Chapter Text
Max did not know these streets; he didn't know the winding paths like back home. It was new— it should have been exciting, would have been exciting, if it weren't for the circumstances.
New city, new life. Where the woes of the past might not be able to touch him. He hoped that was the case; he had always heard stories of how people started their new lives in someplace different. He tried to think of a future here, even with unknown roads and untouched buildings, but the future felt hollow when the past clung to him like webbing. A spider's cacoon leaving whispy strands of cotton white tacked to his body.
Around his neck sat a chain, heavy against his skin; two wedding bands hung from it.
Max contemplated taking it off, tucking it someplace safe, but that would truly mean moving on. It would mean escaping from the history so ingrained in his blood. His heart beat, once full of love, now bleak with sorrow, and Max realised he couldn't part ways with the bands just yet. So they followed him here, tied around his neck and a small reminder of what once was; a monumental reminder of what can never be again.
New city, new life, new Max.
Hopefully.
He had enough money to just float; it didn't feel very productive, but Max wasn't interested in a job. Or anything, really. But he had made a promise, said he would try— try to find a life past the pain that was worth living. It would be hard, and Max had no idea how he was going to manage, but he would try. Whether success would find him, he wasn't sure. There wasn't much he was sure about nowadays; each passing moment felt lost and aimless. No job, leaving his family behind, nothing to his name. Just a couple of suitcases packed with his possessions, money in the account, and two wedding bands hooked on a gold chain that lay against his chest.
For the first several days, he had stuck to the flat. It was small, plain, nothing spectacular, and exactly what he needed. Two bedrooms, the spare one stuffed with boxes and a desk— something about needing a study, his father had told him, but Max wasn't sure he even wanted to use it. A main space that worked as a living room and dining, the kitchenette was shoved in one corner. Then a tiny bathroom, enough for the one-man show he had going on right now. He did not have much to bring; too many memories were held in his old belongings, and so Max got his sister to help him get rid of most of his stuff. A portion lay at the bottom of a tip, some was scattered in charity shops, and the rest was taken who knew where. He didn't care, as long as it went, and Max didn't have to take it with him; it could end up anywhere else.
Once the food supply his mum and sister provided for him ran dry, he realised he needed to step out and leave his apartment. It was difficult; he hadn't managed to go out by himself for a whole year since it happened. Living with his mum had been a blessing, but Max knew when he had overstayed, even if she assured him he was always welcome.
It felt like it was time for a change. A year since the passing, and Max couldn't stand his childhood hometown any longer, doused in fond memories that had turned bitter around the edges. When he thought of them for too long, tendrils of bile crept up the back of his throat, and the tears he said he would leave unshed threatened to spill once more.
New city, new life. And a new slew of places he had to map out. He needed to decide which would be best for him; walking was a goal of his now. It felt like another useless promise he set up for himself, much like all the other things he said he would try, but this time he would attempt to hold himself to it.
So that was where he was, in a store browsing the aisles, not really a hundred percent sure what he wanted. He didn't think he had cooked for himself since living with his mum, stuck to slumping around on sofas and beds, no real motivation to do anything at all.
Little steps, his mum said once. Max tried not to cry in front of her; he could imagine his father's stern voice scolding him for showing something so weak, something he should be able to easily hide away. But his mum was always softer. Max couldn't help it when she sat on the end of his bed, running gentle fingers through his greasy hair.
I can't, he recalled saying back, voice hoarse, cracked down the middle as he shrivelled up pathetically, curling into the covers.
Yes, you can, you just don't know it yet, was the response, soothing and kind and patient. Little steps, yes? She had reminded him. Healing is never easy, nor is love.
"Max?"
He blinked, and back in the store, a can of— ah, soup— in his hands. He couldn't recall picking it up, felt like he needed something to hold, his other hand tightening around the handles of the basket. If he didn't grasp onto something, he feared the memory would flood over him in its entirety. Then he would be seen breaking down in the middle of the store, an embarrassing sight to behold.
"Max, yes?"
He blinked again and felt the world catch up as the realisation hit. Max was in a new city, having moved far away from his hometown and leaving behind the very few friends he had there. Now, someplace new, there was no way someone should know him, but he had been recognised and called out. He twisted his gaze to the side and spotted honey brown hair, delicate features, and fluttering eyelashes that framed swirling eyes of seagreens and streaking golds.
"Charles?"
Charles grinned widely as he brought Max into a side hug, not even noticing the way Max awkwardly stiffened, unsure how to react to the sudden contact. "It is you!" Charles, for some reason, sounded excited, "I have not seen you in years! How long has it been?"
Max considered the question; it was probably a good ten years, maybe even fifteen, since they last saw one another. The last time was when they were still teenagers. They'd met through karting, a hobby that was short-lived by Max (much to his father's dismay), and it looked as if the same happened to Charles too. The rivalry on track was something Max enjoyed, and so they kept in touch a little while after Max retired from karting. But as the years went by, Max found he did not have the time, and old friendships kept slipping through his fingers.
