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Max Carter is a quiet lover.
When he and Oscar still spoke on the regular, he'd always ask questions about their projects or interests (as if he didn't already know everything about them) just so they could get the satisfaction of rambling on about them for hours and hours.
They could never sit still, or sit for that matter. His sibling would burn holes in the carpet from how vigorously they paced. Max would just sit back and listen.
It was harder to figure out what his dad liked. Scott Carter wasn't much of a talker (Max was pretty sure that trait was passed onto him) and trying to find things that he would appreciate was like pulling teeth. But eventually, Max found out you had to mow the lawn or clean out the garage or both if you really wanted to make his day. If he was going to work on a weekend you could offer to come with. His face wouldn't change at all (it'd stay worn, tired, and neutral) but there would be a light in his voice when he said “Oh. Sure, if you want.”
His mother liked to be sent pictures of the sky. And he did send her some in those early years, once or twice, but the sky never looked pretty whenever he was there to see it.
Rhys…he didn't know about Rhys. He knew they hated being around people so he tried to give them as much alone time as possible. That never worked; they somehow got more sulky. So he stayed by their side more often, but it was like spending time with a friend's friend that you've never met before. Neither of you hate each other (you have no reason to), yet there's a painful silence because neither of you know what to talk about.
So he was more of a chaperone than a dad. Keeping them alive and safe. That had to be love, right?
He's not sure the thing he has with Evan is love. He freaks Max out way too much for that, always sending him weird videos at the most godforsaken hours, staring at him with an unsettling smile. Still, Max always kept extra hair-ties around because he always seemed to break them with his long hair. And he didn't always recoil from the nicknames Evan gave him (Maximus, Maxxy, Maxxy-Poo, Mathematics). Hell, he even gave some of his own: Edwin, Evanescence, Eevee (by Rhys’ request).
Him and Jackie were always invited to hang out. The latter was more obligated, though, considering how much Max needed someone to look after his kid on weekends and breaks.
Jackie always said she didn’t mind. That wasn’t the issue. It was actually about abandoning Rhys, not how comfortable she was with it.
Max paid her back. He tried money at first, but she told him she’d rather eat dirt than take cash from him.
So, he cooked for her. Jackie didn’t have enough space in her life to feed herself regularly and Max figured since he was part of the problem, he might as well make sure she doesn’t pass out or die from starvation.
She was grateful, despite his meals not being the most lavish things in the world (soups, frozen dinners, you name it). Max was grateful that she still stuck around him.
And that’s how it was. He was a serviceman, not some well-intentioned casanova.
Not even Rhys’ mom had felt his affection.
They dated in the sense that he saw her more than other people and she lied about who she was with to her parents. And then after they fucked he went home and tried not to hang himself from the ceiling fan and he kept it to himself, all compressed and pushed down in his stomach because even though his mom would be thrilled to know he had a girlfriend he couldn’t even bear to say her name out loud.
And maybe that was part of it. Maybe he had spent so many nights hiding in the corner of his room, shaking with either nausea or violent unspeakable unstoppable thoughts, that he no longer knew how to be loud.
That was until Damien came into his life.
Now, for whatever reason, Max felt the urge to talk to him. He wanted to tell Damien that he was funny (in an unsettling, coke-infused sort of way), or that he was a good listener. How many times had a quick, meaningless conversation with him helped Max through whatever stupid bullshit he was panicking over.
He remembered a lot of things too, like Max's favorite food and color, his birthday—all things that he'd never mentioned more than once. Max found himself doing the same and kept a small list of all the things his friend liked in his phone.
He wanted to compliment Damien's outfits. Especially the ones that showed off his belly button piercing.
It was those cropped shirts and low-waisted jeans that really got to Max. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Damien's pale, exposed skin like he was an altar boy going to a strip club for the first time.
One time, Damien borrowed one of Jackie's shirts that had the collar stretched all the way out. Max could see every single inch of his shoulders and collarbone. It was almost too scandalous for him to handle.
Worst of all, though, was that Max wanted to spend time with him and spending time with Damien meant noticing more things about him (his laugh, his smile, how he twitched and fidgeted with anything in arm's reach) and noticing more things about Damien meant thinking about those things and that meant he'd think about Damien and if he thought about Damien more…Max wasn't sure he could keep quiet any longer.