Work Text:
It’s the last day before Christmas break, and the first college party that Bradley must survive sober. That is to say, it’s the only party all year where Max simply couldn’t accept no for an answer.
“Where’s your festive spirit, Brad,” he said.
Bradley looks at the pillbox on his bedside table. In the yellow lamplight, its contents look like the center buds of a poinsettia. The Christmas spirit was in him somewhere, under the same patchwork quilt of chemicals that kept the anger and pain at bay.
A clink against his window pulls Bradley out of his head. The same sound comes seconds later, and this time he sees the pebble bounce off the glass. Bradley opens the window just as Max is about to toss another. The sight of him brings a tender warmth to the blanket in his mind. “What now, Baby Goof?”
“Come to pick you up!” Max says all too loudly. “Thought you’d fallen asleep or something, being a senior and all.”
Bradley rolls his eyes. “I’m a senior, not a senior citizen!”
“With those eyebags, Brad? Could’ve fooled me!”
In the distance, he hears the front door slam open. “Would you guys cut it out?” Tank shouts at both of them from the doorway. Bradley can see tip of his Santa hat from the second-story window.
Max waves at him jovially. “Happy holidays, Tank!” Bradley closes the window and puts on a coat over his woolen sweater. Tank may be soft on the Goof family, but his frat brother has zero hesitation in barging into his room and delivering Bradley bridal style to Max himself. It was a kindness really, that Tank wanted anything to do with him at all, considering the rest of the brotherhood stuck to either glaring at him disdainfully or pretending he doesn’t exist.
House a boy without a home—it’s incredible what money can do.
His old friend pushes him out of the frat house the second he steps into the doorway. “Have fun, kids,” Tank says dully.
Bradley turns around. “Have a good night, Tank,” he says softly. The larger one doesn’t respond, but his gentle smile as he closes the door is enough to give him a bit of hope.
He follows Max to the field outside the campus where the annual holiday bonfire invites students from all over the university to sing songs and drink booze under a sea of stars and a fireworks show. The younger of the two is donned in his usual red, hooded tee under a black letterman jacket and backwards cap, which makes him look a lot cooler than he actually is. It’s amusing to Bradley how Max’s surge in popularity has somehow hidden the fact that the guy is a total dork-face. Then again, not everyone gets the privilege to truly know Max Goof.
Although, Bradley didn’t think he would get the luxury either. He just so happened to be the only person Max knew in one of their electives, and their professor had been the type to “encourage” partnering up with a classmate for every goddamn requirement in the syllabus. A semester of being classmates turned into three or so months of friendship. Bradley is still surprised sometimes just how much they enjoy each other’s company.
When Max’s grandfather died a month and a half into their collegiality, Bradley was the first to know. They were in the library, shoulder to shoulder and arguing over a passage in a book, when Cynthia approached their table. “There’s a call from your father,” she said to Max, quietly. Urgently. The next time Bradley saw him, a few minutes later, the sophomore’s shoulders were sagging, footsteps sluggish on the carpeted floor.
“Granddad passed away,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry, Max,” Bradley said. It was the easiest sorry he ever gave. “Were you guys close?”
Max nodded. “He helped raise me when dad needed someone to take me off his hands.” The smile on his face was a small, melancholic thing. “You know it’s funny. Sometimes you never realize how much someone means to you until you realize you’ll never make new memories with them again. I guess I forgot that things just move on out there without me.”
Bradley gently closed the book they had previously been looking over together. “I think that’s enough studying for one afternoon, Baby Goof.” Max only stared blankly at the spread of their things. “Why don’t I give you some space, yeah?”
“No, wait,” he said, his fingers reflexively wrapping themselves around Bradley’s wrist. “I kind of don’t want to be alone right now. If that’s alright with you, I mean.”
Bradley has witnessed a myriad of negative emotions on Max’s face, ranging from anger to disgust. This one was new, though. Sad. Pleading. He might’ve been heartless in a previous life, but even a bastard of his caliber couldn’t say no.
“Alright,” he said softly. “Why don’t you pack up while I check out this book?”
Bradley had pretended not to notice the grateful smile Cynthia gave him when Max led him to the exit, but the sophomore’s comforted smile as they ate ice cream on a campus bench was forever ingrained in his mind’s eye. “Thank you, by the way,” he said. The streetlights already signaled their time together to a close. “It means a lot to me that you’re here.”