"Ah, yes. A long time," Max conceded.
"It has! How have you been? Oh, I should ask how your sister is, and your mum! They are good, yes?" He didn't mention Max's father. Charles probably still remembered how Jos acted during and after the races back in the day and decidedly ignored bringing him up, and Max was grateful for that. "Wait, what are you even doing here? Have you moved or are you just visiting?"
Charles was always talkative, and Max found the trait rather endearing. Well— he would be honest and admit that when they first met, he was annoyed by the persistence. Having had time to grow and look back at the past, he partially blamed his father's ideals for that. However, Charles was nothing but stubborn and soon enough, he had broken past the barriers Max had tried to build up around himself. Charles never faltered; he always happened to find Max and talk his ear off. Max was happy to sit and listen and maybe add a sarcastic remark here and there; they did happen to work quite well as a pair.
Even now, years later, both having aged with time, Max did not hate the talkativeness. He thought maybe he would, especially with his need to escape the normality he'd become accustomed to. He thought that the energetic onslaught of questions would overwhelm him, but instead, Max found a small smile gracing his lips that felt familiar but forgotten— as if something old was returning.
"It is good to see you, Charles," he said instead of a response.
"Oh?" Charles looked taken aback, as if he was surprised Max was being so openly kind. He showed his care through actions rather than words, which was how Max always worked, and Charles knew that— he probably still knew that even after all the time that had passed.
Max nodded, a small gesture, "Yes. I have missed you."
"Max Verstappen, you have changed. What has happened these last few years?" It was said kindly, the teasing lilt to his words was woven with a friendliness Max had missed. But still, Max couldn't help but think of the past, the weight it held, and all that had unfolded since he and Charles last spoke.
"Too much," he muttered. He hadn't intended to say it, to share even a sliver of the truth, but there was something about Charles that made Max feel honest and vulnerable. It should have been scary, there was a nagging voice at the back of his mind warning him not to fall too deep, but somehow— even in the busy aisles of the shop— he felt himself loosen a smidgen.
Little steps, echoed in his head.
"Yes, I agree. A lot has happened, maybe too much, since we last spoke," Charles agreed thoughtfully. "But you have not answered my question."
"Ah, yes, I moved here. A few days ago."
Charles' eyes lit up, "I will show you around then! I know all the good places—"
"No, Charles, don't worry. I wouldn't want to be a bother."
"It would not be a bother," Charles responded casually, waving his hand, "I want to. We can catch up. And now we are living so close to each other, we can meet up, and you don't have to worry about being alone in a new city."
It sounded nice; it sounded as if Charles was offering Max a slice of normalcy, one he was inclined to accept.
"Alright, if you are sure."
"Of course I am," Charles reiterated, "oh, also! I can show you where I work. One of the places I work at, anyway. It is just a small café, nothing fancy, but I can offer you a discount."
Something small inside of Max shifted. The idea that he could have friends, could maybe live a life out here that was so vastly different to what he was used to, and that he could snap the tethers keeping him tied to home, was something he realised he actually wanted.
New city, new life— it felt as if that was possible now.
"Yes, okay. That sounds nice."
After exchanging numbers and Max learning Charles was a very chatty texter, whereas Max liked to reply with as few words as possible, or even a single emoji if that would suffice, Max was invited to Charles' work a few days later. It was near the outskirts of the city, where the buildings started to dwindle, and the fields filled more space. Max hadn't explored this area yet, and he admitted it was a nice change of pace, more greenery, less fumes. Even if he did enjoy the city life, it was nice to have this on the other side for him to explore.
The café itself was a small little thing, standing alone with a quaint carpark beside it. There were a few tables set up outside, including picnic benches, some with parasols and some without. The sign was skewed, the words "Danny's café " painted across it in red, haphazard strokes. He was greeted warmly by the inside of the café as he stepped past the door, the bell chiming as it opened. Wood floorings matched the chunky tops of the tables, and the red from the sign had been brought throughout here too, present in the checkered tablecloths and upholstered leather chairs. The walls were a deeper cherry, and while it should have been overwhelming, Max just felt cosy, warm; the deeper colours of the wood paired well with the reds, a sharp contrast to the chill of the air outside. The furthest wall held a mural, one of sloping sandy landscapes, an amber sun beating down across the dusty paths, the sea lapping at the bottom. Three birds, little 'v' shapes across the golden-kissed sky as the sun settled behind low clouds, almost ready to dip past the hills, and when Max got closer, he saw names were written beside each bird, cursive lettering thin and spindly.
Daniel, Arvid, Charles.
