortex of colors and shapes, a chaotic blur of blue sky and concrete gray. Max tried to scream, but the sound was trapped in his throat, and his limbs trembled violently, his muscles spasming out of control. Mona and Nora were shouting, but their voices were a distant, garbled noise.

He felt the rough concrete beneath him, and then a pair of hands gently turned him. He couldn't tell who they belonged to, but through the roaring in his ears and the flashes behind his eyelids, a part of him knew he was being handled with care.

The tremors began to subside, the frantic roar in his ears faded to a low hum, and a heavy exhaustion took hold of him. His vision was a slow, agonizing process of re-focusing. The terrified blurs above him sharpened into the familiar, wide-eyed stares of his friends. PJ's horrified face was the first to come into focus.

"Max, talk to me! Do you hear me?" PJ yelled frantically, his hands hovering over him, hesitant to touch.

"What happened to him?" Bobby's voice was a panicked, accusatory bark. "What was Bradley doing here?"

The name was a sudden, freezing shock. He felt himself go cold.

"We were just talking and then he blanked and started shaking," Mona's voice was a choked whisper, filled with the echo of terror.

Nora's voice broke through, "Thank God Bradley was here. He knew what to do."

Max slowly sat up, his body aching and stiff. His eyes locked on the folded garment that had cushioned his head: a fine-knit, navy-blue jacket. He knew that jacket. He remembered the feel of the rough wool against his skin, the same muted color. He remembered the first time he had had a seizure, in the library, and the feel of that same jacket being gently placed under his head by Bradley.

"Are you okay? Max, are you okay?" PJ's voice was filled with a scared urgency.

Max didn't answer. His gaze was locked on the jacket, his mind reeling from the sudden flashback. These were happening more and more often now, and he wondered if he needed a new prescription. This last flashback was still a cold, sick weight in his gut, a memory he never wanted to relive.

Suddenly, a shot of adrenaline coursed through him, his focus entirely on one horrifying fact: Bradley's phone still had that picture. Max lunged forward, grabbing PJ's arm.

"Bradley. I need to talk to him," he said, his voice raw and desperate.

PJ's arm went tense under Max's grip. He threw Bobby and Tina an awkward glance before whispering, "Max, let's just talk about this later."

"No, I need to see Bradley now," Max exclaimed, desperation spilling out of him. He didn't care what his friends thought, only about that picture.

"I think he went to the library," Mona said, eyeing him with concern. "He told me he's been working there since spring break started."

Max stumbled to his feet. PJ and Bobby helped him, their hands on his arms, trying to keep him steady. He was a single-minded missile aimed at the library when PJ grabbed his arm with a firmer grip.

"I'll take him back to the dorms," PJ said over his shoulder to Bobby and Tina, his voice low and commanding as he dragged Max away. "You two start practicing."

"I need to see Bradley," Max repeated, his voice pleading.

"Let's talk in the privacy of our room," PJ hissed in his ear.

With a sudden burst of strength, Max yanked his arm free. "You don't understand!" he said, his chest heaving with frustrated panic.

PJ looked around at the onlookers before grabbing Max's arm again, dragging him behind a large oak tree. "Then make me understand," he whispered, his eyes locked on Max's. "Because the last thing we agreed on was you weren't going to see him anymore."

"PJ, can you just get his phone?" Max's plea was a frantic gasp.

"His phone?" PJ asked, clearly confused.

"There's a picture," Max stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. He couldn't bring himself to explain the blackmail, the humiliation, the sheer terror of it. "I have to make sure... please, just get his phone..."

PJ stared at him with an unreadable expression. He didn't ask for details, and his worried frown was replaced by a look of grim determination. "You stay outside the library," he ordered, his voice firm. "I'll get the phone. You don't talk with Bradley. You got that?"

Max nodded, a fragile sense of relief settling over him. He didn't want to see or speak to Bradley anyway; he just needed to know that the freaking picture was gone. As he followed PJ toward the library, his mind began racing again. What if Bradley had saved the picture somewhere else? Max had checked his computer when they'd burned the canvases, and it wasn't there. But he had to have kept it somewhere else to use as blackmail.

"Wait here," PJ's voice broke through his frantic thoughts. They had reached the library's wide-open doors. Max watched as PJ walked inside, the once-empty space now filled with a low hum of voices and rustling papers, a sign that spring break was over.

Max pressed himself against the brick wall of the library, the stone cool against his back. He squinted through the large glass window, his eyes scanning the tables inside. There, near the back, was Bradley, pacing back and forth with a frantic energy Max had never seen before. Just as PJ walked to his side, Bradley grabbed his arms, his face a mask of what looked like pure terror. Max's heart hammered against his ribs. He strained to hear, but the muffled hum of the library swallowed their words. He couldn't hear what Bradley was saying, but the wildness in his eyes was clear from fifty feet away.

"Max?"

He startled, spinning around so fast his back hit the wall with a quiet thud. He winced, his heart lurching into his throat. Standing in front of him was Emily, his former math tutor, her eyebrow quirked up in amusement at his extreme reaction.

"Uh, Emily? Hi," he said, running a hand awkwardly through his hair. "How's life treating our overachieving senior?"

"Still working on my thesis." She let out a small, embarrassed chuckle, hugging her files and notebooks to her chest. "I'm sorry about dropping you like that. Things just got a bit too hectic for me this semester."

Max shook his head, the sudden conversation a distraction from his mounting panic. "Don't mention it."

An awkward silence hung between them for a second before she asked, "So, how are you doing now? Things okay?"

"Me?" Max asked, taken aback. "I've never been better. Why?"

"Bradley told me you've been going through some problems," she said softly, her gaze filled with a concern that made Max's blood run cold. "I hope things are okay now."

Max swallowed, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Br-Bradley doesn't know what he's saying," he stammered. "I'm fine."

A profound sense of relief washed over him as PJ suddenly joined them, the phone clutched in his hand. Emily nodded at the library. "Okay, Max, I gotta…"

Max was already reaching for the phone, snatching it from PJ's hand with a frantic urgency. He fumbled with it, his thumb pressing desperately on the buttons.

Gently, PJ took the phone back from Max. He thumbed the tiny silver button on the side, and the flip-down keypad clicked open to reveal the monochrome touchscreen. With a few taps, he navigated to the picture section and scrolled until he found the right thumbnail. Without a word, he handed the phone back to Max. As Max's eyes scanned the tiny image, he heard PJ say to Emily, "Sorry, he's, uh, not himself today."

Max glanced up, watching Emily's face. She was giving him a spooked, wary look, as if he were a wild animal that had just been let out of its cage. She offered a hesitant nod before quickly turning and walking into the library.

Max's gaze dropped back to the phone, his face contorting with anger. He looked at PJ, the rage boiling over. "He's been telling people I'm crazy," he seethed. "Can you believe that?"

PJ sighed. "Is the picture there?"

Max's thumb moved with a desperate, frantic urgency, but the monochrome screen of the phone was slow and unresponsive to his pace. The tiny thumbnails loaded one by one, each one a pixelated, hauntingly familiar ghost. He saw images of a beautiful woman with a smile he knew belonged to Bradley's mom, first healthy and gleaming, then frail and exhausted.

He scrolled through a blur of canvases he instantly recognized as Bradley's, the distinct style so ingrained in his memory he felt he could tell it from a mile away. There were drawings of his mother, children playing, a man at a desk, and even some abstract paintings he knew belonged to Mona. He remembered her showing them to him when they were dating. The entire gallery was a quiet story of Bradley's life, a history Max was not supposed to see.

With each tense press of his thumb, Max's heart hammered harder against his ribs. The tiny, monochrome screen of the Ericsson R380 was agonizingly slow, each pixelated thumbnail loading with a frustrating delay. He felt PJ's silent, patient presence next to him. He wasn't looking at the phone, wasn't invading Max's privacy in case he found the picture, and that simple act of respect made Max's hands tremble even more.

He reached the final picture. The screen was blank except for the last photo of a sunset, its grainy pixels a simple farewell. Max let out a long, shuddering breath, the air rushing out of his lungs in a wave of relief. He whispered, "It's not here."

"He said he'd deleted it," PJ said, his voice quiet.

He looked up at PJ, his eyes wide and scared. "Do you think he has that picture saved somewhere else?" he pleaded. "Like his computer at his parents' house?"

PJ glanced into the library, his eyes scanning the tables before looking back at Max. "He didn't mention saving it. He said he got rid of it."

Frustration and rage swell inside him. "And you believed him?" he demanded. "That is so him to say one thing and then do something else entirely."

PJ just shrugged in helpless confusion. "I don't know, man. He sounded sincere."

"Yes," Max spat, his voice sharp with venom. "That's what he does. He's a two-faced asshole. He says one thing and then changes his mind like that." He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp and final in the quiet air between them.

PJ regarded him with a long, steady stare. "Did he do that to you before?"

A large lump balled in Max's throat. The flashback was still vivid and clear in his mind. Through his foggy vision, he could see PJ's gloved palm extending. Max took a shuddering breath, wiped his wet eyes, and then placed the phone in the waiting hand. PJ walked back into the library, and Max closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling, trying to calm his nerves.

Suddenly, a loud smack rang out from inside the library, followed by a heavy thud and the sharp clatter of chairs toppling over. A chorus of gasps erupted from the students inside, and a few excited voices yelled, "Ooooh! Fight!"

Max peered inside, his heart pounding with a fresh wave of terror. He saw Bradley was on the floor, sprawled between a tangle of chairs, his hand clapped to his jaw, staring up at an enraged PJ. The pure disgust on his face was clear even from here.

A cold dread coiled in Max's stomach. Did Bradley threaten him? Did he already print the picture? Is it everywhere? The questions screamed in his mind.

As PJ stormed out of the library, Max grabbed his arm frantically. "What did he say?" he demanded, his voice thin and desperate. "He has the picture, right? He printed it already!"

PJ looked at him, and the expression on his face was the saddest Max had ever seen. Without a word, he pulled Max into a tight hug. His chin rested on PJ's shoulder as his wide eyes glanced back at the library. Bradley was still on the floor, looking at them. He had the same sad gaze on his face as PJ did.

"Relax, buddy," PJ whispered, his voice muffled against Max's shoulder. "There's no picture."

Max shook his head, pushing against PJ's chest. "Then why did you punch him? He's doing something. I know he is."

PJ tightened the hug, holding him fast. "I did it because he hurt you," he said simply. "That's it. The picture is gone, Max."

"You don't understand." Max was still shaking, unable to fully grasp the truth of what he was hearing. "He's always got something up his sleeve." He tried to pull away, to turn back and look for himself, to find the evidence he was sure was still there.

"Hey. Hey, look at me," PJ said, his voice firm but gentle as he held Max at arm's length. "The guy's a psycho, I get it. But he's not doing anything else. If he was, do you think I would've just left?" PJ's eyes were clear, honest, and completely focused on Max. He gently guided him away from the library doors and toward the edge of campus.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the warm afternoon sun doing little to calm Max's pounding heart. He kept glancing back, half-expecting to see Bradley rushing toward them, phone in hand. "You really think he's not lying?"

"Yeah, I do," PJ said, his hand on Max's shoulder. "He looked like he just got hit by a truck when I told him about the picture. I think he's finally realized he went too far." They kept walking, their pace slow and steady, until the familiar buildings of their dorm came into view.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Max lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Empty soda cans and half-eaten pizza boxes were scattered across the floor, the wreckage of a sad, solitary lunch. His head felt heavy, and the lingering fatigue from his seizure made his limbs feel like dead weights. He had just swallowed his daily dose of medication with a gulp of lukewarm soda, and the metallic taste was still on his tongue.

"Look, I'm just saying, maybe you should reconsider therapy." PJ started nagging again. "The pills might not be right for you, especially since it was Bradley who went to the therapist instead of you."

Max's gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. "I don't want anything if Bradley's paying for it," he said. The very idea of taking money from that monster, of being in his debt, made his skin crawl.

PJ let out a heavy sigh, a sound that had become a regular part of their conversations lately. He stood up, grabbing his keys. "I'm going to head to the skate park to catch up with Bobby and Tina," he said. "Just... think about it, okay?"

The door clicked shut, and the last of the noise was gone. Max was alone again, left with only the silence and the chaotic thoughts in his head. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was almost time for boxing class, but his body felt impossibly heavy, his limbs thick and unresponsive. He couldn't seem to muster the energy to even sit up.

His mind, however, was in a frantic loop, replaying the scene at the skate park. He saw himself, his body spasming in front of everyone. Bobby and Tina's terrified faces flashed in his mind, but the one that truly haunted him was Mona's. She must have thought she dodged a bullet, seeing him lose control like that. He'd gone from a cool, altogether guy to a shaking mess in an instant.

The humiliation made him clench his eyes shut. A groan of pure mortification escaped his lips as he raised his hands, grabbing at his hair as if he could physically yank the memory from his mind. He must have looked so pathetic. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered, wanting to disappear.

A low buzzing sound cut through the suffocating cloud of his self-loathing. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked around the room. The buzzing was coming from behind him.

He twisted his body and spotted the source of the noise on the desk behind his bed: PJ's Nokia brick, vibrating against the wood. Max swallowed, his throat dry. He knew who it was. It had to be Bradley.

The fact that they would be talking about him on the phone, discussing his "episode" and his "insanity," was too much to handle. As if they were two parents fussing over a sick child who couldn't understand. Max's fists clenched on the bedsheets. They were out there, talking about him, controlling his life, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

His feet dropped to the floor with a dull thud. He pushed himself up and walked toward the desk. The buzzing had stopped, but the memory of the sound still vibrated in his ears. He reached out and picked up the phone. His thumb traced the small Nokia logo on the face of the phone. It did look cool. He'd probably get one himself soon. He pressed the small green button, and the screen lit up with a familiar, low-resolution glow. He navigated to the contacts. There was only one name stored: Jackass.

Max chuckled. Ah, Peej.

He navigated to the message inbox. There was only one conversation.

From: Jackass to PJ Sent: Today at 2:45 PM Text: I know you're probably still mad at me, but I'm worried about Max. Is he okay now? Please get back to me.

Max's jaw clenched, his lips a thin, hard line. It was the same old song and dance, pretending to be concerned, but always with a hidden motive.

Max scrolled further back, the messages a timeline of his life as seen through their lens.

From: Jackass to PJ Text: Did Max take his medication today?

From: PJ to Jackass Text: Yes.

From: Jackass to PJ Text: Dr. Smith recommended Dr. Grover who specializes in trauma-informed care.

From: PJ to Jackass Text: Why doesn't Max see Dr. Smith?

From: Jackass to PJ Text: Because I'm seeing him. I don't think Max will be comfortable with a therapist I'm seeing. He doesn't even know Max's name.

Max stared at the words, the world tilting slightly on its axis. Bradley was seeing the therapist?

From: PJ to Jackass Text: You mean by seeing him the time you tricked him into thinking you were Max?

From: Jackass to PJ Text: No, I'm seeing him because I need therapy too. I need it so that I won't be an asshole to Max or anyone else anymore. I know what kind of demon I was, and I'm planning to change.

Max's thumb trembled, and he almost dropped the phone. I know what kind of demon I was. He scrolled to see PJ's reply, but there was nothing. The conversation ended there, with Bradley's admission of guilt hanging in the silent space between them. Max's anger began to dissolve into a thick, confusing fog. Why now? Why did Bradley wait this long to realize he was a nutjob who needed to locked up in an asylum? Why didn't it happen before the blackmail, before he broke Max up with Mona, before all the hell he'd put Max through? All of his pain, all of the humiliation, was just a stepping stone for Bradley's self-improvement?

His hand began to shake uncontrollably, the plastic of the phone slick with a sudden sweat. The black writing on the green screen seemed to mock him. He pulled his arm back and threw the phone with all his might at the wall. It was a brick, all right. It hit the surface with a loud, final thud and just lay there on the floor, perfectly intact, unbroken. Unlike the pathetic goof who threw it. Max ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots, his chest heaving as he fought a desperate, losing battle to breathe.

Bobby walked in, all sweaty from shredding the ramp. "Yo," he said, taking in Max's anxious face. "All good now?"

Removing his hands from his hair, Max tried to act casual. "Yeah, I'm good. I gotta get to boxing class."

Bobby noticed the tension in his shoulders. "Hey, bro, want me to tag along?"

"I can get there on my own," Max said, a hint of offense in his voice.

"Hey, easy," Bobby replied, holding up his hands. "I just thought maybe I'd give it a twirl."

Max looked him up and down and grimaced. "Maybe give a shower a twirl."

Bobby's usual grin faltered, replaced by a weirdly serious look. "Look, man, I just... are you okay?"

Max scoffed. "Are you high?"

Bobby laughed. "For the first time I'm not. It just… things got spooky out there. What's going on, man?"

"Look, Bobby," Max said, his voice hard. "I don't need you on my grill, too. I need to go now." He snatched his boxing gloves and slammed the door shut behind him.

~*~*~*~

The rhythmic thud of a fist hitting leather was a familiar sound that usually soothed his chaotic thoughts. But tonight, it only amplified them. He was hitting the heavy bag with a ferocity that was more self-punishment than training. He hated himself for being weak, for letting Bradley take advantage of him, for letting his friends' pity make him feel small. Every punch was for the humiliation of the past few days, the helplessness of his seizure, and the cold, sick knowledge of what Bradley had done to him.

"Easy, Max! Settle down!" the coach's voice cut through the air. Max saw him approaching, his expression a familiar mix of concern and authority. It was the same look PJ and Bradley had given him, a look that said, I can handle you. It was the last thing Max wanted.

The coach grabbed the swinging bag, stilling it with a firm hand. "Hey. Breathe. You're not fighting the bag. Calm down."

Max took a step back, his fists clenched, his jaw tight.

"Listen, son, I'm trying to help you," the coach said. "Now, either you listen to me and cool off, or you can leave."

The words were a red rag to a bull. Max's vision narrowed, the coach's face blurring into the faces of everyone who had ever tried to control him. A silent, unthinking rage took over. The coach was still talking, still trying to make him obey, and Max simply couldn't take it anymore. Without a word, he swung his fist, not at the bag, but directly at the coach's face. The sickening crack of his knuckle connecting with bone was the only sound in the gym as the coach stumbled back, a shocked look on his face.

Max stood there, his chest heaving, his heart hammering in his ears, his hand throbbing with pain.

The gym was eerily silent. A small crowd of students huddled near the bleachers, their hushed whispers reached his ears. The coach stood a few feet away, his hand clapped to his chin, a dazed look on his face. The shock slowly bled into a cold, simmering fury that hardened his eyes.

"You're done, Max," the coach's voice was low and gravelly. "Done with this class, done with this gym, and done with my team."

Two campus security guards were talking to the coach. Max could hear the murmur of their conversation, and the word "assault" pierced the haze in his mind. Their gazes occasionally flickered to him, and he could feel their silent judgment.

"We need to get him out of here," one of the guards said, his voice a low command.

Max felt their hands on his elbows. They weren't being rough, but the message was clear. He felt his legs moving, his body responding to their light pressure. The students on the bleachers stared, some whispering to each other, their faces a mix of fear and morbid curiosity. This was it. The public humiliation he had so feared after his seizure, only a hundred times worse.

As they neared the exit, the glass door swung open. He noticed Vicki on the sidewalk, looking at him as he was being dragged out by the security guards. Her words began to echo in his head: The fighter's heart is hard and cold, but inside a story yet untold.

They arrived at the Dean of Students office. The guards led him into a small, sterile room. It was cold, the air smelling faintly of old paper and sterile cleaning supplies. One of the guards, a woman with a no-nonsense expression, pulled a form from a file.

"Name?" she asked, her voice flat. Max felt his throat seize. It felt wrong, saying his name in this place, in this situation.

"Max," he whispered.

"Full name," she said, without looking up. "Spelled out for me."

Max did as he was told. He answered every question, his mind reeling with the shame of the present moment. He watched as she filled out the form, checking boxes that determined his fate. Assault. Unprovoked. Disciplinary action required. Each word was a nail in his coffin, a final confirmation of what he had done.

The heavy wooden door to the room creaked open, and PJ burst in, his face red and his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked around wildly, his eyes landing on Max, relief flooding his expression. He looked at the security guards, who nodded in his direction, and then his gaze fell on the filled-out form on the desk. He didn't have to read it to know what it was. His eyes dropped to Max, a fresh wave of concern washing over his face.

"Max," PJ said as he walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" Max asked, pulling away. "Vicki must have told you everything, huh? How I got dragged out by security like a sack of potatoes?"

PJ's face fell, but before he could say anything, Max cut him off. "You don't need to be here. This isn't your problem."

"Of course it is," PJ said, taking offense. "Listen, Bradley's dad called the dean. He's talking to him right now."

What the…? How the hell did this get to Bradley's dad? "I don't want his help," Max snapped, his fists clenching at his sides. "I don't need any help from Bradley or his dad. I'm not a charity case."

"This isn't charity," PJ said, his voice hard. "This is damage control. You just punched a coach, Max. Do you have any idea what that means? It means you're suspended, at the very least. It means you could get expelled."

Max stared back, his breath catching in his throat. He felt the cold, hard weight of what PJ was saying. It wasn't just about a boxing class anymore. It was about his future, his education, his life.

PJ leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, pleading whisper. "Do you want to hurt your dad that way?"

The anger began draining out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. He pictured his dad's face, the exhausted lines around his eyes from years of working extra shifts to save for Max's college fund. He pictured the way his dad had beamed with pride when he got his acceptance letter. Max's shoulders slumped. The only way out of this was to accept Bradley's help. Again.

~*~*~*~*~

Max sat on his bed, his back to the wall, feeling every square inch of his skin crawl under the weight of PJ and Bobby's stares. He felt their silent judgment, the pity that was even more humiliating than their fear. He stared at his hands resting in his lap, clenching them into fists.

The piercing, electronic ring of PJ's phone shattered the silence. Max flinched, his head snapping up. He watched as PJ moved toward his desk and picked up the Nokia brick. "Yes, Bradley?" PJ's voice was low and serious.

Max looked away, jaw tight. He hated that he needed Bradley's help, hated that he had to be so damn dependent on the person who had messed up his life.

"Yeah?" PJ said into the phone, his brow furrowed. "Are you sure?" He paused, listening. Max's fists tightened, his muscles straining with a frantic anxiety. PJ's face broke into a small, relieved smile. "That's great, thank you, Bradley. Yeah, of course. I'll tell him."

Putting down the phone, PJ walked back to Max's bed, his expression a mix of relief and gravity. Max looked at him, waiting.

"His dad managed to get you out of it," PJ said, relief making his voice a little hoarse. "You're on probation for now. If you make another mistake like this again, you'll be kicked out. But for now... you're neither suspended nor expelled."

The words should have made Max feel relief, but they only brought more humiliation. He looked down at his hands, the rage building again. He had been a charity case, after all.

"Look, man," PJ said, inching closer. "Now you have to consider seeing Dr. Grover."

Max's head snapped up. "And Bradley's gonna pay for it?" he muttered, the bitterness a poison on his tongue.

PJ nodded. "Yes."

"Shit," Max hissed, a sound of pure frustration.

"Hey," PJ said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Consider it Bradley paying the consequences for his own crimes."

"What crimes?" Bobby's voice, startling and completely unexpected, made both Max and PJ jump. They had completely forgotten Bobby was still in the room.

PJ stammered, his mind racing. "Uh… last year's crimes. Remember when I ended up in the hospital?"

Bobby frowned, his eyes narrowed in confusion. "Yeah, but I thought Bradley's dad paid for your hospital bills already."

"Well, yeah," PJ stammered, Max could see the wheels working in his head. "He paid for that, and his son almost killed Max last year, so now he pays for his therapy."

Bobby's frown softened. "Man, I didn't realize your down times were because of a near-death experience, Max-man."

"Yeah," Max said, his voice flat. "It was... uh, very traumatic."

"Now for the real question," Bobby said, and pointed. "Since when do you have a Nokia brick?"

~*~*~*~*~

The heavy wooden door to the Dean's office closed with a soft click, a sound that felt as final as the verdict from the boxing coach. The office itself was intimidating, all dark wood and leather, with framed diplomas and awards lining the walls. Max felt a profound sense of not belonging here, a feeling that had been creeping up on him all semester.

The Dean sat behind his large mahogany desk. He gestured to the empty chair in front of the desk, and Max sat, his spine ramrod straight.

"Max," the Dean began, his voice low and weary. "I'm looking at your file here, and I have to admit, I'm concerned. When you were admitted on a partial sports scholarship, we had high hopes for you. Your application was exceptional, and your athletic record was outstanding."

Max stared at his hands, clenched into fists on his lap.

"Your academic performance has been slipping," the Dean continued, his voice as unforgiving as a metronome. "And I'm told you haven't been practicing for the College X-Games. We brought you here to be a part of this college's athletic tradition, to represent us. And now..." he sighed, a sound full of a weariness that cut deeper than any anger. "Now you've gone and assaulted a college staff member, a university-employed coach."

Max's head dropped, his gaze fixed on the polished wood floor.

The Dean leaned back in his leather chair. "This is not an issue we take lightly, Mr. Goof. Assaulting a university-employed coach is a matter that, in any other circumstance, would result in immediate suspension, if not outright expulsion." He let the words hang in the air, a final, unbending judgment.

Max's head remained bowed, his gaze fixed on a scuff mark on his worn sneaker.

"However," the Dean continued, a subtle shift in his tone. "The university received a plea on your behalf. A very powerful one." He paused, his expression growing serious. "Mr. Uppercrust intervened on your behalf. His contributions to this college are immeasurable; he is one of our most distinguished and generous benefactors. His word carries considerable weight."

The Dean clasped his hands together on the desk. "He requested that we view this matter with compassion, arguing that a single incident should not destroy a young man's future. And we agreed. You will not be suspended or expelled, Mr. Goof. This time, you will be placed on academic and athletic probation for the remainder of the school year. You should be immensely grateful, as this mercy was granted to you for one reason only: Mr. Uppercrust's intervention." The Dean's eyes fixed on Max with a piercing intensity. "Do make sure to thank young Mr. Uppercrust. He was the one who insisted that you deserved a second chance."

Max's hands tightened into fists. Right. Ever since Max had arrived at this college, Bradley had been on him, trying to make him fail. Last year, he had used his dad against him. This year, he'd used Max's own cursed attraction to him. He had twisted every moment of weakness into a means of control, a chance to show Max just how powerless he was. And now, after all of that, Max was supposed to thank him?

"You may leave now, Mr. Goof," the Dean said, dismissing him.

Max stood up slowly, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and walked out of the Dean's intimidating office.

Outside, he found PJ waiting for him. In his hands were two cups of coffee, and a reassuring smile on his face.

"I'm sorry I was such a jerk to you the past few days," Max said, accepting the cup of coffee.

"It's okay, I'm used to it," PJ said lightly. "Eight years and counting."

That didn't make Max feel any better.

"Hey, I was joking," PJ said, catching Max's expression. "Don't take it to heart. Look, let's sit outside."

They sat down on a bench outside the Dean's building, the morning sun doing little to warm the cold dread in Max’s gut.

"I've been getting flashbacks, about what used to happen in that motel room," Max said, his voice barely a whisper. "Memories I think I've subconsciously blocked. Now they're coming back full force."

"Was that what happened before you got the seizure?" PJ asked, his voice soft.

Max nodded, staring at his coffee cup.

"Do you know why they happen?"

"The last one was triggered by the tickets to a carnival Mona and Nora were supposed to go to."

"Carnival," PJ pondered, a faraway look in his eyes. "You mean the time I waited for you outside the motel on the day of the Campus Carnival?"

"No, it was two days earlier…" Max trailed off, his heart starting to pound, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He set the coffee aside, his hands suddenly unsteady as he remembered the day PJ was talking about. Shaking his head, he rambled, "I don't wanna remember that day, I don't wanna remember that day…" It was the worst day of his life, a memory he had completely blocked out. But now it was coming back, piece by agonizing piece. Max jerked on the bench, a strangled sound escaping his throat. "I don't want to remember, I don't want to remember!"

Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, and PJ's voice broke through the panic. "Max, it's PJ. You're here with me. Look at me." He looked into PJ's unwavering gaze. "You will never go back to that motel. Do you hear me? You're here with me."

Max noticed the people around them, their eyes on him, pointing and whispering. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. He needed to get a grip. People were starting to think he was a mental case. Which, he probably was.

~*~*~*~*~

Spring break was officially over, and the campus was buzzing again, but Max had a new plan. He was done with the freefall. He was all about getting his grades back on track, and he was taking it seriously, like a mission. In every class, he was scribbling notes like crazy, asking the professor questions, and even reading ahead of time. It didn't matter if he looked like a geek; he had to get a handle on his grades.

When he wasn't buried in books, he was working his body hard. He and the guys were back at it, practicing for the X-Games. He was pushing himself to the limit, hitting the gym, running laps, and eating better. And the weirdest thing? All that focus was doing a number on the other stuff. The unwanted arousal from before was still there, but it wasn't as extreme now. He'd feel a little heat or a jolt, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He was still taking his meds like clockwork, and for the first four days back, he hadn't had a single seizure or a flashback. With his mind on his schoolwork and Bradley nowhere in sight, he was finally feeling like he was getting somewhere.

PJ had stopped nagging him about therapy, too. They were both swamped with their Performance Art project for Mr. Russo's class, trying to put together their final performance.

Still, there was one thing that still messed with Max's head: figuring out a major. PJ and Bobby had already picked theirs at the start of sophomore year. Max, though, still had no idea what he'd major in. All his life he wanted was to be rich and famous, probably because he'd come from a low-class household and the money struggles were an everyday issue for him and his dad. So he did want to major in something with a career future, but he didn't have a clue what he'd be good at. What kind of job could he rock that would get him out of the ghetto? What kind of lucrative career could he actually succeed in?

Max sat cross-legged on his bed, the glossy college pamphlets spread out like a fan around him. The names of the majors: Economics, Business Administration, Accounting, all sounded so serious, so final. Across the room, Bobby was sprawled on his own bed, his hand dipping into a giant red barrel of Planters Cheez Balls. The orange dust stained his fingers and left a faint trail on his sheets.

PJ clicked a few keys, then turned the computer off. "Guys, let's roll," he said, standing up. "Professor Feldberg's class starts in five."

Max sighed, gathering his pamphlets into a neat stack. "Right. Organizational Behavior."

"Organizational... bo-ring," Bobby mumbled around a mouthful of Cheez Balls, his words spraying a fine orange powder into the air. He made a face, swallowed hard, and then started to cough, a deep, rattling sound that turned into a full-on gag. He smacked his chest and his eyes went wide.

Max shook his head. "Looks like your respiratory system needs to get with the program, Bobs."

They took care of the choking Bobby and then the three of them headed out the door and down the hall, their pace quickening as they hit the main campus sidewalk. The air was cool and crisp, and students were hurrying to their classes. Max noticed a bunch of seniors, guys and girls he recognized from around campus, were heading in the same direction.

"Hey, isn't Feldberg's a sophomore class?" PJ asked.

"I remember Mona's roommate saying something about how it's a co-taught thing this semester," Max said.

"This is like a total jackpot, man." Bobby grinned, eying the attractive senior girls. "It's all good with me."

They walked into the massive, auditorium-style lecture hall, the room already filled with a low murmur of conversation. Max scanned the crowded rows, trying to find a couple of empty seats. Just as he stepped past the main entrance, his shoulder bumped into someone. "Whoa, sorry," he muttered, not looking up.

He froze.

Those familiar Air Jordan sneakers. He raised his head slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs, and found himself standing face to face with a wide-eyed Bradley Uppercrust III.

Chapter Text

“I’m the abuser.”

Dr. Smith didn’t flinch. He slowly picked up his pen again, but instead of writing, he tapped the end of it gently against the notepad.

“Thank you for telling me that, Bradley,” he said, his voice as calm as a still lake. “I understand this was a difficult thing to admit, and it took a great deal of courage. I want you to know that this is a safe space, and you can tell me the entire truth.” He leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on his knees in a relaxed, open gesture. “Can you tell me more about what led you to admit the truth?”

Bradley managed to let out the breath he was holding. He’d expected disgust, condemnation, being kicked out of the man’s office. The man’s eyes were unreadable. Bradley wasn’t sure if the truth had sunk in yet. He unclasped his hands, the skin of his palms raw where his nails had dug in.

“I... I can’t keep doing this,” he muttered. “I hurt… the person you thought you were helping, the one whose life was ruined... I did that. And I didn’t see it. Not really. Not until I looked in the mirror and realized the face I was trying to fix was my own.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

Dr. Smith nodded slowly. “That, Bradley, is the most important step anyone can take. It’s the moment the work truly begins.” He picked up his pen and uncapped it, his gaze now focused on a fresh page of his notepad. “The past is what we’ll work to understand and process. The future is what we’ll work to build. What you did was wrong, but the fact that you’re here, admitting it and wanting to change, is something to be commended.”

He looked up, and Bradley almost teared up at the gentle eyes that regarded him with tolerance and understanding. “It’s a long, difficult road. But you’ve already taken the hardest step.” He gestured to the page. “Let’s start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The drive back to the Gamma house was silent, but Bradley felt a lightness he hadn’t in months. Dr. Smith’s calm response had been a shock, a quiet acceptance of the monstrous thing Bradley had confessed. It was an approach he hadn’t anticipated, and it left him feeling raw but also... hopeful.

He pulled up to the house and frowned. The front door was ajar, a sliver of darkness in the daylight. A knot of unease tightened in his stomach. Was someone inside? He pulled the car into the driveway, killed the engine, and grabbed his gym bag, using it as a flimsy shield as he pushed the door open, his heart hammering against his ribs, his senses on high alert.

“Hello?” he called out cautiously, his voice echoing in the empty hallway. He moved slowly into the living room, his eyes scanning for any sign of an intruder. The room was just as tidy as he had left it this morning, but a new, unexpected object sat on the coffee table: a beat-up gym bag.

“Well, look who it is,” a voice behind him startled him.

Bradley turned around about to swing his own gym bag. James stood up in front of him, a bottle of water in his hand.

“James?” Bradley said, “You’re back.”

Gulping some water, James wiped his mouth and nodded at a paper bag on the table. “Why are my clothes in there?”

He couldn’t possibly tell him that he had given his clothes to Max to wear. “Uh, these?” he stammered, glancing at the bag. “I was getting ready to do a load of laundry, and I grabbed your bag by mistake. The clothes are probably mixed in with mine.”

James just shrugged and took another long swig of water. “Whatever. I can’t believe I’m back. I missed this place. My folks are counting on the team to win in the semi-finals. We need to hit the skate park every day.”

The thought of competing settled heavily on Bradley’s chest. “I... I don’t know, James,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I’ve been thinking about quitting the team.”

James’s eyes went wide with a mixture of shock and betrayal. “What?!” he exclaimed. “Are you serious? You can’t quit! We’re the best damn team in the league.” He set his water bottle down with a loud thud. “You’re a Gamma! You have to stick with the team!”

Bradley shook his head. “I just... I have a lot going on right now.”

“Is it Team 99?” James asked resentfully. “They might have scored better points than us in the qualifying rounds, but we can finish them.”

“Cheating is out of the question,” Bradley said firmly.

James scoffed. “This year, we’ll just be smarter.”

“Look,” Bradley said, his voice flat. “My heart isn’t in it anymore. If you want to lead the Gammas in the race, be my guest. I’m going to my room.” He turned and started to walk away.

“It’s that Goof kid, isn’t it?” James said grudgingly, his voice a low sneer.

Bradley stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn around.

“I know the guy’s good,” James continued, emboldened by the silence. “But ever since Mona dumped him, he’s been a wreck. I’m sure we can destroy him before the semi-finals.”

Bradley turned, a low growl escaping his throat. “Stay away from Max, James.”

James was stunned by Bradley’s reaction, his mocking smile replaced with a look of genuine shock. Bradley realized his mistake instantly and tried to salvage the situation. “What I meant was, stay away from Team 99... from all teams. Either win by your own merits, or just don’t compete.”

James’s surprised expression morphed into a mocking laugh. “No, no, I knew being stuck in campus for spring break would get in your head,” he said, shaking his head. “What has gotten into you?”

“My medication just kicked in,” Bradley deadpanned, before turning and walking away.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The cold leather of the armchair in his room did nothing to soothe the ache in Bradley’s jaw, which was still throbbing from PJ’s punch in the library. Yet, the punch was nothing compared to the agonizing memory of watching Max convulse on the ground at the skate park.

Bradley had been on his way to his library shift, cutting through the skate park, when Mona’s scream stopped him in his tracks. He found them near the biggest ramp. Gut-wrenching terror seized him at the sight of Max on the ground, his body seizing. Acting fast, Bradley took off his jacket, carefully placed it under Max’s head, and adjusted his body to the right position.

When the rest of Team99 arrived, PJ’s expression was grim. He simply gestured for Bradley to get lost. It was one of the hardest things Bradley ever had to do. He knew he had to leave for Max’s sake. After telling PJ that there was nothing else they could do but wait, Bradley walked away with a heavy heart.

He spent the rest of his library shift in a daze, wondering if Max had pulled through. Later, PJ came to the library and mentioned a picture, and Bradley knew exactly what he was talking about: the damn picture he’d snapped of Max to keep him from going to the carnival with his friends.

When PJ asked if the picture was on his phone, Bradley told him the truth: he’d deleted it. PJ then asked if Max could look through his phone to make sure it was gone, and Bradley handed it over in a heartbeat. He deserved to have his privacy invaded. It was an insignificant punishment for the horrible things he’d done to Max, especially on the day of the carnival.

Bradley’s mind went dark as the memory of that day flashed in his mind. He’d been so blinded with jealousy and resentment he couldn’t see straight, couldn’t see what he was doing to Max…

A knock at the door pulled him from the dark thoughts. He walked stiffly to open it and stared in shock. It was Mona. She hadn’t been to his room since they broke up months ago.

Mona offered a soft smile, holding up his jacket, the one he’d used to cushion Max’s head during the seizure at the skate park.

“You left this,” she said, her eyes were soft, grateful. “Thank you, Bradley. For being there. I don’t know what would have happened if you weren’t.”

He managed a small, curt smile as he took the jacket. “No problem.”

“You’re a good person, Bradley,” she said, “I hope you know that.”

He couldn’t bring himself to smile anymore. He wasn’t a good person. He was a liar, a manipulator, an abuser. He was the devil himself, and he’d been that way when he was with Mona too. He was a lousy boyfriend who doubted her loyalty and wanted to control her.

“Hopefully, I’ll see you soon at the skate park?” she said. “It’ll be fun practicing together, like old times. Or maybe we could hang out after art club?”

Bradley nodded. “I’d love that.”

She gave him a brief hug and then walked away. As Bradley watched her leave, the dark memories attacked him again. Max’s seizures were triggered by the cruel things Bradley had put him through. The first seizure, in the library, happened because of the awful things Bradley had called him. The second seizure happened because of the picture he’d taken of Max and used as blackmail. If a simple image was enough to trigger a seizure, what would the full, horrible reality of what he had done on the day of the carnival do to him? What would happen if Max ever remembered that day?