Bradley nudged his right shoulder to Max’s left. “What are friends for, Baby Goof?”
Dying for someone is overrated, in Bradley’s opinion. Sometimes, he still walks the streets wondering if that was the day he’ll decide to let it all go. Maybe he’ll jump off the nearest bridge or skate into incoming traffic. Living is a much more difficult endeavor, especially when the only reason one has is to save someone the grief. He should know. Bradley makes that choice everyday.
Max brushes his left shoulder to Bradley’s right. “Earth to Bradley. What’s going on in there?”
“Trying to convince myself that sobriety is fun,” he says, because it’s less bleak than admitting he’s been thinking about dying. Again.
Max seems to ponder on that for a moment. “It could be. How about this? I’ll take every cup sent your way, and tomorrow morning, you’ll tell me all about the stupid stuff I’ll do while drunk out of my mind. Sound good?”
That does sound like fun, Bradley thinks. He’s already looking forward to retelling ‘The Embarrassing Misadventures of The Intoxicated Baby Goof’ in excruciating detail. If he’s lucky, he might even get some good photos out of it. “My hero,” he says. His voice is laced with sarcasm, but there’s an upward quirk to his lips that’s growing familiar.
The lights of the square attract all like ships in search of a shore. Obviously, there is the bonfire in the center of the festivities, surrounded by stones as a reminder to give it a wide berth; some students have taken the liberty of tossing their papers into the dancing flames as an act of temporary freedom. A small stage is set up around a giant pine tree decorated with an assortment of ornaments and snow-like powder as fake gifts lay beneath it. On the platform, a band is finishing up their sound check. Around the perimeter of the square hung Christmas lights programmed with the rhythm of waterfalls to give an enchanting, lively atmosphere. Fairy lights were strung around the drinks tables and food kiosks scattered around the area. Aside from burning wood, the two friends smell the distinct flavors of grilled hotdogs and warm shawarma. There are those sitting on picnic blankets on the edges of the gathering, and Bradley knows from experience not to go near them unless one wanted an eyeful of chlamydia.
Max’s friends are already waiting for them by one of the snack tables. The chubby one has a red solo cup in each hand, while the bald one holds a half-drunk bottle of beer. “Maxy. Bradley. You made it.” The latter howls at their arrival. Meanwhile, PJ beckons over his girlfriend who comes bearing two cups full of spiked punch.
Bradley had been referring to her as “Little Miss Mochaccino” in his head, until he was around her so much that it was shortened to just “Mocha”. Unfortunately, he still doesn’t know what her actual name is, and at this point he’s too afraid to ask. While he doesn’t really count them as friends the way he does Max, they were nice enough to welcome him to their dorm room and some common lunchtimes. Granted, he was welcomed after some well-earned apologies and begrudgingly tutoring them during exam season. He may have done some stupid shit in the past, but he was smart enough to have carried Tank through passing all of their classes together. And contrary to popular belief, Bradley did know how to be a kind person with a listening ear, despite growing up with the emotional intelligence of a peanut.
“My, my, you’ve got a twinkle in your eye, Max,” Mocha says as she and PJ hand each of them a drink with the color of Christmas flowers and the smell of bad decisions. “Looking for a pas de deux under the stars?”
Max chugs the punch in his red solo cup before taking Bradley’s and placing it inside his own. “Something like that.” The movement of his Adam’s apple makes Bradley feel a little parched, and it almost distracts him from the rest of their conversation.
“Woohoo! Look at you, party animal,” Bobby teases as he shakes his friend’s shoulders.
“Well, don’t leave us hanging,” PJ exclaims. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
Max startles at that. “Girl? What girl?”
“You don’t have to play dumb with us, man. You think we haven’t noticed you mooning over the past month?” Bradley’s brows furrow at this. Sure, the sophomore was frequently spaced out as of late, staring at Bradley with a weird look on his face when he thinks he’s not looking. He’d just chalked it up to pre-finals stress and whatnot. Sometimes all an overworked college student needs is a few minutes of staring at nothing.
He didn’t think Max had been, well, mooning as his friends had put it.
A spindly spider of insecurity creeps under his skin. God, some friend he was. Had he really not noticed?
PJ turned to the senior with a smile. “I bet Bradley knows who it is. What’s she look like?” Max sends him a nervous look that makes the spider crawl feel more like an itch. Did he think Bradley would be mad at him for keeping some secrets close to his chest?