Max knew one of the names— in fact, Charles was meant to be here to meet up with him, but the man was nowhere to be found. The café itself was empty, and Max wondered if business was going well— did a café so far out from the city centre garner as much footfall? Probably not, right? Max had to wonder if anyone was here right now, but his question was answered when a voice yelled out from somewhere in the kitchen behind the main counter.
"Sorry mate, I did hear the door! I will be with you in just a sec!"
Max waited, hands awkwardly folded in front of him. The wall behind the counter was stacked with shelves carrying all the necessities for the business. Machinery buzzed and whirled and beeped. A toastie maker and a toaster side by side, a mini fridge under the counter, and a door in the centre of it all that was propped open, which was where the kitchen sat. Max, however, focused on the few photo frames, varying sizes, dotted around the countertop and the back shelves. He noted a couple of Charles, one with his dad, if Max recalled correctly. Another with Jules (again, that was if he had recalled the face correctly, Charles looked so much younger in the photo, but still older than the last time Max saw him). In the last photo that Charles was in, he was standing outside the café, with two other individuals beside him that Max did not recognise. But if he had to guess, they also worked here, considering they were in a few different images too. One looked younger, a lanky teen with a mop of dark curly hair. The older man also had curls, a slightly lighter shade of brown, and was more built, muscular underneath the rolled-up sleeves and apron.
An Australian accent, light and happy, pulled him from his thoughts. "Hey, sorry for the wait! How can I help ya?"
The man from the framed photos bounded out from the kitchen, a smear of flour across his cheeks, powdered handprints dusted along his apron as he wiped his hands against the maroon fabric. He was taller than Max had thought just by looking at the photos, but still wide and carved with muscles. Not too much, not overwhelming, but a nice amount that Max found quite pleasant to look at. His hair bounced as he moved. He had a scruffy beard that framed soft, rosy lips, and his eyes were rings of auburns, tinted golden as the light hit, warm oak running through them in streaks.
"Hey mate, you good?"
Max blinked, blushed, and realised he had been staring for too long. "Ah, yes, sorry."
"No worries, dude, all my customers tend to get lost in my eyes," the barista smiled, a full, lopsided grin.
A groan could be heard from the back, somewhere within the kitchen, and Max felt his cheeks reddening even more.
"That's gross, Daniel," whoever it was called out, a distinct British accent carrying the words. "Stop acting all weird with the customers, you'll scare them off again."
"Oi, you don't get to complain since you didn't come and serve the customer even though we both heard the door go," the man— Daniel— shouted back.
"That's 'cause I'm on my break," was the response.
Daniel chuckled, seemingly unfazed by the back and forth, "Sorry, ignore him, that's just my kid."
Kid. Huh.
Max wasn't sure why that made him feel weird. Why did he even care if the man he'd only just met had a child? Sure, he was charming, Max was already enamoured, even from the very short interaction—
Ah. Oh. Yeah, it hit him.
Max decided to lock the thought up. Daniel was attractive, and Max could tell the man was funny, but he would not let his mind wander to unsavoury places. He would not allow himself to feel the pain of loss again.
"Kid?" Max wasn't sure why he even asked, the word having left him before the thoughts could catch up.
Daniel nodded as he explained, "Arvid helps out on his off days from college. Told him he didn't have to, but he says he wants to help me out. He also said, and I quote: it would look less sad having more people working here. I thought I was fine manning the café by myself, but now I am a part of a trio of workers."
"But he's British," Max blurted out before he could stop himself.
He was an idiot. A clumsy idiot who did not think before he spoke—
But Daniel simply laughed, his smile brighter than anything Max had ever seen. "Great observation skills there," he shot back teasingly, and Max realised he never needed to be worried in the first place. Daniel seemingly took everything in stride. "If you must know, he's adopted. It's been just the two of us for several years now."
Just the two of us.
Max hated himself for latching onto that part of the sentence. He hated himself for allowing certain ideas wander into his mind in the first place.
"Ah, sorry, I did not mean to be so nosy—"
Daniel waved a hand, "No, it's okay, dude. I am a chronic over-sharer, and you're just unlucky since it's been a really quiet day at work for me today. I need to talk someone's ear off, or I will explode, and Arvid is sick and tired of listening to me today."
The voice from the kitchen, Arvid, yelled out, "That's because you've been annoying today and won't shut up about fish!"
"Love you too, brat!" Daniel hollered back.
Max felt the sliver of worry melt as he relaxed into the space— Daniel's café seemed like a place Max could come to.
(Because Charles worked here, he told himself, nothing else, of course).
"So," Daniel prompted, turning away from the kitchen entirely, shaking his head fondly as Arvid continued to mutter about fish, "what can I get you?"
"Well, erm," Max stared up at the chalkboard pinned to the wall above the shelves, "I was actually meant to be meeting Charles here."