Bradley was a monster hiding in plain sight, and no matter how many people called him a good person, he knew the truth.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dr. Smith sat opposite him, his notepad open. “I wasn’t expecting you this early, Bradley. We agreed our next session would be in a week, but you obviously felt a need to talk.”

Bradley stared down at his clasped hands and gave a small nod.

“I see,” Dr. Smith said gently. “We agreed you’d practice identifying the early signs of a trigger, not the action, but the impulse. What did you notice over the past two days?”

“I saw my Gamma brother, James, he was being kind of a jerk, and I didn’t yell at him. I just left.”

Dr. Smith leaned forward slightly. “You sound relieved. That’s a good sign. But let’s look closer. You said you ‘didn’t yell.’ What did you feel? What did you want to do?”

Bradley shifted in his seat. The memory of James’s smug face, of his taunting remarks about Team 99 and “that Goof kid,” made his fists clench. “I wanted to... I wanted to shove him. To make him shut up. To make him feel small.”

The doctor simply nodded, writing a single word on his notepad. “Control,” he said, without looking up. “You wanted to control the situation. To control James.”

It was true. It was always about control. Every abusive comment, every act of manipulation, every time he had hurt Max, it had all been to regain a sense of control over a situation he felt was slipping away.

“I need to understand what makes me need to hurt people,” Bradley whispered, the reality of his past actions settling over him like a cold, heavy blanket.

“And we will,” Dr. Smith said, his voice firm and reassuring. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

“I... I’d like to talk about X now,” Bradley whispered.

Dr. Smith gave a slow, deliberate nod. He didn’t prompt, didn’t push. He simply waited, his posture open and inviting, his pen poised over a fresh page.

The silence was deafening, forcing Bradley to fill it. “I did… really horrible things to X,” he said, his voice cracking on the final word. “And it’s because of what I did that he’s been getting seizures.” He swallowed hard, the shame a bitter taste on his tongue. “I made him… I made him go through so much. I can’t believe the… the things I made him do… forced on him. Things without his consent...”

He raised his eyes, bracing himself for a flicker of disgust, a furrow of the brow, anything that would confirm the revulsion he felt for himself. But Dr. Smith’s face remained a passive, professional mask. He just held Bradley’s gaze, his eyes calm and unwavering, as if he were waiting for a storm to pass.

Unnerved by the lack of a visible reaction, Bradley pushed on, the words tumbling out as he found his footing. “I want… I want to talk about the worst thing I ever did to him. The day… the day I actually broke him.”

This was a few days before he realized he was falling for Max. The day of the carnival loomed in his mind. He had convinced himself that his mother’s journal was messing with his head, softening him. The poses he’d been making Max do right after her funeral had become less degrading. They lacked the malevolent edge of the ones from before his mother’s death. He needed to prove that nothing had changed, that Max was still an insignificant insect born for his own amusement and nothing more. He could still demean and break Max, just as his goal had been from the start.

What he did that evening would haunt him for the rest of his life.

~*~*~*~*~

A week before Spring Break… about three weeks ago from now…

Back in the motel room that day, Bradley lay on the rusty bed, looking at the blackmail picture on his phone. It was a photo he’d taken two days earlier: a naked Max, his body captured in a moment of vulnerability, with a male hand -Bradley’s hand- grabbing his genitals. Bradley’s face was conveniently absent from the picture.

Just yesterday, Max had been a smart-ass, making jabs at Bradley to get under his skin. It had made the whole day more thrilling, especially “cuddling hour,” as Max would call it. Max had been extra aggressive, which left Bradley with cuts and bruises inside his mouth and on his neck. Maybe he should anger Max more often.

He glanced at the clock on his phone. It was almost five. Max would be here soon. He had to be. Unless he decided not to show up. To be at the carnival, laughing and living, while Bradley sat alone in this stifling motel room. The thought sent a jolt of cold rage through him.

He placed his phone on the nightstand and walked to the window, staring out at the parking lot below. The seconds stretched into minutes, each one fueling his anger. What if Max had decided to ditch him? What if the defiance from yesterday was just the beginning of a larger revolt? The thought of losing the hold he had over Max was unbearable.

Max wouldn’t dare. He knew the consequences of such a rebellion. Bradley was thinking of a grand art gallery where he’d showcase his paintings. He had more than three dozen of them now, each a perfect, agonizing portrait of a naked Max in the most degrading of poses. It would be a public humiliation that would destroy that smug, glorified teenager.

His heart gave a little jolt when he saw them: Max and PJ walking down the sidewalk. Good. Max came. He knew better than to bail on him.

Bradley watched as PJ gave Max a reassuring pat on the shoulder before Max turned and trudged into the motel. PJ then walked his bike across the street to a bench. He propped his bike beside him, took a book from the bag hanging on the handlebars, and sat down to read.

A few minutes later, the faint sound of keys jingled, and the door to the room opened. Max walked in, his face a mask of cold distance, his eyes avoiding Bradley’s.

“Why is your personal chauffeur sitting outside?” Bradley asked matter-of-factly. “Why isn’t he at the carnival?”

“He’s waiting for me,” Max said flatly, stuffing the keys into his pants.

A sneer crept onto Bradley’s face. “I’m sure his girlfriend is thrilled about that.”

The words were meant to sting, but they were mostly a reflection of Bradley’s own burning jealousy. He was consumed by the easy loyalty Max commanded. The unconditional trust of his friends, especially PJ. The way they would drop everything to be there for him, to wait for him, no matter the cost.

He had thought he had that kind of tight-knit friendship with Tank, but now, they were complete strangers. Tank hadn't even bothered to show up for his mother's funeral. He had abandoned him without a second thought when things got difficult. He glanced at the window and saw PJ sitting on that bench outside, his head bent over a book. He would rather wait for Max, who might stay here for hours, over having fun with his sweetheart and the rest of his friends. That was real friendship, the kind that Bradley had never had. And it was a kind of friendship that he would never understand.

Max gave a cold smile. “So, what’s on the menu for today’s painting? Handcuffs? Shackles? Heavy chairs? Just tell me where you need me to park my sweet ass.”

“You think you’re so tough?” Bradley sneered, a cold smirk playing on his lips as he closed the distance between them. He grabbed the strap of Max’s hoodie, yanking him close. “You melt under my hand,” he whispered into Max’s ear before stuffing his hand inside his baggy jeans and cupping him. Max gasped, and Bradley chuckled. “Poor PJ, wasting a day out with his girl to wait for a little slut like you.”

Max’s hand shot out, yanking Bradley’s hand from his jeans. He took a staggering step back, his eyes flashing with a deep, furious pain. “At least I have a friend,” he shot back. “How many friends do you have, Bradley?”

A pang of anger flared within Bradley. He lunged at Max, grabbing him by the shoulders.

Max jerked Bradley’s hands off his shoulders. “Without your pathetic little blackmail scheme, I wouldn’t be here,” he said, the words twisting the knife. “No one wants to be with you voluntarily. You’re just a miserable, lonely, friendless little rich boy.”

“This attitude has to stop,” Bradley said, his voice low and dangerous. “I gave you leeway yesterday because I know you’re upset about the carnival, but my patience is wearing thin.”

Max’s eyes, full of a bitter and defiant fire, held his gaze. “Are you being an extra ass because your mommy hit the highway?”

The world seemed to stop. The words hung in the air like a physical blow. The rage that had been a slow burn a moment ago exploded into an inferno. Bradley grabbed Max by the front of his shirt and yanking him close. His free hand swung, the crack of his palm against Max’s cheek echoing in the small room.

“Don’t you dare,” Bradley growled, his voice a tight, venomous whisper. “Don’t you ever dare mention my mother, you insignificant lowlife.” He gave Max another hard shove, his knuckles white against the fabric. “Now take off your clothes. Decency isn’t for you.”

The anger was a tidal wave that consumed every other emotion. All he wanted now was to demean this piece of shit, to break him beyond repair.

Bradley moved to a storage cabinet by the bed. He knelt down and pulled out a worn cardboard box. A flood of memories hit him, a different time, a different kind of experimentation. He remembered two years ago, when he and Tank would mess around, pushing boundaries with a laugh. They’d purchased a box of sex toys, and tried them all. He recalled them wearing the tiny dildo strap-ons under their sweatpants and walking around campus, their own inside joke, a secret thrill no one else was privy to.

He reached inside the box now, his fingers passing over a variety of sizes and shapes until they settled on the smallest one. The boy was a freshman, after all. And by ‘freshman’ he meant virgin. He couldn’t start him off with something big, now could he?

When he turned back around, he hid the dildo strap-on behind his back, walking slowly and deliberately toward the ‘freshman’. Max stood naked, arms folded tightly across his chest, waiting for his command. Bradley liked the flush of red on Max’s cheek from the well-deserved slap.

“This pose isn’t like any other pose you’ve done,” Bradley began, his voice a low, taunting drawl, “You’re gonna be riding me in bed. Your hands will be tied behind your back, and you’ll look like you’re enjoying every minute of it.”

Max’s eyebrow twitched upward. “I thought you wouldn’t have sex with me, said I’m...” he trailed off, his lips pressed in a think line.

A cruel smirk formed. “Said you’re what? Say it.”

“I’m not worth it,” Max muttered, his glare fixed on the floor.

“Exactly,” Bradley said, and he pulled the dildo from behind his back. “That’s why I’m using this instead.”

Max’s eyes widened. The cold defiance drained from his face, replaced by pure terror. He took a step back, his body shaking. “No... no,” he stammered, shaking his head. “You’re not using that. No way.”

“Today’s pose requires it,” he said, his voice a low, final command.

“No way in hell,” Max hissed, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m not letting you put a weenie on me.”

Bradley’s jaw tightened. “If you’d read the contract, you’d know it says that whatever the posing requires, you have to do it.”

Max’s face was a mask of sheer terror, the fear in his eyes was intense.

“Don’t worry,” Bradley said, his voice flat and patronizing. “I’ll be gentle. It’s not going to hurt you.”

Max’s voice was a desperate, pleading whisper. “No, please, Bradley. Just... just pick another pose. Anything else. Please.”

“Remember how scared you were when I first put you in those handcuffs? Now, nothing gets you more excited than having your arms and legs bound.” Bradley let out a condescending chuckle.

Max shook his head. “It’s not the same.”

“This is today’s pose,” Bradley said harshly. “And according to the contract, you’re supposed to do whatever I ask for the painting.”

Max’s gaze drifted toward the window, fear and shame etched on his face. Bradley leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, meant only for Max’s ears. “I wonder what your pal will think of you once I put this on you.” He leaned even closer, his breath warm on Max’s skin. “Won’t it be fun if we invited him to watch?”

Max jerked sharply away. “Your end of the deal is to not tell anyone about this,” he spat, his voice trembling with a furious desperation.

“You’re no fun.” Bradley shook his head in mock disappointment. He took Max’s arm, his grip firm, and pushed him toward the bed. “Now, let’s get going. You don’t want your friend to wait for too long.”

Standing in front of the bed, Max looked scared and unsure. “What... what do you want me to do?” he mumbled.

Bradley moved behind him, wrapping his arms around Max’s waist. He rested his chin on Max’s shoulder, inhaling the enticing scent of musk and sweat. The fear was a powerful perfume. “Get on the bed on your hands and knees. Doggy style,” he whispered seductively, his nose brushing along Max’s neck and into his hair. “Leave the rest to me.”

He could feel Max shudder, a small tremor running through his body. “I’m not sure about this, Brad,” he whispered, swallowing hard.

Bradley gently brushed his nose through Max’s black hair, inhaling deeply. “Nothing to worry about,” he murmured. “I’ve done it before. You’re in good hands.” He gave a gentle push, guiding Max to the bed, then walked to get a lubricant. This would help make things go smoothly for his little freshman.

When he turned around, he found Max on all fours on the bed, slightly trembling. A satisfied smirk touched Bradley’s lips. He walked over, climbing onto the mattress behind Max. He extended a hand and patted Max’s rear and drew out the words, “Are we ready?” in a sing-song voice.

Max was shaking, but he managed a weak, defeated, “Yes.”

Bradley squeezed a small amount of lubricant onto his finger. He noticed how hard Max was quivering, his muscles tense and coiled with fear. This wouldn’t do. He needed Max calm. Placing his other hand on the trembling back, he gently rubbed soothing circles, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper. “Relax, Max. It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.” He continued the slow, hypnotic circles on Max’s back and kept it up until the quivering began to fade, the tension in Max’s body slowly giving way to a beaten stillness.

Bradley kept his gaze locked on Max as he worked, making sure the boy wouldn’t faint out of fear and rob him of this moment. Max’s hands were clenched into tight fists, his knuckles white, and Bradley could hear a choked gasp and a low grunt as he inserted a finger in.

It made Bradley remember his own first time. Of course, unlike Max, he hadn’t been a virgin when he and Tank started experimenting with sex toys. The atmosphere had been completely different, a shared laugh between two best friends. There had been a sense of adventure and trust, a mutual agreement to explore. This was something else entirely.

Once Bradley was sure that Max was prepared enough, he brought the dildo forward and applied a liberal amount of lubricant. “Brace yourself, Max,” he warned, his voice an even command. “It’s time.” He watched the younger boy’s body go rigid, his fists clenching into the sheets.

A hiss escaped Max’s lips, followed by a grunt, as Bradley painstakingly worked the dildo inside. Max began to pant, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Then came the whispered words, barely audible, “Stop… please.”

But Bradley kept going, his movements as gentle and slow as he could make them.

Max whimpered, clenching, which made it harder for Bradley to continue. He rubbed soothing circles on Max’s back and said, “Relax, breathe. If you clench, it’ll be painful. C’mon, inhale and exhale.”

Max did as he was told, taking a deep breath and then exhaling, until his body went still. Bradley nodded and mumbled, “Good boy.” He kept working the dildo in little by little, making sure it didn’t hurt much, all the while enjoying Max’s gasps and pants. He knew that Max must be enjoying it, just as Bradley had a couple of years ago.

When the dildo had fully entered Max, Bradley fastened the strap to ensure Max wouldn’t try to squeeze it out. A smug sense of satisfaction washed over him. “Perfect,” he said, his voice low and triumphant. “Now stand up.”

He watched him attempt to move, his movements so carefully cautious that they were almost comical. Max slowly, tentatively, slipped one foot to the floor, his entire body rigid, as if he were trying to keep the dildo from digging deeper into him. Bradley couldn’t even stifle his laugh.

Bradley slipped out of bed to retrieve today’s canvas, a size smaller than usual, along with his sketch pens and paints. He arranged them neatly on the nightstand next to the bed, edging it closer so he’d be able to reach them without getting up. When he turned around, Max was already on his feet, his face a picture of pure mortification.

The sight of the disgraced boy was too irresistible. Bradley felt a thrill course through him, so powerful that he put a pause on the posing and painting. He decided to move “cuddling hour” to the front of their schedule. He stood in front of Max, ecstatic by the fact that he was a few inches taller. He wrapped his arms around Max, pulling him close. His hand moved down to Max’s rear, feeling the straps beneath his fingers, but before he could press against dildo, Max quickly and firmly removed his hands.

“This isn’t part of the pose,” he muttered, not looking him in the eyes.

“It is part of the pose,” Bradley lied aggressively. “What, do you think I’m playing games here?”

Max didn’t respond, his glare fixed on Bradley’s designer socks.

Bradley moved closer again, his voice now a firm order. “Put your arms around my neck.”

Max tensed, but didn’t obey.

“Now,” Bradley commanded, his patience wearing thin. “Put them around my neck now. I don’t want them getting in my way again.”

Max’s tight, shaking fists finally unclenched. He slowly raised his arms, wrapping them around Bradley’s neck in a loose and defeated embrace. Half of his face was pressed against Bradley’s shoulder, but his eyes were most likely staring out the window where, on the sidewalk, his friend was still sitting, patiently waiting for him.

Bradley put his arms around Max’s waist and pulled him closer, his hands moving up and down the bare back, enjoying the feel of his skin. One hand drifted lower toward Max’s ass, pausing just above the dildo. With a gentle push, he pressed against it, driving it slightly deeper inside. Max tensed against him, a sudden rush of hot breath warming Bradley's shoulder. Two more insistent presses earned a pair of faint, stifled gasps.

Bradley changed his rhythm, moving the toy with a varied, teasing motion. Max’s arms tightened around his neck, and he buried his face deeper into Bradley’s shoulder, fighting to muffle the gasps and whimpers building in his chest. Bradley felt the blood rush to his own member, which hardened against Max’s bare stomach. Not wanting to reveal how much Max’s escalating distress was arousing him, he leaned in and pressed his lips close to the frustrated boy’s ear.

“What do you think PJ would think if he saw you right now?” he whispered, his hot breath making Max’s entire body shudder against him. “Do you think he’ll still be waiting for you outside? He’d probably bail to spend a much better time with his gorgeous poetess. Who’d wait around for some pathetic little slut?”

Max tried to push out of the embrace, but Bradley pulled him closer and ordered firmly, “Don’t move. Arms around my neck, now.”

“This isn’t part of the pose,” Max repeated, sounding angry. He placed his hands on Bradley’s shoulders and pushed back to look him in the eyes. “You need to see me to paint me.”

Bradley smirked down at him. “Oh, Maxie, how do you think I used to paint you before the contract? I’m an artist. My senses are what capture the perfect, accurate painting.”

Max stared at him, his gaze sharp and wary. “You’re pulling a fast one on me, aren’t you?”

Bradley tilted his head, feigning hurt. “Why, you wound me. Didn’t think you had trust issues.”

“Your track record isn’t exactly something to rely on,” Max gritted out.

Bradley leaned in, his lips brushing against Max’s, but Max jerked his head back, glaring.

“Be a good boy, Max,” Bradley said, his voice a low growl. “Or I swear I’ll drag this painting session out until midnight. I’m sure your knight in shining armor will march right into this building to rescue you. And when he finds you, he won’t be looking at your face. He’ll be looking at what’s shoved into your butt crack. And we’ll see if he’ll want to be your friend anymore.”

The horrified expression on Max’s face told Bradley that he was right. PJ wouldn’t stand idly by, knowing that something was keeping Max in the motel for more hours than usual. It would drive him to take action.

A bitter sting of resentment pierced Bradley. What was it about Max that made others care so much about him? It was the same unconditional love his father, the senior Goof, still had for him last year, even after Bradley had turned them against each other and even after Max had shown disrespect. It was the same love and admiration Mona still held for him, even after Max had broken her heart. This pure, unearned devotion that Max received from everyone around him was a poison in Bradley’s gut.

Would they still love him if they saw him now? A dildo shoved into him, wrapped tightly in Bradley’s embrace, his own personal whore to be used and enjoyed whenever he pleased.

Fueled by anger and resentment, Bradley pulled Max to him and barked, “Arms around my neck.”

Max hesitated, his gaze darting to the window for one more fleeting moment before he finally complied. The slender arms wrapped around Bradley’s shoulders in silent surrender. Bradley tightened his hold on Max’s waist and leaned in for a kiss. Max’s lips were tightly shut as Bradley tried to invade his mouth. A low growl escaped Bradley’s throat. “Max,” he warned, the single word a threat.

Max reluctantly opened his mouth, and Bradley didn’t waste a second, claiming his lips in a long, deep kiss. Finally, the jerk was loosening up. A thrill of pure excitement shot through him as Max’s arms clung tightly around his neck. He clenched his arms around Max, holding him close, unable to let go. He wished they could get lost in this moment forever, a soft moan escaping him as he deepened their kiss. A jolt of electricity surged through him, his mind emptying of everything but the overwhelming sensation of Max pressed against him.

When they finally parted, Bradley was mesmerized by the look of pure desire on Max’s face. This was what he wanted to capture in his painting. Max, looking right into his eyes, wanting no one but him.

“Wait for me on the bed,” he said gruffly, hating the loss of Max’s body heat and the feel of his arms around him.

Walking to the closet, he retrieved a pair of handcuffs, and turned around to find Max on his hands and knees on the bed.

“That’s not the pose, Max. I want you sitting,” Bradley commanded, his voice firm.

Max tensed and said, “Sitting?”

Bradley chuckled at his frightened face. “It won’t hurt, you big baby,” he said.

Max slowly and carefully, and with great hesitation, sat down, giving a hiss of pain. Bradley took his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. He then moved in front of Max and sat propped up against the headboard, stretching his legs.

“Sit on my groin,” he ordered.

Max hesitated, looking at him unsure.

Bradley smirked, saying, “This is the pose, Max. We’re making the illusion that you’re riding me with me inside you, and since, of course, I would never lower myself to get with you, the dildo will do the trick. You can imagine it was me during the sketching process if it’ll get you appropriately aroused for the perfect depiction.”

Max’s mouth was a thin line, and his cheeks were flushed with disgrace.

“I don’t have all day,” Bradley grumbled.

With a despairing sigh, Max moved clumsily without the aid of his hands and positioned himself on Bradley’s groin, giving a slight, pained hiss as he sat.

Bradley stared at the vision before him: a naked Max with his arms bound, his face congested with pain as the dildo dug into him from the pressure of his own weight. He was seated on Bradley’s lap, creating the illusion that Bradley was inside him. The expensive designer clothes Bradley was wearing seemed to mock Max’s naked, vulnerable form.

It was stirring Bradley’s own privates, but thankfully, because of the dildo, Max wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Bradley kept the idea that he was getting turned on by Max a secret so as not to ruin the image of indifference he’d made Max believe. It worked much better when Max thought Bradley didn’t find him attractive and that he didn’t do a thing for him. It made it all the more humiliating for the boy that he couldn’t resist Bradley.

He took the canvas and the pencil, beginning to sketch. He glanced at Max’s miserable face, hunched shoulders and limp and lifeless genitals. That wasn’t what he wanted to capture.

He shifted his hips, a subtle but firm movement that caused Max to gasp in surprise and pain. “Grind against my groin, Max, and keep doing it until I tell you to stop,” he ordered. “I want to capture you aroused and excited.”

If looks could kill, Max was glaring at him, his cheeks flushed with shame and fury.

“Do it now,” Bradley commanded.

Max began to thrust against Bradley’s body, giving gritted hisses and pants as the dildo must be digging into him. As he kept doing it, Bradley began to fondle his genitals, ensuring Max had his hard on for the painting.

Now, this looked more attractive. Max was grinding and making those pleasant little sounds Bradley loved so much. His member erupted at the constant stroking, and Bradley began to sketch, growing hard himself from Max’s rhythmic thrusting. He would glance at Max from time to time, noting the discomfort and strain on his face as he kept thrusting. He was a vision. Bradley wanted to jump him right then, a growing desire to see how Max would look if it was truly Bradley inside him. This growing attraction to Max would be the end of him; he needed to get a hold of himself.

The boy was attractive, there was no denying that fact, but he was also Bradley’s enemy, his rival, the person who had stolen what was rightfully his: the College X-Games, the crowd’s devotion, and Mona’s affection. He needed to be destroyed.

“Can... can I stop?” Max gritted out between pants.

Bradley shook his head. “Keep going.” A cruel chuckle escaped his lips. “If only you could see yourself now.”

Max fixed his gaze on the ceiling, still thrusting. Bradley knew that move. Max was trying to mentally drift away, to escape this moment.

“Max, look at me,” Bradley demanded.

Max’s dejected gaze met his.

“I need to see your face as I draw you, and I need your eyes on me,” Bradley said, his voice flat as he drew on the canvas.

“I thought your artist senses can capture the perfect, accurate painting,” Max retorted between pants.

“Do you want me to put a gag on that smart mouth of yours?” Bradley threatened. “Keep your eyes on me as you pleasure yourself, thinking it was me inside you.”

Max gave a shuddering breath, clearly trying hard to keep himself together and composed, his emotions in check, not wanting to show any weakness. He kept grinding, his gaze focused on Bradley, who would shoot him a condescending grin every once in a while, just to make the sting of humiliation sharper.

The sketch was finally complete, and Max was panting in exhaustion now. “Can I take a little break?” Max gasped.

Bradley shook his head. “Keep going. I’m very inspired now.”

Max began to whimper in frustration. He wouldn’t have lasted this long if he wasn’t athletic. Bradley painted with precise attention to detail. His gaze flickered from the canvas to Max’s strained face, capturing the flush of his cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the way his eyes were half-closed in a mix of pain and arousal.

Long minutes passed before Bradley finally set down his paintbrush. Max stopped grinding at once, his face congested and strained with discomfort.

“Take it off now,” Max gritted out, his voice hoarse.

“Don’t you want to see the painting?” Bradley asked sweetly.

Max shook his head, his gaze fixed down. “Please,” he whispered. “Just... take it off.”

“If you say so,” Bradley said disappointedly, he gestured for Max to get up. Max struggled to his knees, his movements awkward and pained. Bradley slid his legs out from under him, dropping to his own knees to reach for the straps holding the dildo in place. He unfastened them, then began to slide the dildo out slowly, making sure not to hurt Max. Max grunted, pressing his forehead against Bradley’s shoulder, wishing for the ordeal to end. Little by little, Bradley was able to slide it all the way out.

Max dropped back onto the bed, his body slumping into a sitting position as he panted. Bradley moved to his usual place against the headboard, setting Max’s little “toy tormentor” on the nightstand. Then, he took the canvas and flashed it to Max. “Look at my latest creation,” he announced.

Max stared at the painting of himself, his usual sarcastic wit and self-deprecating humor completely absent. He just stared, his eyes becoming glassy and distant. Bradley was taken aback when Max lowered his head, his black hair falling to hide his face. Then, his shoulders began to shake.

Is… is Max crying?

The sound of tiny sniffs and muffled gasps confirmed it, and Max’s shoulders began to tremble with more force.

Something sharp and painful shot through Bradley’s chest. He remembered two years ago, the quiet, shared thrill with Tank. They were in it together, a buddy-buddy experiment, a careful fun. The jabs they threw at each other were friendly, part of a mutual dare, a good-natured ribbing. There had been a hint of apprehension, of course, a nervous laugh at trying something new, but it was an equal partnership, a shared secret between two friends.

This was not.

Max did not consent to this. His fear was real, his pain was real. He was being ridiculed and laughed at through it all. He was alone, a sheep in the lair of a sadistic wolf. He was missing what was supposed to be a fun outing with his friends to be sexually assaulted and humiliated.

Bradley swallowed, and the painting fell from his hands. He stared at Max, who was trying desperately to keep himself from breaking down. Max wasn’t enjoying this, as Bradley had thought. It was something Bradley always did: projecting himself onto Max, always seeing Max through his own lens, perceiving him as another version of himself. But Max was not Bradley. They were two different individuals who had nothing in common. And it just took seeing Max break down for Bradley to finally see that.

He moved forward, taking the shattered boy into his arms and pulling him into a hug. Max tried to resist, but Bradley held him firmly. He whispered into his ear, “It’s over now, Max. We’re done.” He thought about saying “sorry,” but he knew it meant nothing at this moment.

Max buried his face in Bradley’s shoulder, his body shaking with deep, wracking sobs. His tears a hot, wet stain spreading across Bradley’s shirt. The tremors that had begun in his shoulders now shook his entire body, and it was sad that Bradley was his only comfort in the face of this overwhelming despair. That he couldn’t confine on anyone but the guy who assaulted him. Not even PJ who knew nothing about the darkness that went on inside this room.

Bradley ran a soothing hand down Max’s back, noticing that he was still handcuffed. He figured uncuffing Max could wait until he calmed down.

Once Max’s shuddering lessened, he pulled himself out of the embrace, his gaze still not meeting Bradley’s. “Is it okay that it still hurts?” he asked in a hushed, fragile tone.

“Yes, it’s normal,” Bradley said, his voice softer now.

“I want to leave now.”

Bradley nodded. Without a word, he knelt behind Max and fumbled with the handcuffs. The cold metal snapped open, freeing Max’s wrists. Bradley watched as Max, still visibly stiff, walked to the pile of clothes on the floor and began to put them on. Bradley glanced at the watch on his phone. It was almost 7:30.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at five,” Bradley said, watching Max pull his t-shirt over his head.

Max turned to face him, and in his eyes, there was a mix of hurt and betrayal so deep it was like looking into an abyss. Without a word, Max finished dressing, stiffly shoved his feet into his sneakers, and left. The slam of the door was the only answer.

Walking toward the window, Bradley peered outside. PJ was still seated on the bench, the book he was reading closed and placed next to him, staring at the rustling trees in the park behind him. When Max emerged from the building, PJ’s attention shifted. He grabbed his book, wheeled his bike over to Max, and appeared to ask if he was okay. Max’s body language was guarded and withdrawn; he clearly wanted to go home. They could have probably caught the last hours of the carnival, but Bradley knew Max was too drained to want to go there anymore. He watched as PJ got on his bike and Max climbed on behind him. With a few pushes of the pedals, they rode off.

Walking back to the bed, Bradley stared at the painting. The misery in Max’s face was not what he’d wanted to capture. He’d wanted to paint Max filled with pure desire, willingly wanting Bradley’s touch. Forcing Max into this didn’t give him the satisfaction he thought it would. He took out his phone and opened the blackmail picture, the one that had kept Max from the carnival and instead brought him to this room to be objectified and mistreated.

Staring at it for a moment, Bradley moved his thumb and deleted the picture.

~*~*~*~*~

Tears streamed down his face as he recounted the events of that horrible day to Dr. Smith, his voice thick with sobs. He held nothing back, confessing every cruel thing he had done that led to X’s breakdown.

“What the hell did I do?” Bradley sobbed, his head in his hands. “How the hell could I do those things to him? How could I hurt him like that? He was so scared... and I just kept... kept going.”

Dr. Smith remained perfectly still in his chair as the storm of Bradley’s confession raged. His expression was one of profound sadness and concern, but it held no trace of shock or judgment. He simply watched and listened, allowing every agonizing detail to be spoken aloud. When Bradley’s words finally broke down into choked, breathless sobs, Dr. Smith leaned forward, his voice a calm and steady murmur.

“It sounds like you’re finally seeing the truth for the first time,” he said softly.

Bradley lifted his tear-streaked face. “I... I thought it would be like it was with Tank,” he stammered, his voice thick with shame. “Like a joke... a game... but it wasn’t. He was so terrified.”

“And that terror is what you’re feeling now,” Dr. Smith replied. “The guilt you’re experiencing is the natural consequence of your actions. It’s the sign that you’re no longer disconnected from the humanity of the person you hurt. That you finally understand the extent of his pain.”

Dr. Smith leaned back, giving Bradley space to breathe. The sobs lessened, replaced by a quiet, shuddering silence that felt heavy and suffocating. It was a tangible weight of remorse and regret settling over him, and Bradley knew this was only the beginning.

“The real work now is to understand why you felt you had the right to do that,” Dr. Smith said, his voice gentle but firm. “Why you believed his humiliation could somehow heal your own pain.”

“Screw my pain! Screw ‘why did I do that’!” Bradley shouted. “What does it matter why I did it? It doesn’t change anything! What matters is what’s happening now.” He took a shaky breath, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “I just... I want to make things right. I want to help him. I offered to pay for his therapy, for his boxing classes, but he won’t take my money.”

Dr. Smith leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Bradley. “Maybe what X needs isn’t financial help, Bradley,” he said calmly. “It sounds like you’re trying to fix a deep emotional wound with a material solution. What he needs is something you can’t buy.”

He paused, letting his words sink in.

“He needs to know that you see him, truly see him, and that you understand the pain you caused. Your money is a way for you to distance yourself from your guilt, to put a price on what you did and believe it’s been paid. But true healing, for both of you, will come from a different kind of payment.”

“He needs to feel safe again,” Dr. Smith continued. “You violated his trust in a fundamental way. He doesn’t need your money; he needs to know that you respect his boundaries, even when it’s inconvenient for you. He needs space to heal on his own terms, without you pushing your version of ‘making things right’ on him.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Your journey of making amends isn’t about giving him things. It’s about demonstrating, through your actions, that you’re a different person now. That you understand the gravity of what you did. That you’re willing to give him what he truly needs: respect, space, and a path to healing that doesn’t involve you.”

“I broke him,” Bradley whispered, still haunted by each heartbroken look on Max’s face whenever he showed him his finished painting for the look. “He’s not the same guy I met last year. He’s lost that spark and his confidence. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him I love him. He thinks that if anyone knew the truth about what went on in that motel room, they would drop him without a second thought.”

Dr. Smith’s expression was calm, devoid of judgment. “It’s not surprising that X feels this way. You’ve taught him, through your actions, that love and pain are the same thing. You conditioned him to believe that his value, his worth, is entirely dependent on your approval. By using his fears, his love for his friends, and his shame against him, you’ve fundamentally undermined his sense of self-worth. He’s not only hurting from what you did, he’s also struggling to trust his own perceptions and feelings.”

Bradley’s lips twisted in sorrow, each awful thing he’d ever called Max flashing through his mind. It hurt him more than anything that the insults had stuck with Max as he’d listed them to Bradley that day in the library, that they had cut so deep into Max’s soul.

“You don’t love me,” Max had said.

“I do,” Bradley had insisted.

Max shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “You don’t. You can’t. Stop... there’s no way the guy who told me over and over that I’m nothing, a fucking toy, a slut... and treated me...” His voice choked, and tears finally spilled over.

Bradley was snapped out of the memory when Dr. Smith started talking again. “The best thing you can do for him right now is to stay away. You are a source of immense trauma for him, and your presence, no matter how well-intentioned, is a constant reminder of his pain.”

“Okay, so I stay away from him... but that doesn’t seem to be enough,” Bradley said, his voice thick with concern. “He really needs help and he’s too stubborn to see it. I talked with his friend, and he said X is refusing to go to therapy. By not dealing with what happened, his symptoms are worsening, from panic attacks to seizures, and I’m scared they’re going to get even worse.”

“It’s not surprising that X is refusing to go to therapy, Bradley,” Dr. Smith said. “You must understand, you’ve fundamentally shattered his trust in other people. Therapy, at its core, is a relationship of vulnerability and trust. For a while, the only person he relied on to help him was the one who had harmed him. Right now, he’s protecting himself by refusing to let anyone else in.”

“The panic attacks and seizures are his body’s way of processing the trauma,” Dr. Smith continued. “They’re a physical manifestation of a psychological state of being terrified and helpless. These symptoms won’t stop until he feels truly safe again.”

He leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. “And you, Bradley, are not the one who can provide that safety. You must give him the space to heal on his own terms, without your involvement.”

Bradley’s gaze fell to the floor. “I just hate that I can’t do more.”

Dr. Smith leaned forward. “If you truly want to help him, I want you to write a letter to X. But you’re not going to send it. This is for you, not him. It’s the beginning of a real apology, one that you’re not ready to give and he’s not ready to hear. The real work is in the waiting. Stay away from him until you have something real to offer: true remorse and a changed heart, not money.”

“What should I write?” Bradley asked, his voice strained.

“Write everything you’ve told me today,” Dr. Smith replied. “Don’t make excuses. Don’t ask for forgiveness. Just own it. Acknowledge that you broke his trust and that you understand his pain. Tell him you are staying away for his healing, not for your own.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley sat alone in his room, the silence heavy and oppressive. On his desk, a fresh sheet of paper lay under the glow of his lamp. He picked up a pen, the tip hovering over the paper.

“Dear Max, I’m sorry.” The apology was too simple, too cheap. It felt like a get-out-of-jail-free card. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and threw it across the room.

He grabbed another sheet, his jaw clenched. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was so consumed by anger.” He stopped. The next attempt was more direct, but it was still about him. He tore the paper from the pad, his anger simmering.

He took a deep breath, and his hands trembled as he started again. This time, he forced himself to focus, not on his own turmoil, but on the events themselves.

Suddenly, Bradley’s phone rang, a jarring sound in the quiet room. He fumbled to answer it, seeing PJ’s name flash across the screen.

“PJ, hey…”

“Bradley, you gotta help!” PJ’s voice was frantic. “He’s gone crazy, man! He just... he just punched his coach! The security guards took him away!”

Bradley’s heart hammered against his ribs. “What? What are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice tight with panic.

“Max just decked his boxing coach! The security guards had to drag him off the court.”

Bradley felt a cold wave of dread wash over him. “Oh, God,” he breathed, the letter he had been writing suddenly feeling meaningless. “PJ, listen to me. This is bad. The repercussions... they’re going to be severe. This is not something we can fix on our own.”

“What do we do?” PJ pleaded, his voice cracking with fear. “He’s in so much trouble.”

“Go check on him,” Bradley ordered, the panic in his voice giving way to a new, terrifying resolve. “Just make sure he’s okay. I need to consult someone stronger than you or me.”

“Who?” PJ asked, his voice full of confusion.

Bradley hung his head, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. “My dad,” he whispered, defeated.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley took a deep breath, the air thick with dread, before his finger hovered over a contact he hadn’t touched in a while. He pressed it, putting the phone to his ear, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Hello, Bradley,” his father’s voice answered, gruff and distant.

“Hi, Dad. Uh, listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” Bradley said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m listening,” his father replied, that familiar tone in his voice, the one that expected nothing but disappointment.

“I have a favor to ask,” Bradley began, his voice tight.

A humorless chuckle echoed through the phone. “Of course. You only call when you need something. Never mind I never got to see you or hear from you ever since your mother passed away.”

Bradley bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said, the words feeling inadequate. “I promise to visit soon. But, Dad, this is an emergency. Would you please listen to me?”

He heard his father’s long, weary sigh. “Go ahead,” he said. The simple words were a fragile, grudging truce, a temporary opening in a relationship that had been closed for far too long.

Bradley took a deep, shuddering breath. “Dad,” he began, “a friend of mine got into some trouble. He... he punched the campus boxing coach. He’ll most likely face suspension, maybe even be expelled.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“And why would that concern me?” his father’s voice cut through the silence, flat and without a hint of emotion.

Bradley’s heart hammered against his ribs. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Dad... this guy... he punched that coach because of me.”

“Did you tell him to punch him?” his father asked, the question sharp and to the point.

“No, but…”

“Then it’s not your problem,” his father interrupted, his tone chillingly final. “And more importantly, it isn’t not mine.”

“Dad, remember what happened at the College X-Games last year?” Bradley’s voice was tight with an urgency that broke through his father’s cold anger.

There was a long, disgruntled sigh on the other end of the line. “How could I forget?” his father’s voice was a low growl of pure disgust. “The shame you cost this family, dragging our name through the mud for losing against a freshman team. Not to mention the financial cost we had with your little spree of criminal activity during the games and the hospital costs to your victims. If it weren’t for the family lawyer, you’d have faced far more horrible consequences.”

A sigh escaped him, one filled with self-loathing. “Dad,” he tried again, his voice raw. “I hurt this guy. In ways you can’t imagine. I have to make it right.”

The line was quiet for a moment, and Bradley’s father let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “You’re always making a mess of things. This is your fault. So don’t expect me to fix this. You handle it.”