He shrugs in response. “Beats me. You know our friend here can be a sly dog when he wants to be.” He puts his arm around Max’s shoulders. “Isn’t that right, Max? Probably thinking about all your heartbroken fans once they find out you’re taken.” The novelty of having fans hasn’t quite worn off for the two-time X-Games champions, but the excessive fawning never fails to bring out a rare bashfulness in a usually bold Max Goof. Until this year, Bradley didn’t think he’d find humility so attractive. Then again, stranger things have happened.
“Piss off, Bradley,” Max says as he shrugs away his arm. A light rosiness dusts his cheeks. “And I don’t know what you guys are talking about. There is no girl.”
There’s a perceptive look in Mocha’s eye when she says, “I think this conversation could benefit from a little less inhibition. Max, I could use your assistance.” She takes PJ’s cup, while Bobby downs the rest of his beer before handing it to her as well. Bradley would be offended in her honor had he not been certain her serviceability is due to her mistrust of the boys’ proper cleanup habits.
“Spiced and milky or sweet and fruity?” Max asks.
“Surprise me.”
Bradley was busy watching him go when he hears the heavy hissing of a spray can from his right. He turns to find Bobby’s lips covered in what looks to be highly processed, liquefied cheese. Bradley wants so badly to make a joke about Bobby always needing his mouth filled, but he hasn’t found a crowd that’s accepting of that yet. Sure, there was something inherently homoerotic about horny, post-adolescent boys making sex jokes and walking in the nude and sharing a house. However, nothing supersedes the fact that his frat brothers jack off to issues of Playboy magazine, and Bradley has never adopted the interest to do the same. Hell, it was only recently that he stopped suppressing the bloom of that particular flower, which had catalyzed a whole garden of thoughts about “deflowering” and “yearning for that earthly seed”.
Actually, I should write that down, Bradley thinks. Mocha would be impressed.
“So,” Bobby says after a swallow. “You sure you haven’t seen anything suspicious, eh? No gawking or drooling in class? No cryptic reasons for leaving anywhere?”
“None at all.”
PJ’s mouth curves downward in concern. “It’s not like Max to not tell us if he likes somebody. Plus, there’s barely anyone he knows that we don’t.”
“Maybe that’s the problem, man.” Bobby swirls another dollop of cheese in his mouth. He offers Bradley some before he waves the can away in disgust. “Maybe we actually hate her, and that’s why he won’t tell us.”
“Have you considered,” Bradley pauses. He hasn’t considered this at all, and he never wanted to. Months into therapy and he has yet to gain a good grip on handling disappointment. He does, however, feel a sense of duty to call them out on their assumptions anyway. “That maybe it’s not a girl?”
Instead of immediately shutting him down, PJ tilts his head curiously while Bobby lifts his glasses to squint at him more obviously. Leave it to Max’s friends to defy Bradley’s expectations once again. “I guess that’s plausible.”
"Whoever it is man they've definitely lucked out 'cause our dude's got the moves," Bobby says, elongating his vowels. "Awooo!" Bradley and PJ turn to find Max dipping a well-dressed girl near the drinks stand with Mocha leaning against the counter and rolling her eyes. When Max puts her upright, the sight of her pretty face makes that familiar spider crawl up his head.
Expectedly, PJ and Bobby tease Max about it when they get back, even before the bald one gets a hand on his hard kombucha. "It was an accident, guys," Max says sheepishly and sends Bradley a look he can't decipher.
He takes a sip of his own beverage, flavors of gingerbread and cinnamon coating his tongue. He hums, pleased, which makes Max smile. "Let me guess. She passed by to buy herself a drink when she slipped and fell into your arms."
"See! Bradley saw it." He shook his head in disbelief. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Baby Goof."
It doesn't take long for the dancing to begin once the lineup of bands took their turns onstage. Bradley wasn't the type to dance at Gamma-hosted parties until he's had a few drinks in him, much less tonight that he's committed to staying sober. Still, there's some fun to be had watching everyone else making a fool of themselves, and all the while, Max stays by his side either cracking jokes or tapping to the beat or even singing along.