Realisation flashed across Daniel's eyes, "Oh, you're Max! Yes, Charlie mentioned that— well, he didn't mention you were coming, or maybe I would have been a little more prepared with presentations and all that, but he said he met you at the store the other day, yeah?"
Max hummed, "Yes. He invited me here, but… I can see that he is not here right now."
"No, sorry dude, it's his day off today, so he definitely stood you up—"
"No, no, it is not a date or anything like that," Max was fast to correct Daniel. He wasn't sure why he needed to defend that fact so much, but he was insistent that Daniel knew he and Charles weren't a thing.
"Cool, noted." Daniel offered a thumbs up and a cheesy grin. "Either way, he's sent you here knowing it would only be Arvid and me today. How interesting."
"I will call him," Max thought out loud. He scanned the board one last time, "I will do it outside whilst I wait. Can I get a black coffee, please?"
"Black coffee coming right up."
After Max paid, he slid outside and settled on one of the benches. He could watch the cars speed past; the hues of blending colour were oddly comforting. He fished around his pockets, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and his phone.
He hadn't wanted to pick up the habit; he knew his mum and sister worried about him, but Max couldn't help it. Lonely nights spent in empty rooms were always a little bit easier with the taste of ash and the scent of smoke as company.
He first perched a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and dragged in a breath before finding Charles' contact in his phone.
It rang three times before Charles picked up, cheerily greeting him, "Max, hello!"
"Charles, where are you?" He hissed. "I am at the café, and you are not even here. Daniel thought you had stood me up on a date."
"Well, you and I would never date each other; that would not work out," Charles mused.
"Yes, I said that, but that is not the point!"
"I wanted you to meet Daniel," Charles countered, "and I did not want to get in the way of that, so that was the only solution I could think of."
"What do you mean you wanted me to meet Daniel?" Max couldn't slow his heart, couldn't seem to calm it down from rattling around in his chest. The beat felt like bird wings, flapping repeatedly against the cage of ribbed bones.
"Well, Daniel is nice, no?" It was the tone Charles used— leading. Even though so much time had passed, Max could imagine the smirk on Charles' face, the slight quirk to his lips, tugging them up at the corner as he leaned against a wall or doorframe, the pose reeking of nonchalance, but his eyes would be telling. Swirling with mischievous plans.
"Yes, Daniel is nice," Max tried to ignore the way he was connecting dots. Charles was insinuating something here, and Max would be no part of the plan. "But I could have met him whilst you were here with me."
"But that is not fun. You see, Max, Daniel is single and—"
"No." Max cut in, a little too sharp, too quick to be seen as anything but normal.
"No?" For the first time on that call, Charles sounded apprehensive. As if he were rethinking his steps, deciding whether he had made the correct choice. "Oh, Max, are you—"
"No, I am not," Max stopped Charles from finishing again, too on edge to be having a conversation like this so soon. "I… yes, I am single. No, I am not interested."
It was odd how life worked because Max could picture all the expressions Charles made, even after all this time. The way his nose would scrunch as he thought long and hard. Charles was always perceptive, even back then, and Max didn't think anything had changed now. So, no doubt, Charles was picking apart the tone and words Max had used, diving deep into their meaning.
"Okay," he didn't sound like he believed Max, slightly smug, too knowing and yet Charles knew nothing at all. Not Max's history for the past several years.
But somehow Max felt too seen.
"Listen, Charles, I am not—" he stopped himself as the door chimed open, "got to go, Daniel is here."
"Oh, Daniel is here!" Charles sounded too giddy, "tell him—"
Max decidedly hung up. He leaned over to an empty ceramic dish, assuming it was an ashtray, and put the cigarette out before Daniel sat down across from him.
"Doesn't look like you had a fun call," Daniel mused, placing down two drinks and a slice of cake.
Max assumed Daniel decided to allow himself a drink, maybe a snack too, considering it was probably a slow day for him, but then Daniel pushed the cake over to Max.
"Wait, no, I did not pay for this," Max pointed out.
"I know, mate. It's on the house."
"No, I cannot—"
"Max," Daniel cut in gently, "take it as a welcome gift or something, yeah? Like, welcome to the city, hopefully you enjoy it. I promise that giving out one free cake won't ruin the business. I know it looks deserted right now, but we're managing to trundle on."
Max was still skeptical, but he took the cake and the fork, taking a bite. The sponge was soft, not too dry, the buttercream frosting was delicate, and while Max didn't have a sweet tooth, the flavours weren't overwhelming. It was a perfect balance.
"It's lovely, did you make it yourself?"
Daniel beamed, "Sure did! I like baking, so does Arvid, and we enjoy doing it together."
"That sounds nice," Max commented.
"It is! You should join us sometime, if you're up for it?"
Max paused, cheeks warm, as he took in Daniel's frame; smile wide and earnest, the offer genuine. Max wasn't sure what to do, how to respond. He knew, deep down, what he should say— turn now before he fell, tripped too far and couldn't clamber back up again. Yet Daniel seemed to have puppy-dog eyes, eagerly awaiting an answer.