“Dad, please,” Bradley pleaded, the desperation raw in his voice. “I’ll do anything. Whatever you want, just help Max, please.”

The line went silent for a moment before his father’s voice, cold and uncompromising, cut through. “Drop the art club.”

“What?” Bradley stammered, his mind reeling.

“It’s a waste of time. You should be focused on your education and winning this year’s College X-Games.”

A painful lump formed in Bradley’s throat. “But I joined for Mom.”

“Your mother didn’t ask you to join that club,” his father said, his words like a slap. “She’s gone now. You need to focus on what matters.”

Anger, hot and fierce, swelled inside Bradley. “Forget it! I won’t do that!”

“Then say goodbye to your friend,” his father said, the finality chilling. “And maybe tell him not to hit a faculty member next time.”

Bradley bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. He thought of Max’s lost spark, his shattered confidence. He thought of his own sick games, the humiliation that had driven Max to this point. It was all his fault. Max wouldn’t have needed a boxing club if Bradley hadn’t messed him up.

A defeated sigh escaped him. “Fine,” he said, the word a bitter surrender. “I’ll give up the art club, but you have to help Max.”

“You made the right choice, Bradley.”

He ended the call without another word, a wave of resentment washing over him. The punishment felt fitting. He had used art as a tool of abuse against Max, and now the one thing he loved was being taken away from him. It was a perfect form of justice.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley stood outside Mona’s dorm room. When the door opened, he found himself face to face with his business classmate Nora, her perfect blonde hair and bright smile did nothing to improve his mood.

“Hey, Bradley,” she said cheerfully.

“Hi, Nora,” he replied with a tired nod, his eyes searching past her. “Is Mona here?”

Nora’s smile shifted into a smug grin. “In the shower. But since you’re here, I gotta ask, where have you been? I’m already a quarter of the way through my Capstone Course project. I was sure you’d be neck and neck with me by now.” She laughed lightly, a competitive gleam in her eyes. “Seriously, I’m already analyzing the company’s financial statements and creating a SWOT analysis. What’s your angle? A supply chain pivot? A complete rebrand?”

Bradley’s mind went blank. The Capstone Course, the comprehensive project that was supposed to define his senior year, hadn’t crossed his mind in weeks. Ever since he had imposed the contract on Max, his time and mental energy had been consumed by their five o’clock rituals, by new mortifying ideas for poses and paintings. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe his creative pursuits had pulled him away from the real game, from the competition he was supposed to be winning against Nora.

He sighed, the fight gone from his voice. “I haven’t really been thinking about it,” he admitted.

Nora’s face fell. She was a fiercely competitive A-student who thrived on intellectual rivalry, and without a worthy opponent like Bradley, the class suddenly would seem far less interesting. “What? Seriously?” she asked, her voice losing its edge. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re throwing in the towel already.”

“Who are you talking to, Nora?” Mona’s voice called from inside. She appeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her head and a long blue robe cinched at her waist. Her cheeks flushed when she saw Bradley. “Oh, hi, Bradley,” she said, her voice soft.

Bradley shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry for coming by. I called your phone, and you weren’t answering.”

“Yeah, I was… well, you can see.” She laughed, embarrassed, wrapping the robe tighter around herself. “What’s up?”

Bradley glanced at Nora, who was still standing in the doorway, listening intently. He felt uncomfortable talking about personal matters in front of her, but he needed to get back to his dad soon. After a sigh, he said, “I want to drop the art club. You’re the one who handles the sign-ups, right? I need you to take my name off the list.”

Mona’s expression immediately shifted smile to genuine disappointment. “Why?” she asked.

Bradley glanced at Nora again, but she still didn’t get the hint. “I’m falling behind in my classes and I need to make up for lost time.”

Nora’s face broke into a look of smug understanding, clearly thinking she’d finally pinned down exactly why he hadn’t been thinking about the Capstone Course.

“That’s too bad,” Mona said. “We’re gonna miss you in the club. Your ideas were always refreshing and creative.”

Bradley looked down, the compliment doing little to ease the hollow feeling in his stomach.

“I hope you’re not doing this because of me,” Mona added, her voice dropping. She blushed, a touch of embarrassment in her eyes. “I wasn’t exactly the warmest person to you in there. I know I was being cold.”

“No, it’s not you.” Bradley looked up, and then, without thinking, he blurted out, “Actually, I did it for Max.”

The second the words left his lips, Bradley bit his tongue. Damn it.

Nora’s head snapped up, her expression now a mix of intrigue and condescension. “Max?” she interjected. “The guy who had the seizure?”

Mona’s eyes went wide with alarm. “What’s wrong with Max?” she asked, her concern overriding her embarrassment.

Bradley sighed, knowing there was no turning back. “He kind of... hit his boxing coach, and he’s probably going to get expelled.”

“Oh, God!” Mona gasped.

“That guy sure has a lot of issues,” Nora scoffed, her tone judgmental. “Good thing you didn’t stay with him, Mona.”

A flash of anger surged through Bradley at Nora’s cold, callous remark. He felt a fierce, protective impulse rise up inside him. But Mona ignored her roommate, her gaze fixed on Bradley. “How is Max now? Where is he?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. Bradley could see that she was still in love with Max.

“Well,” Bradley began, “I talked to my dad. He said he’d convince the dean to keep Max on campus, on one condition: I had to drop the art club.”

Mona’s expression softened in a way that he hadn’t seen in a long time. She looked at him with the same sympathy she had when he’d opened up to her about his issues with his father while they were dating.

“Wow, the ultimate sacrifice,” Nora said sarcastically.

Mona just smiled gratefully to Bradley. “Thank you, Bradley. Thank you for being there for him.”

As he looked into her beautiful, caring eyes, he felt nothing but a hollow void. A sudden, jarring clarity washed over him: he wasn’t attracted to her at all. He realized he had only ever seen her as a trophy girlfriend, the perfect future wife who would please his mother. He hadn't truly loved her; he had just wanted the perfect woman to present to his mom. It had taken his session with Dr. Smith the day before to finally realize that his feelings had never been genuine, and that he had simply been going through the motions to fulfill a subconscious desire to make his mother happy.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley was halfway to the front door, a large file tucked under his arm, when a voice cut through the air behind him.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. MIA.”

He didn’t need to turn around to know it was James. He was lounging on the couch with Slouch and Chad, all three of them with stacks of beer, already well into their afternoon.

“Didn’t see you at practice yesterday, man,” James continued, chugging from his beer can. “What’s the deal? Still sticking to that dumb decision of yours?”

Bradley paused, a tired sigh escaping him. He knew better than to engage. He kept walking toward the exit.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” James called out, his voice sharper now. He stood up, a confrontational smirk on his face. “If you’re not even competing, maybe you should be leaving the Gamma house. No free ride for dudes who don’t contribute, you know?”

Bradley stopped, turning around slowly. A cold, flat stare was all he offered. “The only reason this Gamma house exists is me and my money, James,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “So I suggest you count your lucky stars, grab another beer, and get out of my way.”

As James’s smirk faltered, Slouch stood up, a look of genuine disappointment on his face. “Are you really not competing?” he asked, his voice softer, a world away from James’s aggression.

Bradley looked directly at Slouch, a flicker of something close to empathy in his eyes. “I’ve got my future to think about,” he said, his tone gentle, almost apologetic. “I don’t need distractions.”

That was when James moved in for the kill, his eyes narrowing with a cruel, satisfied glint. “What would daddy dearest think about this?” he sneered. “I’m sure he’d cut you out of his will. He lives for that X-Games win, and you’re just gonna walk away?”

Bradley simply glared at him, the anger returning ten times hotter, but he held it in. He just turned and walked out the door, letting it shut with a quiet click.

As he walked down the street, he thought about James’s words. Yes, his father would throw a fit. He would probably threaten to disown him. The X-Games were the key to his approval, the one thing that had the potential to erase the shame of the previous year. He had made a promise to give up the art club, but he’d said nothing about sticking with the X-Games.

He found the new lecture hall for Organizational Dynamics and stepped inside, the buzz of a hundred students echoing around him. He spotted Nora with a bunch of their classmates in the hall.

“What’s up, Bradley?” Nora greeted him with a sharp grin.

He just offered her a small smile. Without a word, he turned and walked into the massive lecture hall, twice the size of their previous classroom.

As he searched for an empty seat, he bumped into someone’s shoulder.

“Whoa, sorry.”

Bradley’s breath caught. That voice. He looked down, his gaze finding the figure in front of him. Max’s eyes were glued to Bradley’s sneakers. Slowly, hesitantly, he looked up, and their eyes locked. Max’s were wide with alarm, and Bradley’s were just as wide in a moment of shock.

It had been only a few days, but it felt like a lifetime since Bradley had been this close to him. He was mesmerized by Max’s handsome features, the familiar curve of his mouth, the intense darkness of his eyes. All he wanted was to kiss those lips, to hold him close, to feel his warmth. He missed him. He really did.

“You guys better sit down or the prof’s gonna get all up in our faces,” PJ said with a tight smile, his eyes shooting daggers at Bradley as he firmly guided Max away, down into the lower rows of the lecture hall.

Bradley’s gaze didn’t leave them, noticing their friend Bobby also glaring at him as he followed the two. Bradley swallowed and shifted awkwardly, a sudden need for distance making his skin crawl. He backed away from the crowded area, finding an empty seat in the very last row, as far from Max as he could get.

Dr. Melton stepped to the front of the enormous lecture hall, a half-smile on his face. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Dr. Melton, and I’ll be co-teaching this course with Dr. Feldberg, whom many of you already know.”

He gestured to a smaller, more energetic man with a mop of unruly brown hair who bounded to the podium. Dr. Feldberg grinned at the class. “It’s great to see all of you again!” he said to his sophomore students, his voice as lively as Bradley remembered when he used to take his class. “Dr. Melton and I are thrilled to be combining forces for the next few weeks. As you know from my previous course, this is about understanding human behavior in the workplace. And Dr. Melton’s class focuses on how that behavior shapes an entire organization.”

Dr. Melton took over again, his demeanor more serious. “This course is the culmination of everything you’ve learned in the business program. We’re moving beyond theory and into application. You’ll be working in teams on a comprehensive case study, a real-world project that requires you to apply everything you’ve learned -finance, marketing, management, and strategy- to solve a complex business problem.”

“We’re looking for innovation, critical thinking, and a deep understanding of human factors,” Dr. Feldberg added, his eyes scanning the room. “The stakes are high. This is about proving you can not only understand the textbook but also function in a high-stakes, collaborative environment. Get ready to be challenged. This isn’t just a class; it’s a test of everything you’ve worked for.”

He paused, then smiled. “And if you work hard, it will be the most rewarding course of your entire degree.”

“Since this course is a unique combination of a senior class and a sophomore class,” Dr. Melton announced, his voice carrying through the immense lecture hall, “Dr. Feldberg and I have decided to team you up in pairs -one senior with one sophomore- to ensure a balanced and robust collaboration.”

A low murmur rippled through the students as Dr. Feldberg held up a long list, a sly smile on his face. “We’ve already done the hard part for you and paired everyone up. And a word of advice: don’t even think about trying to object. We’ve accounted for skill sets, personalities, and academic records. This isn’t just about the project; it’s about learning to work with different kinds of people.”

He cleared his throat and began reading the list. “Adam from the senior class with Tomas from the sophomore class. Nora from the senior class with Robert from the sophomore class.”

Suddenly, a hand shot up in the front row. “Whoa, hold up, prof!” Bobby shouted. “There are two Roberts in this class, ya know?”

Dr. Feldberg narrowed his eyes at him, a flicker of annoyance on his face. “I mean you, Mr. Zimmeruski. You’ll be working with Nora Carter.”

A look of absolute horror spread across Nora’s face. Her eyes went wide, and she looked at the professor as if he’d just handed her a death sentence. At the same time, Bobby’s face lit up. He pumped his fist in the air, hollering, “Yeah, baby!” He then leaned back in his seat and, with a perfectly executed, smooth motion, said in a terrible British accent, “Oh, behaaave!”

Bradley almost snickered, already feeling a pang of pity for poor Nora.

The names continued to be read, each pairing eliciting either a groan or a high-five. Bradley held his breath, the tension building with every name.

Then, he heard it.

“Bradley from the senior class with Maximillion from the sophomore class.”

Bradley’s heart dropped, a cold, sickening lurch in his stomach. Of all the sophomore kids, of all the people on this campus, they had stuck him with Max. He saw a flash of movement in the front row, a panicked look on Max’s face as his friends, PJ and Bobby, also reacted with alarm.

Max’s head snapped back, his eyes frantically searching the sea of faces in the lecture hall. Their gazes met, and a silent, terrible understanding passed between them. They both stared at each other in fear, a shared sense of dread, anticipating the chaos their pairing would undoubtedly bring.

Chapter Text

“Bradley from the senior class with Maximillion from the sophomore class.”

Max felt as though he’d been hit by his old high school bus. Ah, high school. Things were much simpler back then. Yes, he’d been ruthlessly bullied his freshman year, but the next three years had been a bliss he’d naively thought would continue in college. Fate, it seemed, had ditched him this year and left him to the dogs.

On either side of him, PJ and Bobby were freaking out, their low voices a panicked whirr. “Is this a sick joke?” PJ raged, his eyes wide.

“I’m sure Max can change partners,” Bobby said. “He can switch partners with you, though. I’m not giving up my senior queen.”

Max turned, his gaze sweeping over the displeased faces of students who had been mismatched and the thrilled expressions of those who had found a good partner. His eyes finally landed on Bradley, way back in the last row. The senior’s expression was as terrified as Max felt.

He hadn’t been alone in the same room with Bradley since his first seizure in the library days ago. The unwanted arousal symptoms had lessened to almost non-existence, a change he had attributed to keeping himself busy with studying and exercising. But what if the real reason his symptoms had stopped was that Bradley wasn’t around him anymore? What if working together meant they would flare up again, stronger than ever? What if he started getting more flashbacks and seizures? The thought alone was enough to make his head swim.

“Let’s go talk to Dr. Feldberg,” PJ said, grabbing Max’s hand.

“I’ll do it,” Max said firmly, pulling his hand back.

“Let me come with you,” PJ insisted, blocking his way as Max tried to shuffle out from the tight space between the long desk and his connected chair.

Max glared at him, frustration welling up in his gut. “No. It’s my problem. I don’t need you to fight my battles.” With a swift, forceful shove, he pushed PJ’s shoulder. The motion wasn’t violent, but it was a clear demand for space. PJ stumbled back a step, a look of stunned surprise on his face as Max finally broke free from the row and walked away.

He strode toward the two professors, his heart hammering in his chest. He stopped in front of his class’s professor and said, “Dr. Feldberg, I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, Max?”

“I’d like to change partners, if that’s okay,” he said, his gaze darting between the two old men hesitantly.

Dr. Feldberg’s expression was calm. “We did say earlier that there would be no objections.”

“Yeah, I know, but I... I just don’t get along with Bradley.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Dr. Melton, the seniors’ professor, interjected. “Mr. Uppercrust is an excellent student of mine, and Dr. Feldberg specifically asked me to choose the brightest student in class to be your partner, as you’ve been struggling with the material throughout the semester.”

“But I’m not the same slacker I was!” Max insisted, a note of desperation in his voice. “I’ve gotten better. You can ask my other professors.”

Dr. Feldberg’s gentle tone was worse than any anger. “Max, since the beginning of the semester, your work has been lacking. I’m sure you’re going to benefit from Mr. Uppercrust. It’s for your own good, son.”

Max felt his chest tighten. He hated when people thought they knew what was best for him better than himself. Loathed being seen as a problem to be solved. That look, that blend of pity and concern, made him feel like a helpless child.

Nora suddenly appeared, her voice cutting through the air like a siren. “Oh, Dr. Melton, pleeease don’t pair me up with that stoner. I’d die! I can’t let Bradley Uppercrust get an easy win!”

Dr. Melton sighed. “Nora, you and Bradley are on equal footing. You’re both my best students, and we paired you with the least achieving students in Dr. Feldberg’s class.” He glanced at Max with a soft, dismissive look. “No offense, son.”

Nora’s eyes finally landed on Max. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, straightening up. “Well, at least my partner won’t be having any meltdowns or seizures on me.”

The words were a sharp sting to Max’s chest. He felt the blood rush to his face, his body tensing with embarrassment.

Nora’s eyes widened as she registered what she had just said. “Oh, sorry, sometimes I can be a little callous. I’m really sorry.”

Max just nodded and turned away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt Bradley’s eyes on him from the back of the lecture hall. He must have known Max was trying get out of their partnership. An overwhelming urge seized him to scream at everyone that the only reason he was having seizures and losing his temper was because of the guy they’d just partnered him with.

Max walked dejectedly back to his friends. PJ jumped to his feet, his face full of anticipation. “What’d he say?”

Max just shook his head.

“Let me talk to him,” PJ said, starting to move.

“Peej, don’t, please,” Max pleaded, stepping in front of him.

“Let’s just tell him what he did. That he tried to kill you last year.”

Bobby chimed in, “And that you’re seeing a shrink because of him.”

“No!” Max snapped. “We’re not telling them about any of the crap Bradley did.” He then turned his glare on Bobby. “And I’m NOT seeing a shrink.”

Bobby slumped in his chair, mumbling, “Well, you should.”

“And you should too,” Max retorted angrily, “because apparently you and I are the dumbest sophomores here, that’s why they paired us up with the Einsteins.”

Bobby perked up. “The future Mrs. Zimmeruski is a wiz? Sweet!”

Dr. Melton clapped his hands to silence the disgruntled students discussing their pairings. “Now that you’re all paired up, every student should sit next to their partner.”

Max groaned and glared at the ceiling.

PJ looked at him in sympathy. “Try not to sit too close to him.”

A sudden scent of musty socks and aged potato chips wafted through the air as a new student plopped down heavily beside PJ. He hoisted his beat-up sneakers onto the desk with a loud thump and gave a slow, lazy nod. His half-closed eyes barely visible beneath a curtain of long, stringy hair. With a faded band t-shirt and baggy sweatpants, he gave off a general aura of being somewhere else entirely.

“Hey, man,” he mumbled, shoveling a fistful of chips into his mouth before nonchalantly wiping his greasy hand on the front of his shirt. He then leaned back and offered a final, serene nod to PJ. “Cool vibe.” It was like looking at a younger Leo from That ‘70s Show.

PJ’s face paled. “Don’t tell me they paired us together!”

“What’s up, my man,” Bobby said, leaning in. “You got a name, or should I just call you Spicolli?”

The guy cracked a slow grin. “Josef,” he said. “And yeah, you can call me Spicolli if you want. It’s cool. We’re all just, like, passing through, you know? What are we even doing here?”

PJ’s eyes bulged, and he shot a desperate look at Max, but Bobby just laughed. “Ha! I like him! He’s my kind of guy.”

Max mouthed “good luck” to PJ and then headed up the steps toward the back of the lecture hall. He spotted Bradley in the last row, his shoulders all hunched forward. Max slid into the empty seat on the end, leaving a huge amount of space between them.

His eyes darted to Bradley, who was wearing a dark, expensive-looking jacket. He was all bent over his notebook, shoulders super stiff, his face an unreadable mask of discomfort. The king of cool looked just as awkward and ill at ease as Max felt. Max’s eyes lingered for a second, checking out Bradley’s tense jaw and his rigid posture.

What could being this close to him would do? He’d been so proud of the progress he’d made, how the seizures and flashbacks had eased up, but he knew how fragile his peace was. Now, with Bradley just six textbooks away, he was petrified that all his old symptoms would flare up again, even worse than before, right there in front of everyone.

Max’s gaze drifted toward the front row. He spotted PJ already pulling a slow retreat from Josef with a look on his face that was a dead ringer for Max’s current mood. A few seats over, Bobby seemed to be in a state of pure bliss. He lifted his glasses with a little flourish and wiggled his eyebrows in what he probably thought was a seductive gesture. In return, Nora was a picture of pure horror, her face a pale shade of green, looking like she was seconds away from puking.

A low murmur of conversation started up among the students as Dr. Feldberg and Dr. Melton took their places at the front of the room. Dr. Feldberg clapped his hands for attention. “Settle down, everyone! Dr. Melton and I have a few words to say about your new project.”

Dr. Melton stepped forward. “As you know, our two classes, Senior Organizational Dynamics and Sophomore Organizational Behavior, are collaborating for this project. We’re calling it the ‘Synergy Solution.’ Your objective is to analyze a real-world case study of a corporation undergoing a major restructuring. Seniors, you will focus on the macro-level ‘dynamics’ of this transition: leadership roles, change management, and conflict resolution. Sophomores, you will focus on the micro-level ‘behavioral’ aspects: individual motivation, group communication, and morale.”

The professors spoke for what felt like an eternity, their words a muffled echo in Max’s ears. All his attention was focused inward. He felt like he was on display, a specimen under a microscope, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was staring, judging, just waiting for him to break. He kept his gaze fixed on the empty space on his desk, avoiding even a glance at the figure beside him.

The two professors stepped away from the podium, leaving a low hum of conversations in their wake as students began to discuss the project.

He felt Bradley inching closer, and his insides began to coil with a mix of dread and a terrible, familiar hunger. “So,” Bradley said, his voice a little too casual, a little too loud, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between them. “The Synergy Solution. Sounds… complicated, right?”

Max didn’t move. He kept his head down, staring at the blank notebook page in front of him. The sound of Bradley’s voice sent a jolt of alarm through his body. He felt the familiar, unwelcome tingling at the back of his neck.

“Look, I know this is a bad situation,” Bradley continued, his voice softening, a clear attempt at a conversational tone. “But we just have to get through it. We could meet up, maybe… I don’t know, tomorrow? At the library?”

His chest tightened into a hard knot, and Max finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were cold, flat, giving nothing away. He didn’t say a word, just fixed Bradley with a stare that made it crystal clear he wanted nothing to do with him. The casual smile on Bradley’s face withered, and his shoulders slumped a little. He tried to meet Max’s gaze, but Max’s stare was a solid, silent force, a wall of pure rejection that said everything without a single syllable. Bradley finally got the memo and slid back to his original spot. He went back to his notebook, shoulders stiff with tension, the laid-back act completely gone. The heavy silence returned, this time heavier with a new layer of embarrassment and a feeling of being completely shut down.

The power dynamic, for the first time, had flipped. A weird buzz started up inside Max, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the sudden heat spreading through him. He glanced at Bradley’s slumped shoulders and bowed head. He wasn’t calling the shots anymore. It was Max. This new vibe in their relationship was giving him a rush he didn’t even know he craved. It was a sick kind of high, watching the guy who used to control his every move now taking orders from him. It was a thrill he’d never experienced before, a dark, satisfying little secret that was all his.

“We only talk about the project,” Max said, the words a cold, unwavering demand. “Nothing else. You don’t ask me anything about my life, and I won’t ask about yours. You respect my space, and we get this done. Understood?”

Bradley’s head snapped up, and his eyes, usually sharp and smug, were now sober and dead serious, staring straight at Max. He didn’t argue, didn’t even try to negotiate or make a case for himself. He just gave a quiet, firm nod. This immediate and unconditional acceptance of Max’s terms was the first real sign of his remorse, an admission that he had to play by Max’s rules now, no questions asked. For the first time all day, Max felt the tight, gnawing knot in his chest let go just a little bit. It wasn’t a feeling of comfort, not even close. But it was pure control, and for now, that was all he needed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Day one after joining class with the seniors, the three musketeers were heading toward the library to work on the project with their assigned partners. Max really wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Bradley today, and PJ’s overprotectiveness was getting on his nerves. He even had the nerve to call Max out on his “broke-ness” because he didn’t have a cellphone like most students at the dawn of the millennium. A guy without a cellphone in 2001? The horror! Max had to throw it in his face that PJ’s own phone was a freebie from Bradley, the devil himself. Bobby didn’t even have one either.

Their argument stopped cold when Bobby himself froze at the entrance of the library. His gaze was locked on the blonde across the room who was furiously scribbling in a notebook.

Max watched as a slow, Cheshire-cat grin spread across Bobby’s face. He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and began what he clearly believed was the most irresistible walk in the history of human courtship. Each step was an exaggerated glide, his hips swaying like a loose hula hoop, his arms swinging a little too freely.

Nora saw him coming. Her eyes went wide, and she tried to hide behind her giant, elegantly designed folder. Bobby, oblivious, finally arrived at the table.

“Hey, babe.” He leaned against the table, a lopsided smile on his face. “Ready to get groovy with this paper? My vibe’s totally in sync with your... uh... whatever.” He gestured vaguely at her pile of books and papers for the project.

Max and PJ exchanged a glance, their hands flying to their faces to hide their uncontrollable laughter. The snickering died in PJ’s throat when he spotted his partner lounging at one of the library tables. The dude looked like he’d been teleported directly from a hazy basement in 1977.

“Hey, man,” Josef said, his voice a low, raspy drawl that sounded like it was coming from a great distance. He gestured languidly with his hand toward a chair across from him. “Like, why don’t you get your cosmic dust over here and help me vibe with these books, you know?”

PJ turned to Max, his expression a desperate plea for help. “If I started smelling like marijuana,” he said, his voice full of dread, “would you please tell me so Vicki can write a dramatic haiku about my descent into depravity?”

Max snorted, trying to suppress a grin. “Dude, if you started smelling like marijuana, we’d be having a party.”

PJ’s face was a study in disgust. “You’ve started to sound just like Bobby,” he grumbled, dragging his legs over to the table where Josef’s shoeless feet were propped right up on a half-eaten bag of chips.

“Max?”

He turned around. It was his dad’s girlfriend, Sylvia Marpole. She smiled warmly as she approached him and gave him a quick hug.

“Hi, Sylvia.” Max returned her hug. “How was the cruise?”

“It was fantastic,” she replied with a laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Your dad was hilarious. At the buffet, he ate some bad shrimp and started making these weird faces, his cheeks all puffed out, and he started to waddle around like a penguin!”

“That’s my dad,” Max said with a tight smile.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Sylvia opened her purse and then offered him a weird, fish-shaped thing. “Here, a cruise gift from your dad.”

Max frowned at the bizarre, shiny object and then met Sylvia’s gaze. “It’s a pocketknife,” she explained. “Your dad says it’ll remind you of the perfect cast.”

A soft smile came to Max’s lips as heartwarming memories of a simpler time flooded his mind. That summer road trip he’d been forced to go to with his dad. If he could turn back time, he’d have appreciated that trip so much more.

“So, are we studying for finals already?” she asked, her gaze sweeping over the books and files he was carrying.

Max shook his head, the pocketknife already in his pocket. “I wish. I’m here to meet my partner for this huge class project.”

“Well, if you need any help, you know where to find me.” She started walking away, but then stopped and said, “And call your dad. You have no idea how much your calls light up his day.”

“Will do,” Max promised, his mind already turning to his dreaded search for his own project partner.

A knot of dread tightened in Max’s stomach. He stood in the library doorway, watching the room fill up from a safe distance. He’d mentally prepped for this, practiced his walk, his words, the exact way he’d avoid making eye contact. But all that prep was no match for the gut-punch of reality. Across the room, at a big table littered with books and papers, sat Bradley.

Max took a deep breath and started walking. Bradley didn’t look up, his head bent over a textbook, a pen tapping against his temple. An open laptop sat on the table next to the books, a clear symbol of the financial divide that made Max feel even more broke as he patted the measly change in his pocket.

With his heart hammering a frantic beat against his ribs, he stared at the oblivious Bradley, who was completely focused on the textbook. He imagined the conversation: the awkward pleasantries, the forced small talk, the moment Bradley might actually look at him and all of Max’s carefully constructed walls would crumble. But that wasn’t the plan. The plan was the rule, the one he’d laid down just yesterday, a lifeline he clung to in a sea of emotional chaos: “We only talk about the project.”

Max reached the table and slid into the chair opposite Bradley. The squeak of the chair on the linoleum felt loud enough for Bradley to look up. He gave a brief nod, but didn’t say anything. Max didn’t either. The silence wasn’t tense; it was a neutral space, a sterile vacuum where emotion couldn’t survive. It was, Max realized, a fragile sense of comfort. He could exist here, in this pocket of the library, without his body going into full-on fight-or-flight mode.

As Max’s gaze drifted from the table to the guy across from him, he stared at Bradley’s brown hair, neatly styled but with a few strands that had fallen over his forehead as he worked, the handsome features of his face, the serious set of his jaw as he concentrated. A familiar, unwanted warmth began to spread through his body, a deep-seated arousal that had plagued him for months. It was the same feeling that had accompanied his panic attacks, the unfulfilled, agonizing longing that came from Bradley’s constant sexual abuse, from the long, humiliating hours in the motel room. His mind screamed at him to stop, to focus on the task at hand, the project, but his body was getting a mind of its own.

Why was he still attracted to him? Was this what months of being kept naked and touched, of endless kissing sessions and fondling, had done to him? Had his mind been rewired to respond to the man who had mistreated him?

They settled into their work. Bradley was handling the organizational dynamics part, while Max was assigned the behavioral aspects. Their interaction was all business, purely transactional and professional. Max slid a piece of paper across the table. “You done with the Q3 report?”

Bradley shook his head and gestured to a highlighted paragraph in a textbook. “Nah, I need to finish this section on change management.”

They passed notes, pointed to things in their books, and talked about project logistics in clipped, efficient sentences. Max found a strange rhythm in it. It was like working with a highly intelligent, slightly intimidating robot. There was no risk of a stray comment, no danger of a loaded question. He could focus on the words on the page, and for a few blessed hours, not on the phantom pain of the past, even as the unwanted feelings in his body continued to simmer.

“The case study says the company is struggling with employee morale,” Max said, his voice flat. He pointed to a line in a case study. “They implemented a new incentive program, but it failed.”

Bradley leaned in, his shoulder briefly brushing the edge of Max’s hand. Max’s entire body tensed, a Pavlovian response he couldn’t control. A shiver ran down his spine, half fear and half something else entirely. Bradley didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a low, thoughtful hum. “It’s a top-down model. Incentives rarely work unless there’s buy-in from the ground up.” He pointed to a chapter on transformational leadership. “They needed to inspire, not just bribe.”

Max found himself nodding, almost against his will.

They worked for another hour, a silent collaboration of two people who, under different circumstances, would have never spoken again. Max scribbled notes on a piece of paper, outlining the psychological principles behind employee motivation. Bradley, on his side of the table, was typing out bullet points and creating flowcharts.

Then, suddenly, the laptop screen flickered with a pop-up error message. The document Bradley had been working on had crashed.

“Are you kidding me?” Bradley muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Max asked, his heart sinking.

Bradley pointed at the screen. “Don’t worry. I think I just found the backup.” He clicked a few keys, his fingers flying across the keyboard. The screen went black, then flickered back to life. A single, shared document was there. It was a blank page.

“Shit,” Bradley groaned. “I was working on the wrong file the entire time.”

Max stared at the empty screen, then at the pile of highlighted books, then at Bradley’s face. A slow, incredulous laugh bubbled up from his chest and erupted into a full, genuine laugh.

Bradley’s lips quirked up into a half-smile, a ghost of a grin that he quickly tried to suppress.

Max just shook his head, still laughing. The laughter felt like a release, a small, fragile moment of normalcy in a life that had been anything but. For a fleeting second, the past didn’t exist. There were just two students looking at a blank screen and a wasted afternoon.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A few days had passed since their first meeting, and the fragile truce they’d established was holding. On the surface, their interaction was efficient, almost robotic. Max would point to a line in a printed case study, and Bradley would confirm with a simple nod or a clipped reply. The raw tension from their first encounter had given way to a neutral, unsettling quiet. Yet, beneath this veneer of normalcy, something complex and agonizing was building inside Max.

He watched Bradley’s fingers move across the keyboard of his Dell Inspiron 8100 laptop, swift and purposeful, and felt an insidious, unwanted warmth stir within him.

He despised the way his pulse jumped when Bradley’s arm moved, the way his breath hitched when their eyes met, a fleeting moment of contact that was quickly broken. His body had become a puppet to a twisted past. He was repulsed by his own thoughts, by the humiliating truth that he felt drawn to the man who had broken him. The memories of Bradley’s hands on his skin, the endless, enticing sessions of touch and grope in that bleak motel room, were now tangled with this new, profound sense of desire. He wanted Bradley with a desperate, shameful longing that made his stomach churn with sickness.

“This report,” Max began, his voice barely a whisper. He gestured with a pen to a section on a printed sheet. “The quantitative results... they’re confusing.”

Bradley leaned over, his head tilted. The sharp, clean scent of his cologne filled Max’s nostrils. It was an instant trigger, pulling him back to the motel’s stale air and the smell of that same cologne on the sheets. He suppressed a shudder.

Bradley pointed a finger at a specific graph on the document. “I think the data is skewed,” he murmured. His voice was a low, smooth tone that sent a shiver down Max’s spine. “The metrics don’t align with the interviews. Where are my notes?”

They both reached for the loose-leaf page with Bradley’s handwritten notes. Their fingers met. The contact was brief, a glancing press of fingertips. But for Max, it felt like a powerful current, a jolt of pure shock that shot up his arm and settled in his gut. His blood rushed, a frantic, thrumming beat. His entire body stiffened, and without his permission, began to respond with an embarrassing erection.

Bradley pulled his hand away as if burned. A faint crimson washed over his cheeks. He placed his hand flat on the table. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice even lower than before.

Max watched him, taking in the slight downturn of Bradley’s mouth, the way his shoulders tensed. This version of Bradley was nothing like the guy he’d been before spring break. The person he saw now was a hollow imitation, a clear result of therapy and a desperate attempt to make amends. The competitive, selfish, narcissistic guy he used to be was long gone.

But could Max forget, though? He thought he could, before the flashbacks started, before the aftermath of what happened between them began to return in the form of seizures and panic attacks. He wished he could just hate him and move on, wished for a karma judge who would sentence Bradley to hours of nakedness and humiliation, to forced sessions of kissing and groping, to having pictures taken and being made to live in never-ending fear that those pictures would get leaked.

But karma judges were as mythical as griffins, you know, the powerful symbols of justice. Because there was no justice in wanting to jump the guy who made you hate yourself more than anything. Max wanted nothing at the moment but to get it on with Bradley at this very table. Talk about pathetic. A sick, pathetic loser.

With a sigh, he brought out the pocketknife his dad got him. It had sort of become his stress ball. He liked pressing on the fins and feeling the cold silver in his hand, something to hold onto when his world felt like it was spinning out of control.

A new voice suddenly cut through the silence. PJ lumbered over, a half-eaten granola bar in one hand. “Hey there, hard workers,” he announced, his voice a little too loud for the setting. He looked deliberately at Max. “Everything okay?”

Max managed a strained smile. He gave a slight shrug, trying to hide the terrible bulge in his pants. “Just grinding on this project,” he mumbled, already used to PJ’s sudden check-ins to make sure Bradley was behaving himself.

With a pointed stare at Bradley, PJ nodded. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Max narrowed his eyes at him. “Where’d you get that, Peej? Your new buddy Josef?” He glanced at what was left of the granola bar.

PJ stuffed the rest in his mouth, gave him the finger guns with a knowing look, and ambled away.

“What’s all that about?” Bradley asked with a laugh.

Max pressed on his stress fish pocketknife. “Just PJ being his usual overbearing, overprotective self.” He shook his head and gave a wry smile. “It’s what I hate most about him.”

Bradley’s expression became wistful. “It’s nice to have a person who cares that much.”

Feeling a heavy weight on his chest, Max rubbed the cool metal of his fish again.

“What’s that?” Bradley asked.

“A pocketknife. A cruise souvenir from my dad.”

“I’ve noticed it but said nothing because of the no-talking-outside-the-project rule,” Bradley said with a smirk.

Max frowned. “Which you’ve violated in a big way. Better get with the program.”

Bradley chuckled but nodded in agreement.

Damn, that smile. Max’s entire being screamed with a shameful need. He picked up his pen, but his hand trembled. He was a mess of horny chaos. The paper in front of him, covered in notes and lines, seemed to blur before his eyes. His mind raced, his blood roared, and his body thrummed with a burning, unwanted hunger. If only Bradley looked like Jabba the Hutt. Now that was a turn-off. A powerful, half-digested oatmeal pudding. Would that make him Princess Leia? Bradley did force him to wear that skimpy outfit for one of his early paintings and did chain him to the foot of the bed. Now that was a memory he did not want to revisit.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Flipping his fish pocketknife in the air and catching it, Max was lying on his bed, half-listening to the complaining going on in the room. PJ and Bobby, sprawled across their beds, were in full-on whine mode, detailing the horrors of their project partners to a long-suffering Tina.

“He doesn’t do a thing,” PJ complained, throwing an arm over his face. “He just gives speeches about the spiritual energy of writing utensils while I’m doing all the work.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Bobby countered, his voice a low, gravelly drone. “Nora’s a total buzzkill. She told me I smell like ‘unwashed dreams.’ What does that even mean?”

Perched on Max’s desk chair, Tina just shook her head, a strained smile on her face.

Max’s mind was a million miles away at that library table. He was stuck in a fever dream of brown hair, a serious jawline, and a quiet, sober look of acknowledgment. He remembered the brief touch, the shock that had run through his body, and the terrible, shameful desire that had followed. Beneath the thin fabric of his jeans, he felt himself get hard. The feeling of being betrayed by his own biology was a familiar loop of self-loathing.

“I think I’m gonna light up,” PJ said, his voice bringing Max back to the present. “I already smell like a dispensary anyway.” He slipped down from the top bunk and began rummaging through Bobby’s nightstand drawer. His hand disappeared into the clutter, then froze. He pulled out a small, foil-wrapped packet, his eyes wide.

“Dude,” PJ said, his voice barely a whisper. He held the packet up, staring at Bobby in disbelief. “Condoms? You really think you have a shot with Nora Carter?”

“Hey, you never know, man,” Bobby said with a serene smile. “It’s about being prepared for the cosmic flow. It’s like a good vibe insurance policy.”

A flash of hurt crossed Tina’s face, a detail no one noticed but Max. She stood up abruptly, grabbing her gym bag. “Okay, that’s my cue. I’m going to practice. This is too much.”

“She’s right,” PJ said, shoving the packet back into the drawer. “We should all go. Max, you comin’?”

Max looked at PJ, and then his gaze fell on Bobby’s nightstand drawer. “Yeah,” he said, standing up. “I’m coming.” He waited until all three exited the room before he walked over to the nightstand, slid the drawer open, and snatched one of the foil packets. He shoved it in his pocket and then followed them out with his skateboard.

~*~*~*~*

It was getting late, but the library was still whirring with a shared excitement that had replaced their usual tension. Max and Bradley were hunched over the laptop, talking animatedly about their project, their voices low but charged with energy.

“The whole structure falls apart if the people in it don’t buy into the system. You have to understand the mind before you can build the machine,” Max insisted, pointing at the screen.

Bradley’s eyes widened, and a flicker of genuine admiration crossed his face. “Whoa,” he said with a playful smirk. “When did you get all Bill Gates?”