One of the bands announces that they're about to perform a cover of a Powerline song, and both PJ and Bobby who were already in the throng of the crowd come back to their little corner to dance and sing their hearts out together. It clearly took the breath out of Max afterwards, because Bradley feels an arm lean against his back as another band starts up another song. Max’s fingers rest in the valley between his hips and waist, phantom like and polite. Bradley’s side is lightly pressed up against Max’s own, not enough to support a tipsy sophomore but just so that he’s all too aware of their proximity. "Is this okay?" Max whispers. He can do no more than nod in response.
They stay like that for a while until an alumni starts up a conversation with him. Bradley does the courteous song and dance of introducing her to the rest of the group—"We met at a frat party," she explains, "sorority girl and all that."—before catching up on how things have been since her graduation. Talking to her is easy, despite all the embarrassing things she says about whom he used to be. "You look relaxed now, though." She lightly punches him in the arm. "Don't let the senioritis get the best of you, yeah?" By the time Bradley's waving her goodbye, hand wrapped around the freshly opened beer she gave him, an unfamiliar, cozy warmth has settled in his chest.
Max takes the alcohol off his hands, just as he has the whole night and gets drunk for the both of them.
When the more well-known bands start performing, the sophomores are all well past tipsy. Bobby goes off towards a crowd of people doing body shots on the emptied-out tables, while Mocha drags PJ somewhere else to spare their eyes from their PDA.
The well-dressed girl from earlier approaches them, eyes eagerly set on Max and only Max. She has two of those cocktails-in-sachets; it's the kind that Bradley knows from experience feels like drinking from juice boxes in kindergarten and results in waking up in a playground wearing someone else's thong. No clothes, no memories—he shudders at the mere sight of it pinched underneath her acrylic nails. "I've been looking for you everywhere," she says. Up close, it's hard not to notice the way her poinsettia-red hair curls prettily around her cheekbones or how her skin glows underneath the Christmas lights. Even Bradley has to admit she's gorgeous. "Thanks for saving me earlier."
"Hey, thanks for the free drink...?"
"Alex." Bradley's mouth reflexively sneers at her generic name before mentally admonishing himself for such display of pettiness.
The easy smile he sends her makes Bradley wonder if they've known each other before, if this introduction is a game they like to play. "Max."
"Well, Max, if you ever feel like dancing, I'll be right over there." With a wink and a wave, she saunters back to a crowd of equally beautiful people dancing near the stage.
Bradley waits for Max to tell him he has to go after her, already convinced he'll spend the rest of the night sulking and sober, except all he does for a song and a half is take small sips of his cocktail and nod his head to the beat.
What the fuck are you doing, he wants to say. Go get her, you stupid goof!
When Bradley started to consider taking medication, his psychiatrist warned him about its effects. “It’s not selective,” he said. “It will dampen the experience of your emotions, including joy.” It had taken a long while for Bradley to admit that he’d been unhappy for quite some time and courage to decide it didn’t have to be that way. He thought it probably wouldn’t make a difference, since he seldom felt good enough to even smile—the kind of toothy grin that comes so naturally to Max Goof. In the end, the options boiled down to constant agitation or numbness, and Bradley chose peace. Nowadays, his prescription makes him more akin to calm waves swaying to the ocean breeze than the tides he was previously accustomed to.
Happiness is still out of reach for Bradley, always has been honestly. Max shouldn’t have it the same way.
“I didn’t think you were a chicken, Baby Goof,” Bradley says. “What are you waiting for? Just ask her to dance.”
“What?”
He juts his chin in the direction of the well-dressed girl Bradley is certain, from seeing pictures of Roxanne and the posters on his wall, is very much Max’s type. “You act like your friends haven’t been teasing you about your having someone special in mind tonight. Have a drink. Take a shot or two. Then ask her to dance.”
Max blinks at him—once, twice. All at once, Bradley watches the sachet shrivel up and die under the sophomore’s capable hands.
“You’re absolutely right, Bradley.” He holds out his hand after he’s drained and tossed away all his alcohol. “Dance with me.”
“Excuse me?” What are you playing at, Baby Goof?
“I haven’t stepped up to the dance floor all night. Neither have you, and I’m not going without you.”
He feels a flutter in his chest before it’s quickly caught in the spider’s web. Max is playful and fun and kind; it doesn’t mean anything. They’re friends after all.
Max holds out his hand. “C’mon, Bradley. Dance with me?” Bradley takes a chance.