"Sure, sounds fun," Max answered before he could even stop himself.
"Wonderful, Arvid will like you, I can already tell," then Daniel was turning the conversation, breezing ahead as if Max's mind wasn't scrambled, "Anyway, the phone call? Wasn't completely awful, was it?"
"It was Charles," Max deadpanned.
"Ah, so it was terrible," Daniel joked.
"I was wondering why he decided to invite me here and not show up," Max couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips. "He said that he wanted me to meet you."
"That bastard," Daniel chuckled, "Charlie is always telling me I need more friends, he totally did this to both of us!"
Max felt lax in a way he hadn't felt in years. Daniel just had the effect on people, he supposed. "I would have thought someone like you had a lot of friends, no?"
"My, Maxie, how very kind of you!" Daniel gratefully shot back, and Max ignored the way his chest flipped at the nickname. He was sure Daniel gave everyone nicknames; he seemed like the type to do that. "I guess I have a few close ones? Charles has a bigger network than I do, and he seems to think having around five good friends is too little."
"I think that is more than enough."
"See, Max, you get me. I am content with finding close friends; I don't need hundreds of them."
"Charles was a very social guy, even back then," Max mused.
"Tell me about it, I met Charlie through a friend, and now look— he works at my café, whilst juggling the five hundred other jobs he does."
Max raised a brow, slightly amused, "Five hundred?"
"Well, I may be exaggerating, but he does work in a record store, too. And helps out at some architect place. Not doing anything massive, but it's an interest of his, so he's basically doing work experience," Daniel rattled off each one, counting them off on his fingers as he went, "and he makes music. He is great at the piano."
"Hang on, so when does Charles work here?"
"Oh, he only does two days a week; he helps with the weekend rush."
"So he was never going to meet me here today, was he?"
"Unfortunately not," Daniel patted Max's shoulders lightly, "so now you're stuck with me instead!"
"I don't mind, you are good company, Daniel."
Daniel held his hand to his chest, "You have just become my favourite customer. Actually, I think I prefer you to Charles."
"I will tell him that."
"Good, please do," Daniel mused, "maybe then he will stop trying to find me friends."
Max faltered momentarily, and Daniel, despite Max thinking he'd reeled in the emotions before letting the slip, caught wind of it anyway. "Not that I'm mad," he clarified, "I know I'm going to enjoy having you around. That is, if you'll come back?"
"I think I might have to, since the coffee is very good," Max something, nodding to his now-empty mug.
"Want a refill?"
"No, thank you," he politely declined, "I will finish the cake though."
"Good! That's exactly why I made—" Daniel was cut off by another car pulling into the car park, "better get back, will need to serve this customer."
"Of course," Max nodded understandingly, watching as Daniel took the empty glasses and pushed his way past the front door.
Max realised a napkin was left, a number scribbled across it in large, swooping writing.
He added the number to his phone, titled the contact Daniel with a coffee emoji next to it, then promptly dumped enough cash on the plate to cover the cake before he left.
When Max entered the next day, no message from Charles to do so; he was expecting maybe to meet his childhood friend there. Maybe even Daniel again (and if his heart skipped in his chest, palms went clammy, and cheeks flushed, who was to say why that happened?) But all he was met with was a teenager, apron tied around his waist, serving a customer. Today it was busier, people already sat, the chatter a gentle background murmur as he entered, the door ringing its melodic chime as it opened.
The teen, who Max assumed was Arvid from the scraps of information he'd gathered, looked Max up and down just once before smirking.
"What does that look mean?" Max asked, uncertain.
"I get why Daniel was acting that way now. Huh. Funny that," Arvid muttered. No further explanation was offered, and instead he powered on, "Max, yeah? Same as yesterday, or do you want something different?"
Max blinked, unsure of how to take that— the look, the smirk, being taken apart by a single gaze from a guy half his age, whom Max had only properly met just now. He couldn't stop thinking about the words, playing them on repeat: I get why Daniel was acting that way now. Funny that. Max could ask, but feared he would seem desperate, and he didn't know why he would be asking. It didn't matter. He was hoping to make friends here, nothing more.
The chain hung low on his neck, pressed into his sternum, an imprint of promises splayed against his chest, hidden by the cotton fabric of the Red Bull tee he adorned.
"Yes. Black coffee would be great."
"Sure thing, mate," Arvid nodded, turning, "I'll bring that to you when it's ready."
It was overcast today, clouds filling the space against the darkening blue, the cool slate that promised rain in the hours to come. Chill settled over the streets, and Max wondered if he should grab his coat from his car, but decided against it, settling into the same seat he'd occupied yesterday.
He'd only visited this café twice now and seemed to already be settled as a regular.