“Must be all that deep thinking without a cellphone,” Max shot back, a wry smile on his lips.

Bradley chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’ve noticed you in class. You’ve been getting on Nora’s nerves; she hates being outsmarted.”

Max’s smile widened. “She made a crass comment about me to the professors. Getting shown up by a sophomore? She had it coming,” he replied, the words dripping with satisfaction.

Just then, Bradley’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and sighed. “Well, that’s your babysitter wondering when you’re getting back to the dorm.”

Max rolled his eyes, a small wave of annoyance washing over him. “If it were up to him he’d give me a curfew.”

Bradley smiled, typing a quick reply on his phone. “He’s just worried about you,” he clarified, his voice holding a subtle warmth.

“Great. I finally escaped my dad’s overbearing clinginess, now PJ’s my own personal helicopter parent.”

Max knew exactly why PJ was all worried. He was on his own with Bradley in the empty library. The last time this had happened Max had ended up on the floor with an actual seizure. But things were different now. Ever since Max had laid down the law, Bradley was actually sticking to the script. Max hadn’t experienced a seizure or even a flashback for two whole weeks. He used to think that was probably because his head was finally getting back in the game, focusing on his studies instead of his panic.

But the real reason was that Max, for the first time, was the one running the show. He was the one calling all the shots: what they talked about, when to start and when to peace out for the day, and who did what. It was all in Max’s hands. Bradley had zero say in it, and that power, that control, was a major mind trip that was getting him all kinds of worked up. It was making him horny in a way that just wasn’t right.

He snuck a look at Bradley, who was typing up what Max had scribbled on a piece of paper. The way his blue eyes would snap from the page to the laptop screen, the way his talented fingers flew across the keyboard, those fingers that used to work wonders on his body.

The heat was crawling up inside him. His mind went back to those hands that had been on him constantly, that mouth that never seemed to leave his, that nose that would just inhale the scent of his hair like Max was some kind of irresistible joint.

The library was silent. Max scanned the rows of towering bookshelves, confirming that they were completely alone. He stood up, his movements slow and cautious, and gently took Bradley’s hands from the laptop keyboard. Blue eyes gazed up at him in a flash of confusion that quickly twisted into terror as Max swung a leg over Bradley’s lap. In one fluid motion, he was on the older boy’s lap, straddling him, their faces just inches apart.

Bradley stared up at him, shell-shocked. The unexpected intimacy of the position, groin to groin, made his cheeks flush. Max looked down, his hands settling on Bradley’s tense shoulders, his thumbs tracing slow circles.

“Do you want me, Brad?” he whispered, his voice a low, seductive hum.

Bradley tensed, his hands clamping down on Max’s wrists. “Max, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said tightly.

Max leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the flushed cheek. “That doesn’t answer my question. Do you want me?”

He could feel the other boy’s breath hitch, the way his hands tightened on Max’s wrists. Bradley was trying to fight a war he had already lost.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

A small, knowing smile played on Max’s lips. He leaned in, nibbling gently on Bradley’s earlobe, and felt a shiver of pleasure as Bradley let out a soft moan. “I want you too,” Max whispered.

“Max, this isn’t good for you,” Bradley whispered back.

Max lifted a hand and gently cupped Bradley’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Wanna know what’s my biggest turn-off, Brad?” he said in a serious tone. “People thinking they know what’s best for me.”

He began to move, a slow, deliberate grind against Bradley’s lap. Bradley gasped, his face a mix of surprise and pleasure. Max leaned in, his lips brushing Bradley’s neck. “I think I know my own body better than anyone,” he breathed, his teeth gently nipping at the sensitive skin. “And right now, it wants to be inside yours.”

Bradley moaned as Max sucked and nibbled on his neck.

“Right here. In the library,” Max whispered.

A deep, guttural groan escaped Bradley’s lips. “God, Max,” he breathed.

A thrill coursed through Max as he watched the control that used to be Bradley’s forte begin to unravel. Was this what it felt like? This intoxicating power? Was this how Bradley felt when they were on Bobby’s bed? On the ramp? Up on the balcony of the dance club? The thrill of pushing someone right to the edge and watching them fall. As their eyes met, Max didn’t see a plea to stop, but a complete, beautiful surrender.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Max asked, his voice soft but firm. “You want me to take this all the way?”

There was desire in the blue eyes looking back at him, and a flicker of fear, the ingrained instinct to protect Max from what Bradley believed was reckless. But Max knew something Bradley didn’t. The only cure he needed was to be in control, to be the one in charge of what happened to his body. This wasn’t just about lust; it was about reclaiming himself.

He leaned in, his forehead resting against Bradley’s, and asked again, “Do you want me to?”

Hesitation clouded Bradley’s eyes, even as the undeniable yearning was plain to see. Max could feel Bradley’s hard-on pressing against his groin, and the soft, ragged sound of his breathing right by his lips. Bradley wanted him, that much was clear, but Max wasn’t going to move unless he got a clear sign.

Swallowing hard, Bradley’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

A slow smile crept across Max’s face. He slid his hips forward, a move that made Bradley’s hands instantly find his waist. Max’s hands went to cup Bradley’s face, his thumbs stroking his cheeks. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing Bradley’s in a soft, teasing caress before he deepened the kiss. Their mouths opened, tongues tangling in a desperate dance. Max’s arms wrapped around Bradley’s neck as the kiss grew more demanding, his hips thrusting against Bradley’s erection, earning soft moans of contentment in return.

Max’s hands slid from Bradley’s neck to his shoulders, then down his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. A pair of hands came up to help, their movements a little shaky, and together they worked to pull the fabric from his shoulders. As the shirt hit the floor, Max pulled off his own red T-shirt, tossing it aside with a careless flick of his wrist. He stood, looking down at the other boy, who remained seated. The overhead lights cast a soft glow on his bare chest, highlighting the tension in his shoulders and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Max felt a thrill course through him, a mix of anticipation and desire, as he watched the other boy’s gaze move from his chest to his own wide, searching eyes.

“Take off your pants,” Max ordered, his voice low and firm.

Bradley’s eyes locked with his, and without a word, he obeyed, his hands working quickly to unbutton his jeans before they pooled around his ankles. He stood naked, the overhead lights of the library casting a soft glow on his exposed skin. Max’s gaze swept over him, a hungry, possessive look. The power of the moment coursed through him, a jolt of pure exhilaration. He had him right where he wanted him.

“Under the table,” Max commanded, gesturing to the space beneath the large, wooden table. The other boy knelt, then lay down.

A thrill raced through Max as he the absolute obedience in every move. He quickly unbuckled his pants, retrieving a condom from his pocket before stripping off his jeans. Without a moment’s hesitation, Max joined Bradley on the floor, sliding under the table to meet him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Foreheads pressed against each other, arms wrapped around each other, Max was sprawled on top of Bradley, their heavy breaths mingling in the quiet air. The weight of his body felt different now, no longer a burden of need but an imposing presence. He felt Bradley’s heart still hammering against his chest, a frantic beat that slowly began to calm. A smirk played on his lips as he stared into Bradley’s eyes, a deep, content blue that now held an intoxicating glint of pure lust. The air under the library table was thick with the scent of sex and old paper, a combination Max found intoxicating and a perfect fit for his new Oracle persona.

“So, what’s it like?” Max whispered. “Being the humble servant of a broke college kid?”

Bradley let out a soft laugh. “It’s got its perks,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Turns out the pay is pretty good.”

“Right,” Max scoffed, a playful roll of his eyes. “And all I had to do was ask. I thought your kind was into a little more domination.”

“My kind?” Bradley’s brow arched, a wicked glint in his eyes. “You think you’re so tough just because you can land a kickflip?”

“It’s a start,” Max said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Bradley’s lips. The lingering buzz of their recent encounter made the moment feel electric. “Besides, you’re the one who was begging for it.”

“Hey!” Bradley said with a mock-offended gasp, but his smirk gave him away. “I did not beg. I politely consented after being properly courted.”

“Properly courted?” Max pulled back, feigning offense. “Is that what they call screwing these days? Times have changed.”

Bradley just laughed and shifted slightly, and Max felt Bradley’s hard-on against him again. “I think you’re doing just fine, Master.” he whispered. “Do you think we can properly court again?”

Max’s smirk returned, a satisfied, confident smile. He leaned in, his eyes locking with the other boy’s. “Of course,” he murmured, his voice a promise. “But this time, I’m taking your socks off first. I’m not that easy.”

Bradley let out a genuine, carefree laugh, his eyes sparkling as he gazed up at Max. “God, I love you.”

The words hung in the air, a bell tolling a familiar, terrifying sound. Time seemed to stop. The smile that had been on Max’s face felt like it shattered and fell away. His vision went blank, the dim light under the table fading to a harsh, cold white. His ears began to sting with phantom whispers.

Poor PJ, wasting a day out with his girl to wait for a little slut like you.

You’re nothing. Less than nothing.

Nothing works with lowlifes like you but a whip.

You like modeling your junk to me, you little slut?

Got a new puppy. He loves it when I stroke him.

You’re here for my amusement. I can play with you whenever I want.

You don’t get to see me naked, Max. You’re not even worthy of breathing the same air as my bare skin, let alone having me inside you.

“Max? Max?”

The soft murmur broke through the haze. He snapped out of his trance, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down, his eyes refocusing on Bradley, who was still pinned to the floor. Max’s grip had gone bone-white, but he hadn’t noticed. Bradley’s face was a mask of concern, his blue eyes searching Max’s. A flicker of movement caught Max’s attention: a hand lifting from his side as if to touch his cheek, only to stop midway, fingers curling back. He remembered the boundaries.

“Don’t ever say that,” Max whispered, his voice thick and raw with suppressed emotion.

“Don’t ever say what?” Bradley asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I love you?”

“Don’t mock me, Brad,” Max snapped. He loosened his grip on the other boy’s wrists and pushed himself up, but didn’t move away. “Don’t say lies you think I want to hear.”

“It’s not a lie, Max. I really…”

“You don’t. Okay? You don’t,” Max cut him off, his hands shooting up to block his ears. He felt a wave of nausea. His head spun with flashes of that old rusty bed, the chains, the canvases, the shackles, and the dog collar. He pushed himself away, sitting on the wooden floor, the chill shocking his bare skin. He shook his head hard, repeating, “You don’t. You don’t.”

“I do!” Bradley insisted, sitting up and grabbing Max’s wrists, lowering them down. He looked intensely into his eyes.

“Why? How?” Max challenged, his voice cracking.

Bradley just stared, letting go of Max’s hands.

“You see, you don’t have an answer. You just feel guilty, and you want to make yourself feel better.”

“Max,” Bradley said, his voice laced with sadness.

“There’s no way anyone would love this mess.” Max gestured at himself, letting out a humorless laugh. “That’s why I don’t want anyone knowing about anything that went on between us. If they knew, they’d want nothing to do with me. No one. Not my friends. Not my dad.”

“Your dad? Max, your dad will never hate you if he...”

“I hate me!” Max snapped, the words a desperate, choked confession. He lowered his gaze, staring at his pathetic naked body. “I hate the whore I became. No one would love this slut.” He closed his eyes, his breathing ragged. “A pathetic little slut... Look at me. After everything you did, I still want you. How sick and disgusting is that?” He opened his eyes, staring at Bradley with a desperate, self-loathing gaze. “I still want you, Brad! I want to kiss you right now, I want to touch you and hold you and fuck you... You’re the only one I think about.” His shoulders slumped in defeat. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome, like PJ had said.

Bradley’s expression was one of genuine pain. He reached up again, this time tentatively touching Max’s jawline. His thumb stroked Max’s skin, a small, comforting gesture. “I want you, too, Max,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “All the things you said... I want you to kiss me and touch me and hold me and fuck me.” He let out a shaky breath, a wry smile finally returning to his face. “Man, I just let you dominate me and it was the hottest shit ever.”

Max stared at him, his face a mixture of disbelief and hesitation. “It was?”

“Are you kidding?” Bradley’s smile widened. He didn’t move his hand from Max’s face. “If you wrote your own contract, I’d sign it in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t mind a round two right now, in the middle of the library, with the hottest man on campus.”

The face before him etched with genuine, open emotion. Max didn’t see disgust in his eyes, but a desperate, unwavering desire. He wasn’t being pitied. He was being wanted. It was an overwhelming thought, so terrifying that all the anger and self-hatred just fell away. The next thing he knew, Max had launched himself forward, closing the distance between them. He crashed his lips against Bradley’s, a fierce, desperate kiss that was part hunger, part relief. He held on as if Bradley were a lifeline, his hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. In the force of the kiss, Max wasn’t just craving pleasure; he was clinging to the words that had just been spoken. The words that told him he was wanted, even though Bradley had seen him in his most pathetic, even though he’d exposed him for the dirty little slut he was, he still wanted him. Every inch of his body was screaming that this was real, that this was something he didn’t have to earn, that this was an acceptance he would never find with anyone else.

Max broke the kiss, gazing into Bradley’s glazed eyes. “On the floor,” he commanded, his voice low and firm.

Bradley’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, Master,” he said playfully, and he immediately went down, obedient and willing, waiting for him.

Max smirked. “I don’t have another condom.”

“Well, that’s just rude,” Bradley quipped, a wry smile on his face. “I thought you were a planner. What kind of master doesn’t have a contingency plan?”

Max chuckled and leaned over him, pinning his arms over his head. “This master just likes a little spontaneity,” he whispered, his smirk widening. Then he kissed him hard, and Bradley’s laughter was muffled by Max’s lips.

“Max?”

They both froze. Terrified eyes staring at each other.

It was PJ.

Chapter Text

Max's lips were a furious demand against his, and Bradley moaned into the kiss, his hips instinctively pushing up. He felt the soft, yielding skin of Max's body against his own, the intoxicating scent of him, the heat burning from their bare skin. The thrill of it all, the risk, the stolen moment, the raw, unapologetic lust, was a high unlike any other. They were two bodies lost in a secret world under a dusty library table, with only the hushed silence of the vast room above them and their clothes scattered on the floor.

“Max?”

PJ’s voice cut through the air like a knife, and everything froze. The world went from an electric canvas to a colorless photograph. Their lips parted, and Bradley stared into Max’s terrified gaze. He could feel the tremor in the body above his, the way his breath hitched, the anxiety that was already starting to spiral into a full-blown panic. Bradley saw the blank fear and understood he had to be the one to act.

He pushed Max's body aside, the warmth leaving him in an instant. He scrambled on his hands and knees, grabbing blindly for their scattered clothes on the dark floor. The only light was a dim, golden glow from the reading lamp on the table above them. He glanced right and left and saw no one. Siezing the moment, he grabbed their clothes, their boxer shorts tangled with Max’s jeans, a sneaker half-buried under a textbook. He motioned to Max frantically to move. Still dazed, Max crawled out from under the table, and Bradley, grabbing his hand, pulled him along, heading to the furthest section of the library.

“Max?” PJ called again, his voice closer this time, and Bradley and Max ducked behind a giant bookshelf filled with old, leather-bound books.

They started to hastily pull on their clothes. Max tried to pull his jeans on and fell over, struggling to get a leg through. Bradley was hopping on one leg, trying to pull up his boxer shorts, and lost his balance, tumbling backward into a low-hanging plant.

Max, still on the floor, stifled a choked, breathless laugh, his fear momentarily forgotten. He covered his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing out loud, his shoulders shaking.

“Quiet!” Bradley hissed with a frustrated slap to Max's arm.

Just as Max got control of himself, a new sound cut through the silence, a terrible, piercing ring that echoed through the empty library. It was the distinct sound of a cell phone.

"Relax," Bradley mouthed to a paralyzed Max. It was his phone on the table where they had been working.

"Max?" PJ called again, his voice closer now, and the sound of his footsteps made Bradley's heart pound against his ribs. They were a pathetic sight, half-dressed and looking like two lunatics who had just crawled out of a hole.

Bradley gestured to Max towards the exit, and they began to crawl, staying low to the ground and keeping to the shadows of the bookshelves.

They were almost at the exit when they saw PJ, standing at their table, Bradley’s ringing phone in his hand, a look of frantic concern on his face. He was staring at their scattered books and papers, and his gaze was fixed on Bradley's laptop, which had gone into sleep mode.

Just then, the phone stopped ringing. The sudden silence was deafening, and a bead of sweat trickled down Bradley’s neck. He reached for Max’s hand and squeezed a silent command to stay put. Glancing at PJ again, he saw his hands now sifting through their books and papers on the table.

He pressed Max's hand, giving a silent signal, and they began to move, staying low, their half-dressed bodies hugging the shadows of the shelves. They moved like hunted prey, a silent, frantic crawl on the cold wooden floor. Max’s jeans were still half-off, dragging behind him, and Bradley’s boxer shorts were bunched up on his thighs.

They slithered past the fiction section. Bradley risked a quick glance back. PJ was at the end of the aisle, looking straight at their former hiding spot. His gaze lingered for a moment, and Bradley's heart stopped. But then, as if an invisible hand had guided him, PJ’s head whipped to the left, searching another aisle.

They were almost there. The grand doors of the library were in sight. They scrambled to their feet, grabbing Max’s abandoned shoes and their shirts. With one last, terrified glance at PJ’s back, they burst through the doors and into the cool night air. The freedom was a rush, and Max, without a moment's hesitation, grabbed Bradley’s hand. “Run!” he gasped, his eyes bright with a mix of fear and exhilaration.

They sprinted, their bare feet pounding against the floor, their clothes clutched in their free hands. Max's laughter was a choked, breathless sound as they ran, and Bradley couldn't help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of the situation. They only stopped when they reached a vending machine.

Still laughing, Max dug into his pocket. His fingers were shaking as he pulled out a handful of crumpled bills and coins. He fumbled with the change, stuffing them into the slot with a frantic energy. A single quarter slipped from his grasp and rolled under the machine. Max swore under his breath, but didn't bother to chase it. He punched a few buttons, and two Pepsis and a handful of chocolate bars and chips tumbled into the collection bin.

Bradley smirked, taking a Pepsi and a chocolate bar. He leaned against the machine, his breath still coming in gasps. "Sex and dessert," he said, taking a bite of the chocolate. "You spoil me, master."

Max grinned back, popping the top off his Pepsi. "Yeah, well, someone's gotta make sure you're properly fueled for our study sessions." He straightened up, his eyes twinkling. "Alright, let's walk back casually. PJ's probably right on the verge of calling a search party."

They started walking back to the library. PJ was standing at the doors, Bradley's phone clutched in his hand and his face a mask of frantic concern.

"There you are!" PJ said, relief warring with anger in his voice. "Where were you?" He looked at Max, his concern deepening. "Are you alright? What happened?"

Max rolled his eyes. "Relax, Dad. We were just getting some snacks." He held up his Pepsi as proof.

PJ's eyes darted from Max to Bradley, a suspicious look on his face. "That's it? You guys just disappeared to get a Pepsi?"

Max nodded, taking a long drink, and Bradley could see the corner of his mouth twitching as he fought to keep a straight face. He was trying his hardest not to crack.

PJ sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of frustration. "I'm heading to the dorms. Don't be late. And for God’s sake, Uppercrust, take your phone with you next time!"

Bradley accepted his phone back and watched him leave, a slow smile spreading across his face. He looked at Max, who was still trying to stifle a laugh. "He's got you on a tight leash."

"Yeah," Max muttered, "It’s fun, isn’t it?"

He started to laugh, and Bradley couldn't help but join in. "What?" Bradley asked, wiping a tear from his eye.

Max took another drink from his Pepsi, his eyes shining. "Man, that was fun." He raised his can in a toast. "Props for not getting busted."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The wooden cue stick felt familiar and balanced as Bradley lined up the perfect angle. He was giving Mona a thorough beating on the pool table. She responded with a hearty laugh, raising her hands. "Alright, alright, I yield! You’re showing no mercy," she declared.

Bradley smirked, the sharp click of the cue stick preceding the eight ball's smooth fall into the pocket. "I saved the mercy for when we were dating," he replied. "Now, it's strictly business."

She laughed again, clearly finding his competitive streak amusing.

He liked that they could joke about their past now. He finally understood he had never truly been in love with her; he had only been drawn to her because she was the "perfect" girl to introduce to his parents. With that pressure gone, their interactions had become easy and relaxed. They were, finally, just friends.

He lined up another shot, sinking it with a clean stroke. Mona made a sour loser face that made him laugh. “You’re being extra cutthroat today,” she complained.

"Gotta wrap up this game," he said, racking the remaining balls. "Max is coming over so we can work on our class project."

She smiled, shaking her head. "Nora's been in a foul mood all week, complaining that Max is just snatching up all the answers."

Bradley chuckled, nudging a stray ball with his foot. "He's been such a relentless Minkus lately that she barely gets a word in edgewise. If Nora doesn't step up her game, she's going to lose all her spotlight and become the new Shawn Hunter."

“A hot guy with a tragic backstory? Nora wishes,” Mona said.

Bradley grinned. “You got my Boy Meets World reference.”

“Duh,” she said. “It was my favorite show growing up.”

The friendly moment was broken by a grumble from the side of the table. James stood leaning against the wall. “Can’t believe you’re inviting the competition into the house,” he said flatly.

If only James knew that Max had spent more time in the Gamma house over spring break than his own dorm room. Bradley kept his face neutral, though, giving James a look. “Is there anything you want, James?”

“Yeah,” James said. “Can I borrow your camera? I need it for my photography class.”

“Sure,” Bradley said. “Once Max gets here, I’ll give it to you.”

As if on cue, the bell rang.

Mona rushed past Bradley with an eagerness that made his heart give a little twinge. He watched her open the door and his stomach tightened. The smile on her face was just a little too big, and her laugh as she greeted Max was too high-pitched, too genuine. It was a clear, unmistakable sign that she was still interested. If it ever got out that he and Max were sleeping together, it would be the kind of hurt he couldn’t stand to cause her. She still meant a lot to him, a friend he wouldn't want to lose.

"Hey, Nora’s been complaining about you," Mona said, turning from the door.

 “Is she now?” Max replied with a laugh.

 “She said it wasn't fair that Bradley got to work with a genius, while she was stuck with a clown.”

Max’s face was a study in pure shock and delight. “Did she really call me a genius?” he asked, a huge, goofy grin spreading across his face.

Just then, James cleared his throat with a loud, impatient rasp from across the common room. “Can we go now?” he urged, leveling a look of blatant hatred at Max. “I need that camera.”

Bradley let out a low sigh, gesturing for Max to follow him. As they walked past James and started up the stairs, Bradley could feel the heavy, hostile weight of James's stare fixed on Max's back. The tension thickened with every step they ascended.

They entered Bradley’s room, and Bradley hurried toward the closet, eager to retrieve the digital camera and end the confrontation.

"So," James's voice sliced through the silence of the bedroom. “Just hanging out here, Max?”

Max leaned against the doorframe, a small grin touching his lips. “Just getting to know the place,” he drawled. “I was kind of lost in the bedroom the first time I saw it, but I haven't really seen the rest of the house.”

Bradley stiffened, his hand grasping the camera box. He spun around, trying to interrupt them. “Got it,” he said quickly, pulling the camera out and stepping between the two.

But the moment had passed. James's eyes narrowed on Max, then flicked to Bradley, then back to Max again.

Bradley thrust the camera into James's hands. "We've got a lot of work to do," he said. "So, if you don't mind..."

James took the camera, his fingers cold where they briefly touched Bradley's. He didn't spare Bradley a glance; his gaze was still locked onto Max, now cold and penetrating.

“When was he here?” James hissed, his voice dangerously quiet.

Bradley watched the resentment in James’s eyes, the way his jaw was clenched, and a single, chilling thought came to him. If this was James’s reaction to knowing Max had simply been in the house, what would he do if he knew Max had worn the very polo shirt he was wearing right now?

“I tutored him during spring break,” Bradley replied.

“In your room?” James asked, incredulous.

“Since when do you get to question what I do, James?” Bradley shot back, his voice thick with anger. “I’m in charge here, not you.”

James stared at him in silent fury for a moment before turning on his heel and leaving. As soon as he was gone, the tension that had been a vise around Bradley’s chest finally released.

“Man, that guy is a tool,” Max muttered, gesturing back toward the door James had just closed.

“You can say that again,” Bradley replied, his voice a low grumble as he turned on his laptop.

“Whoa, you finished it,” Max said, his voice changing to one of genuine surprise. Bradley turned to see him checking the chart he'd drawn. "Looks perfect. See? It pays when you use your powers for good."

The words landed like a slap across Bradley’s face. The air in the room seemed to go cold, and for a fleeting moment, he hated Max for the comment. He’d been trying to change for the better, to shed the person he used to be, and in one careless phrase, Max had thrown all of it back in his face. The scorched, acrid smell of the burned canvases attacked his nose, and the memory came flooding back with brutal force; the past was always there, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

Max’s smile fell away, his face dropping with instant regret. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to…” he mumbled, but the apology felt hollow.

“I think you did,” Bradley said, the words coming out tight and hard.

Max looked down, ashamed. There was a flicker of malice in his earlier words, and Bradley saw it clearly now. It was a leftover from the boy who had been hurt, a casual act of revenge.

The tension in Bradley’s shoulders released a little. "Look, I don't blame you..." he began.

“No, that was in poor taste,” Max interrupted, his head still bowed. “I’m sorry, really.”

Bradley felt the anger drain out of him, replaced by a deep, hollow ache. “You don’t say sorry to me. Never say sorry to me.” He forced a shaky breath past the tightness in his throat.  “I don’t deserve your apology. Not after everything I did to you.”

Max’s hand went to his arm, scratching awkwardly as his gaze shifted to a random spot on the wall. A heavy weight settled on Bradley’s chest as he realized the full extent of the damage he’d caused to Max and to others before him, the people who ended up hurt, almost dead, because of his reckless, manipulative tactics.

He was finally making real progress with Dr. Smith, finally becoming the man he’d always wished his mother could have seen. The man he desperately wanted her to be proud of, and that thought hurt the most. He loved her so much and had always wanted to shine for her, and Dr. Smith had helped him understand that so many of his past mistakes were made to live up to his dad’s expectations and his mom’s idealized view of him.

“Should we just…?” Max started, still not looking at him.

“Yeah, we should,” Bradley said, already sitting down in his desk chair, the laptop screen a familiar glow in the dim light.

Max sat in the chair next to him, glancing at the neglected PC on the other desk. “You don’t use that one anymore?” he asked.

Clicking on their project file, Bradley answered, “Nah, not since I got the laptop. That old thing’s just for storage now.”

They settled into a quiet rhythm, the tension in the room slowly giving way to shared focus. Bradley pulled up their presentation file, a title slide for a business plan already in place. Max leaned in, and Bradley started to type in Max’s name, adding it to the title page. He pulled up PowerPoint and showed Max the slides they would be working on. "This is where we'll show our charts," Bradley said, and he clicked on the Paint application. "I'll do the drawings here, and we'll copy and paste them into the slides."

Most college students relied on overhead projectors and transparencies, or they used simple text and clip art for their PowerPoint presentations. The idea of drawing custom, detailed charts in a program like Paint, then seamlessly importing them into a presentation was a step above the standard. As they started to work, Bradley reached for his wire-rimmed glasses and put them on, the small gesture a sign of his complete focus.

He could feel Max’s eyes on him, making it hard to focus on resizing the chart. “Why are you staring at me?” he asked, his voice a little strained.

“I like you in glasses,” Max's earnest reply had blood rushing to Bradley’s cheeks. He looked to the right, and found Max gazing at him with an almost-worshipping look in his eyes.

Bradley kicked his leg in embarrassment. “Stop doing this.”

A lopsided smile spread across Max’s lips. He nodded toward the bed. “You want to…?”

Bradley stared at him, his mouth slightly ajar. “Really, Max? Glasses?”

Max leaned in closer, and the sudden proximity made Bradley’s whole body burn. “I wanna do my sexy nerd,” Max whispered, his breath warm on his skin. Now, Bradley’s whole body burned red.

He threw an unsure glance at the door. “But… the guys… and Mona… they’re all downstairs,” he hissed.

Two gloved hands reached up and gently felt the wire rims of the glasses as Max whispered so close to Bradley’s mouth. “Wouldn’t it make it more interesting? How hot would it be, me inside you, and you naked with nothing on but your glasses?”

Bradley felt a familiar, welcome hardness in his pants. “Wow, Max, you’re one kinky man.”

Max pulled back slightly, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I learned from the best.” The jab was a simple statement of fact, without any malice.

As the last words hung in the air, Bradley felt a shift in the mood. Max stood up, his gaze locked on Bradley's. “I’m going to take off your clothes,” Max whispered in a husky voice that sent a thrill down Bradley's spine. “One piece at a time. And you’re not going to do a thing about it.”

Bradley swallowed hard, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The thought of the Gammas and Mona downstairs was a flicker of apprehension, but knowing none of them would dare step into his room without asking permission first made him relax a bit.

Max’s hands went to the hem of Bradley’s maroon v-neck sweater, pulling it up slowly. The motion was careful, the fabric a soft whisper against Bradley’s skin as it slid over his torso, revealing the light blue collar shirt beneath. He unbuttoned the shirt one button at a time, his movements slow and methodical, each touch a spark that sent shivers through Bradley. As the shirt parted, Max’s fingers traced the outline of his pecs, a feather-light touch that made Bradley gasp.

When Max finally reached Bradley’s khakis, his hands slid over the button and zipper. Max's gloved fingers fumbled a bit, and a soft gasp escaped from his lips. Max’s eyes looked up, and Bradley saw that his face was etched with a desire that Bradley had always loved. “You’re beautiful,” Max whispered, his words a soft caress.

An overwhelming urge to kiss Max right then and there seized Bradley, but this time, he wasn’t in control. He didn’t get to choose what happened, or what was done to him. The helplessness was a haunting echo of the power he had wielded over Max, a cruel but perfect retribution for his mistakes. He closed his eyes and gave in, his will entirely surrendered to Max.

He watched him stand still for a moment, his gaze tracing every line of Bradley’s body, from the slope of his shoulders down to the curve of his hips. Bradley felt like a masterpiece in an art museum, a living sculpture of a man, and Max was determined to take in every detail. With a quiet grace, he slipped the gloves from his hands, letting them fall to the floor. He then came closer, his arms wrapping gently around Bradley’s waist, pulling him so their bodies were flush against each other. Bradley’s mouth was just inches from Max’s hair, and he yearned to breathe in that intoxicating scent. But he knew better than to make a move.

“Arms around my neck,” Max’s voice was a soft, husky command.

Bradley obeyed without hesitation, his arms wrapping around Max’s neck, pulling them even closer. The physical contact was electric, but he focused instead on the sensation of Max's hands on his skin, moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm up and down his back. Each touch was an exploring caress that made Bradley's skin prickle with goosebumps. He closed his eyes and savored the moment, the feeling of those hands, so tender and so sure, tracing a path of pure pleasure across his back.

Max pulled back, his arms still wrapped around Bradley's waist, and gazed up at him. The look in his eyes made Bradley’s entire body flush with heat. It was a look of raw craving, a look Bradley had often seen directed at him but never with this eager intensity before. It used to be accompanied with shame and vulnerability, but now the confidence and genuine desire made it irritable. It was doubly intoxicating because Max wanted this. It wasn't forced, and it wasn't about getting rid of his unwanted arousal. This was a Max who wanted him because he found him beautiful.

Bradley's fingers twitched, an old, familiar desire for his sketch pencils rising within him. He wished he could immortalize Max's brown eyes, the way they stared at him with such intense need, those lips that were now inching closer, yearning for his. The wait was unbearable.

He felt Max's breath on his lips, a soft whisper of anticipation, and then their mouths brushed. The moment they connected, Bradley's lips parted in an unspoken invitation. Max didn't hesitate, deepening the kiss.

Bradley let himself go, surrendering completely to the moment. He kissed him back, following Max as he led the dance. His tongue moved against Bradley's, a slow, sensual exploration that sent shivers through him. Max's hands tightened on his waist, pulling him so close their bodies were completely flush against each other. He had never been kissed this way before, not with this much hunger, this much emotion. All he could do was hold on tight and let Max take him wherever he wanted to go.

Breaking the kiss, Max pressed his nose against his catching his breath. He then took his hand and led him to the bed. Bradley lay there, the soft comforter cold against his bare body, nothing like the hard emotions swirling inside him. Max stood at the side of the bed, his dark eyes mesmerized, tracing the lines of Bradley’s body in a silent examination that made Bradley’s skin prickle with a mixture of yearning and unease.

Max climbed up after him, settling himself on top of Bradley. His signature red t-shirt and baggy pants felt like a strange barrier. He shifted his hips, a tentative, awkward motion that felt disconnected from the gravity of the moment. The motion felt odd and not authentic to the intensity of their gazes. Eventually, Max dropped his weight fully onto Bradley's chest and chuckled, the hot breath on Bradley's ear sending a jolt of pleasure and longing straight through him.

"This feels weird," Max confessed. "How were you able to stand it?"

Bradley hated when their minds circled back to that motel room, to the forced, sickening dynamic where he'd insisted on keeping his clothes on, a ridiculous need to maintain control and distance while forcing Max to be completely naked just to make him feel small and unworthy. He knew he couldn't fault Max for bringing it up; that whole appalling ordeal had spanned a long chunk of time and left a deep, complicated scar on them both.

"But then you were just trying to demean me," Max added, lifting his head to look at Bradley, a flicker of old pain darkening his expression. "I didn't actually turn you on."

"Believe me, I wanted to rip off my clothes so bad," Bradley whispered, the truth catching in his throat.

Max gave a sharp, incredulous chuckle, shaking his head against Bradley's pillow. "You don't have to say that."

"It's the truth," Bradley insisted.

"Yeah, now, I can see that now," Max conceded, his gaze tracing the outline of Bradley's shoulder. "But not back then."

"Max, I was head over heels attracted to you since before the contract," Bradley admitted, finally letting the full weight of the memory settle between them.

Max scoffed. "Bullshit."

"It was one of the reasons I did the contract," Bradley said, his voice dropping low, raw with old regret. "I wanted a reason to touch you and be with you without admitting, even to myself, that you're hot."

Max's gaze fell, fixing on Bradley's chest. His fingers began to toy with Bradley's nipple, a slow, mesmerizing friction that made Bradley want to groan and arch his back. The subtle pressure was an intense focus of pleasure, pulling him away from the painful conversation.

"Do you, uh, do you want to talk?" Bradley managed, struggling to keep his focus, "About... all of it."

Max stopped playing with Bradley's nipple. He looked back up, his dark eyes momentarily unreadable, considering the question. Then, suddenly, he sat up on Bradley's stomach. "No," he declared, a smile lighting his face. "I'd rather have sex."

He pulled his red t-shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and grinned down at Bradley, his chest already slick with a fine sheen of sweat. "Skin to skin is far more satisfying."

Bradley grinned back. "That's the best offer I've had all day."

Max stripped himself bare in three swift motions, flinging his shirt, then his pants and underwear, across the room. He descended, his face hovering mere inches above Bradley, whose entire focus was swallowed by the desperate intensity of those dark eyes. Max kissed him again, a long, famished exploration. Their lips met with a ragged urgency, groans caught and absorbed in the deep press of their mouths. Hands tangled wildly in hair, gripping tight on shoulders.

"Kinda wish James could see us now," Max muttered against Bradley's mouth.

Bradley choked out a laugh into the kiss, and this time, without a thought or an order, he wrapped his arms around Max, pulling him fiercely down into the bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max collapsed on top of Bradley, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. Bradley lay beneath him, satisfaction settling deep in his bones. It was a feeling of being filled, of being whole. He felt the soft tickle of Max’s hair against his nose, and a fierce, unexpected desire to just bury himself in it and inhale.

Max let out a small chuckle, his chest shaking against Bradley’s. “Go on you weirdo,” he said, sounding amused. “Sniff it if you want to.”

Bradley didn't need to be told twice. He buried his face in Max’s hair, inhaling deeply. It smelled of sweat and something uniquely Max. He closed his eyes and just breathed it in, a feeling of deep contentment washing over him.

Max laughed again and pushed himself up. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Bradley’s cheek. “You’re an eager puppy, aren’t you?” he said softly.

Bradley’s eyes flew open. He mock-glared at him and grabbed Max’s shoulders, pushing him back down. “I’m not done yet,” he growled playfully.

Max laughed again and snuggled against Bradley’s shoulder. Bradley wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer, and buried his nose in Max’s hair again. Feelings were bubbling up inside him, a messy, complicated mix of emotions. That small peck on the cheek, that gentle, affectionate gesture, was something he never expected.

Sex with Max before had always revolved entirely around Max. It was always about what Max needed, with Bradley merely serving as a tool to relieve his unwanted arousal. Afterward, Bradley would be left alone, once with a note instructing him to put the sheets into the laundry basket. The other time, he was literally abandoned on this very bed when Max was done with him and simply bolted out, not bothering stay a minute longer to put on his clothes. Even their time in the library was focused on Max’s need to dominate him.

Now, Max was hugging him back, snuggling into his shoulder. Bradley remembered how Max used to reject these intimate moments, calling “cuddling hour” a waste of his time and not part of the contract. He would often threaten to leave, throwing the contract in Bradley's face.

This time, Max was affectionate. He wasn't just staying; he was present. He didn't bolt for the door the second they were done. Was it possible Max was starting to feel something for him? Bradley had always known Max was physically attracted to him, but he never believed Max could be interested in Bradley, the person. In a cruel irony, Max had always looked down on him, the person, deeming him unworthy of love.

“Without your pathetic little blackmail scheme, I wouldn’t be here. No one wants to be with you voluntarily. You’re just a miserable, lonely, friendless little rich boy.”

The memory of Max’s cruel words, a verbal assault from their past, had always stung. Now, they left a deep wound. Bradley’s body went still, the truth of it settling over him like a shroud. The Gammas were just followers, not friends. Even Tank, who had been his buddy since high school, wasn't truly close anymore. He was alone. The only real friend he’d ever had was his mother, and she was gone. Bradley’s arms tightened around Max, no longer smelling his hair. He suddenly understood how much he longed for a genuine connection, for that special person his mom had wanted him to find. She must have known that without her, he’d be completely alone.

Max looked up. “Why did you stop?”

Bradley blinked, his vision foggy.

“Are you okay?” Max whispered, his eyebrows furrowed.

He forced a smile, a hollow mask of an expression. “I just yawned,” he lied, his voice thick with emotion.

Max’s expression softened. “Nap time it is,” he said quietly, laying his head back on Bradley's shoulder.

Bradley held him tighter, a new wave of tears welling up in his eyes. He squeezed Max close, fighting a quiet sob from escaping his lips when Max, without a word, hugged him back just as fiercely.