He knows, from frequent exposure to Goofy and shaky videos scoured by PJ and Bobby, that Max is a lithe-limbed boy with a funky beat ingrained in his bones. That is still somewhat true, except drunk Max is a lot less like Powerline and more like a puppet on bouncy strings. His grin is silly, his moves even sillier. Bradley feels a lot less stupid dancing next to him.
Young Bradley had endured a few summers of tap dancing, in exchange for an off-road bike and a pair of rollerblades. It was that or ballroom dancing, and he didn’t fancy having to charm some girl so she wouldn’t step on his feet. Plus, the idea of becoming Fred Astaire on wheels was hella cool. In an ironic turn of events, present Bradley has pretty good footwork—and the speed to match Max—but none of the swank to make it look cool.
None of that seems to matter to Max, though. Pure joy blooms brightly from his face—the sunlight shining through the cobwebs in his mind and livening the grass at daybreak. He takes both of Bradley’s hands into his own, pulling him close then stepping away just as quickly. Max even sends a wave from his right shoulder to Bradley’s left arm, which earns him a chuckle from the senior. It his hands down the best he’s ever felt sober. And it’s all because of his favorite…
Friend? Person?
It wouldn’t be wrong to say that Max has become his favorite person. How could he not be, when Max pulls him to his chest with an arm around his waist as the band switches to a slower, jazzier tune? Bradley playfully pulls away from him so he could spin back into place. Only for Max to gently lean him into a dip and smile like they’re the only people in the world. The spider clutches tight to its wavering web. God, if this is all the happiness he has earned, from the sunny skies of victory to the cloudiness of muted joy, he’ll hold it all to his chest closely, tightly, to save for a rainy day.
They both walk away from the dance area after a while, sweat seeping into their clothes too fast for the cool night air to dry them out.
“That was fun.” Max nudges him. “You good, old man?”
Bradley snorts. “Better than you, Baby Goof. Although, I could use a walk,” he says, subtly trying to tell him he’s ready to leave.
Max removes his cap and combs through his sweat-soaked hair before putting it back. Bradley shouldn’t find it as attractive as he did. “I could use another drink.”
“No more drinks,” Bradley says, just as Bobby howls at them and pushes a red solo cup into Max’s hand.
“Maximillian,” he slurs. Bobby drapes his arm around his friend, presses their vermillion cheeks together, and whispers, “don’t wait up for me.” He then gives Bradley a hard pat on the back and a finger gun with a mouth click. “Take care of my boy.”
As he walks away—backwards, which is incredibly stupid for someone at his level of sobriety—Bobby waves both of his hands around his face with an ominous, “no glove, no love.”
The next moment Bradley looks at Max, it’s evident the sophomore already chugged down the contents of his cup. He’s cradling it now like an ice pack to his face, and Bradley is almost sure he’s about to fall asleep standing up. He’s seen Goofy do it, after all.
“Alright, I’m taking you home.”
Walking Max back to his dorm is every bit just walking a dog. Bradley has to guide him in the right direction, otherwise he’d walk off to sniff the nearest wall. Hell, he even almost peed on a campus statue until Bradley shoved him in the direction of some bushes.
“Jesus fuck, Max. Do I have to put you on a leash or something?” Max cackles like Bradley is the funniest person in the world. “I mean,” he starts, shoving the side of his body into the senior’s, “I wouldn’t mind, as long as it’s you.” Bradley promptly chokes on his spit and shuts up.
Max seems to have gained some of his wits halfway through their walk, because he gently brushes his knuckles against Bradley’s and says, “hey. Did you have fun?”
It's the most fun he's ever had all year. There's a part of him that fears this is all the fun he'll ever have, actually. Bradley feels as though he's on a mountain top—breathing light and clear in high altitude and knowing that it won't be the same when it's all over. The spider in his chest does a little jig.
"Surprisingly, yes," he replies, "and I was sober the whole time thanks to you."
"What'd I tell you, eh? Sobriety can be fun." Max hiccups into his palm. "Was I right or was I right?"
"Only because it's Christmas." Bradley rolls his eyes.
"I was wondering," Max starts. "That sorority girl a while ago. She seemed to like you."
"She's nice," Bradley says. "We had a couple of classes together, but we never really talked much. Last I heard, she's engaged to an old frat brother."
"Oh."
"It was nice to see her. I like to think there are people out there who still like their memories of me."
"Sucks for them, though. I like you a whole lot better the way you are now."