He began the ritual of lighting a cigarette, revelling in the heat it brought, resting in his lungs and bursting through the tissue to intertwine with his body. He let the smoke settle, let it dissipate little by little through short puffs of breath.
The cycle, although not his healthiest, felt habitual and grounding. Coming to get coffee, taking out a cigarette and feeling the rough paper between chapped, full lips. Letting the ash take his tongue, and the fire burn through his lungs.
Max watched Arvid mull over making the coffee, and this time, with no messaging to distract him, saw Arvid place a sign on the counter and scuttle around, coffee in one hand and the same cake as yesterday in the other.
By the time Arvid was outside, Max decided to get the first word in: "No, I cannot allow you to give me something for free again."
"Well, it wouldn't be again, would it?" Arvid countered, pacing the mug down, pushing the plate over to him, "since you left cash yesterday."
"Because I do not want to take from you.'
"Mate, Daniel was adamant that if you came back when he wasn't here, Charles or I had to give you one, so no take-backsies now."
Max tried to hide his warmed cheeks by wrapping his hands around the mug, holding it up to his lips before taking a sip. When he put it back down, taking another draw from the cigarette, he gestured to his open packet, "Want one?"
"No, no, I don't smoke. Daniel might kill me if I did," Arvid laughed lightly.
Max realised, out of habit, that he just offered a cigarette to a teenager.
"Shit, sorry, wait," he reached over to the ashtray, yesterday's cigarette still stumped, and pressed the butt into the ceramic, smushing it until the embers dwindled.
"You didn't have to do that," Arvid pointed out.
"No, no, I don't like smoking around others who don't smoke. I know it does not smell nice," he reassured, instead opting to continue the drink and nibble at the cake. "Do you not need to work?"
"Wow, getting bored with my company already?" Arvid joked, and in that moment, Max couldn't help but see the resemblance to Daniel. The tilt in his head as he smiled, the bounce of his curves as he laughed. Max knew he was adopted, Daniel told him so, but if Max wasn't aware of the fact, he would have guessed Arvid was Daniel's biological child, through and through. Down to the snark, the sarcastic charm that could lure anyone in— not in a bad sense, but the best kind of company.
"Of course not," Max replied honestly, "but you are working alone, no?"
"For a little bit, Daniel has to run some errands, so he let me man the base."
"And how old are you? If you don't mind me asking?"
"Seventeen."
Max wondered how old Daniel was, how long the two had been a family together. He never thought he would get so interested in a stranger's life again, but he found himself wanting to know more. He found himself hooked, as if the first line of the book had readied him for the rest of the story.
He never thought it would happen so quickly. Max felt his heart spike. He wasn't sure what to do with it— the panic was there in the back of his mind, a constant but not subtle reminder of what could be lost. The dangers of falling in too deep, creating connections, meant that it was all too easy for that to be ripped away from you.
"You stare a lot," Arvid pointed out.
He blinked, shrugged, "I suppose I do. I just think a lot."
"Then share the thoughts, we can't have a conversation if one of us isn't participating," Arvid teased.
"Why do you want to have a conversation with me?" Max hoped it wasn't seen as rude; he was genuinely curious. He met Daniel yesterday, after reconnecting with Charles, and there was no need for him to speak to Arvid— not that he didn't enjoy the company. Max just enjoyed understanding the inner workings of others, so he could better understand the situation.
"Daniel likes you, and that's good enough of a reason for me to like you, too," Arvid said simply. He uttered it calmly, as if the whole sentence didn't just flip Max's entire world upside down.
His heart rate picked up, like a rabbit's foot that thumped against the ground. The beat was irregular, rattling against bones and pushing against cartilage, and Max hoped he managed to keep his composure in check.
"Oh," was all he could muster up.
"Oh?" Arvid echoed, brow raised. "Is that a good oh or a bad oh?"
"Good," Max cupped the mug, took a drink so he didn't have to think of a more comprehensive answer.
You're in too deep, Verstappen, and it's only been two damn days.
He tried to tune that little voice out.
"You're interesting," Arvid suddenly said, not really looking at Max anymore, staring out into the café, watching customers get up from their seats. As they left, door chiming, Arvid made sure to thank them for coming as they left.
"Interesting?"
"Yeah, you've got this whole mysterious vibe to you, you know?" Arvid kept his gaze on the café, auburn eyes like the depths of Max's coffee. "You moved here suddenly, by yourself, for whatever reason. Show up at our café after somehow bumping into an old childhood friend, doesn't that sound like some fiction story plot to you?"
"I suppose so, but with that mindset, all of our lives are woven into stories, yes?" Max pointed out.
Arvid, for a moment, didn't respond. It was interesting to see he even had the same thinking face as Daniel, pensive but slightly rumpled, "I suppose. But your tale really sounds like something you'd read in a fanfic."
"Fanfic?"