If only Max could truly believe that he loved him. Maybe then, Max would actually love him back.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“…. The thing is, I can't even ask him. And I wouldn't blame him if this whole thing was just physical. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he hates me and just wants to get even. But it's not like that. He told me once that he's a better man than I am, and I think he's right. He's never forced me to do anything I wasn't comfortable with, and he can be so affectionate sometimes. It just messes with my head. Does he even like me? Would it be crazy if he did, after everything I put him through? I don't think it's possible, but he keeps coming back, and he wants me, and I want him. But I want more. I want him to love me. I want us to be more than just sex. So, what do you think I should do?”

Dr. Smith regarded him with an expression that was both concerned and stern. “Bradley, a session with me is meant for you to be honest with yourself, so let's be honest. Your actions have been reckless. You should have stayed away from X. You are damaging yourself and him in the process.”

Bradley defended himself weakly. "We were paired together in class against our will. He tried to get out of it, but our professors refused."

“If X tried to get out of it, then he clearly didn’t want to be partners with you,” Dr. Smith replied, his tone surprisingly sharp. “Why didn't you talk to your professor and persuade him?”

“He wouldn’t listen. Even my classmate Nora, who's the professor’s pet, was denied her request to change partners.”

Dr. Smith’s voice became even colder. “And the sex in the library and your bedroom? I don’t suppose the professors assigned that, too.”

Bradley was shocked. Dr. Smith had always been calm and collected, never judgmental, even when Bradley had confessed the horrible things he’d done to Max in the past.

“You’re not following through on any of the goals I asked you to,” Dr. Smith continued. “Have you even written that apology letter?”

Bradley looked down, embarrassed.

“Bradley, do you want to get better or not?”

“I do,” Bradley whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Then you have to be stronger,” Dr. Smith stated firmly. “You have to stop giving in to your urges. And you have to start working on that letter.”

~*~*~*~*~

Playing with his pencil during class, Bradley wasn’t paying attention to Dr. Melton’s lecture. Unlike his partner, who was so eager to answer every single question. Max was buzzing with excitement as he kept rasing his hand to answer.

“All right Mr. Goof,” Dr. Melton began, his gaze landing on Max in the back row. "In the context of power dynamics, how would you describe the difference between positional and personal power?"

Before Max could even open his mouth, a blonde head at the front of the hall shot up. “Positional power is derived from one's role or title, like a manager,” Nora answered confidently, her voice clear and precise. “Personal power, on the other hand, comes from individual traits, like charisma or expertise.”

“Yes, excellent, Ms. Carter,” Dr. Feldberg said, nodding. He looked back at Max with a slight smirk. “Any additions, Mr. Goof?”

Max leaned forward. "Positional power is only temporary," he said, and before Nora could add anything else, he continued, "It's a temporary position that can be stripped from you, making it insecure. Personal power is permanent, and it’s the only power that can stand the test of time."

A quiet "Ooh" rippled through the class. Nora’s head snapped around in annoyance. Bobby leaned over. "Whoa, that was a sick burn, Nora." He might dig her, but his loyalty would always be with his buddy Max.

Dr. Melton simply smiled. “A sharp distinction. Well done, Mr. Goof.”

Nora wasn't done, though. “But isn't it true that personal power can often be manipulative? It relies on emotional influence, whereas positional power is more structured and transparent.”

Max let out a short, scoffing laugh. “Manipulation is a tool, but it has nothing to do with personal power. In fact, if you need to manipulate people to get your way, then you don’t have personal power at all. You’re just a bully.”

The class went silent. Nora’s face was now a deep crimson. Bradley just stared at Max, completely mesmerized. He was brilliant, and Bradley felt himself falling completely in love.

Dr. Feldberg clapped his hands together. “Mr. Goof, I must say I’m thoroughly impressed with your improvement. You've been reading the material and coming up with some excellent arguments. Kudos.”

Max's face broke into a huge grin. He turned and elbowed Bradley playfully. “Told you I was smart.”

Bradley smiled back at him, his heart twisting with a mixture of love and sadness. He remembered all the horrible things he used to say to him, that he was dumb, that he was academically challenged. Seeing Max so proud and happy, thriving in this environment, broke his heart just a little. He wished he could go back and erase all the pain he had caused.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley lay in bed, the memory of Max’s genuine happiness earlier that day amplifying the quiet pain of Dr. Smith’s words. The professor's praise, the pure joy on Max's face, it all made it clearer than ever that their toxic history was doing neither of them any good. The more Max opened up and the more Bradley's feelings grew, the more he realized the deep-seated issues that still existed between them.

With a weary sigh, Bradley turned to his side, still feeling Max elbowing him in class. “Told you I was smart.” Max was always smart; Bradley remembered seeing him last year, taking notes in class, doing well in tests. There was also that time he was studying while simultaneously practicing skateboarding, truly hitting two birds with one stone. He only ever struggled with math, which was hardly reason to call him dumb. Bradley's heart tightened with a familiar shame as he recalled the day after the carnival, how viciously he had drilled it into Max that he was stupid.

That day, Bradley was absolutely convinced Max wouldn't show up at the motel room. Not after the way Max had broken down in bed, forced into the ultimate humiliation. The memory haunted Bradley all night: Max's shoulders shaking as he tried to hide his face, the stifled sobs of sheer hurt and degradation he was desperate to keep out of Bradley's ears. It twisted Bradley’s heart to realize he was capable of such cruelty.

The last thing he’d expected when he walked into the motel room was to find Max already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, naked and looking straight at him. Bradley’s gaze swiftly drifted to Max’s clothes folded neatly on the chair, unlike the usual crumbled pile he’d leave them in. Max had arrived much earlier than him, which was a first; Bradley was always the one who arrived initially.

Bradley’s eyes locked onto Max's gaze. He was there. The sight of him, waiting for him, sent a shockwave of relief through Bradley, and he found himself surging forward, crashing into Max. They tumbled backward with a grunt, landing hard on the bed. Bradley kissed him with the fierce, consuming enthusiasm of a man who had just been sure he was about to lose the only good thing in his colorless life. He devoured Max’s mouth, desperate to take in the feeling of certainty, of being wanted, that the contact promised.

But the certainty dissolved instantly. Max wasn't kissing back; he was rigid, his hands pressing flat and unyielding against Bradley’s chest. Bradley stopped, panting, and looked down. The face beneath him was passive, devoid of passion or desire, just the same dull, empty stare Max had worn before he’d walked out yesterday.

"Bradley," Max muttered. "Could we not do this today? I'm just here to do the pose and leave."

A nauseating wave of rejection made Bradley's chest tighten. He swallowed. "Why?"

"It’s none of your business why," Max snapped with a harsh edge in his voice. "All I ever agreed to was to pose. None of what’s going on here is part of the deal."

Indignant anger and wounded pride spiked in Bradley. His hand shot down, finding and gripping Max’s member. "I know how to make you change your mind, Max," he threatened, his voice a low growl.

Before his fingers could tighten, Max let out a grunt of effort and flung Bradley off him, sending him sprawling to the other side of the mattress.

Max stood up, his eyes hollow as they fixed on Bradley. “Pick a pose and let’s get this over with,” he mumbled, the words flat.

Bradley felt a familiar, sickening clench of pain in his chest. The entire point of this arrangement was to break Max down, to capture his humiliation, and here he was: broken, lifeless, a compliant mannequin for his art. Yet, to Bradley’s own crushing dismay, he realized his artistic muse had become secondary. He hadn’t been interested in capturing Max’s vulnerability as much as he was in simply being physically close to him, to feel him, to kiss him, to touch him. Max’s reluctant willingness to go along with Bradley's sexual whims had only fueled his addiction to him.

He knew he’d pushed too far yesterday: the dildo, ordering Max to thrust for an hour. Max’s chilly rejection today was the direct fallout, and Bradley desperately needed to fix it. His pathetic need to be with Max, buried in his arms, breathing in his scent, and feeling the certainty of his presence, was so overpowering it had consumed his thoughts entirely.

“Is this about yesterday?” Bradley asked, the question tight and raw, betraying the insecurity he felt.

Max’s eyes were just as wounded, filled with a deep, private distress that mirrored Bradley’s own. He shifted his weight. “I just need to get back to the dorms early.”

“Why?” Bradley pushed, already sliding off the bed. He crossed the short distance between them, seeing the tell-tale tightness of distress around Max’s eyes. He risked extending a hand, his fingertips making light contact with Max's arm. The warmth of his bare skin offered a small, hopeful sense of stability.

He was relieved when Max didn’t flinch, didn't pull away.

“They warned me I’m going to lose my scholarship,” Max whispered, his voice thin and slightly trembling. He still wouldn't meet Bradley’s gaze.

So, Max’s distress wasn’t about Bradley, it was something else entirely. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He was caught off guard when Max took a small, hesitant step closer, clearly seeking comfort. Without thinking, Bradley pulled him instinctively into his arms. Max sagged against him, resting his forehead against Bradley’s shoulder. This was the intimacy Bradley had hungered for: the close contact, Max's body pressed against his, the soft brush of his hair against Bradley’s cheek and ear, the enveloping heat of his skin.

“I thought your tuition was covered by a fund your dad set up,” he mumbled into the thick, dark hair.

“My dad could never have managed it,” Max confessed into the fabric of Bradley's shirt. “I got a partial sports scholarship, and he handled the small remainder.”

Bradley held him tighter, shutting his eyes and sinking into the physical reality of Max. His cheek rested against Max’s hair, taking in the fine, almost grassy smell of it. His hand shifted directly onto Max’s warm, bare back, allowing him to feel the defined ridge of his spine beneath the smooth skin as he rubbed slow, steady circles. Max’s soft exhale of breath against Bradley’s neck sent a shiver of raw tenderness through him, grounding him completely. He took a deep, steadying breath of Max's scent, clinging to the desperate, simple hope that this moment would…

Would what? Last? His gaze drifted over Max’s shoulder to the corner of the room. The sight of the blank canvas near the window, the cold metal chair bolted to the wall, and the box of chains and shackles peeking from the closet instantly shattered the illusion. The harsh reality of their transactional dynamic was still there, staring them down, scolding their tender embrace.

Bradley swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat. He shouldn’t be comforting Max. He shouldn't be helping the guy who had made him the campus joke, the one who’d snatched Mona from him, the person who had poisoned Tank against him. He shouldn’t be a source of solace; he should be a source of retribution. The intimacy soured instantly into a bitter, familiar taste of resentment.

Bradley’s tight grip on Max loosened, his arms falling away. He shoved Max back firmly, planting a hand on his bare chest to enforce the new distance. He met Max's shocked, dark eyes with a stare that had been stripped of all feeling.

"And you’re going back to your dorm why, exactly?" he asked, his voice flat and perfectly controlled.

Max frowned, suddenly looking small and exposed. "Uh, to study? Try to get my grades up?"

Bradley let out a short, scornful laugh. "Do you truly think that's going to work?" He let the question hang, watching the confusion cloud Max's features.

"No amount of studying is going to make you smart. You know what you're actually good at? You want to talk about thriving? The only time I’ve seen you look that focused and motivated was yesterday, when you were grinding against me with that dildo rammed into your ass."

Max wasn't looking at him. He simply stood there, naked, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of Bradley’s venom had physically crushed him.

Instead of releasing him, Bradley suddenly pulled Max tighter, his arms wrapping around the naked man. Max was too shocked to react, held fast against Bradley's clothed body. Bradley leaned in, his voice a low, possessive rasp against Max's ear.

"My beautiful slut."

Max immediately grew rigid, gritting his teeth. He pushed back against the suffocating embrace. "Stop calling me that."

Bradley tilted his head in a slow, patronizing movement. "But that’s who you are, isn't it?"

Max violently shook his head, a gesture of desperate denial. "No. You're forcing me to be here."

"And you like it," Bradley countered, a cruel certainty in his tone. "You can’t deny that rush."

"Yeah?" Max shot back, his voice rising, raw with indignation. "If it were up to me, I’d be through that door this second. I come every day because of the contract, not you. Because of your fucking blackmail, and nothing else."

The sharp sting of Max’s words ignited a vicious, wounded fury in Bradley. He shoved Max back and unleashed the calculated venom he’d been holding back. "You're a dull blade. The entire campus knows your grades are a pathetic joke, and now they're yanking your funding. Face it, Max: you were never smart enough for this place. You're just a pretty distraction with an expired shelf life."

He let his eyes rake over Max's body with deliberate contempt. "You think you're a big shot because you can pull a flawless 720 spin on a half-pipe, but even that pathetic talent has dried up. I haven’t seen you on a skateboard since I got back from my mother’s funeral. The only thing you're proving yourself useful for lately is being my obedient, slutty model."

He watched Max's glassy eyes and the intense effort the other boy put into keeping his lower lip from quivering. The sight made something internal and tight clench in Bradley's chest, a sudden, sickening echo of the pain he’d felt when he'd seen that same hollow look on Max's face after he’d spanked his ass red and was about to draw him in a degrading pose a week ago. He couldn’t do it that day, which he thought it was the effect of his mom’s journal. Her pure goodness influencing him. Now he realized, with a cold clarity that terrified him, that humiliating Max was no longer fun. It was just a brutal way to hurt himself.

The dark memory shattered, replaced by the present, and fat, stinging tears instantly flooded Bradley's eyes. The wave of crushing guilt broke over him as he buried his face into the bedsheets. Hard, ragged sobs tore from his chest as whimpered apologies into the damp fabric. "I'm sorry, Max. God, I'm so sorry."

He flipped the soaked pillow, dropping his head onto the cold, dry underside. Back then, he hadn't understood that the root of his cruelty was the terrified denial of his feelings, his escalating fear of admitting he was falling for Max. That devastating realization would only arrive days later, marking the true beginning of a new, desperate chapter: a life consumed by atoning for his actions. It led to burning the degrading canvases, letting Max use him for sex without question, pretending to be Max in therapy, and becoming Max's silent, unshakable rock during panic episodes. But none of it mattered. Nothing Bradley did, no gesture of respect or sacrifice, could ever erase those memories or stop them from savagely attacking his conscience.

A sudden, sharp series of knocks hammered on Bradley's door, yanking him violently out of the dark spiral of his memories. He choked back the final, ragged sobs and scrambled off the bed. His face felt hot, his eyes raw. He swiped a hand frantically across his wet cheeks, dragging in two quick, shaky breaths to stabilize his voice and expression. He could not let anyone see him like this.

He dragged the door open, forcing a loose, careless smile onto his face. Mona stood outside, already dressed in practice gear, her brow furrowed with immediate concern.

"Bradley? Are you alright? Your eyes are completely red."

He leaned against the doorframe, trying to project a casual indifference that contradicted the tremor in his hands. He shrugged easily. "Oh, that? Yeah, been doing a few blunts," he lied, hating how close the tremor was to his voice.

Mona's expression didn't entirely relax, but she accepted the cover story with a slight nod. "Oh. Well, we're heading over to the rink. The semi-finals are around the corner, so don't be late."

"Go ahead," Bradley said, waving a dismissive hand. "I’ll catch up with you. Just need a minute."

Mona hesitated, her concerned gaze lingering on his face for another beat before she finally sighed and pulled the door shut.

Once the door clicked shut, Bradley's false calm dissolved. He walked over to his bedside table and pulled open the drawer. Inside, beneath a stack of old papers, lay the unfinished apology letter. The pristine sheet of paper only held two words: Dear Max.

He stared at the unwritten confession, the things he couldn't bring himself to say. Instead of picking up the pen, he closed the drawer. He grabbed his sketchbook, tucked it under his arm, and retrieved his skateboard from the corner.

He turned and walked out the door.

Bradley sat on the worn grass at the edge of the skatepark. The Gammas and other teams carved lines across the ramps and ledges. He opened his sketchbook to a blank page and stared at it.

He hesitated, then wrote: Dear Max,

He paused again, his pen hovering. I don’t know where to begin, what happened between us… He read the words, grimaced, and furiously scratched out the last half of the sentence. He tried again: …what I did to you… He stopped, the pen frozen. The weight of his actions, the impossibility of capturing them in mere words, left him empty. The apology felt pathetic and inadequate before it even began.

Just as the familiar frustration began to coil in his gut, a flash of red caught his eye.

Max.

He was a vision on the ramp. Clad in his characteristic baggy pants that billowed with every move and his beloved red t-shirt that clung just enough when he twisted, Max moved with a primal, fluid grace. The helmet on his head seemed less like protection and more like a crown, accentuating the lean line of his neck.

Bradley’s breath hitched. Max launched himself into a grind, the board a natural extension of his feet, his body a supple arc of focused energy. The sunlight caught the sweat beading on his skin, making it gleam. As he turned, his hips swiveled with an unconscious, inherent sensuality, the fabric of his pants pulling taut across his thighs before releasing again. The way Max effortlessly caught air, the sheer joy that briefly, fiercely, lit his face as he defied gravity…

The pen dropped from Bradley's numb fingers. His gaze was riveted, an intense, possessive heat igniting in his chest. Max was dancing with a raw, magnetic force. This was Max at his most vital, his most captivating. Bradley’s hand reached, not for the pen, but for a charcoal stick. The "Dear Max" lay forgotten. He tore a fresh page, desperate to capture this physical poetry, to etch every curve of Max's focused form, every ripple of muscle, every defiant leap, onto the paper before the image, too, could slip away.

He remembered the rush he felt when Max called him beautiful. But Max was truly the stunning one, especially when he was in his element, fluid and effortless on his skateboard.

Bradley was lost in the frantic rhythm of his sketching, capturing the powerful tension in Max's legs as he powered into a ramp, when a shadow suddenly shielded the sun. He looked up, squinting, and saw PJ standing over him. He wore a helmet and was breathing heavily, his face slick with sweat from practice.

Bradley quickly slammed his sketchbook shut, a rush of guilt making his movements clumsy. "Hi, PJ," he said, his voice stiff.

The younger boy settled heavily onto the grass next to him, his eyes following Max, who was effortlessly carving a line across the bowl. "I was worried when Max started spending more time with you because of that class project," PJ admitted, the effort of saying the words clear in his strained voice. He obviously didn't trust Bradley. "I thought he’d relapse, or get worse again, but..." He paused, then looked back at Max moving skillfully and joyfully on the board. "I can see him now. He’s getting back to his old self."

He turned his full, intense gaze back to Bradley. "I think I’m getting my best friend back."

Bradley met the gaze, the sketchbook pressing cold against his thigh. He felt the weight of his earlier cruelty like a physical bruise. "I am never hurting Max again," he stated, his voice low and fiercely sincere. "He will always be safe with me."

PJ stared hard at him, clearly measuring the honesty of the promise. "I hope so," he finally said. He reached into the pocket of his shorts. "I guess you’d want this back?" He handed over the Nokia phone Bradley had bought for him.

"Keep it," Bradley insisted.

"I have no use for it now," PJ said, grabbing Bradley’s hand and placing the cold metal of the phone directly into his palm. "The only number stored in it is yours."

Bradley immediately pushed it back, trying to return it. "You never know. You may need it."

"I can buy my own phone, Brad," PJ said, stressing the hated nickname.

"Then buy it from me," Bradley challenged, shoving the phone back into the larger hand. "Why get rid of a perfectly good phone?"

They held the tense eye contact for a moment, the air thick with their unresolved, bitter history. PJ was also one of Bradley’s former victims; a year ago, at the College X-Games, Bradley had blasted him out of the competition, leaving PJ with his arm in a sling all summer. After a charged beat of silence, their gazes simultaneously drifted back to Max, soaring over the ramp.

~*~*~*~*~

Bradley and Max hunched over the glowing laptop, the only sound in the room the rapid clicking of the mouse. Bradley resized the last imported chart, dragging the corner until it snapped perfectly into place on the PowerPoint slide. He sat back, his finger hovering over the icon. With a final, satisfying click, he saved the file. The completed presentation stared back at them, reflecting hours of tense, collaborative work.

“We’re done,” he said, turning to Max with a smile that was both exhausted and triumphant.

Max stretched, letting out a groan of satisfaction. "Our presentation tomorrow is gonna kick ass thanks to your rich gadgets," he said, yawning hugely.

“And your brains,” Bradley countered with a smirk, knowing Max’s yawn would split into a wide, gap-toothed grin.

“I like it when you call me ‘brains’,” Max purred with a suggestive drawl.

Bradley's smile faltered, replaced by a sudden rush of anxiety. “Yeah, I know I was…” He swallowed. “I’m really sorry, Max, I was such a jerk…”

“Whoa, whoa,” Max interrupted with a smile, waving a hand. “Where’s this coming from? You were just saying I was the hottest Einstein you ever had.”

“Bigheaded much?” Bradley let out a laugh, and Max laughed, too. “No, I was talking about that time you told me about almost losing your scholarship, and that you needed to leave early to study. I said some very awful things to you. I was too scared back then to admit that I was actually…” he made sure not to say the word ‘love’ knowing how strongly Max felt about it, “… starting to like you and wanting to be there for you, so I lashed out in the most cowardly way. I’m really sorry, Max.”

Max stared at him, his gaze becoming wistful as if he were reflecting on that difficult day. “You know,” he whispered, “all I can really remember about that day was you letting me leave early. You canceled the pose/sketch session and cuddling hour and let me go at 4:30.”

Bradley clenched his jaw. After he had said those horrible things to Max, he’d watched his dejected look, how he had tried desperately not to cry in front of him, and realized then that hurting him was no longer enjoyable or even bearable. He’d told him on the spot to wear his clothes and leave. There were still a couple of cruel words thrown at him, but he did let him leave. Bradley remembered breaking that empty canvas that day and vowing never to give Max leeway again. Of course, that didn’t happen either. The next day, Bradley had been the one to encourage Max to practice skateboarding again, well, encouraged might be a misleading word, but he did push him to go out with his team and practice. Bradley remembered seeing him on the ramp that day, mesmerized by his graceful movements. He also remembered Max’s strong arm catching him before he fell off the ramp.

Snap!

Bradley blinked. Max’s fingers in front of his face.

“Earth to Mr. CEO,” Max said with a grin. “Where did you go?”

He hesitated for a long moment, the relief that he had been somewhat decent to Max on that horrible day warring with his inner conflict. He slowly slid open the top drawer of his desk, reached past a tangle of charging cables, and pulled out a single, white, sealed envelope.

Max stared at the envelope, then at Bradley, a confused frown creasing his forehead.

“It’s something I want you to have,” Bradley explained, his voice sounding oddly formal and tight. He held it out, his hand shaking slightly. “I... I put down everything I wish I could say. It's all in here.” He took a shallow breath, avoiding Max’s eyes. “You don’t have to open it right now. Or ever, even. I just... I need you to have this piece of me.”

Max took the envelope, turning it over in his hands as if it were dangerous. He didn't speak, but his brown eyes seemed to search Bradley’s face, as if trying to read the raw vulnerability he saw there. After a beat of silence that stretched Bradley's nerves, Max simply tucked the letter into the side pocket of his backpack, zipping it closed.

A loud, tired yawn escaped Max’s lips again. He didn’t look at Bradley again; he simply pushed off the desk and flung himself onto Bradley’s bed, burrowing into the pillows. The sudden, casual shift from intense emotional revelation to exhaustion was pure Max. "Five minutes," he mumbled into the covers, already drifting off to sleep.

Bradley couldn't help but smile down at him.

Max opened one eye, and then extended a hand toward him. “Wanna join me?”

Bradley paused, a playful skepticism crossing his face. “Aren’t you too tired to have sex?”

Max chuckled and shook his head, keeping his hand outstretched. “Not sex. Just… this. Lying together.”

Sudden warmth flooded Bradley's chest, chasing away the last remnants of anxiety. His breath hitched, it was the quietest, most vulnerable invitation Max had ever offered. He reached out and took Max’s inviting hand, allowing him to easily pull him down onto the soft mattress.

They settled in, lying side-by-side, their heads sinking into the shared pillow. Bradley turned his body toward Max, gazing at the beautiful, easy smile he was giving him. The exhaustion had pulled Max’s walls down, leaving a sleepy, tender twinkle in his brown eyes. It was genuine affection, and in that quiet moment, curled up next to Max, Bradley knew it was exactly what he wanted.

The comfortable moment was shattered by a sudden, jarring sound, Bradley’s phone ringing on the nightstand. He groaned, reaching for the intrusive device. His irritation spiked when he saw his dad’s name glaring on the screen. He slammed the phone back onto the nightstand, letting it continue to ring, the sound muffled by the pillow.

Max shifted, pulling slightly away. “Who is it?”

“My dad,” Bradley answered, his voice flat.

Max remained quiet for a long stretch of silence, their quiet intimacy now filled with the metallic sound of the unanswered phone.

Then Max spoke again. “Remember when you told me your dad was pushing you to the College X-Games, and your heart wasn’t really in it?” Max let the question hang in the air. “I figured that was a lie because…you know.”

The unspoken completion of that sentence hit Bradley with a fresh wave of guilt. That night he had led the conversation with a fragile story about his dad, purely as a way to manipulate Max into lowering his defenses. When he had brutally used Max’s skateboard in the scene of humiliation, tainting it for him. Then used it again during the qualifying rounds to make him lose.

Max finished his thought, his voice thoughtful. “I’m thinking now that it’s true?”

Bradley nodded.

Max turned his head on the pillow, meeting Bradley’s eyes. "Why don’t you talk to him?" he asked softly, gesturing toward the silent phone.

Bradley closed his eyes, the weight of his dad’s disapproval feeling as heavy as a lead blanket. He knew, in the deepest part of his gut, that most of his worst actions, from manufacturing the win at the previous College X-Games to the cruelty he’d inflicted on Max, were a direct result of this pressure. His dad had never approved of his "soft" side, the boy who loved art and was called a "mama’s boy." To survive in that environment, Bradley had felt he had to toughen up, to become a man cast in his father's ruthless, winning image.

He let out a short, miserable chuckle rooted in self-disgust. He was doing it again. Blaming his mistakes on his dad instead of taking responsibility. Dr. Smith would be so displeased. He had to stop projecting his own failures onto others.

He glanced at Max, who was patiently waiting for him to elaborate. “He wanted a man for a son, and he was disappointed he got a softie like me. I thought I had to be cruel to become the man he wanted. Sometimes he’d throw digs at me, using female degrading slurs to ‘toughen me up.’ He really hated how I was more interested in art than in football and other ‘manly’ sports.”

“Weren’t you in an art club?” Max asked.

Bradley sighed, the memory a dull ache. “I was, yeah. But I had to give that up.”

“Why?” Max pressed.

Bradley averted his gaze, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “My dad.”

Max shifted slightly on the pillow. “Does he hate that side of you because he thinks it’s… sissy?” he asked, using the dismissive term deliberately, testing the air.

“I think sometimes he was just jealous of my connection with Mom.” He went quiet for a moment, the memories sweet and painful. “We did everything together. Painting, watching old black-and-white movies, she even taught me how to play the piano.”

Max grinned faintly. “Wow. You play an instrument?”

“I have many talents,” Bradley bragged, a slight smile touching his lips.

“You and your mom were really close,” Max observed softly. He was probably remembering the day Bradley had broken down in front of him in the motel room.

“You know how it is,” Bradley said, the words slipping out easily. "Moms just... they connect with their kids in a different way. They see all the good stuff before the world tries to cover it up."

“I don’t really know,” Max admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I never knew my mom.”

Bradley’s heart instantly sank. He looked at Max, mortified that he had been rambling about his own happy memories. He knew Max’s mom wasn't in the picture because his dad was dating Ms. Marpole, but he hadn't known never being in the picture was the truth. “Max, I’m so sorry,” he said, the apology thick with genuine remorse.

Max gave an easy shrug. “My dad made up for it in the best way he knew how… and I repaid him by being an absolute ass to him for years.”

“Still?” Bradley asked gently.

“No, no. We’re in a much better place now,” Max corrected. “I actually miss him. I didn’t get to see him over spring break, and he’s less fixated on me now that he has a girlfriend.” Max paused, looking thoughtful. “It’s weird though. I was so used to him being on my case 24/7, and now that he’s not doing that, sometimes I feel left out. I guess I feel guilty for not being the son my dad deserved. He deserved someone who…” Max paused again, struggling for the right words, “...who wouldn’t snap at him and make him feel bad about himself. I did that a lot.”

Max turned his head and looked directly at Bradley. “I mean, here you are, giving up something you love for your dad.”

It wasn’t for him. I gave it up for you, Max, Bradley wanted to say, but the words stayed locked behind his teeth.

“Didn’t you give him your trophy last year?” Bradley asked. “I mean, winning your first College X-Games was a big accomplishment and you have nothing to show for it now.”

“It was, yeah,” Max said, seemingly answering the unspoken question. “Then I realized there are more important things. Making things right with my dad was more important than any win. And honestly, even that isn’t enough for the crap I put him through.”

Max lifted himself onto his elbow, resting his weight on one arm as he looked down at Bradley. “He once told me that my moodiness was bewildering, and I never understood that until you started messing with my head. The way you were back then, it actually made me understand my dad better.”

Bradley replied carefully, a sickening montage flashing through his mind: chains, shackles, spanking, and lots and lots of kissing. “I reminded you of your dad? Should I be worried?”

Max slapped his arm lightly. “Major ew factor you freak. No, I’m talking about the moodiness. One minute you were a decent guy, and the next minute you were a vicious, snapping shark. I was always on edge around you,” he admitted, his voice dropping slightly. “Wondering when you’d snap on me again.”

Bradley ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I was running on pure adrenaline and rage. Therapy is finally making me more grounded.” He looked at Max, his tone shifting to genuine curiosity. “Why are you so against going to therapy, anyway?”

“I don’t need it,” Max insisted, a familiar stubbornness creeping in. “Look at me, I’m all healed, and it’s all my doing. I figured out how to handle my own chaos.”

“By having sex with me?” Bradley asked, a teasing, humoring smile touching his lips.

“By having control over my life,” Max corrected, his voice firm. “I didn’t have that with you, and not with college itself. My life was being run by others, like I was a puppet.”

“Still, Max, this isn’t enough. Therapy gives you tools,” Bradley insisted, looking at the ceiling. “It helps you see the patterns. You figured out the control thing, yeah, but you haven’t figured out the rest of...”

His speech was interrupted by Max’s loud, drawn-out yawn. Bradley laughed, the heavy mood lifting instantly.

“Man, I’m beat,” Max confessed, his voice thick with sleep.

Bradley felt a familiar hesitation. He took a shallow breath, wanting to ask for something small, something simple. “Would it be okay if we, uh…” He couldn't complete the thought, but Max understood.

Without a word, Max inched closer to him, their bodies settling in a comfortable, easy curve. Bradley wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. The simple physical intimacy was overwhelming. Bradley inhaled Max’s scent and felt him completely droop against him, his breathing evening out into the deep rhythm of sleep.

He waited, listening to the soft, steady puffs of air against his neck.

Then, Bradley whispered into Max’s hair, "I love you."

He knew Max wouldn't hear it, which was the only reason he’d said it aloud. There would be no instant freak-out, no argument, no having to explain the weight of the confession. It was a tragedy that the three most beautiful words in the world were now tainted by his own past cruelty. No matter how deeply he felt them for Max now, he was sure Max would never believe them because of their history. He desperately wished Max could feel the same, but he knew he wouldn't be able to force love into existence, not after all the abuse he’d put him through. With Max warm and heavy against him, Bradley finally closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.

A sudden, insistent knocking on the door startled Bradley awake. He blinked rapidly, instantly alert, and quickly ran a hand over his messy hair, smoothing it down. His gaze drifted to Max, still deeply asleep beside him.

Carefully, Bradley slid out of bed and crossed the room. He slightly opened the door, using his body to shield the intimate view of the bed.

James stood in the hallway, looking slightly guarded as he held out Bradley’s camera. “Hey. Thanks,” he said, his eyes flicking past Bradley’s shoulder toward the half-lit room. “Look, could I borrow your USB flash drive? I need to use your laptop to transfer my project from a floppy disk. My old PC can only read a floppy, and the class computer is too new and doesn’t even have a drive anymore.”

Bradley nodded. “Yeah, sure.” He paused, his hand still on the knob, debating whether to invite James inside with Max clearly visible in the bed. He quickly reasoned that hesitating now would only make the situation look more suspicious. “Come in.” He opened the door wider, forcing a casual expression.

James stepped into the room and his eyes instantly snagged on the figure sleeping in Bradley’s bed. He grimaced, a look of scorn flashing across his face. “Now he sleeps here?”

“We just finished working on our project, the one we’ll present,” Bradley explained, quickly glancing at his watch. "In a few hours, actually. I gotta wake him up.” He walked over to the bed and gave Max a gentle shake.

James’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You mean your Synergy Solution project?”

“Yes,” Bradley replied absently, already focused on getting Max moving. He took the barely awakened Max by the arm and firmly led him out of the room, heading out of the room, leaving James standing alone beside the laptop.

Emerging from his room, Bradley was practically dragging a still-groggy Max behind him. Hair a tangled mess, Max stumbled down the stairs, barely conscious, while Bradley, already in full 'responsible mode,' tried to shove Max's backpack onto his shoulder. "Come on, sleepyhead! Go to your dorm, shower, change. Meet me in the lecture hall for our presentation, understand?" he fussed, sounding uncannily like a worried mother sending her child off to school.

They reached the door, and just as Max was about to be pushed out, he suddenly turned around, a mischievous glint in his still-sleepy eyes. Leaning in, clearly enjoying the risk of getting caught, he planted a quick, sloppy kiss right on Bradley's lips.

Bradley recoiled with a laugh, a grimace on his face. "Ugh! Morning breath!"

Max shot him a playful finger gun, already halfway out the door. "You too!" he called back, his backpack still hanging loose on one shoulder. Without even looking back, he gave a careless wave. "See ya in the lecture hall!"

Bradley leaned against the doorframe, a soft, dopey smile spreading across his face. He watched Max saunter away, disheveled and laid-back. His not-really-boyfriend-but-maybe-a-friend-who-was-more-than-a-friend. He wasn't sure what they were, exactly, but he was loving the ride.

He finally closed the door and headed upstairs, just as James was exiting his room. "I turned off your laptop for you," he said, his gaze lingering a little too long on Bradley's flushed face.

"Thanks," Bradley replied, a strange, uneasy feeling stirring in his chest. He watched James walk away, trying to shake the unexplained discomfort. He walked back into his room, saw his laptop closed on the desk, and then began peeling off his clothes, eager for a shower.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The large lecture hall was chock full of the noise of chattering students, same old energy that always preceded a presentation. Bradley and Max were setting things up at the front of the hall, using the side of the stage area to make their final adjustments. Bradley focused on arranging the large charts he'd drawn in Paint, now printed and mounted on presentation boards, around the podium. Mr. Melton insisted on the boards, even though they were old-fashioned in the digital age of the new millennium.

On a small side desk sat Bradley’s laptop, its black shell opposing sharply with the tangle of wires next to it. Dr. Melton and Dr. Feldberg sat to the side, also chatting.

Bradley glanced out at the audience and noticed Nora at the front, shooting daggers at him and Max. As the first group up, they were clearly cutting into the precious last-minute prep time she needed for her own project; Bobby, next to her, looked entirely unhelpful, leaning back with a lazy smirk.

Just then, Bradley caught sight of PJ giving Max a discreet thumbs-up from his seat. Max flashed a quick, reassuring thumbs-up in return.

Max was standing ready near the charts, positioned in front of the closed laptop. Bradley, meanwhile, was carefully navigating the equipment. He brought over the LCD projector, a large, bulky piece of machinery, to attach it to the laptop and display the PowerPoint presentation. Seeing the haphazard mess of power cords and VGA cables, a sudden fear of tripping over them mid-presentation made him wince.

He knelt down, quickly starting to move the wires out of the main walking path. "Max," Bradley directed, keeping his voice low but firm, "can you attach the VGA cable to the laptop and then fire up the machine?"

Bradley was absorbed in his task, tugging on power cords and cables, trying to secure them safely out of the way, when a sudden, sharp intake of breath echoed through the lecture hall. This was instantly followed by a wave of cruel whistles, gasps of disbelief, and shouts of "Oh my god!" and "What the hell is that?" from the students’ seats.

Confused and annoyed by the disruption, Bradley straightened and looked up at the large projector screen. The sight that met his eyes sent a spike of icy dread straight into his heart, making the room tilt.

Dominating the screen was a massive picture of Max. He was sitting naked on the cold metal chair bolted to the wall in the motel room. A cheap, plastic crown on his head. Max’s arms were chained high to the wall on each side of his head, and his legs were forced open into an agonizing, full 180-degree split, leaving Max’s privates displayed in full view. It was the picture Bradley had taken and used to blackmail Max into submission, threatening to send it to his high school girlfriend, Roxanne.

How did it...?

With a sickening, horrifying realization, Bradley understood. He had destroyed all the physical canvases and their copies in the fire, but he had completely forgotten about the original negative of that single, damning picture. A terrifying truth dawned on him: James. James’s flimsy excuse about needing his laptop this morning. Bradley bet James had found that picture while he was developing his film roll down in the lab. He probably just held the negatives up and there it was, that humiliating pose, just waiting for him to see it!

Bradley’s eyes flew to Max, whose body was paralyzed, eyes wide with horror as he stared at the screen.

From the audience, the cruel comments started immediately.

“Dude, look at that split! What a freak!”

“That’s so busted! Where do you even find a dude willing to do that?”

Ignoring the ringing cruelty, Bradley rushed forward, scrambling over the wires he had just cleared. He slammed his hand down on the power button of his laptop, shutting off the projector and plunging the image into immediate darkness.

Bradley spun toward the frozen Max and tried to gently touch his shoulder, but Max instantly jerked away from his hand. Max looked at him, his eyebrows wide with a devastating look of betrayal.

“How could you, Bradley?” he whispered, shaking his head. “I did everything. Everything. All the creepy kinky crap you asked me to… I… never held back!”

Bradley felt a sharp, sickening twist in his gut. His hands flew up, palms facing Max in a desperate, defensive posture. “Max, you think I did this?!”

“I let you shove a weenie into my crack!” Max hissed, his eyes growing glassy. The horror was now transforming into something fragile and terrifying, and his voice dropped to the soft, fragmented tone of a scared little child. “I stopped talking. I let you touch me when I didn’t want it…”

Bradley held his body rigid, restraining himself from reaching out again, unwilling to touch him without consent. “Max, believe me, it wasn’t me!”

Max’s gaze dropped to the floor, his head shaking uncontrollably. “I can’t stay here. I can’t be here…”

He sprinted toward the stairs of the lecture hall, charging up the steps and bursting through the doors, disappearing into the hallway. The whole way, the students were pointing, their cruel laughter and commentary at him.

Bradley lurched forward to follow, but strong hands clamped onto his shoulders and slammed him to the floor. He looked up, his vision blurring, and saw PJ standing over him, his face contorted with vengeful fury.

“I knew you were up to something!” PJ screamed at him, his voice cracking with emotion. “I should never have trusted you!” He immediately turned and ran up the stairs, chasing after Max.

Bradley lay sprawled on the cold floor of the lecture hall, surrounded by the remnants of his carefully prepared presentation and the discord of students who were still murmuring and laughing. The projector screen was black like the void that mirrored the despair in his chest. In one catastrophic moment, he had lost everything: his project, his dignity, and the fragile, tentative hope he had built with Max. He was alone, his soul sinking beneath the crushing weight of a betrayal Max could only attribute to him, confirming every horrible thing Max had ever believed about him.