The biting, evening chill makes its way under their clothes, making Max shiver. Bradley moves closer to share some of his warmth. From this distance, Max's chattering teeth can be heard over cicadas in the trees. "Everything alright, Baby Goof?"
"Yeah." Max hiccups again and swallows. "I like it when you call me baby." Bradley's breath catches in his throat. Max tries to smirk at him. Bradley watches as another hiccup comes up his throat.
Shit. Not a hiccup.
Max’s nose is in his red solo cup before he can even blink. Bradley can only imagine a volcano waterfall from the sound erupting from its depths. Tentatively, he lays a gentle hand between the younger boy’s shoulder blades.
“Ugh,” Max groans, face scrunching in disgust when he resurfaces.
“Do you want to sit down for a bit?” Bradley asks. The sophomore’s next wave of retching makes the choice for both of them.
So they sit there: Max expelling his guts onto the sidewalk bushes, and Bradley rubbing his back in an attempt to soothe him. His knees and calves aching, his trousers stained with all kinds of dirt—Bradley doesn’t know where else he’d rather be. Not that he would admit it, of course. He’s still Bradley Uppercrust III.
Then again, the Bradley of last year wouldn’t find the whole situation endearing. Hilarious, maybe. Entertaining, definitely. But the Bradley of now simply smiles at the humanity of it all.
“All good?” He asks when Max is overcome by slience. Max’s head bobs in affirmative. “Look at me.” Bradley wipes his handkerchief against the other boy’s mouth, the dirty sheen of it turning dull and dry.
I like it when you call me baby.
A giggle bubbles up from his chest, too fast for him to catch. “You’re laughing at me,” Max says.
Equals. They’re equals. Bradley had come a long way down—from holding his head high with pride to walking with his head bowed in shame—to this place where he could ask for help, where Max had helped him pick himself up. Now, they're here: Bradley lifting his chin up, because love is still love in the flight towards the sun and the fall when one loses their wings. “I’m not laughing at you.”
They sit there for a while, Bradley’s arm wrapped around Max underneath his jacket because vomiting just makes the cold worse.
“I’m really sorry,” Max mumbles, the apple of his cheek bunched up from resting against Bradley’s shoulder. “I feel like I kind of ruined tonight.”
His brows furrow in confusion. Equals. “What do you mean “ruined”? Max, I haven’t had this much fun in a very long time.”
“Yeah, but,” Max buried his mouth and chin into the wool of Bradley’s sweater. He’s so fucking glad he’d never rid of some gentlemanly sensibilities. “I really wanted to kiss you tonight. I put up a mistletoe by our dorm room and everything.”
Oh.
Fuck, does it all make sense now. “I take it you haven’t told your friends about this particular development.”
“It’s not like there’s a name for it. I don’t really like guys in general.” Max looks up at him, wide eyed and miserable. “I just like you.”
All at once, the spider in his chest splits itself into a million tiny critters that crawl down his arms. Left behind is a gossamer heart, weightless and attached. The medication suppresses many emotions: anger, sadness, joy. But this, Bradley thinks as he holds Max’s hand in his. Never this.
“I like you too,” he says, and it’s the best lie he’s ever told. He presses a soft kiss to Max's forehead. "Let's get you to bed, yeah? I'll kiss you in the morning. How about it, Baby Goof?"
One hand on Max’s waist and another entwined with his, Bradley walks him to his dorm, where he kisses the other boy’s cheek under the mistletoe and all the while thinking, I love you.
“Sleep tight, Baby Goof,” he says, when he dumps him on the bottom bunk.
“You better kiss me in the morning,” Max mumbles into his pillow.
He does, because Max opens the door when Bradley comes to bring him brunch, and the mistletoe is still hanging on their doorframe. PJ and Bobby are nowhere to be found.
He sits on the opposite bed, paper cup and sleeve in hand and remnants of a breakfast sandwich in the other. The truth trickles like dew from Bradley’s gossamer heart into every touch and look he gives. Max’s disbelief, as if he can’t believe such a wonderful thing is happening, mirrors his own. He pretends he doesn’t see Max pinch himself. Thrice.
“So,” Max says, taking a big bite of bacon, egg, and waffles. It’s disgusting to watch. Bradley is just as gross on him. “This is really happening? You and me?”
Bradley smiles against the rim of his hot chocolate. “Yeah, Baby Goof. You and me.”