"Yeah, like, fanfiction?" Arvid gestured, as if Max had any idea what he was speaking about. When he levelled the kid with a flat look, Arvid gasped theatrically, "You don't know what fanfiction is‽"
"No, should I?"
"Well, I guess you are an adult, and that's sort of boring," he mused. "It's where people write their own fan stories based on already existing media. Like, erm, for example, Marvel, or anime. They can write it about absolutely anything!"
"And what happens in these stories?"
"As I said, anything at all. Happy ending, sad ending, it can be an au, which means alternate universe, and so it's not canon to the main storyline that happens."
Max nodded along, sort of understanding the premises, and couldn't stop himself from asking the next question, "And if I am a fanfiction, or a living story, as you said, what will my genre be?"
"I suppose if I had to go for a trope…" Arvid thoughtfully waited, but Max could see in his eyes that there was something there, a mischievous spark. Max tried to sip on his coffee, ignoring the knot in his stomach. "Coffee shop au. Strangers to lovers."
Max then promptly choked on his coffee, spluttering it across the table, cheeks turning beet red.
"Ah, and erm, why do— why do you say that?" He stuttered, grabbing a wad of the napkins from the plate and pressing them into the wood grains, mopping up the mess.
"No reason!" Arvid too happily responded, "And would you look at that! I should get back to work, see you around, Max!"
Max decided that there and then, Arvid was an annoying little shit.
And, there and then, Max decided he had a fond spot for the kid.
In the following weeks, Max made a routine for himself. If it were not for that lucky encounter with Charles, Max would never have slipped into the comfort of the cycle he now found himself in. Only three friends up, but that was more than the zero he began with, so he took it as a win. He spent days browsing the city, learning the roads and pavements. He found home in the library (and maybe even looked up fanfiction online too, after Arvid had told him about it. Though he tried to avoid any coffee shop fics and stranger-to-lovers stories, or else his heart would beat so fast, Max was sure it was trying to burst through his chest). He found himself spending more time at the café than not, always bringing something to do as he sat in his favourite spot out front.
Sometimes Charles would spend too long chatting with him, Max having learnt of the other's own complex history, how Charles had lost Jules and his father, how grief was so woven with his blood. Max didn't tell Charles his own story; at least he left out his own grief, the past still too fresh, the cut still bleeding. Though Charles, forever knowing exactly how Max's mind worked, looked at him with understanding eyes, and Max reckoned he didn't have to explain himself at all.
He learnt that Charles really did have a hectic life, juggling his jobs and hobbies all at the same time, but he seemed content. He worked the café on weekends when it got the busiest, did three half days at the record store, and then only one day working with the architects— Max had seen some of Charles' sketches, seen a book full of doodles and looked on in awe. He'd also heard Charles' music too, soft piano, and he would never admit it, but Max listened to it to fall asleep sometimes. Something about it felt comforting, and nights didn't feel so lonely anymore if he filled the space with melodic tunes that carried him away, coddled in a warm embrace. Charles seemed to thrive, even with everything going on, enjoying all aspects and even meeting up with Max before work or on his day off, despite Max telling Charles he should take time for himself.
"You are worth it, you know?" Charles had told him. Rain rattled on outside. It was the first time he invited Charles around to his apartment, wet shoes left at the door and a coat hung over the radiator.
"What?"
Charles looked long and hard, gaze directing Max. He felt as if he were a patient on the table, Charles the doctor, scalpel in hand.
"You are worth it, and I do not think you know that," Charles reiterated.
"Sounds a bit too deep," Max shrugged, looking down at the plush cushion of his couch, tracing a line across it. The fabric moved with his fingertips, a creased indent that quickly bounced back into shape.
"Yes, maybe," Charles didn't argue, "but I think you are quite a deep person, Max, but are not letting any of that show."
"And what if I am?" It suddenly felt too stuffy; Charles knew too much without Max even having to say anything.
"Then that is okay," Charles responded simply.
"Is it?"
"Yes." Charles' voice did not waver. Max finally looked up and met a resolute gaze and a kind smile. "You are very intricate, and I suppose we all are, but I want to know you."
"You do know me," Max tried.
"Yes, somewhat. But time has changed us both, and I want you to know that there are people out there who want to get to know you, Max. You do not need to be alone."
If his voice cracked and he blinked several times, head tipped up so the heavy gloss wouldn't tumble past his lashes and down his cheeks, Charles was kind enough not to mention anything.
"I think I am learning that slowly," Max admitted, "but it might take a while before you get my story."
"That is okay, Max, I do not mind waiting. Neither do the others—" Charles didn't have to confirm who the others were, they both knew who he was talking about— "you are worth it."
He didn't think he would gain a best friend in the process of escaping a reality he'd stuffed away in a dark box dumped in the corner of his mind, but Charles was a stubborn soul and wouldn't let Max walk away quietly.