Chapter Text

PJ stared, his breath catching in his throat. The massive image projected on the screen of his best friend completely naked, chained and posed in that degrading split was a dagger stab to his chest. His eyes instantly averted, snapping toward the floor. He couldn't look. He wouldn't look at Max in that humiliating state.

So that was it. That was what Max had been hiding for months. That was what went on at the motel room every day at five o'clock. Max would go there, strip naked, and pose for degrading pictures? Why? Why would Max ever agree to that? What exactly did Bradley blackmail him with to force him into those poses? PJ had always suspected something dark, he'd even mentally prepared for the possibility of rape, and he still couldn't rule it out. But the calculated nature of the photo, the posing, made his stomach churn with cold anger.

He heard the sickening comments erupting around him, each ridiculing his best friend in the most hurtful way.

"Dude, look at that split! What a freak!"

"That's so busted! Where do you even find a dude willing to do that?"

His focus snapped back to Max whose body was paralyzed, his eyes wide, fixed on the laptop screen, not once glancing backward to see the giant display of his mortification. He watched Bradley rush forward and turn off his laptop, causing the large picture to disappear.

Bradley turned and reached out for Max, and Max jerked away violently, it didn't take a genius to see that Bradley had something to do with it, especially with the look of betrayal reflected in Max's eyes. However, whispers surrounding PJ told a different story. "Geez, Bradley got saddled with a freak as a partner." "Bradley must have been pissed when Max's file popped up." "Can't believe I used to think that Goof kid was all that." "Last year he was the bomb. Now he's straight-up wack."

"Are they out of their minds?" PJ whispered to his partner. "Can't they see it was Bradley's doing?"

He glanced at Josef and unsurprisingly found him lost in deep sleep.

Suddenly, laughter erupted and PJ saw Max sprinting toward the exit, charging up the stairs and bolting through the door. The students from both sides were pointing and laughing, even after Max had left.

PJ instantly vaulted to his feet and started rushing after Max. When he saw Bradley making a move to follow him, a blinding rage seized PJ. He clamped his hands onto Bradley's shoulders and violently slammed him back onto the floor.

He looked at Bradley's defeated face and felt a sick wave of self-disgust. How stupidly gullible was he letting Bradley manipulate him into accepting his freaking help? Accepting a phone from him, collaborating with him to help Max, letting him in on every detail in Max's life when he knew that Bradley was the reason Max was going through shit to begin with. His mind flashed back to Max fretting outside the library about a picture on Bradley's phone. Stupid! Moron! Why had he believed Bradley when he promised he deleted it? Max had been panicking in the most heartbreaking way over that picture, even insisting it must have been backed up on a computer. Damn it! If only he had pressed harder, if he hadn't been so blind, Max wouldn't be paying the price now. Because of his idiocy, that picture came out and everyone saw it and Max's horrible secret was out for all to see.

"I knew you were up to something!" PJ's scream tore out of his throat, raw and trembling. "I should never have trusted you!" Without waiting to see Bradley's reaction, PJ bolted up the stairs, chasing after his friend.

He ran the whole way back to their dorm building, his heart hammering against his ribs. He burst through the door and frantically began yelling Max's name, staring at the mess they had left behind in their small dorm room. "Max! Max!"

No one was there!

"Max!" he yelled again, spinning around.

He heard a faint, sharp hiss coming from the far corner. His eyes darting until he spotted their small bathroom door, which was ajar.

He took cautious, slow steps toward it. "Max?" he called out, his voice now ragged and low. "Are you in there?"

He pushed the door open just wide enough to peer inside, and his eyes instantly widened in sheer alarm.

Max was standing rigid in front of the tiny sink, his back to the door. PJ saw red stains splashed across the white porcelain. A long, fresh cut marked Max's wrist, and in his other hand, Max gripped his dad's gift from the cruise, the fish pocket knife.

"Max, what did you do?" PJ whispered, fear spiking his voice.

Max jerked back violently, instantly hiding his wounded arm and burying his face against the cold tile of the wall. "Don't look at me! Don't look at me!"

PJ's vision blurred as tears rushed to his eyes. "Max?" he choked out.

Max just sobbed, his voice dissolving into a desperate, pleading whisper. "Let me go, please! I can't stay here. I'm done. Let me go!"

Shaking his head, PJ appeached as slow as possible, his foggy vision almost hiding how hard Max was trembling. "Max, please," he whispered, his voice cracking with fear but remaining steady.

Max's shoulders were still heaving, his body tense and ready to spring. "It's over, nothing will ever be the same again. I have to go, I can't stay here. Just let me go," he pleaded, his hand clutching the knife fiercely.

"We'll fix it, Max, I promise," PJ said, his gaze fixed on the blood sliding down Max's arm and dripping to the floor.

"It's unfixable!" Max snapped, pressing his face harder to the wall. "You can't fix what's broken!"

"That cut..." PJ's panic grew, watching the blood keep spilling down Max's arm. "That's a deep cut, Max. You're losing a lot of blood. That needs to be cleaned and wrapped up right now."

"Good!" Max snapped, his face contorted in pain and fury. "Let me bleed out! I want this to stop forever!"

PJ attempted to grab the pocket knife, his hand moving cautiously, but Max flinched violently, slamming his back against the cool bathroom wall. Max glared at PJ through the tears blurring his vision. "Don't touch me! Just leave me alone!"

"I won't touch you, not until you tell me it's okay," PJ promised, holding his hands up in surrender. His mind raced back to every incident of Max pulling away, every plea to be left alone, and he finally understood the trauma fueling Max's need for space. He knew completely well now why Max was begging to be left alone.

They stood there, trapped in the small, blood-splattered bathroom, both crying in painful despair. Every nerve in PJ screaming that he was about to do or say the wrong thing. His eyes were glued to the trickle of blood still leaking from the cut on Max's wrist, terrified that he would actually pass out before PJ could disarm him.

Max squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away from him. "Please, just get out."

"I won't get out until you give me the knife," PJ said, his voice raw but holding firm.

"I'm finished, Peej, it's over," Max sobbed, his voice cracking with finality. "Just let me do it! It's what everyone wants."

"No, I don't want you to go," PJ insisted, his own tears streaming now.

"Why? I'm a disgusting freak."

PJ felt a surge of protective fury, the first emotion strong enough to cut through his fear. "I will never allow you to say that about my best friend. Do you hear me?" he demanded, his voice firm, unwavering.

Max's eyes remained shut. He rested his forehead against the wall, his head shaking back and forth, refusing to engage.

"Hey, look at me," PJ pleaded, taking another cautious step closer.

Max violently shook his head. "No, no, no."

"Why won't you look at me, Max?" PJ demanded, his voice thick with sobs, the question tearing at him. "Do you think I'm ashamed of you? 'Cause I'm not."

Max's eyes remained tightly closed, his body wracked with shuddering sobs, his grip on the knife handle tightening even more.

Are you feeling that you're on the brink
Of spilling some red in the sink
It wasn't the easiest year
No I don't want you to go

Aching to bridge the distance, PJ wished he could pull Max into a fierce hug and somehow erase all the pain. He wished he could turn back time, go back to the beginning of the school year and protect Max from whatever cruel blackmail Bradley had wielded to force him into taking those pictures. But all he had was his voice, so he extended his open palm, and said, in a voice thick with tears, "Hand me the knife, Max. Please. Don't you leave me here all alone. I can't go on without my best friend."

Max's body continued to tremble, eyes still squeezed shut, his breathing ragged and shallow. PJ's heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He watched the tension in Max's fingers, the quiver of the blade's tip. Frustrated, helpless, and terrified, PJ kept his gaze fixed on the knife, pouring every desperate ounce of his will into Max, silently begging his best friend to choose life. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, a battle waged entirely within Max's quivering body.

With a rattling sigh that sounded like all the air being painfully expelled from his soul, Max's grip finally loosened. The small fish pocket knife clattered onto the tile floor.

PJ let out a shuddering breath, the immense pressure of the moment releasing and leaving him weak. "Thank you. Thank you, Max," he choked out, the relief making his knees momentarily buckle. "Now, let's just get you sitting down, okay? I'll take care of your wrist."

He carefully reached past Max, grabbing the hand towel hanging beside the sink. The white fabric was instantly stained with red. "I'm going to press this to your wrist, okay? It's going to hurt, but it's going to stop the bleeding." He eased the towel toward the wound, and Max flinched.

With the utmost care, PJ gently but decisively pressed the thick wad of the towel against the gash. Max gritted his teeth, his body tensing hard.

"Breathe, Max. Just breathe with me," PJ coached, maintaining firm pressure. He didn't try to hold Max or comfort him physically, knowing it would freak him out.

After a terrifying minute, the desperate shaking began to subside. Max slid down the wall until he was slumped on the floor, PJ instantly dropping down to a crouch, still keeping the pressure on the wound.

"I swear I'm not into that stuff. I didn't want it. It wasn't..." Max trailed off, his eyes dull with despair, staring at the floor.

"I know, man. I know," PJ soothed.

Max closed his eyes, fresh tears leaking out, but he didn't protest. He just leaned his head back against the cool tile wall, depleted. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Max's shaky breathing, but it was a silence free of the clatter of a knife, and that was everything.

PJ was still kneeling, his focus entirely on Max and the bloody towel, when two frantic knocks rattled the door.

Max instantly jerked, his eyes flying open in renewed panic. "No, no, they can't see me," he whimpered, trying to scramble backward on the floor, dragging the towel with him.

"It's okay! Relax, Max, it's just me," PJ reassured him, keeping firm pressure on the towel for a second longer. He swiftly glanced at Max's terrified face, making a silent decision. "I'll handle it. You keep pressing your hand on the towel. Don't stop."

Once he made absolutely sure Max was following his instruction, PJ eased himself up, snatching the fish pocket knife from the tile floor as he crossed the threshold of the bathroom. He moved to the dorm room door, checking the peephole first. His jaw tightened with cold fury, recognizing the thick eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. Cracking the door open just a few inches, he used his own body to form a barrier.

Bradley looked shattered, his face pale, and his eyes wide with a frantic worry that PJ refused to acknowledge. "How is he?" he choked out.

"Go to hell."

"Wait, just listen to me!" Bradley exclaimed, desperately trying to stop PJ from shutting the door completely. "It wasn't me…"

"Did you or did you not have that picture on your computer?" PJ hissed back, straining to ensure Max couldn't hear a thing from inside.

"Yes, but I didn't put it up!"

"But who took it? Who the hell forced him to do that, and who took the pictures in the first place?" PJ challenged, the words slicing through the narrow opening.

Bradley's gaze dropped to the floor, his teeth biting on his lower lip in shame. He didn't have the audacity to give an answer. All the pain and suffering Max had endured this year was Bradley's doing. For a fleeting moment, PJ wished every person were allowed one legal murder a year, he would have jammed the knife currently nestled in his fist into Bradley's heart without a second thought.

Instead of dwelling on murder fantasies, PJ leaned in, maintaining his low, lethal tone. "Get out of Max's life." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his worn Nokia phone, and violently smacked it on the floor next to Bradley's shoes.

"For the last time, jackass, leave Max alone." He slammed the door shut, latching the deadbolt. Stuffing the pocket knife into his pocket, he didn't turn back until he heard Bradley's footsteps retreating down the hallway.

He relocked the deadbolt, the adrenaline from the argument slowly starting to recede, leaving behind a cold, hard knot of fear. He took one last breath and was about to turn back to the tiny bathroom when he noticed Max crawled onto his bed and was huddled tightly in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, small and beaten. He was staring straight ahead at the wall with hollow eyes.

PJ moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, his heart aching at the sight of his friend. Max wasn't flinching or crying anymore, just vacant. He looked younger than his nineteen years, like a lost kid who had used up all his defenses.

"I heard Bradley," he mumbled blankly.

"I took care of it," PJ said softly, watching a flicker of emotion in the big brown eyes that disappeared rapidly. He couldn't tell if it was sadness or ache, there were no trace of anger or resentment which PJ would have thought there should be. He didn't try to touch him, knowing Max wasn't there to be reached physically right now. So he pulled his knees up and rested his chin on them, letting his presence be the only comfort. He watched the desolate emptiness in Max's eyes, and he knew they couldn't stay here, not in campus. Max needed a complete break, a lifeline back to something real.

Are the memories too hard to take
Rape is a word with a face
No I don't want you to go
You know I don't want you to go

"How about we go and see your dad for a while?"

Max remained huddled, but the mention of his dad seemed to snag a single thread of awareness. His empty eyes blinked slowly, finally settling on PJ. There was no joy, only a glimmer of faint, desperate need.

"Your house is the only place you need to be right now." He gave Max a gentle, reassuring nod. "We are getting you out of here. No more of this hell. Just say the word."

Max just stared at him, tears beginning to well up in his eyes again, not of pain, but of overwhelming fatigue. He finally gave a shallow nod, his whole body suddenly jerking at the sound of another knock on the door, this time it was faint and tentative.

Fury promptly returning, PJ clenched his fists, thinking it had to be Bradley coming back to plead his case. He shot a protective glare at Max, who remained huddled on the bed, and then stalked to the door, yanking it open.

To his relief, it was Bobby, looking strangely solemn and unlike his usual, carefree self.

"Why didn't you just walk in?" PJ asked, annoyance coloring his voice.

Bobby cast a wary, nervous stare at the ajar door, avoiding a direct view inside. "Is... is he in there?"

Anger swelled inside PJ, and he stepped outside, gently closing the door behind him. "He has a name, Bobby," he whispered heatedly. "He's your friend. Your roommate."

Bobby visibly swallowed, looking genuinely unsettled. "Look, I get that people have their own fetishes, man. I'm the last person to judge a dude on how he spends his free time," he said, shifting his weight awkwardly. "But Max looked totally wigged out in that picture. He clearly didn't want it. Was he kidnapped?"

PJ sighed, running a weary hand over his face. "It's worse than that."

"Did you know about it?" Bobby asked, his eyes widening with dawning horror.

"Not everything," PJ admitted heavily, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "But I knew something bad was going on."

His mind flashed back to over a month ago, when he had first started questioning Max about his frequent disappearances right at five o'clock. He remembered confronting Max about it in their room, remembered his friend lying on his bed, face pressed hard against the pillow, unwilling to make eye contact. For every question PJ asked, Max had only managed to repeat, "It's bad, it's bad, I can't," his voice raw with fear.

The memory twisted his heart, the way Max's knee trembled after he sat down, the way he avoided looking him in the eye. Max had been going through it alone, terrified and ashamed, unable to talk to anyone, not even PJ. He had been too scared to let him in, afraid PJ would hate him for what he was being forced to do.

"Yo, it was straight-up chaos after you guys split," Bobby said, his words yanking PJ back to the horrible reality of their present situation. "The Profs were yelling their heads off, but nothing they did stopped the trash talk. Everyone was talking mad smack about Max, dude. I couldn't handle it. I almost lost it when Nora jumped in, saying this was the end of Max's college game. Said he's got too much baggage. I told her she was just bitter Max was running circles around her in class, but she threw his punching the boxing coach right in my face, saying Max was clearly unstable."

PJ was glad he closed the door, the last thing Max needed right now was to hear this crap on top of everything else.

"Word is already spreading, PJ," Bobby said with a sad tone. "They're calling him 'Split Max' and talking about the chair. I won’t be surprised if the whole campus is up on it by lunchtime."

Taking a shaky breath, PJ tried to regain his focus. "I'm thinking of taking Max back home for a week or so until things calm down here."

"Yeah, that makes sense," Bobby agreed, nodding slowly. "But can you guys even skip that much class? I don't know if the Dean will allow it."

"Exactly," PJ muttered. "Last time Max was in a serious jam, Bradley's dad was the only way to keep him from getting expelled."

"Well," Bobby conceded, looking back at the closed door, "then that's out ticket to a week off campus."

PJ ran a hand over his face in frustration. "I don't want to ask Bradley for anything. Especially not for help."

"Why? If it can help Max..." Bobby stopped mid-sentence, his eyes growing wide as a horrifying connection clicked into place. "Wait. Was Bradley the one who kidnapped Max? Was he the one who took the picture?"

"Kidnapping? No," PJ said, shaking his head tiredly. "But Bradley was the reason Max was off this entire year. He'd been messing with his head this whole time."

"Why?" Bobby asked, horrified. "Was it about the X-Games? Was it revenge for the win?"

"It doesn't matter why," PJ said, his voice raw with despair. "What matters is that he ruined Max completely, and now he's the only person powerful enough to get Max off campus without being expelled. God, this is such poetic injustice."

"Do you think he's gonna get in trouble because of the picture?" Bobby asked, his voice suddenly anxious. "He's already on probation, man."

"I didn't even think of that," he muttered, hitting his forehead with his fist. Damn, this whole situation was too messy.

Bobby lowered his gaze toward the floor, his voice softening to a sad whisper. "How's he doing?"

PJ shook his head slowly, the despair etched on his own face mirroring Max's vacant expression. "Worse than you can imagine." He took a step closer and then whispered urgently into the other boy's ear, "He tried to end his own life." PJ pulled the pocket knife from his jeans, the small blade catching the light, the handle showing faint blood stains.

Bobby swallowed hard, the news clearly hitting him hard. He took a hesitant step back from the door. "Man, I don't know if I can roll in there right now." He ran a shaky hand through his bald head. "Max is my main man, the dude I look up to. I can't see him trashed like this."

PJ tucked the knife back into his pocket and looked at Bobby, his eyes pleading. "C'mon, man. Don't let him think you're ditching him because of this mess." He opened the door and gestured for his friend to walk in.

Bobby's feet were rooted to the floor, unable to cross the threshold into the room's misery, so PJ gave him a gentle but firm push to the shoulder making him stumble inside.

They found Max huddled entirely under the covers, a lump on the bed, shielding himself completely from the world.

PJ walked closer to the edge of the mattress. "Hey, Max. Bobby's here," he whispered.

Max didn't answer. He didn't even stir, staying stubbornly buried under the thick blanket.

PJ felt the desperate tension in Bobby's hand, which had clamped onto PJ’s arm the moment they stepped inside, and now began to tremble violently.

"Fuck Bradley," Bobby cursed, in a raw whisper choked with pure rage.

PJ closed his eyes briefly, inhaling a shaky, silent breath. He knew, deep down, that the only way for Max to even begin to heal was to get away for a while, far from this campus and the crushing humiliation. And that wouldn't happen without Bradley's help.

Friend of mine stay alive don't you leave me here
All alone in the world with a chronic tear

~*~*~*~*~*~

Walking through a sea of gossiping students, all spreading the dirt about Split Max and fabricating more details into that damn picture, PJ tried his best not to explode. He clenched his jaw and continued toward the lecture hall. On the way, he found his project partner, Josef, stumbling down the halls and asked about Bradley. Josef managed to mumble that Bradley was back in the lecture hall collecting his things.

With the large doors within sight, he saw his professors walking out in a huff. He caught Dr. Melton hiss something about the audacity of asking for a re-schedule after that debacle. PJ realized instantly that Bradley must have asked for a postponement of the presentation.

"I was actually pleased to see Mr. Goof thriving finally in class after a whole semester of missing assignments and non-existent attendance," Dr. Feldberg lamented. "But I was mistakenly wrong."

Dr. Melton scoffed. "That boy ended up dragging my best student to the gutter along with him. Some kids were not meant for academic distinction."

PJ’s chest tightened, heavy with sympathy for his friend. He remembered how excited Max had been about this presentation with Bradley, genuinely expecting it to blow away the professors. Max had been doing so well lately, basking in the praise he'd been getting from his professors in different subjects, finally getting back to his old self again. Then this public humiliation happened and all was lost.

He walked into the large lecture hall, seeing Bradley near the podium, dejectedly gathering his large charts and his laptop. PJ walked down the aisle, his steps guarded and slow.

Bradley's head snapped up, having clearly felt the presence behind him. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, surrounded by dark shadows, and his cheeks were streaked with dried tears. He frantically dropped the charts, which tumbled to the floor, and rushed to meet PJ mid-steps.

"How's Max?" he asked, his voice choked with panic and genuine concern.

PJ held his gaze cold and steady, unable to find an ounce of sympathy for the clear distress and guilt. "Look, I hate that I have to do this, but I need to ask you..."

"Anything," Bradley interrupted instantly, his voice desperate. "I'll do whatever Max needs."

PJ's lips twisted in disgust. "Max has to split for a bit. A week with his dad. But we gotta get the Dean to sign off on an immediate academic leave for us both."

"I'll talk to the Dean," Bradley said fast, already moving to the door.

PJ blocked his way and shook his head. "No. We need your dad to talk to the Dean. Can you make that happen?"

Bradley visibly recoiled, his face falling instantly. PJ knew the older boy had a bad relationship with his dad, something they had briefly bonded over weeks ago, but right now, PJ couldn't find it in his heart to sympathize.

"Can you make that happen?" he repeated roughly.

Bradley tried to put on a brave face and nodded, his expression strained. "Of course, I can."

"Once you get it done, you know where to find me." PJ turned to leave, dismissing Bradley entirely.

"Wait!" Bradley called out.

PJ stopped moving but didn't look back.

"Please," Bradley pleaded, his voice cracking. "Tell Max that it wasn't me who put that picture up. It was James. He found the original negative in the digital camera, I stupidly forgot to destroy it along with the canvases."

PJ slowly looked over his shoulder, his confusion momentarily overriding his anger. "Canvases?"

Bradley bit his lower lip, his distress mounting as he hesitated, clearly unsure if he should reveal that deeper truth.

PJ crossed his arms over his chest, his weight shifted heavily to one leg, and he raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

Bradley looked small and miserable, his gaze still failing to meet PJ's. "I don't know if Max would want me to talk about this to anyone."

Taking a sharp step down the few steps separating them, PJ grabbed Bradley by the collar and looked right into his downcast face. "You don't get to pretend to care about Max's privacy. We both know you don't."

Bradley finally looked up. His tear-streaked face clearly conveyed a deep sorrow and guilt, suggesting the opposite of what PJ was saying. But PJ was too consumed by fury to acknowledge the genuine pain in the blue eyes.

"Talk, Uppercrust. What the hell have you been doing to my best friend all these months?"

The face before him hardened slightly, shifting from raw despair to protective resolve. "I think it's better if Max tells you."

PJ's other hand balled into a shaking fist he held high, as though measuring the distance to smash the angular face staring him down. "I think it's better I beat it out of you."

Meeting PJ's enraged eyes without flinching, Bradley's resolve stare didn't waver. "Would Max like it if you learned about this from me? I don't want to hurt him anymore than I already did. If he's ready to tell you, he will. He told me how much he hated when things went out of his control. Let him have control over this. His life. His choices. Let him decide what to tell you, and when."

PJ's fist hung suspended in the air, his muscles trembling. Deep down, he knew Bradley was right. Max had always expressed displeasure over PJ butting in and making decisions for him. He could wait for Max to tell him the truth; he'd do it for his best friend, even though being kept in the dark was killing him.

He eventually lowered his fist, letting his arm drop heavily to his side. He gave a reluctant, stiff nod, then let go of Bradley's collar with a shove. "Time away at his dad's. Make it happen."

Bradley nodded firmly. "I will."

PJ gave a shaky nod, then spun on his heel to leave. His stomach churned with self-loathing. He hated his weakness, his complete powerlessness. Forced to beg for help from the sociopathic architect of the whole mess, the very guy who had driven Max to the edge of attempting to take his own life. Bradley's cruelty wasn't limited to Max, PJ was still nursing old grudges from the last year's X-Games. He vividly recalled being blasted out of the competition like a firework, ending up with a broken arm and a concussion. But no one, save Vicki, had even bothered to look for him. The broken arm and the concussion were meaningless injuries to Bradley, who hadn't even offered a fake apology. PJ was just a pawn, a disposable tool to derail Max. Bradley could have put the rockets on Max's rollerblades shoes, but it was far more important to witness the humiliating defeat on Max's face when his team forfeited to the Gammas. It was always, always about Max. Anyone else, especially PJ, were simply collateral damage.

"PJ," he heard Bradley call softly behind him.

He stopped, his immediate impulse to lose control of his emotions to this man, all the rage and disgust simmering like acid, barely contained.

"Thanks for letting me help."

He drove his feelings deep down, dismissing the churning anger as a distraction. In the overall narrative, PJ was only the sidekick in Max's life. Nothing special. Nothing noteworthy. He felt the words scratch his throat, sharp and painful, as they were forced out like a sudden heave, "Anything for Max." He then continued his exit, the sharp sound of his boots mirroring the internal anger he refused to let out.

I will always be here
I will always be here
I will always be here for you

Chapter Text

The air in the tiny dorm room was currently a poisonous soup of cheap weed, causing PJ to wince despite having the window open and the fan running a full-speed sprint. He truly despised the stench, his brain pre-programmed to reject anything that would harm his body. Smoke, booze, mysterious substances; it was all enemy territory. He'd been labeled a 'square' by the local student population, mainly Bobby, but frankly, he preferred his brain to remain a focused, high-performance machine, thank you very much.

It wasn't like he was actively preaching abstinence like some moralizing minister. He was a champion of the 'live and let live' philosophy, but apparently, the masses weren't willing to grant him that courtesy, always pressuring him to try just one sip or one puff. Max usually caved, but not PJ. He was a fort of clean-living stubbornness. At least his girlfriend, Vicki, didn't view him as a genetic aberration, and that was truly all that mattered.

He and Max had managed to keep their heads clear despite the temptations. PJ came from a strict household where his dad controlled every aspect of his life and made sure he was as straight as possible, emphasis on the word straight. What a relief to be into girls; things would have gone south if he liked boys. For his old man, being a stand-up guy meant rocking the total Leave It to Beaver vibe: perfect wife, perfect kids, a squeaky clean life with zero stench of choppers, brew, or weed. Ironically, his dad did drink, and he drank a lot. PJ's mom shielded him and his sister from the drunk side of his dad. Too bad the guy was already a world-class jerk when he was stone-cold sober.

Max, on the other hand, lived with a single dad who had the innocence of a child, which was clearly what made Max and his dad click so much when he was younger. But once he hit high school, Max started chasing independence, imitating kids who thought it was cooler to pretend they were orphans than to admit they had parents. His demand for independence was met with his dad clinging to every part of his life, to the point of following Max to college, signing up for all his classes, dragging him to study in the library, and never allowing him a moment with his friends, well, until he met Ms. Marpole and she kept him busy. While PJ used to envy Max's healthy relationship with his dad as a child, he fully understood his friend's resentment as an adult. PJ, too, had been against Mr. Goof finishing his senior year in their campus last year. All that smothering made Max want to rebel, dip his toe into drinking and smoking, but eventually decided they were not his thing. So, they both tried, weren't fans. The silver lining? They never had to waste a single cent on chronic, since the weed guru was their closest friend.

PJ shifted to look at Bobby, sitting next to him on the bottom bunk. Bobby's eyes were hidden behind his glasses, but his anxiety could be read in the tight way his lips pursed. His arms were wrapped fiercely around his drawn-up knees, and a piece of burnt-out weed dangled from his fingers as he stared relentlessly at the sleeping Max.

When PJ got back from confronting Bradley a couple of hours ago, Bobby had already been chain-smoking, silently watching Max as he slept. They met Bobby in high school. He had a crippling cheese-and-cheddar addiction that gave him a gut the size of a basketball, yet he somehow managed to balance it with a thriving career as an amateur smoker of anything leafy. It used to baffle PJ why a stoner like Bobby would even bother with clean-cuts like him and Max. Max had eventually convinced Bobby to cut back if he wanted to be part of their X-Games team. Bobby kept his habit to a minimum, only occasionally lighting up, which was nothing like his high school phase. Now, with the Max drama exploding, PJ realized Bobby was struggling hard to process everything. His reliance on heavy substances was a temporary escape from the gravity of what had happened.

"Did you and Max talk after I left?" PJ whispered, careful not to wake Max.

The answer he received was a slight twitch of lips. Other than that, he was met with silence.

A sad sigh escaped PJ, and he leaned his head against the wall behind him, his gaze settling on Max. While asleep, his friend looked peaceful, none of that panic and despair carved into his face that PJ had seen when he was in the bathroom, holding a knife to his wrist.

"Crap," he muttered. "I forgot to clean the bathroom."

"I did it," Bobby said in a hollow voice. "After you bounced, it got way intense for me. I couldn't just hang with him, but I couldn't peace out either, so I just locked myself in the bathroom." His lips twitched slightly. "Man, I wasn't prepared for the gore in the sink and on the floor." The arms wrapped around his knees shook, his voice growing thicker with each word.

"It is…" PJ was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. That could be Tina. Word must have spread to the sorority houses by now.

He slowly and stuffily left the bed, his joints protesting from sitting too long, and moved as quietly as possible toward the door. He peered through the peephole and found Bradley outside, his face carrying a look of someone who had been through two solid hours of hell. Every muscle in the senior's jaw was tight, and the skin around his eyes was drawn and faintly purple with stress. Yet PJ didn't have it in him to sympathize. He stepped outside and gently closed the door behind him.

"Everything is set," Bradley said in a low voice, avoiding eye contact. "You can take Max home for a week."

"All right," PJ said gruffly, catching himself just before his muscle memory forced out a 'thank you.'

He opened the door, about to go back in, when Bradley stopped him. "Did you… did you tell Max it wasn't me?"

PJ looked at those desperate blue eyes, at that lower lip that gave a slight tremble. Bradley held his breath, waiting, his eyes a mix of pure misery and pleading shame.

"Not yet," PJ said. "When I got back he was already asleep."

"Is he asleep now?"

"None of your business," PJ hissed angrily.

Bradley dropped his gaze, then squeezed his eyes shut tight before speaking again. "Listen, I'm gonna kick James out of the Gammas, he…"

PJ slammed the door shut behind him. "You know how you could make it up to Max?" He attempted to stand face-to-face, hating how tall the creep was; it just wasn't an effective stance with PJ needing to crane his neck to look up at him. "Forget the X-Games. The Gammas don't compete this year. You don't get to walk out a champion in your last year of college."

Bradley stared back at him, his gaze holding PJ's for a second before he lowered it in sorrowful defeat. "I can't."

"Why?" PJ pressed aggressively. "Is your fragile ego gonna crumble if you don't get a medal to prove you're better than everyone else?"

Bradley heaved a sigh that could only be described as wrenched from the deepest pits of his soul. "Believe me, if I could, I would have tossed the X-Games in a heartbeat. They've been nowhere near my top ten interests for the past year. But unfortunately, I can't."

PJ recognized that look. The defeat. The endurance. Having to surrender to the rigid expectations. It was like looking at a mirror.

"It was your dad's ultimatum, wasn't it?" He hated the understanding in his tone, he didn't want to offer the other boy any kindness. He didn't deserve any.

Bradley looked back, and in that moment, they were two guys who understood the chains of their fathers for years. Both of them knew what it was like to have their lives run from a distance by men who prioritized reputation and control over their sons' happiness.

Blue eyes cast a sad look at the closed door. "Look, if you need..."

"I've got it from here, Brad," PJ cut him off, his tone sharp and final. "Now you work on disappearing from our lives."

Paying no mind to the dejected slump in Bradley's posture, PJ turned his back on the Gamma King and walked back into his room, firmly closing the door on the one person who both caused Max's suffering and helped him escape it.

~*~*~*~*~

The moment Max had finally woken up, they hit the road. It was still the early hours of the afternoon, with the sun bright in the sky. Bobby drove them to Spoonerville in his beat-up van. PJ sat crammed in the back, Max a silent slump beside him. Bobby, usually a walking party of cranked-up music, terrible jokes, and the stench of nachos, was uncannily silent. The quiet tension thick enough to chew on.

Max leaned against the window, his gaze blankly tracking the passing scenery. "What did you tell my dad?"

"Told him you were burned out from studying and needed to crash for a week." Predictably, Mr. Goof had been over-terrified and demanded more details, but PJ held firm. Just as Bradley had said, it was better to let Max decide what to tell and when. It was his story after all. "But then your dad wouldn't drop it," PJ admitted. "So I had to tell him that you caught a bug and needed a change of air."

Max gave a slow nod, his eyes flicking to the front. "Bobby won't even look at me."

PJ let out a heavy sigh, a weight settling deep in his chest. He longed to offer a comforting squeeze on his buddy's shoulder or hand, but he knew better than to do that. He knew that after everything Max had just endured, any physical contact was likely repulsive. The knowledge brought him spiraling back to that terrifying night in the dorm. PJ's hands had clamped down hard on Max's arms, pinning him, demanding that he never forget what Bradley had done. Max had recoiled violently beneath PJ's restraining hands, struggling desperately to break free. His eyes were glazed over, his mind miles away, trapped back in that damn motel room where Bradley had committed God-knows-what kind of abuse. Caught in a terrifying flashback, violently trying to push PJ away.

"No, Peej. Don't touch me."

Snapping out of the sickening memory, he looked at Max now, the dull frown, the unrelenting glare out the window. PJ couldn't even begin to imagine the unholy ordeal he must have survived.

The urge to beat the exact truth out of Bradley was overwhelming. He wanted to know every gruesome, excruciating detail of what went down in that motel room. But as Max's self-appointed rock, he had to respect the guy's space. Max's boundaries were already completely shattered thanks to that trash picture plastered in the lecture hall.

The vicious whispers and mocking comments about Max swirling around campus were unbearable. His friend, who was once the king of the campus scene with every student admiring and respecting him, was now nothing but the punchline used in every low-blow joke. PJ felt a raw ache in his chest for his friend. Knowing Max since sixth grade, he understood his deep-seated resentment of being seen as a dweeb. His buddy's early years were shadowed by being bullied through middle school and his first year of high school. Now, that nightmare was repeating itself, hitting Max harder than ever before.

The familiar green sign for Spoonerville appeared ahead, flashing past the front window. PJ looked out at the streets of his hometown, wistfully tracing the locations where he and Max used to hang out as kids. They drove past the old burger joint that bully Duke wouldn't let them eat from, the Pizza Palace where they wasted hours playing in the arcades, and the overly fancy perfume shop where Leech had swiped a fragrance and then roped Max and him to stash it from the police. Those simpler times were a galaxy away from their current nightmare.

The van rolled to a stop in Mr. Goof's driveway, the tires grinding over the loose stone. The engine hadn't even died when the front door burst open. Goofy hurried out, his face a knot of anxiety, nearly ripping the passenger van door off its hinges.

"Chill, Dad, don't bust the van," Max bit out, and PJ flinched.

He knew that when Max got wounded, he often bled on the people who didn't cut him. PJ usually took the brunt of those emotional outbursts, and honestly, he didn't mind. When Max got moody, PJ accepted it with the understanding that it was just how his friend dealt with the pain of things spinning out of his control. What he hated was seeing Max lash out at his dad, who didn't deserve to be an emotional target. PJ had lots of practice in that area. He had been raised to endure being used for target practice by his own dad, and he was willing to serve that role for Max, too.

Barely managing to exit the sliding door of the van, Max was pulled into a crushing hug.

"Maxie! Are you hurting somewhere, son? What kind of bug have ya got? Is it one of them sneaky bugs that crawl in your ears?" Goofy pulled back, his hands running over Max's shoulders and arms, inside his ears, frantically searching for signs of injury. His gaze snagged on the edge of the white bandage peeking out from beneath Max's long-sleeved red hoodie. He instantly pulled the sleeve up, revealing the heavily bandaged wrist and forearm.

A soundless panic flashed in Max's eyes before he yanked his arm free with a gasp, stepping back sharply. "Get off me! It's nothing, alright? Just leave it alone!"

PJ moved forward, trying to break the sharp tension. "Hey, chill out, man," he murmured quietly, keeping his voice level. "That's your dad. He's just worried about you. Don't act like a jerk."

The wince he saw was faint, a quick flicker in his panicked eyes, but the rage instantly vanished. His face went numb and vacant, looking miserable, as if that small burst of anger had completely drained him. PJ's heart twisted with sharp regret for chastising him.

Taking a shaky step, Max reached out and clutched Goofy in a hug, burying his face against his father's shoulder. "I didn't mean it," he whispered raggedly.

His dad embraced him fiercely, a sad smile touching his lips. "None taken," he returned softly.

Dad and son slowly disappeared inside, leaving the door open. PJ stood for a beat on the gravel, absorbing the quiet, before turning to the van. Glasses dangling from the hand that rested on the wheel, Bobby stared ahead silently in the driver's seat, his other hand twitching near a lighter sitting on the cup holder. PJ had to assume there were stashed cigarettes somewhere in the center console.

"Help me unload the bags," PJ said, knocking on the passenger's seat glass window.

"I'll head back now. I'll pick you both up next week," the reply came somewhat muffled by the glass.

"Bobby?" PJ knocked on the glass again and made a gesture to roll the window down. Once there were no barriers between them, the tension in the other boy's face as he met his gaze was much clearer.

"Are you grossed out by Max?"

Bobby's small eyes widened in alarm. "What the hell, PJ?"

"That's how Max feels." He pulled the passenger door open and slid into the seat, leaning his head back and leveling a piercing, uncompromising look at his friend. "He's upset you're not looking at him. He already hates himself right now, don't make things harder for him."

Glasses shoved up his nose as if intended to shield his shamed eyes. "I'm not, okay? I'm just pissed... I mean, this is the guy who danced on stage with Powerline! The guy who jacked the school assembly in a kick-ass fashion. The babe magnet! The College X-Games champion. I'm so angry he was done dirty."

PJ stared back, a hint of steel in his expression. "I forgot that we became friends after the Powerline concert."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bobby said indignantly. "You calling me a scrub or something?"

"No," PJ said sincerely. "What I mean is you've only really known Max since he became popular. You weren't there when he used to get his allowance stolen from him every single day, but I was. I've known Max when he used to dress up as an old lady just to buy a burger because some older bully wouldn't let him near the place. I was there when kids at the park used to call him Half-House Maxie."

"Half-House Maxie?"

"Long story. My dad comes off bad in it." An eyeroll. "As usual." He paused, letting the weight of the past hang in the air. "The thing is, I'd still be there for the guy even if the whole campus turned on him."

"Me too," Bobby said instantly, his voice quiet. "I hate that I didn't help. We all picked up on him going through some heavy drama, and I just sat on my giant gloved hands."

"Then stay tonight," PJ urged, leaning down slightly. "Make Max see that you still have his back, no matter what."

With his eyes shielded by his glasses, it wasn't clear if PJ had gotten through to him. But then a reluctant small nod made the tension in PJ's shoulders finally ease.

When they stepped through the door, bags still in hand, the smell of simmering spices and roasted meats wafting from the kitchen had the saliva of those who hadn't eaten since breakfast surge almost painfully. The atmosphere in the small kitchen slammed into them. Max was sunk into one of the chairs, staring numbly ahead at nothing. The table was completely surrounded by food. Plates upon plates of Max's favorite comfort meals, ketchup spaghetti, cheesy bread, a tower of triple-decker sandwiches.

"Ahyuck! Join us, boys!" Goofy beamed warmly, oblivious to the tension, gesturing to the overflowing table.

Max's dull gaze flicked up, meeting Bobby's eyes for a fraction of a second before he quickly lowered his head, focusing intently on the wood grain of the table.

PJ gave Bobby a sharp nudge in the ribs.

An uncomfortable glance at Max, then Bobby switched to Mr. Goof and coughed, trying to sound casual. "Wow, sir, this spread is totally off the hook. Got the wicked case-age of the crave-age."

"Eat up, fellars!" Goofy chirped, then turned to his son, his voice softening with concern. "Come on, Maxie. Have some cheesy bread. Don't forget your three square meals."

Max just kept staring. Goofy sighed, gently pushing a plate closer to him. PJ watched, feeling the silence stretch thin.

Finally, Max spoke, his voice flat. "I'm beat. Just… gonna go crash."

Goofy's cheerful demeanor fractured slightly. "Oh, sure, son. Your old room is all ready. I got you a brand-new mattress and some fresh sheets, and I even put another mattress on the floor right next to you so I can sleep there too. You gotta have someone with ya in case that darn bug acts up!"

Max recoiled subtly. "Can... can PJ use it instead?"

Goofy's smile withered instantly, but he quickly masked the hurt. "Sure thing, son. PJ can sleep in with you."

Max nodded once and then pushed himself out of the chair. He walked out of the kitchen with a slow, heavy stride, shoulders slumped, looking like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

PJ immediately moved to Goofy, placing a hand gently on his arm. "It’s not personal, Mr. Goof," he said quietly. "Max just… he wants me around right now 'cause I kinda know what's going on."

"What is going on, PJ?" Bobby demanded, slamming his hands against his cargo pants pockets, patting them down aggressively, clearly searching for his smoke which he'd left in his van.  

Eyes wide and serious, Goofy looked at PJ. "I know it's more than burn-out and bugs. PJ, tell me what's wrong with my boy."

The pressure of their combined gaze was overwhelming. There was no way he'd say anything without talking with Max first.

"Look, I... I haven't said hi to my folks yet," he blurted out. "And how about some old home videos, huh? We could totally make a night of it! Watching Max and me back in the day, using my dad's camcorder to film ourselves doing dumb slow-motion karate and stuff!"

Without waiting for a response, PJ bolted out from the kitchen door, rushing over the front yard to his house next door.  

He stepped through the front door, the stale smell of cheap whiskey instantly hitting him. The living room was dark save for the flickering light of the television.

His dad was sprawled in his armchair, a can of beer resting on his chest, occupying the exact same spot PJ remembered seeing him in during Spring Break. He bolted upright, turning off the TV instantly. "You're back, Sugar Plum, I was just…" He stopped when he saw him, eyes narrowing in irritation and confusion. "PJ?" His voice was instantly loud and accusatory. "Why are you back so soon? Don't tell me they kicked you out?"

"Don't be silly, Dad," PJ muttered. He fought the familiar urge to grit his teeth. "Where are Mom and Pistol?"

"Pistol talked back to your mother again," Pete said, taking a long swig of beer. "My little princess got some fire. She's hitting that rebellious phase. You remember how it is at fourteen."

PJ did remember. He didn't recall a single instance where he had looked his father in the eye, let alone raised his voice at him.

"Your mom thought it was best for Pistol to work at a pretzel stand at the mall, wearing a giant sandwich costume."

PJ winced. "Brutal."

Pete narrowed his eyes, the suspicion hardening his features. "Why are you here, boy? Don't try to dodge the question."

PJ hesitated, struggling to find the right words that wouldn't set his father off. "Well, Max has been…"

"Of course!" Pete interrupted, slamming the empty beer bottle onto the table before angrily hurling it toward the trash. It hit the rim and bounced back onto the floor with a clatter. "That little Goof is nothing but trouble, always pulling you into the gutter with him. You better not screw this up, kid! That college fund was not easy to set aside for you to just throw away."

A surge of cold fury tightened PJ's chest. His dad had always seen him as a pending disaster, continually anticipating a screw-up. PJ realized his childhood had been nothing more than a decades-long drill for failure. His dad's plan to groom him for the business involved dedicating PJ's time to relentless chores and housework, guaranteeing he stayed too busy for any normal connection. That was why PJ never had friends before Max. His father ensured his schedule was completely booked with demeaning jobs just to keep him on his suffocating straight line.

Then Max came along, the neighbor's son whom Pete couldn't banish from PJ's life, and PJ finally realized what the word "fun" actually meant. Unlike PJ, Max was outgoing, had all these wild, out-of-the-box schemes and cunningly convinced PJ to join in.

Which reminded him why he was there. "I need to grab the old video tapes," he said abruptly, heading for the hall closet.

"PJ."

The sharp tone cut through the air. PJ slowly turned around to face his dad, who was now sitting stiffly on the couch, a new can of beer clutched firmly in his fist. His gaze was heavy and judgmental, fixed entirely on him.

"What dumb situation did you drag yourself through, son?"

With a surge of indignation, PJ glared at his dad with an exasperated sigh. "I'm acing my creative writing class, I'm one of the top students in my entire major, my team won the College X-Games last year, and I have Vicki! Why is it impossible for you to see me as anything but a loser? I'm doing everything right. Why can't you just be proud?"

"Vicki?" his father said flatly.

"You know about my girlfriend, Dad."

"Maybe you should spend more time with your Vicki, and less time with Tiny Goof."

"He's not that tiny anymore. He's even taller than me now."

"Kid's always been trouble," Pete said dismissively. "Always dragging you into some kind of mess."

"Is that why you stopped expecting the best of me, Dad? Because I became friends with Max?" PJ asked, his voice cracking with sadness. "Wait, that's not right. Max was around when you still had high hopes, when you were setting up my whole career path. So what was it? What exactly changed that made you stop believing in me?"

"Is that what you get out of that flimsy literature degree? A license to be a spineless pansy pants?"

The insult landed hard, a familiar sting PJ had felt since childhood. "Whatever," he muttered, dismissing the jab with the experience of years of practiced emotional deafness. He walked over to the hall closet, rummaging through a stack of old tapes until he found the one he was looking for, labeled in his mother's neat handwriting: PJ and Max.

"Where are you going?" Pete demanded as he made his way towards the front door.

"Max needs me now. Gotta split."

"If I had a knuckle for every time that troublemaker used you…" Pete mumbled angrily, loud enough to be heard.

PJ quickened his steps toward the door, his hand tightening around the VHS tape, trying desperately to ignore the baiting and not let the familiar anger boil over.

"When was he ever there for you?" Pete called out, the question perfectly designed to stop him, to sow a seed of doubt.

PJ stopped, turning back to face his dad fully, planting his feet on the ground. "He's been there for me plenty of times."

His dad smacked the bottle hard onto the table and got up, his height suddenly dominating the room. "When? When was he ever there for you? Was it when he pressured you into attacking the school principal so he could bust a move on stage, getting you officially blacklisted? Or when you got blasted to the moon at the X-Games last year and he didn't even glance your way, kept racing to the finish line without sparing a thought to what happened to you."

Heart drumming in his chest, PJ listened to his dad hammer one insecurity after another. He knew these accusations held weight. Sometimes Max tended to only think of himself and his goals, PJ's doubts and fears an afterthought. PJ would end up with broken limbs or in trouble with his dad, but it was always okay, because Max was able to get what he wanted in the end. It never bothered him before. He'd be so happy for his friend, brushing aside that he was the only one punished or getting sidelined, while Max and Bobby usually got away scot-free.

"How about all those times he made you lie to me for some scheme he had in that little shitty brain of his?" his father went on, listing Max's vices, drumming it home for PJ to see what a lousy friend Max had been all these years. "That kid never cared about you. He only wanted you around when it benefited him!"

"As opposed to you?" PJ shot back, the words cutting the tense air.

Pete stopped dead. "What?"

"The only times you paid attention to me were when it served you! You used me more times than I can count to act as cover for your petty schemes. That one time you pretended to be sick and loaded me with all the responsibility of providing for the family, just so you could go fishing. I was eleven, Dad! Just a kid! You're no better than Max, you're even worse because you're my dad! You were supposed to protect me, not put me on a steady diet of chores until my personality checked out! You made me count the days until I could leave home, and finally, now that I have left, I'm happy! I'm the happiest I can be! You know when people talk about the good old days and wishing they could be kids again? Not me! I want the future! Anything where I'm far away from you!"

His dad stared at him, his body rigid in shock at the sudden verbal onslaught. The usual menacing authority in his posture deflated, his shoulders hunching slightly, and his heavy hand, which had been resting on his hip, dropped limply to his side.

Not waiting for a response, PJ walked to the door and pulled it open, the old tape tucked securely under his arm. He had never snapped at his father before, never openly defied his authority. Maybe the courage came from the confidence Vicki's love and support had infused into him, or maybe it was simply the knowledge that he wouldn't be returning to sleep in that house again. His true home was miles away at college, a place where he finally felt safe, loved, and appreciated.

He stepped out of the house, leaving behind the stale air and the heavy silence, and finally breathed a piece of his own air.

~*~*~*~*~

Curled up on the couch, watching the old videos, Max huddled next to his dad, wrapped tightly in a thick blanket his old man had forced on him, still convinced Max had 'the bug.' PJ sat at the other end of the sofa while Bobby had claimed his spot on the floor, settling in right in front of the chips and dip like a sentinel guarding treasure. Somehow, looking at these past memories had begun to thaw his usually carefree friend. He was less awkward, less sulky, and even managed to fire off a couple of jokes aimed at Max, easing them all back into the familiar rhythm of old times.

Max's young, raspy voice suddenly blared from the screen, ordering PJ to "get the bungee cords." On the VHS, young Max and young PJ were in the Goofs' backyard, building a giant slingshot out of thick branches and inner tube rubber, clearly planning to launch something far into the air.

"Listen to Maxie's tiny voice!" Bobby cracked up.

Glancing over at Max, PJ noticed a ghost of a smile finally playing on his lips, his head resting securely on his dad's shoulder. Goofy's arm was wrapped tight around him, the only person Max would allow to touch him right now.

PJ's attention snapped back to the screen as he heard little Max yell at him for not holding the knot tight enough.

Bobby laughed again. "You were one bossy little dude, Max-o, weren't you?"

The clip suddenly cut to Max and PJ perched on a high tree branch. They had fashioned clumsy, homemade wings for PJ, who looked nervously down at the camera screen.

Little Max yelled down, his voice raspier from the speaker. "Dad, did you start the camera?"

Goofy's chuckle echoed on screen. "Ahyuck, I can see you, boys! We're in the action zone, fellars!"

"I don't know about this, Max." PJ's apprehensive voice, not much different than his current voice, came through the speakers.

Little Max slapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "You have to do this, Peej! If you wanna convince your dad you're old enough to go bungee jumping!"

"But I don't wanna go bungee jumping," PJ weakly protested.

"Of course you do, buddy!" Max said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "You know, Rose would totally dig seeing you fly."

"She would?" PJ asked, hope instantly overriding his fear.

Max gave him that slick, sly grin. "Totally."

"I ended up breaking my arm," PJ on the couch commented flatly.

"Sorry about that, buddy," Max said with an apologetic grin, though the grin widened slightly as his dad's arm instinctively tightened around him.

Seeing those clips only enforced the very thing his dad had accused Max of: that he didn't care about PJ, that he was using him for his own benefit. PJ knew, deep down, that it wasn't true, that Max liked him and valued him genuinely, but how much of their friendship was actually a two-way street? Looking back, it seemed like most of the time, Max was steering the whole damn car, while PJ had simply been along for the ride, enabling Max's outrageous schemes.

Another clip showed them having a picnic with their parents in the backyard. They could hear young Max giggle on screen as the shot got closer to PJ, who was about to put a spider on Pistol. PJ pulled the collar of her dress away from her back just enough to slip the spider inside.

Pistol let out a high-pitched shriek that sounded like a tea kettle blowing its lid, followed by a frantic, flailing dance that nearly knocked over the picnic table, drawing roaring laughs from the audience watching the screen.

PJ snickered, glancing at Max. While he always had reservations over those outrageous ideas, he had to admit he wouldn't have had the coolest memories to tell his kids one day if it weren't for his scheming buddy over here. He was the reason PJ actually had a childhood. Max glanced at him, and PJ offered a genuine smile, which Max returned.

A new clip started, the quality of the VHS visibly sharper. It showed Max in his newly remodeled room, looking older. He had ditched the weird double bunk bed for a regular one, though the room was a complete mess, with Powerline posters covering every wall.

"Okay, Peej, catch me do the moonwalk all the way to the door," Max's voice was lower-pitched now, with that significant crack of puberty hitting here and there.

"Now that's the Max I remember," Bobby commented, throwing a chip into his mouth after drowning it in dip.

They watched Max talk excitedly about his special boombox, which he'd won from a local radio station's 'Guess the Lyrics' contest.

Then, right as Max was attempting the moonwalk, they heard the door creak open and Goofy's cheerful voice float in from the screen. Max instantly snapped, his voice tight with teenage irritation, telling his dad they were busy and demanding he leave. Goofy appeared on screen, then promptly stepped on a rogue rollerblade left near the door. He flailed, trying to catch himself, but ended up knocking Max's beloved boombox from the desk. It hit the floor with a sickening, shattering crunch.

Suddenly, Max on screen went into a horrifying tantrum, his voice high-pitched with rage as he yelled at his dad for always ruining his things. The camera captured the profound hurt that instantly clouded Goofy's face.

PJ shifted uncomfortably on the couch, glancing at Mr. Goof. To his surprise, Goofy wore a fond, soft smile on his lips, as if watching a cherished memory. Interestingly, it was Max's face that now drooped with genuine sadness.

"That must be it," Max muttered.

Everyone looked at him. Goofy leaned forward, his voice gentle. "What is it, Maxie?"

Max swallowed and sat up straight. He looked directly at his dad. "It must be karma. Everything that happened this year, I was being punished."

"Punished?" Goofy echoed, a deep frown creasing his face. "What exactly happened this year?"

"I was always mean to you, Dad," Max confessed, his gaze steady but filled with regret. "All the crap I went through... I had it coming for being a bad son."

Bobby scoffed, loud enough to draw attention. "C'mon now, Max."

"It's the truth," Max insisted. "I was the worst. Dad deserved better than what he got."

Still shocked, Goofy could only whisper, "Maxie..."

Bobby angrily pushed the bowl of chips away, the plastic skidding on the floor, and stood up, glaring down at Max. "That's it. You're not the worst son! My Uncle Bert is the worst son. He literally stole my grandparents' retirement savings and then tried to sell their house out from under them while they were on vacation!"

PJ looked at how passionately Bobby was talking. It was jarring, he rarely talked seriously about anything. The only time PJ could remember this level of intensity was when Bobby talked some sense into Max when he was planning to quit the team and transfer universities last year after losing to the Gammas in the qualifying rounds.

Bobby pointed at the College X-Games trophy displayed proudly in the living room and argued, "Would the worst son give his own trophy to his old man?" He walked over to bring the trophy closer, then noticed something and said, "Whoa, and you got it engraved too?"

He read the engraving out loud, "'I might not be your little boy, but I'll always be your son.'" He looked at Max, shaking his head. "Worst son my ass."

PJ nodded and offered Max a supportive smile. "He's right. Remember when we were kids? You were so upset you couldn't buy your dad a real vacation because he'd never had one, so you entered the 'America's Painful Home Videos' contest to win him a trip to Hawaii."

"That was a great vacation!" Goofy laughed. "Almost got the hang of the surfing, too, until the sea turtle wanted to make friends."

Bobby grinned, clearly recalling his own memories. "Dude, Hawaii kicks ass, especially in spring!"

Max looked down at the blanket he was wrapped in, his focus seemingly elsewhere.

Goofy leaned in close, his voice dropping to a tender whisper. "I owe you my life, son. You saved me back at them waterfalls with the perfect cast! Who knew you'd pick that up after I only showed it to you once? And you were in a mood then!" He chuckled softly, then squeezed Max gently. His expression turned serious. "You don't have to do bad things for bad things to happen to you. Sometimes, darn fool luck lands right on a good heart. I had my share of tumbles and pain, and I think of myself as a pretty decent man."

"The best," Max whispered.

Goofy smiled, ruffling Max’s hair affectionately. He pulled back slightly, looking straight into his eyes. "Now, I ain't sure what kinda terrible hoo-ha happened to you this year, but I sure am hoping you're getting the help you need, Maxie."

"He needs to go to therapy, sir," PJ piped up from the end of the couch, raising an eyebrow when Max glared at him.

"Therapy, huh?" Goofy mused aloud, considering the word. "I heard them folks in therapy just teach you how to talk to your feelings... Ahyuck! But maybe that's not so bad!" Goofy leaned closer toward Max, his voice dropping slightly. "You're not a kid anymore, Max. I won't tell you what to do, but I really hope you give this therapy thing a shot."

Holding his breath, PJ stared at Max, watching him swallow hard, then briefly glance at the X-Games trophy perched on the shelf on top of the TV. He then looked up at his dad and gave a faint nod.

"Hallaloya!" Bobby screamed, doing a quick, celebratory Double Finger Point dance, and then clutched PJ's shoulders tightly. "This guy has been hounding him to go to therapy all year! See, PJ? It only needs a trip to his old man to get some sense into that skull." He punctuated the comment with a gentle knock of his fist on Max's head, instantly earning him a retaliatory smack across the face with a couch cushion.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The thought of things going this smoothly on the very first night back home had never even registered in PJ's mind as a possibility. He had braced himself for days of uncomfortable silence and Max completely withdrawing into himself. Never in a million years did he expect to hear Goofy, the king of well-meaning smothering, trusting Max to handle his own problems without completely butting in or taking over. That moment of quiet, accepting conversation Max just had was nothing like the hostile argument PJ had endured with his own father mere hours ago.

Walking into Max's old room with his duffle bag, PJ glanced out the window toward his own house. He spotted his own bedroom window where they used two tin cans connected by a length of string, allowing them to talk across the yards.

His mom had stopped by earlier tonight, bearing a plate piled high with pie. She'd told him she'd never seen Pete this quiet and completely checked out before. He hadn't even touched his dinner, choosing instead to go to bed early. Was he too harsh on his dad? It was the first time in his life he had ever stood up to him. Would it have made a difference if he had spoken up years ago? Maybe he and his dad could have forged the same loving, easygoing relationship that Max enjoyed with Goofy.

"Are you okay?"

PJ flinched, turning to Max, whose gaze flicked between him and the window.

"Are you thinking about your dad?" Max asked gently. "Do you wanna go over there and hash it out?"

"No, no, it's not a big deal," PJ answered, shaking his head and dropping his duffle bag onto the mattress lying on the floor next to Max's bed.

"What was your fight about?" Max asked, pulling his hoodie over his head.

"Just stuff," PJ mumbled, unzipping his bag and pulling out some of his clothes.

Max didn't press, instead turning to start unbuttoning his jeans.

PJ eyed him silently, wondering what Max would think if he knew the way his dad viewed him. Painting him as some kind of fair-weather friend who took advantage of PJ and didn't care about him at all. His dad made it sound like if someone better came along, Max would drop PJ in a second... which, well, was actually the other way around. PJ remembered that time he preferred to hang out with Coop Hatchback instead of Max, drawn in by the whole bodybuilding craze. Yeah, well, his dad didn't know what he was talking about. Max had always been a solid friend.

He walked over to Max's closet and opened the bottom drawer, intending to file away his clothes. His fingers brushed against something hard and cool. He reached in and pulled out a squished, familiar aluminum can with a faded green sticker clinging desperately to its surface.

"Ah, Max?" he said, holding up the can for his friend to see.

Standing across the room in a white tank top and red-and-blue boxers, Max tossed his laundry into a hamper, stopped short and instantly grinned. "Whoa, Dad didn't throw that out?"

"Isn't this…" PJ started, recognizing the shape and the nearly ruined color instantly.

"Yep," Max confirmed, slipping under his sheets and stretching contentedly. "That was the can from our first day here in Spoonerville, back when your dad wanted you to crush a mountain of cans. I heard you say you wanted to save one to remember that day. When you left it behind, I snagged it and saved it."

PJ stood up and walked toward Max's bed, a soft frown forming as his thumb worried the peeling edge of the old sticker. "Why would you do that?"

"It was the day I finally made a friend," Max said, giving PJ a sincere look that was part 'duh', part vulnerable confession. "I know it's lame, but you're my first friend, Peej."

"Guess I'm lame, too," PJ admitted, the frown melting into a small, fond smile. "You're my first friend, too." PJ handed Max the can, and their fingers brushed lightly. PJ recoiled almost instantly at the brief contact, his face flushing as he said apologetically, "Sorry."

Max stared at him, all the easy jokes and smiles were momentarily vanishing, replaced by a profound seriousness. Then, slowly, he reached out and firmly grabbed PJ's hand, holding it tight. PJ stared down, confused, then met Max's solemn gaze. "I know you'd never hurt me, PJ," the whisper was earnest, holding years of unspoken trust.

The grip on the thinner hand tightened, squeezing hard. "Never."

A faint, tired grin crossed Max's lips, relieving the heavy tension. "Sappy moment over," he mumbled. "Time for some shut-eye."

"Good to see you in a better mood," PJ said, feeling a comforting warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the room temperature.

"The home video idea was good. Thanks." A sad shadow quickly passed over his features. "Made me forget."

He watched Max trying to get comfortable in bed, the blanket pooling around him as he shifted restlessly. The simple act of his friend seeking solace only hardened PJ's resolve. He knew that his own dad had been trying to hurt him, deliberately painting Max as a bad person who didn't care. PJ realized he shouldn't have doubted their friendship, even for a moment, regardless of its flaws.

This was Max.

This was his best friend, the guy who had stayed up with him all night to help him study for a math test he was dreading, the guy who helped him get his crush to notice him, the guy who had spent hours trying to help him conquer his crippling fear of heights. Max might be self-absorbed sometimes, but PJ knew he would be there for him the instant he was truly needed.

~*~*~*~*~

The heavy sound of a car halting just outside the house snapped PJ out of his restless slumber. He looked over; Max was deep asleep, breathing evenly. PJ carefully crept off his mattress and approached the window. Peering through the blinds, he saw a strange, unfamiliar car parked by the curb. His eyes widened in fear when the driver's door opened, and Bradley stepped out.

Snapping his head back, PJ stared in disbelief at the unaware, sleeping Max. A wave of fierce protectiveness instantly superseded his fear. Looking down at his tighty-whities, he quickly slipped into a pair of sweatpants, pulling them on in a single motion. He then moved as quietly as humanly possible, sliding his feet across the carpet, and tiptoed out of the room, careful not to let the door click shut.

He descended the stairs, moving silently, and nearly slammed right into Bobby in the darkened hallway. PJ yelped, blinking at Bobby, who was holding a plate piled high with sandwiches swimming in melted cheese.

"Hey, Peejster, couldn't sleep too?" Bobby said playfully before offering him the plate. "Sandwicheese?"

"No, Bobby!" PJ hissed, pushing the plate away. "Bradley is outside."

Bobby's eyes went wide, the easy grin vanished, and he clattered the plate down on the nearest surface, the sticky Sandwicheeses almost sliding off. He grabbed a nearby baseball bat leaning against the wall and hefted it, ready to swing.

"Yeah," PJ said, a dark urgency in his voice. "That's a good idea."

They walked in hushed solidarity toward the front door, slipping outside into the cool night air. Bradley was slightly hunched over, fiddling with Mr. Goof's mailbox. PJ watched the scene unfold from the deep shadows of the porch, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He tracked Bobby's movements as he began to advance slowly, holding the baseball bat low at his side. PJ could clearly see Bradley open the mailbox flap, reach inside with his hand, and then withdraw his arm clutching a couple of white envelopes.

Bobby was approaching steadily, but his movements weren't quiet or graceful, a loose piece of gravel crunched under bare foot. Bradley sensed someone behind him and spun around, gasping when he saw Bobby towering over him, bat raised.

Bat swung.

With a panicked cry, Bradley ducked low, the baseball bat whistling over his head, slicing the cool night air. Bobby instantly recovered, cocking the bat back for a second swing, but PJ, knowing they couldn't risk waking the entire neighborhood rushed forward. He lunged, snatching the bat off Bobby's hand before the next hit could land.

"Enough!" PJ hissed as he tossed the bat onto the soft lawn.

"What are you doing here?" Bobby snapped at the senior, who was still sprawled defensively on the grass, his voice shaking with anger. His gaze caught the envelopes in Bradley's hand, and with a lunge he seized them instantly. "What are these?"

"Wait, let me explain!" Bradley exclaimed, trying to sit up, but Bobby aggressively pushed down on his shoulder with his bare foot, pinning him to the ground.

PJ's eyes quickly scanned the haul: one envelope was a recognizable utility bill, probably the electric, and the other, addressed in formal script to "Mr. Goof," was sealed and generic. Bobby seized the second envelope and savagely tore it open down the side seam.

Bradley shrieked. "No!" he cried out, thrusting his shoulder up and finally pushing Bobby's foot away from his chest.

Even PJ was stunned by Bobby's lack of decency, opening someone else's mail right in front of the owner's house. But before PJ could protest, and before Bradley could make another move to snatch the letter back, Bobby had pulled out a photograph. He instantly let out a raw curse and violently threw it away as if the paper had physically burned his hands. It fluttered and settled on the damp grass.

"Wait, PJ, don't look at it!" Bradley barked when PJ knelt to retrieve it.

Something painful balled and tightened in PJ's throat, choking off his breath. In front of him, illuminated cruelly by the pale moonlight, was the photo that was displayed in the lecture hall. Max sitting on a metal chair, his wrists and ankles secured to the wall with heavy chains. He was completely naked save for a cheap-looking crown resting mockingly on his head. A look of sheer horror glazed over his friend's eyes.

The picture was snatched from PJ's hand. He looked up to see Bradley quickly crumpling it before shoving the mangled paper into his jacket pocket.

"You wanted to show this to his dad, you asshole!" Bobby accused, taking a threatening step toward the senior.

"What? No! No!" Bradley stammered, trying to crawl away. "I came here to get rid of it!"

"You fucking liar! Trashing Max's reputation all over campus wasn't enough, and now you're trying to turn his own dad against him? Don't you know Max tried to kill himself, you jerk!"

Bradley's face went instantly white, draining of all color as the accusation registered. "Max tried... what?"

Bobby tackled him, knocking him flat again, and launched a hard, furious punch into his face. "You bastard! You drove him out of campus! The only safe place he has left to hide is his dad's house, and you wanna take that away from him, too?"

"You've gotta believe me, I'm here for damage control!" Bradley cried, struggling desperately under Bobby's relentless weight. "It wasn't me who mailed it. I swear, I had nothing to do with sending it!" He looked past Bobby, his eyes wide and pleading directly toward PJ. "PJ, look at me! I swear I didn't put it in the box!"

PJ’s gaze lingered on the tight bulge in Bradley's pocket, the horrible picture hiding there from exposure. He heard Bradley plead again, the sound now thin and desperate, "Please, believe me."

He forced his gaze up to meet Bradley's begging eyes, and instantly, an image of his dad flashed before him. He recognized that desperate, pleading stare from the countless times Pete had been caught in a lie, begging PJ to believe he was innocent. PJ had always believed him, and he'd been burned for it every single time.

Except now it was different.

"Let him go, Bobby. He's telling the truth."

Chapter Text

Note: If you haven't seen Anitish awesome short animation based on Siberia on TikTok, you better check it out! Click on this link!

It includes scenes from different points of the fic: Bradley showing Max the canvases for the first time, Max naked in the motel room, Bradely's rule of silence covering Max's mouth, Bradley holding the chains to tie Max up, Max beating up Bradley after they burned the canvases, Bradely being there for Max when he suffered from one of his panic attacks or seizures. 

~*~*~*~*~

"What are you saying? You saw him put that envelope inside?" Bobby remained straddling the senior, his fist still raised and shaking in the air.

"He was taking it out," PJ corrected him, watching Bradley who was still pinned beneath the furious bulk of Bobby finally relax.

The fury in his friend's small eyes was momentarily replaced by confusion. "Are you positive?" he asked, his voice low with real uncertainty.

Taking brutal advantage of that split-second hesitation, Bradley shoved the younger boy off of him. He sprang up, aggressively dusting the damp grass and soil from his sweater vest and slacks. He looked directly at PJ, and the return of his familiar, haughty arrogance was instant. "I told you this already," he said, his voice smooth and superior. "It was James who added that picture to the slideshow, and it's James who mailed the photo to Max's dad."

"And why the hell should we believe you, huh?" Bobby aggressively demanded, scrambling to his feet, ready for another round.

Bradley eyed him with that familiar, holier-than-thou attitude, looking exactly as he had when they first met him last year in the Bean Scene. Far removed from the subdued persona he'd worn while pretending to help Max. "Think for a second, lackbrain. Why in the world would I sabotage my own presentation by displaying a photo like that in front of my professors? You know I'm a straight-A student, right? In an intense battle for valedictorian at graduation with your project partner, Nora Carter. No way I'd do something that stupid to myself."

PJ and Bobby exchanged a glance. Logically, Bradley's defense was solid. It made zero sense for a valedictorian contender to blow up his own final project.

But even as PJ processed that, he couldn't help but hate the guy's guts. He had been right there, watching as Max returned from the motel every night with fresh bruises and cuts, then choosing to disappear from the world and lie in bed for days. He barely had the energy for a simple chat, let alone grinding through college work or practicing for the X-Games.

Bradley had been working relentlessly all year on breaking his best friend, using calculated psychological and emotional warfare to tear down his reputation. Max had suffered through months of escalating cruelty, isolation, and constant anxiety attacks. And he was suffering alone, never volunteered a single detail about what was happening to him, always shaking off PJ's concern with a strained smile and a quick change of subject.

Now that PJ had seen a glimpse of what had been going on with his friend, he didn't blame him one bit for keeping quiet.

"But you're the one who took that sketchy picture," Bobby growled, stepping into the older boy's space and looking him in the eye. "You bagged our friend and forced him to be your little tag-along boy-toy."

Blue eyes twitched under the fierce accusatory gaze. Then Bradley hung his head in shame. "I screwed up. A lot. Not just Max, but everyone I hurt before him."

"Like me," PJ heard himself say, his voice flat and detached.

Bradley looked up, confused, the slight flicker of uncertainty on his face enough to ignite the slow-burning anger within PJ. That jerk didn't even vaguely recall the incident. He didn't remember the explosives he'd rigged into PJ's skates that took him out of the race. The blinding pain in his arm and head, or that he had been violently vomiting, all alone, with only Vicki to rush him to the ER.

She was the only person who went looking for him, phoning his parents while he was passed out, only for him to wake up to his mom sitting worriedly by his side. He remembered his dad's angry voice outside the room, demanding the medical staff give him the name of the scumbag who did this, threatening to sue his pants off. None of that legal action ever materialized, of course. PJ had no doubt his dad was paid handsomely by Bradley's family for his silence.

"Peejster here had to crash in the ward for days because of you," Bobby interjected, making the point blunt. PJ recalled the look of horror and guilt on his friends' faces when they visited him, the X-Games trophy clutched triumphantly in Max's hand. They were genuinely excited when they recounted the events of the competition, and PJ had smiled then. He was truly glad they won, but he still hated that he had been deprived of witnessing it or being part of the final race.

"I'm sorry, PJ. I honestly didn't know," Bradley said, sounding genuinely chastened. "I was in intensive care for days at that time that I..."

"Thank you, Tank!" Bobby exclaimed, delivering the insult with biting sarcasm.

A muscle twitched in Bradley's jaw, but he managed to swallow the jab. Instead, he looked apologetically at PJ. "I'm truly sorry. I know my actions have consequences that I need to face."

PJ felt the cold, familiar knot of resentment tighten in his chest. Bradley's apology, no matter how sincere it sounded, landed with a hollow thud. It was a convenient performance, an apology as conditional and self-serving as any his dad had ever issued after he finished using him for leverage. His dad's apologies were always about easing his own guilt, never about truly acknowledging PJ's pain. Bradley's sudden display of sincerity felt like another way for him to regain control of the situation and escape immediate punishment. PJ couldn't shake the deep-seated suspicion that Bradley was only sorry because he got called out.

"Bobby, can you leave us alone?"

His friend looked between them, his aggressive posture collapsing into disbelief. He scoffed, then knelt to retrieve the baseball bat, giving it a playful, childish swing toward Bradley's general direction before turning and walking back inside the house.

The lawn instantly fell silent, leaving PJ and Bradley standing alone in the hazy glow of the streetlights, cut by sharp shadows of the moonlight. Bradley was tall and unnervingly still, his brown hair slightly mussed from the tussle, his sharp eyes fixed on PJ. He looked completely composed, not menacing at all. The model of the perfect, handsome senior. But that very composure terrified him. He stared at those perfect blue eyes, the same eyes that had just claimed innocence, that had convinced him before that he'd only had Max's wellbeing in mind, and in his head, PJ could picture that same handsome, cold face appearing savage in some cheap motel room. He pictured Bradley pinning Max down, chaining him, hurting and humiliating him in sickening ways that made PJ’s stomach churn with nausea. He needed to know what kind of monster he was dealing with, if only to finally silence the horrific thoughts and images flashing in his mind.

"Look, I understand what you're saying about respecting Max's boundaries, but I need to know what happened between you two. Max finally agreed to go to therapy, and I need information to figure out which therapist is actually suited for him."

Bradley looked back at him with an unreadable expression, a strange mix of aloofness and self-satisfaction. "I can give you names of therapists," he offered coolly. "I know exactly what happened between us."

"But…" PJ started, annoyed by the evasion.

"Max didn't tell you anything, did he?" The question was delivered with infuriating knowing accuracy.

PJ grimaced, looking down at the grass. "We didn't really get around to talking about it."

"He will tell you when he's ready," Bradley stated, his tone patronizing. "I think this is more about your curiosity than something you need to help him."

"What the hell did you just say?" PJ snapped, indignation flaring hot again.

"You don't need to know the details about what happened between us. What Max needs from you is to be there for him, not to pry into his secrets."

"You've got the nerve to…" PJ began angrily, stepping forward.

"Here," Bradley interrupted smoothly, cutting him off and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the old Nokia phone and held it out.

PJ stubbornly shook his head. "I don't want it."

"But you'll need it if I'm going to send you names of professional therapists," Bradley countered, his expression unwavering. "And I'm going to pay for the one Max chooses."

"Why did you say it like that?" PJ demanded.

Bradley's eyes bored into him, his face tightening with a brief flash of temper. "It's Max's life. He chooses his own therapist."

"Of course he chooses! What, you think I'm his handler or something?" PJ threw back, stepping back to create distance. "And I don't need your phone. You can ask your friend James to mail the names to this address!"

Bradley's anger hardened. "You're choosing the hard way just because you have a beef with me?"

"Beef? You broke my best friend! What I have for you is hate!" PJ shot back, his voice thick with raw anger. "You're not the one picking up the pieces, Brad. I was the one waiting for him outside with a bike, driving him home because you'd hurt him so bad he could barely walk. I was the one who had to clean up the bruises and burns covering his body. I was the one pretending not to hear him choking back his tears every night. Do you know how bad I want to just hug him or give him a simple pat? But I know better than to touch him because you made him flinch every time a hand came near him."

The other boy stood perfectly still, looking like he'd been punched in the gut and couldn't catch his breath. He brought one hand up slowly, covering the lower half of his face probably in an attempt to hide the exposed guilt in his eyes. He looked like a man realizing the devastating cost of a crime he couldn't take back. A deeply wounded and ashamed person standing under the harsh light of his own actions.

The actions that had taken a once charismatic, confident guy and reduced him to a flickering shadow. Bradley had stolen the joy right out of Max's bones and replaced it with an exhausting anxiety, forcing Max to question his own reality and his every choice. PJ's gaze cut toward his friend's bedroom window. He was sleeping up there, completely unaware that his abuser was standing just yards away on the front lawn.

Bradley's gaze followed, also fixing on the window. The hard edges around his blue eyes suddenly softened, and a small, unsettlingly tender smile curved his lips. It was the same look PJ had seen countless times on his dad's face when he looked at his mom, a look of genuine affection. Funny how he kept comparing Bradley to his dad. He could see it actually, both of them were convincing, manipulative...

Wait…

PJ stared at him, his chest tightening as a truly horrible, paralyzing thought crossed his mind. The look on Bradley's face was a deep longing so raw it felt inappropriate for the moment, revealing a depth of feeling that contradicted all the malice.

"Are you…" PJ stuttered, pointing a shaking finger at him. "Are you… into him?"

A ragged sigh tore out of Bradley. He slowly met PJ's gaze with eyes that held a quiet, devastating ache, the look of someone who had tragically ruined the very thing they wanted most and knew they could never possess.

"No way," PJ breathed, his voice flat with horror. "There's no way you could actually have feelings for him."

Bradley let out a bitter, choked laugh. "You're not the only one who thinks it's impossible." He gave one last, profound stare at Max's window before he finally shoved the Nokia phone back into his pocket. He turned sharply on his heel and walked quickly across the damp grass to his car, wrenching the driver-side door open and slipping inside.

Through the car window, PJ could see him dropping his head back against the seat for a brief, shuddering moment, as if collecting the last remnants of his fractured composure. He lifted his head slowly, and his gaze found PJ one last time. In that final, fleeting glance, there was only a deep, haunted emptiness. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and Bradley sped away, the only thing he left behind the swirling dust and the silence of the cold night.

PJ stood there, rooted to the damp lawn, feeling sick horror bloom in his gut. Knowing that Bradley had feelings for Max twisted the entire situation into something truly monstrous. The thought that the cruelty Max endured had been motivated by some warped, perverse obsession... the possibility of sexual assault or rape, or whatever unspeakable violation occurred in that motel room, instantly made everything PJ had been imagining feel inadequate.

~*~*~*~*~

It was barely the crack of dawn. PJ had gotten stuck with the grocery run since Mr. Goof had completely wiped out the pantry celebrating Max's return the night before, leaving them with zero breakfast food. He trudged back into the kitchen, dropping the bags onto the counter with a sigh. "Man, that was the easiest mission. Mr. Greezer's store is still stuck in a time warp. I swear they had the exact same stack of Dunkaroos next to the Fruit Roll-Ups on the shelf since the last time I stepped foot in there."

Max cracked a smile that didn't reach his eyes, sitting at the table nursing a juice box. "Yeah, old Greezer just can't deal with curveballs."

"Bobmyster still dead to the world?" PJ asked, eying the surprisingly silent and grim-faced Goofy, who was automatically stocking the fridge.

"Still sacked out on the sofa," Max replied, his tone subdued and lacking any spark.

PJ looked between him and his dad, his brow tightening. The kitchen air was suffocating, pressing down on them like a heavy blanket, the classic silence before the shit hit the fan. With Max picking at his sleeve and unable to sit still, PJ figured the storm was right on top of them.

"So, Peej," Max began, clearing his throat. "Bobby's gotta head back to SC today, right? Are you... going with him?"

PJ paused, confused, holding a loaf of bread. "No, man. I told you. I'm staying the whole week."

Max's eyes darted quickly to his dad, who remained silent and frowning over the crisper drawer. "But wouldn't that seriously affect your semester credits? And your work with Josef on the Synergy Solution project?"

PJ dismissed the worry with a shrug. "I can catch up later."

Max shifted again, his awkward glance at his silent, frowning dad almost painful. "But still, wouldn't it... maybe..."

"Do you not want me here, Max? Do you want me to go back with Bobby?" PJ felt a sudden, sharp sting of panic and hurt.

Max lowered his gaze instantly. "No, it's just…"

Chest tightening, pain ripping through. Could it be Max just needed some alone time with his dad, and PJ was just shoving his presence down their throats? Maybe that was why Mr. Goof was so quiet, he was simply fed up with him monopolizing his son's time.

"I'm sorry, man," he said, his voice flat with hurt. "I didn't know I was wearing out my welcome."

Max's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "No, Peej, that's not…"

The conversation was violently cut short by Goofy smacking the refrigerator drawer shut. He looked straight at them, his face pale with controlled anger. "That's it! PJ, your dad came over here a-fussing and a-cussing at my son, calling him spoiled and selfish for keeping you away from school."

"Dad, why?!" Max snapped back at his dad, glaring at him.

PJ's eyes went wide, his hands dropping the bread. He stared at Max, who avoided eye contact, looking instead at the kitchen floor. "Look, PJ," he mumbled, shifting his weight. "It's okay. Dad and I can handle the therapy stuff. You don't have to stay."

Rage boiled within him. His hands curled into fists. He felt suddenly too big for the small kitchen, suffocated by the heavy air and the sickening realization of his dad's relentless malice. He strode towards the back door, yanking it open and letting it slam against the frame.

Marching straight into his own house, he flung open the front door with such force that it hit the wall behind it. He crossed the living room in booming strides, heading straight for the kitchen where he knew his family would be having breakfast.

He found them seated at the table. His mom, Peg, instantly brightened. "Oh, PJ, honey, so glad you decided to join us!" she said warmly. "Grab a seat. I'll pour you some orange juice."

Pistol scrunched her nose at him, her bizarre combination of crimped and curled hair bouncing slightly. "Well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. You were home last night and didn't even think about saying hi. That's your favorite child right there, Mom."

"Well, judging by your attitude lately, I can gladly say he is my favorite," Peg replied, placing a couple of buttered waffles onto an empty plate.

"Knew it," Pistol hissed. She aggressively folded the bottom of her oversized t-shirt up to make it a crop top, exposing her midriff like she was auditioning for a Britney Spears video.

PJ ignored them both, his eyes locked on his dad, whose face was shielded behind the morning newspaper. "Dad! Why did you go over next door and make Max feel like shit?"

Peg gasped as she placed his plate on the table. "What?"

"Yeah, Dad, why did you make Max feel like shit?" Pistol piped up, looking mischievously intrigued.

"Pistol! Watch your tongue!" Peg yelled, rising quickly from her seat.

"Yeah, right! PJ gets to say whatever he wants!" Pistol shot back angrily, crossing her arms.

"Dad, answer me!" PJ said again, firmer this time, taking two heavy steps toward the table.

Pete finally lowered the paper, his face hard and defensive. "I went over there to set the record straight! You're missing classes and study groups and what not. I'm simply protecting my investment in your future, which that slacker is clearly jeopardizing!"

"The last thing Max needs right now is being blamed for something I chose to do," PJ argued, his voice shaking. "I want to be there, Dad. I want to help him."

"What's wrong with Max?" Pistol asked earnestly, leaning across the table.

"Grown-ups are talking," PJ sneered.

Pistol puffed her cheeks out indignantly. "Oh, so you're a grown-up now!"

Ignoring her, PJ looked his dad squarely in the eye. "You never talk to Max again, Dad, okay? You have something to say, you say it to me."

Pete smashed the newspaper onto the table, causing his cup of coffee to slosh and splash across the white tablecloth. "Yeah, I have something to say to you. You're a damn sheep! Following that Goof kid around like a sad little tag-along! When are you gonna be your own man?"

"I am my own man! And I'm choosing to be there for my friend!" PJ retorted. "Maybe if you ever put someone else first instead of just yourself, you'd know what loyalty looks like!"

"Since when do you sass your old man, you little ungrateful brat!"

"Since I grew a spine! Shows you what living in a healthy environment does to a guy."

"I'll give you a healthy environment!" Pete was rising, his voice hitting a dangerous volume, his chair scraping back.

Peg quickly darted between them, placing both hands flat on Pete's chest to push him back, and barking at them both, "ENOUGH! Both of you, calm down!" She gave Pete a fierce glare, which made his apparent angry nerves settle into a grudging calm.

Hands pressing against the bridge of his nose, Pete heaved a tired sigh and looked at PJ. "Listen, son, I just don't want him walking all over ya, see?"

"Like the way you walked all over me?" PJ fired back.

"Now, PJ, this is no way to talk to your dad," Peg gently reproached, placing a comforting arm on his shoulder.

"Am I wrong, Mom?" PJ said, looking at her. "How many times did you tear his head off for taking advantage of me?"

"Now listen there," Pete snarled, his eyes narrowing. "Dissing your own dad is unacceptable. That's what you get from them Goofs, teaching you how to be mouthy. I've seen the way that little mutant talked to his pop. Now let me tell ya, old Goof doesn't deserve that kind of disrespect."

"Leave the Goofs out of this, Dad, this is between you and me. Are you actually worried about my future, or are you just worried about the cash in my college fund?"

"Of course I'm worried about your future, son!" Pete insisted, his voice softening, and he reached out a hand, aiming to place it on PJ's arm.

PJ involuntary took a step back.

Pete froze instantly, his hand hanging awkwardly in the air.

Something cold twisted in PJ's heart at the flicker of genuine hurt in his dad's face. It was the same old dance: Pete would lash out and use guilt, then offer a phony apology, and they'd reconcile. Everything would settle down for a while, and then the cycle would repeat itself, just waiting for the next scheme or manipulation. Not this time, though. He had had enough.

He turned away and walked silently toward the front door.

"PJ, honey, stay for breakfast!" Peg called after him, her voice laced with worry.

"Maybe another day, Mom," PJ muttered, already moving past the entry hall.

The heavy wood of the front door clicked shut behind him, muffling the lingering sounds an argument that started between his parents. The air outside felt cleaner and much cooler than the tension inside. Sun already shining up, PJ slowed his pace, walking across the cracked asphalt toward the curb.

He found Max hunched anxiously on the curb right between their two houses, his shoulders tight and his arms crossed over his chest. The moment PJ stepped off his driveway, Max straightened up and began walking quickly toward him.

"Hey, man," he said, his voice low and riddled with anxiety. "I don't want you getting bad blood with your dad over me. I really don't mind if you went back, you've done so much for me already. I can take it from here."

"You can't get rid of me, Max. I'm here to stay," PJ said with a lopsided smile he hoped looked genuine enough to cut through the tension.

"Are you sure?" Max asked, his shoulders still tight.

"Dude, it's not even a question."

Max visibly relaxed, a glimmer of his old self returning as he looped an arm over PJ's neck. "Bobby's still zonked out. You thinking corn kernel cannons or something else?"

PJ felt the corner of his mouth turn up. "Corn kernels is the move. We gotta go all-out."

~*~*~*~*~

"Alright, Max-man, I gotta peace out." Bobby gave Max a hearty clap on the shoulder that was meant to be supportive but was still a little too hard. "You stay outta trouble and hit those therapy sessions, capisce?"

A punch to the gut followed by groan and a laugh. Max smirked looking at the cowering redhead. "Hey, say hi to Tina from me, okay?"

Bobby immediately threw his hands up in offense. "Whoa, hold up! Why the heck would I even see Tina?" He scoffed loudly, adjusting his ridiculous heart-shaped glasses.

PJ and Max exchanged a knowing look.

"What?!" Bobby snapped, adjusting his backpack strap. "You guys suck!"

"Oh, cut the act, Bobcat. We all know you got a thing for our favorite girl on the team," PJ said, hooking his arm around Bobby's neck in a headlock, noticing the slight growth of ginger hair that tickled his arm.

"She's the only girl on the team!" Bobby complained, aggressively throwing PJ's arm away and taking a clumsy step back. "And I have no thing for her, not even a little bit!"

"You two bicker worse than Sam and Diane," PJ observed.

Bobby glowered at him, shaking his head vehemently. "Keep talking and I'll see you later!" He threw out an exaggerated wave and quickly slid into the driver's seat. He cranked the key, revved the engine until the old van shuddered dramatically, gave a loud and unnecessary honk, and then peeled out from the curb, quickly disappearing down the street toward State College.

PJ watched the tail lights of the van disappear around the corner. For a moment, he and Max stood together in silence in the morning chill, the only sound the chirping calls of early birds.

"I don't know if I can go back." The whisper was so low PJ almost missed it.

He turned his head to look at Max whose face was tightly controlled.

"Hey, come on, man," PJ reassured him, keeping his voice light. "By next week, that picture's old news. Some new scandal will pop off, you know how college crowds are."

Max shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the pavement. "I don't think they would. God, Peej, I had it all, you know? I was on top. Now… now I'm just back at rock bottom."

PJ placed his hand on his back, giving him a comforting pat. "It'll get better."

"I don't think it ever will," Max murmured, his voice heavy with despair. "And worst of all, Bradley…" he trailed off, his features a mix of deep confusion and genuine heartache.

His hand froze mid-pat on Max's back, no longer massaging his shoulder. "What about Bradley?" he asked, suspicion.

Max's gaze flickered nervously up at him for a brief second before focusing intently on the green grass. "We were getting along great. We were… we had a good time working on that project. It felt like we were friends."

PJ swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in his stomach. There it was. Max was confusing the brief acts of kindness with real friendship. Bradley had tortured him for so long that he would use those flickers of compassion to lull Max into staying in his orbit, ensuring he could never truly escape his pull.

"I can't believe Bradley showed that picture," Max mumbled, his face heartbroken by the supposed betrayal of their temporary connection.

PJ could have ended his pain right now. He could have told him it wasn't Bradley. But his tongue felt too heavy and thick with dread. If Bradley had harbored twisted, possessive feelings, then Max hadn't just endured abuse, he'd also been subjected to intense psychological manipulation. The twisted pattern of hurting Max, then offering small flickers of kindness made his friend confuse trauma bonding with real desire. He was now hooked, just as PJ himself had once confused his father's iron-fisted control with genuine care. He couldn't bear the thought of Max going through the same cycle of desperate yearning, clinging to scraps of kindness just to believe he was loved.

Breaking the pattern required breaking contact. Being away from his dad had given him the space to finally grow. To heal and get back to his old self, Max had to stay completely clear of Bradley and his obsessive games.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Slumped deep into the sofa, the living room's ambient light was defeated by the frantic color-shifts on the TV screen. PJ and Max were watching a new episode of Malcolm in the Middle. Lois, as usual, was running a tyrannical ship, especially where her ridiculous husband Hal was concerned. The dynamic instantly reminded PJ of his own parents, minus the fun. If only his old man possessed even one fraction of Hal's childlike joy or ability to not permanently destroy the family finances. That would be a healthy environment.

The phone sitting on the end table rang, but both college boys were too lazy and perfectly engrossed to answer it. They didn't even twitch, instead cheering loudly as Hal, against all odds, managed to land another strike at the bowling alley.

"PJ, phone for ya!" Mr. Goof called out from the kitchen, having already answered the line.

He was about to grab the cordless phone from the end table, but Max instantly extended his leg and blocked his path. "Nope, go to the kitchen."

"C'mon, man, I don't wanna walk all that way," PJ whined, drooping back into the cushions.

"Shh! I'm missing some prime Lois shade right now. Move it!" Max hissed, eyes glued to the screen.

PJ groaned dramatically before hauling himself off the couch and dragging his feet to the kitchen. He threw a quick smile at Mr. Goof, who stood at the stove making them dinner, and then picked up the receiver laid on the counter. "Yeah?"

"Hello there, stranger," Vicki's voice purred through the line, instantly brightening his mood. "I just tried your house, and your charming teenage sister was kind enough to answer."

He winced. "I can already taste the awkward."

"Did you really wear footsie pajamas until the seventh grade?"

"I am going to kill Pistol," he hissed, though the sound of her soft laugh instantly eased his white-hot anger. "So, uh, how's college life without big old moi to spice things up?"

"A boring, rotten snooze-fest without you to bring all the zest."

Mr. Goof, walking by to grab the salt shaker from the cabinet, leaned in and whispered, "That your girlfriend?"

PJ nodded.

He gave him a massive thumbs-up.

A chuckle. Mr. G was the best.

"Don't worry about classes," Vicki continued. "I got you and Max covered."

PJ's amused smile widened. "How exactly?"

"A few local students who share your rough schedule got free daily lattes. The caffeine will keep them sharp while they sit through the lectures and take notes. I also talked to your professor and got your presentation delayed. Bought you some time, Papa-dog, you owe me big."

"You saved my rear, my mocha latte bear!" He smiled at her laugh, then glanced quickly at Mr. Goof, who was still bustling at the stove. PJ walked a few steps further outside the kitchen's hearing range. "I don't suppose you were able to strong-arm the prof into postponing Max's presentation, too?"

"I didn't have to," she replied, her tone suddenly shifting to serious. "His old foe did."

"Bradley?" PJ asked, the word catching in his throat. "Oh, well, obviously he did. He wants to save his grade."

Vicki hummed on the phone. "The hardest forgiveness is earned when the foe seeks to become the friend."

Silence settled as her words registered. It felt absurd that a sharp, observant girl like Vicki would fall victim to the manipulation of Sir Spoiled, Fancy Schmuck. She was the one who put him in his place since the day they met. What did the jerk do to persuade her? With Max, he used blackmail. With PJ, he used Max. The terrifying possibility that Bradley was targeting Vicki next sent a cold wave of dread through him.

"I bear valuable information," he heard her say over the phone, "about professional therapists."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bradley had done his research all right, going full millennium with his methods. The idea of finding a trauma specialist, something so serious and private, on the same internet usually reserved for music downloads and silly message boards felt wild. He had scoured a handful of online professional directories and managed to pull down four therapists specializing in trauma. Each listing offering a single fax number, a website link, and a three-line professional biography.

He sent the therapist information to Vicki's email, and she forwarded it on to PJ. He was going to absurd lengths to avoid contacting him directly. While PJ had asked for this distance, the effort Bradley put into avoiding him still felt excessive.

Reviewing the list of names and biographies had made Max visibly uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and kept pushing his hair back, avoiding eye contact with the stark printouts. PJ felt a deep swell of sympathy watching him. Then, he noticed Mr. Goof reaching over Max's shoulder to retrieve one of the pages. His fingers instinctively brushed the heavy words, "trauma specialist," and a sad frown settled on his face as he looked at his son with undisguised worry. He didn't say a word, though, nor did he ask a single question. He was taking the whole concept of Max's independence almost too seriously, probably terrified of ruining the good relationship they had finally established if he meddled again.

Moments later, when PJ headed for the bathroom upstairs, he could clearly hear Mr. Goof quietly crying through his ajar bedroom door.

The tedious process finally ended with a decision based purely on logistics. The best choice, they agreed, was simply the one closest to campus. This put them with Dr. Jane Moore, whose office was located a couple of easy freeway exits away. The selection was made, the appointment was set, and the clock was ticking: Max's first session was due in less than an hour.

"Best get a move on, boys! Don't wanna be late!" Mr. Goof called them from downstairs, already heading towards his car.

Buttoning up his fresh shirt, PJ snatched his copy of Fatal Interview, figuring he could catch up on his sonnet reading in the waiting room. He glanced over at Max's backpack, which was just slung over the desk chair. "Yo, you cool if I stash this in there?" he asked, holding up the book. "Don't feel like lugging it the whole way."

"Suit yourself," Max replied without looking up, slipping on his favorite worn red T-shirt.

PJ unzipped the main pocket, which was jammed with snack bags, chips, granola bars, and a heavenly stash of chocolate. Zipping that one up, he hit the smaller side compartment and found a stiff, white envelope stuffed inside.

Staring at it for a beat. He slid it out. The paper inside the envelope felt thick and heavy, not like regular notebook paper. There was no name, no address, nothing written on the outside. A glance at Max, who was now tying the laces on his sneakers.

"Max? What's this?"

When Max looked up and saw the envelope, he locked up instantly. His whole body stiffened, leaving one sneaker lace swaying untied by his foot. He averted his eyes, letting his gaze skip frantically from the white paper to the carpet. "That's, um, that's from Bradley," he finally managed, his voice tight.

The grip on the envelope tightened, the paper crinkling faintly. His rage was abrupt and cold. "Should I just toss it?"

Swallowing hard, Max stared at the floor, then shook his head once. "No, Peej. Just put it back where you found it."

Looking closely at him, taking in the painful rigidity of his shoulders, PJ could feel the tension emanating from his friend. He held his tongue reluctantly and just placed the envelope back inside, slipped his book in beside it, and zipped the pocket shut.

A louder, more impatient honk echoed from the driveway. "Boys! What's taking ya so long? We gotta be a-going!"

~*~*~*~*~

Slumped low in the stiff, upholstered chair in front of Dr. Moore's office, his gaze sweeping over the sterile beige walls and the framed print of a lighthouse. PJ glanced at the closed door of the therapist's office. Dr. Jane Moore had seemed very practical during the initial phone call. She hadn't used any soft approaches or emotional reassurance, but instead focused on scheduling and billing. She felt more like a dentist than someone who could handle Max's intense emotional distress.

Next to him, Mr. Goof's head had slowly drooped to his chest, and he was snoring loudly.

He located the side pocket and carefully pulled out his book, intending to bury himself in a light reading. As light as a sequence of fifty-two sonnets detailing the inevitable, tragic ruin of a great love affair.

But his eyes snagged on the white envelope nestled in the pocket. PJ hesitated, pulling the envelope halfway out just to stare at the blank surface. He eventually let go, quickly zipping the pocket shut and locking the envelope inside.

Flipping open Millay, PJ tried to anchor his attention to the page and forget that envelope altogether, but the words blurred. The intrusive rhythm of his own rising curiosity was too loud for the sonnets' meter:

I find you in my garden, and you stay; You are the familiar spirit of the place,

What could Bradley have written to Max in that letter? More lies? More sweet talk to hold Max captive? Why hadn't Max read it yet?

PJ snapped the book shut, frustration simmering. He placed it aside, glanced at Mr. Goof who was still dozing in his chair, and walked slowly toward the closed door of Dr. Moore's office. He leaned forward, straining to catch any sound from behind the thick wood, anything Max might say, something to ease the growing fear inside him.

"PJ?"

He startled, pulling back sharply. Vicki was standing in the doorway, giving him a knowing look. Clad in her usual black ensemble, her beret tilted over her forehead.

"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," she whispered, crossing the room to stand over him.

Just as he was processing what she said, a loud, intensifying bickering match drifted from the end of the hallway, followed by the sight of Bobby and Tina stumbling in.

"I'm telling you, it was way faster to cut through the faculty parking lot!" Bobby argued, adjusting his glasses. 

"We almost got towed, you dork!" Tina hissed back, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

PJ waved his hands frantically. "Shh! I didn't tell Max you guys were coming!"

Tina's face instantly softened when she saw him, her usually wild blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail that barely contained its energy. Her blue eyes narrowed into worry. "How is he?"

"Much better," PJ sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We spent the week doing all kinds of crazy stuff we used to do before college."

"So, basically, you just watched TV," Bobby deadpanned.

"In a nutshell, yes."

Tina looked anxiously at the closed office door, chewing her lip. "Shouldn't we have told him? I don't want to bombard him. What if he comes out crying? He probably doesn't want us here."

"Behold the queen of overthinking," Bobby mocked, and with a sweeping motion of his leg, he buttkicked PJ's copy of Fatal Interview off the chair and collapsed with an audible whoosh its place, causing Mr. Goof next to him to snap awake with a slight grunt. He blinked groggily at the sudden assembly of college kids.

PJ knelt to snag his book, smoothing the cover. He then straightened and smacked Bobby sharply on the back of the head. "See what you did!"

"Sorry for waking you, Mr. Goof," Tina mumbled, embarrassed.

Goofy rubbed his eyes and scratched his side, his frown lines easing as he registered the faces. "It's all right. Is that hour over yet?" he asked the room in general.

"I think Tina has a point," PJ admitted, looking at the door and his watch again. "The last thing Max needs is an audience right now. Why don't you guys wait for us downstairs in the lobby? We'll meet you there."

Bobby grumbled and started to shove himself out of the chair, but before he could argue, Tina grabbed his ear and hauled him toward the hallway. As they stumbled away, Vicki leaned in, and quickly pressed a kiss to PJ's cheek. She gave him a meaning look and PJ felt a blush of embarrassment for his own nosy attitude a few minutes earlier. He watched her turn and calmly follow Tina and the complaining Bobby toward the elevators.

PJ settled back into his stiff chair and opened his book again.

"What's wrong with Max, PJ?"

Book held tightly between both hands, the covers bending slightly from the pressure.

"Why does he need to see one of them trauma therapists?"

PJ kept his eyes fixed on the page. "Sir, I don't really know exactly what happened. Max had been through tough times this year. That's all I know."

He ventured a glance at the man whose shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed on the office door, his brow furrowed deep with anxiety.

"It was during spring break, wasn't it?" Mr. Goof's gaze dropped to his own hands, which were now clasped tightly over his knees. "Knew I shouldn't have abandoned him for a cruise. Like the Perfect Cast pocketknife could make up for it. Bet he didn't even use it."

Oh, he did, PJ thought, the book shaking slightly in his grip. An unwanted, vivid image flashed into his mind, Max in their tiny dorm bathroom, blood dripping from the jagged cut on his arm, and that little pocketknife held grimly in the other hand.

"Sir," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "It's not your fault. Max was going through something before spring." He searched for a way to ease the man's pain, managing a thin, forced smile. "But he's doing much better now, he's finally seeking help. He'll get better in no time."

Mr. Goof smiled weakly, wiping a sudden glossiness from his eyes with the back of his hand. He reached over and gave PJ a warm pat on the shoulder. "Well, I sure feel reassured knowing you're there with him, PJ. Knew I could count on ya to keep him safe."

PJ swallowed, meeting the man's grateful gaze. The weight of that faith felt crushing. He knew he hadn't been a great help. He had spent hours waiting outside that cheap motel, knowing Max was being abused inside and doing nothing to stop it. He had failed Max when it mattered most, and the compliment did nothing but twist the knife deeper in his stomach.

They hadn't talked much after that. PJ opened his book and held it tight, trying to fix his gaze on the top of the page, but the words refused to hold still. He managed to read about seven lines of Millay before Mr. Goof’s large hand reached into Max's backpack, taking a bag of chips. He twisted the plastic open with a small pop, and began a slow, rhythmic crunching.

"So, you patch things up with your old man?" Goofy asked between crunches, his chin moving rhythmically.

PJ's gaze lifted from the blurred text and drifted to the framed lighthouse print on the wall. "Things are... awkward."

Goofy stopped mid-chew and leaned slightly forward in his chair. "Look, son. Your dad is a good man, just... got a lot of sand in his engine, ya know? But listen to old Goof, me and Max, we learned that you can't fix a broken wire if you ain't talking. Communication, PJ. That's how we got closer, me listening, him talking. Other way around. You gotta keep talking to your pop, that's the only way the sand washes out."

PJ nodded, his head turning as the latch on the office door clicked. The heavy wood swung inward. Max stepped into the frame, his face a blank canvas, completely unreadable.

"How'd it go, son?" Mr. Goof asked, tossing the chips bag aside and unfolding his large body from the chair.

"It was okay," Max mumbled, his eyes tracking the pattern of the floor tile. He retrieved his backpack, pulling the straps tight until his spine curved slightly under the weight.

PJ covered the distance between them in two quick steps. "When's the next session?" he pressed.

"Twice a week," Max replied, adjusting the straps of the pack. "Apparently, I'm more damaged than I thought."

Goofy's lanky arm swept across Max's shoulders, pulling him into a close side-hug. "Shucks, son, don't talk like that. What do ya say we go grab some lunch somewhere?"

Max tilted his chin down further, letting the momentum of his dad's steps guide him. "Maybe we should just head home."

As Goofy gently guided him toward the elevators, PJ used the small gap before the office door could swing fully shut. He slipped through the opening, disappearing into Dr. Moore's office.

She looked up, her eyebrows lifting in a clear gesture of surprise. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Moore," he began, moving towards her desk. "I'm Max's friend. How did he do? I know you can't tell me everything, but..."

"Well, Max's friend." She leaned back slowly in her chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her gaze was steady. "As you know, confidentiality is against my professional ethics."

"He's my best friend, and I'm really worried about him," he insisted, the stress of the last few days heavy in his eyes.

She nodded understandingly. "I see that. If your friend keeps coming to his appointments, hopefully, there will be a breakthrough. Other than that, I can't talk about anything we discussed in this room."

"PJ!" Goofy's voice bellowed just outside the main waiting room door.

PJ nodded, accepting the boundary, and his shoulders slumped slightly. "Right. Thank you." He rushed out of the office, rejoining Max and Goofy who were holding the elevator for him.

"Where've you been?" Max frowned slightly.

"Uh, almost forgot my book," PJ lied, holding up his copy of Fatal Interview.

As the elevator doors hissed open, the resulting quiet was instantly shattered. Bobby and Tina sprang out from the blind side of the wall, yelling in jarring unison, "Surprise!"

All three jumped back in alarm. PJ's gaze locked with Vicki, who was standing a little behind the two jokers, her eyes rolling skyward in tired resignation.

Tina and Bobby quickly pulled a shell-shocked Max out of the danger zone. Tina rushed forward and gave Max a big, if slightly clumsy, hug. "I'm just so happy to see you doing well, Max!"

Max smiled softly, the tight tension from the therapy session visibly draining from his features as he returned the embrace. "Thanks, T." PJ could see the way Max's arms gripped Tina's shirt, pulling her close, and the relief that finally smoothed out the corners of his mouth as he made eye contact with Bobby and Vicki.

Vicki stepped forward, smoothly slipping her hand into PJ's, her eyes twinkling with suppressed amusement. "These two fools kept yelling 'Surprise!' at every single person who stepped out of the elevator."

Bobby cackled. "We almost sent an elderly couple to an early grave!"

Vicki lightly squeezed PJ's hand. "I know a new taqueria where the campus green descends. Perhaps to that bright flavor we should tend."

"Whacko-Toronto!" Bobby countered, shaking his head dramatically. "We're going to the diner. I need something greasy and classic. None of that new-age stuff where they put mango on everything."

"Bobby, you had greasy and classic for breakfast!" Tina whined, giving him a playful shove. "Let Max choose!"

Max chuckled. "Honestly, I could eat anything as long as I don't have to cook it."

As they bickered good-naturedly over burgers versus tacos, PJ turned his gaze to Mr. Goof, who was standing a little apart from the noisy group, his posture slightly stooped but his eyes glistening. "You alright, sir?"

Goofy wiped a hand across his face. "Just tickled Max has all these fine friends who care about him. I remember a time before Spoonerville when he had no friends at all. What a sight, seeing y'all here with him."

PJ turned his gaze back to Max, who was now tucked comfortably between Bobby and Tina, the two of them walking him outside the building while arguing about the superiority of chili cheese fries.

~*~*~*~*~

The sun was sinking below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and deep purple as Goofy pulled his car to a stop. The ride back to Spoonerville had been easy, filled with the comfortable chatter of full stomachs and the giddy relief of a successful afternoon.

A familiar, unwelcome weight settled on PJ's shoulders. He looked up and saw his dad standing in their front lawn, watering a patch of petunias with an almost aggressive focus.

Sensing the tension, Goofy gave him an encouraging nod in the rearview mirror. PJ took a deep breath and undid his seatbelt.

"Good luck, buddy," Max whispered from the passenger seat, his expression empathetic.

PJ managed a small smile in return. "Later, man." He opened the car door and stepped out onto the outgrown grass. It never reached that height when he used to live with his folks, maintained by his dad's constant demands. Guess without him there to mow the lawn on regular demand, the suburban perfect order had finally begun to sag.

He watched his dad eying Goofy and Max exiting the car and walking toward their house, the father's hand draped on his son's shoulder in a protective gesture, the sort of comfort granted without need for words. Only when they were inside did Pete turn his attention to his son, laying down the hose. "Had fun on your little outing?"

"Do you want something, Dad?" he asked, keeping his voice even and steady, determined not to raise his voice.

His dad sighed heavily, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Listen, son, we kinda got off on the wrong foot here." He paused, a strange, almost proud smile curving his lips. "I can see that you have changed. You stood up to me this morning. You handled yourself like a man."

"I'm just choosing my own path, Dad," he stated carefully.

"Exactly!" Pete stepped closer, his voice low and encouraging. "And that's great! That's what I want for you, PJ, some backbone. That's the kind of assertive leadership quality that gets you to the top of the chain." He clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture feeling more like approval for a new corporate strategy than fatherly affection. "You're finally showing some of that Mussolini determination."

"It wasn't about being assertive," PJ corrected, the flatness back in his voice. "It was about standing up for someone I care about."

Pete waved a dismissive hand. "Same thing, different wrapping. What matters is, you showed me you aren't going to be pushed around anymore. You need that edge. In fact," he paused, his eyes gleaming, "I was thinking, since you're showing this initiative, I could talk to the Dean. We could spin this whole 'medical hardship' thing as a leadership opportunity. Get you an internship in the Dean's office next year…"

"Wait, wait a second, Dad," PJ asked, frowning, his posture suddenly rigid. "Medical hardship?"

"The Max thing," his dad explained, the subject treated with the casualness of discussing a bad stock option.

"What Max thing?"

"The fact that Goof kid is a nutcase."

"How did you…" PJ started, his eyes widening in disbelief, until he saw a head with a distinct Britney Spears hairdo quickly vanish from the house window. "You had Pistol spy on us?"

Pete threw his hands up, exasperated. "Who cares? I'm giving you a chance to leverage this situation! This is how you win!"

"I don't want to win this way." PJ clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw working hard as they ground against each other. "I'm here to support my friend. That's it!"

Pete took a menacing step closer, his shadow falling over him. "You just don't get it, do you? I give you a compliment, and you throw it back in my face? After everything I've paid for…"

"I'm not doing this right now, Dad," PJ said, shaking his head, a muscle ticking beneath his eye. He took a step toward the neighbors' house.

"We are doing this!" Pete yelled, his voice snapping across the quiet evening air. He jabbed a finger violently toward the Goof house. "You are not going to ruin your life for some nutjob!"

With his back turned, PJ kept walking quickly toward the Goofs' house, leaving the sound of his dad's furious yelling, the cursing, the financial threats, the accusations of ungratefulness, to echo in the quiet evening air. He was not falling victim to the same old cycle again. No more being lured with compliments and clinging to scraps of affection in hopes for a better relationship, only to be thrown under the bus. He accepted that a healthy relationship with his dad would never happen, and he had come to terms with that. He was a man now, almost twenty. The nest was so far behind him, and he wasn't looking back.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Flesh against flesh. Lips trailed kisses along a long neck. Cold, piercing blue eyes stared down at a desperate face begging for release. Wrists and ankles were bleeding where biting metal shackles restrained them to the rough wall. A hard metal chair held the combined weight of two figures: one naked, the other sharply dressed in a dark, immaculate suit. Max moaned Bradley's name as the latter lingered, sucking hard against the sensitive skin of his throat. The gentle teasing continued, earning only desperate gasps and frantic whimpers. Then, with a sudden, chilling shift in weight, Bradley stepped back, raised a camera.

And snapped. 

PJ was jerked violently awake, sitting bolt upright on the mattress on the floor. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, and his breath hitched high in the dark. His mind scrambled to make sense of the disgusting montage he was subjected to of his best friend and the campus villain. Last thing he thought about before sleeping was the confrontation with his dad earlier. He should have been dreaming about that.

He could still hear the desperate sounds of the dream, carved raw in his memory, until he realized the whimpering was actually real. It was coming from Max's bed nearby, soft moans of pleasure, followed by a barely audible, repeated word. "...Bradley..."

The small room instantly felt chilled. PJ shot to his feet, his body locking up as he stared at Max in bed. He was curled tightly on his side, his face damp with sweat, his brow slightly furrowed in some subconscious effort, and a vulnerable smile just grazing his lips.

This was why the nightmare had felt so visceral, Max's hypnotic moans must have been reaching his subconscious, weaving themselves into the dark narrative while he slept, like the brain incorporating the sound of a distant siren into a dream's plot. His pal was dreaming about Bradley, and not in a way that involved running away. His body was still clinging to the pattern of abuse, finding a hideous echo of intimacy in the trauma.

A blinding surge of fury and acidic betrayal scalded PJ. It was the same visceral rage he felt every time his dad offered a false compliment or a transactional favor, the sickening recognition that the person he loved was being fundamentally corrupted by a predator's twisted attention.

PJ understood that his relationship with his dad was transactional, love and money were granted only when he played the role his dad assigned. Max's dynamic with Bradley had been tragically parallel, only far darker, a momentary flicker of closeness granted only through submission to a role of dominance and pain. Clinging to the fleeting, manipulative moments of tenderness Bradley had used to maintain absolute control.

He reached out blindly and smacked the end table, sending a textbook clattering to the floor.

Max snapped awake instantly, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. He was hyper-alert in the sudden darkness, his breathing ragged and heavy.

"Sorry, man. Couldn't sleep," PJ muttered, his voice thick with fake innocence. "Gotta hit the kitchen for a late-night bite." He glanced toward Max, who was already shifting his body uncomfortably under the sheets, pulling the covers up higher. "Wanna join me?"

"Uh... go ahead," Max said quickly, his voice tight and uneven. "I'll catch up in a minute."

He was clearly trying to hide a massive, shame-inducing erection. PJ gave a quick, shallow nod and slipped silently out of the room, leaving his friend to wrestle with the aftermath alone.

Downstairs, PJ opened the refrigerator and found a large covered dish of meatloaf and mashed potatoes leftovers. He pulled out the container, scooped a generous portion into a ceramic bowl, and placed it in the microwave. The gentle hum of the machine filled the quiet kitchen. Max joined him a few minutes later, dressed in sweatpants, his hair messed up from sleep, but his expression carefully neutral.

They sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, the overhead light casting a dull glow on the rich color of Mr. Goof's meatloaf. Both boys had a can of soda balanced near their plates, the condensation rings already wetting the wood. They shoveled food into their mouths, the clinking of their forks the loudest sound in the house.

Max eventually lowered his fork, resting his wrist on the edge of the table as he scooped up a massive handful of meatloaf. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Stuff on my mind," PJ replied, his shoulders hunched slightly as he focused intently on cutting his food. He picked up his soda can and nervously turned it in a slow circle on the table, leaving a wet trail.

"Is it your dad?" Max pressed gently.

PJ offered a tight shrug, his gaze finally lifting for a brief moment before falling back to his plate. "Partly."

Max pushed his plate back a few inches, leaning forward slightly. "I'm sorry things are so messed up between you, man," he said softly.

"They were never really right before," PJ admitted.

They ate in silence for a while, the only sound the clinking of forks and the rhythmic chewing. PJ finished his soda, the empty can crushing slightly in his grip as he set it down.

Max shifted in his seat, his elbow hitting the rim of his bowl. "Can I tell you something?" he finally asked.

PJ's chest tightened instantly. He put his fork down slowly. "What?"

Max picked at the meatloaf, avoiding PJ's eyes. "After therapy today, it got me thinking... I don't think Bradley included that picture in the slideshow." A frown creased his brow. He started twisting his napkin into a thin, tight rope. "I mean, we worked really hard on that project. He was talking about his ideas, showing me new features in the latest PowerPoint version... it just doesn't add up, you know?" He offered a small, hopeful shrug, trying to convince himself. "Maybe... maybe I'll call him, and we can talk, you know. Do you still have that Nokia brick? His phone number is stored there."

PJ stared across the table, his eyes flat and hard. "No."

"Oh." Max's shoulders dropped slightly. He looked down at his bowl of half-eaten meatloaf, the hopeful light gone from his face. "Guess I can talk with him when we go back, then." He picked up his fork and started mashing his potatoes with mechanical force.

PJ stared at the remaining food in his plate, a cold, hard lump of conflicting emotions settling in his gut. "Max," he whispered. "You better not talk to him."

Max looked up, surprised. "Why?"

"Bradley is the one who set the picture up," PJ said, his voice flat and firm, allowing no pause or stutter.

His friend's face drained of color. The small, hopeful light in his eyes shattered like glass. "How do you know that?"

"Because he told me." PJ locked his firm gaze with Max's bewildered one. "He'd saved that picture for a final blow he'd planned from the beginning. That's why he didn't destroy it with the canvases."

"He... he told you about the canvases?" Max jerked his chair back violently, the legs scraping loudly on the kitchen floor. His hands started shaking, clutching the edge of the table as if trying to keep the world steady.

"He's been manipulating you, buddy. None of the good things he did were true," PJ said gently, his voice soft despite the harshness of the words. "The friendship you thought you two had was just a lie to humiliate you once more."

Max stared blankly at the tabletop. He began to tremble, his shoulders heaving with sudden, panicked gasps. "That... that doesn't make sense... he was different…he… we had..." He buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking in a violent panic attack.

PJ moved instantly, pulling his chair closer and rubbing Max's back in slow, firm circles. "It's okay, buddy. It's over now," he whispered into his ear. "He's a bad man, Max. The best thing you can do is stay away from him."

After several long, shuddering minutes, the tremors subsided. Max lifted his face, revealing eyes red-rimmed and hollowed out by betrayal.

"You don't understand, Peej. Things were…" he trailed off, his mind clearly going back to the times he'd spent with Bradley in the library and the Gamma house. He looked at PJ with desperate, wounded eyes. "He told you?" he asked, his voice holding so much trust, knowing that he could always count on PJ, his best friend, his loyal ally.

"I know you'd never hurt me, PJ," Max's whisper from a few nights ago echoed with painful irony in PJ's ears, twisting at his heart and conscience as he lied without a second thought, "Yes, Max. He told me."

The last glimmers of light in Max's eyes dimmed. He'd accepted those words as the final, crushing sentence on his friendship with Bradley.

"Think I'm gonna go back to bed," he muttered, dejected and profoundly sad, the shame of the dream and the reality of Bradley's cruelty crushing him.

PJ watched him go, every step heavy and slow. He hated that he had to lie, but he knew that in the long run, this was the only thing that could definitively sever the chain. Max could finally start healing now.