So Max didn't run. He didn't leave, despite the quiet, nagging fears that were gnawing at the base of his skull. Settling like moths that flock the lamps, their wings fluttering against the bone. Max swallowed down the sick feeling each time, swallowed around the bitter lump that would sometimes form in his throat, and made sure not to run, no matter how eager his body felt.
Max had his own standards, his own rules he needed to follow, and he knew them intimately. And as easy as it would be to flee, forget the friends he made here and pretend he was alone again in the whirlwind that was the universe, he knew he shouldn't.
Facing the fears that he found himself netted amongst was a terrifying thought. Though Max could no longer retreat because he realised people would miss him.
(How that managed to happen, he wasn't sure, but Charles made it clear that Max was cared for here).
Plus Max wasn't sure he would ever be satisfied if he ran away again. Despite the need to hold himself back, he knew there were things he would miss, too.
Daniel would spend his lunch break with him. Arvid would join him outside when the café was quiet, sometimes with a laptop to do college work, sometimes with textbooks strewn across the table. Max even found himself helping, although he wasn't sure how useful he could be; Arvid liked to get Max to quiz him when exams approached, and Max was happy to comply.
It became a second home, somehow. Max had his apartment, where he thought he would spend too many hours of the day, wasting away. He rang his mum to update her the other day, and she was thrilled to hear Max was going outside consistently.
He never thought that would happen, yet he'd managed. He had three new contacts in his phone. Arvid insisted that he get Max as a backup emergency contact if Daniel was somehow away and Charles wasn't picking up. Max wasn't sure when he became so important, but he'd agreed. Now he got sent random links to a website called Archive of Our Own, and he wasn't sure how Arvid knew Max had fallen down the fanfiction rabbit hole, or how he knew exactly what fandoms to send, but he wasn't going to complain. Sometimes, he would get an image he didn't understand, accompanied by a message about how college sucked, or the fact that a machine broke at work, or if Daniel was late picking him up. Half the time, Max couldn't even decipher the images, shoddy quality, text too blurred and zoomed in for him to even read, and the whole picture all over the place. Sometimes, they were downright weird, a younger generational humour Max would never truly understand, but he would react with an emoji every single time. It all became routine for him.
The biggest routine he fell into was the slice of chocolate cake that would always show up with his coffee, and the cash Max would leave on the plate afterwards every single time.
Today, he was settled in his normal place. Not many others sat outside, Max noted. Perhaps the weather was still considered a little cold, even on the good days when Max was just in jeans and a t-shirt. Sometimes he would get the odd smoker join him, and Max would offer them a light or whatever they needed. Sometimes he was met with a polite decline, sometimes he chatted up a storm, and he looked at himself and how massively changed he was. How everything had shifted in only a few weeks— now almost a month, if he thought about it.
The door chimed, and out stepped a shorter man with a trimmed beard and a cap atop his head. In his hands were two coffee cups, accompanied by a bag of whatever baked goods he decided to pick up. Max didn't think much of the individual; he was older than Max, most likely, and looked to be leaving, so Max didn't think it would be worth stopping him and asking if he wanted to join for a smoke.
However, the stranger stalled, head tilted in a silent question as his eyes roamed over Max, and suddenly he felt as if a spotlight cast itself over him.
"Max, right?"
"Erm, yes," Max answered, and without thinking, brain on autopilot, reached for the pack of cigarettes and held them out, "want one?"
"No thanks, I don't smoke. My husband does, though," he replied and gently shook the bag of food, "that's where I'm going now. I said I would drop off some food and coffee for him whilst he was at work. And so, of course, I had to stop by Daniel's."
"I'm sorry, but do I know you?"
Suddenly, the stranger's eyes widened, "Ah, silly me! Didn't even introduce myself! Sebastian, though you can call me Seb. Been a good friend of Daniel's for a while now, met him through Charles— and by the way, they have both mentioned you."
"Of course they have," Max muttered, but he couldn't hide the fondness that laced those words.
"They have only said good things, don't worry," Seb reassured, stepping towards the table and placing down the cups and bag. "You're new-ish to the city, right? How are you finding it?"
Max and Seb ended up talking for quite some time, long enough that Max was certain the drinks would be cold, and Seb's husband, who Max learned was called Kimi and worked in a carpentry shop in the city, would probably be very hungry by now. But when Max mentioned it, Seb didn't seem fazed and instead gushed about Kimi's handywork, and how if Max ever needed anything done in his apartment, chances were Kimi knew how to fix it. Time passed, and the conversation flowed. Max felt oddly welcomed as he talked to Seb; he felt as if it was all natural. Seb had a charm to him that was captivating, a positive outlook that would make even the coldest days feel warm.
It felt as if Max was slotting into place. Meeting more and more people, finding his footing in the new chapter he started for himself. He had never felt more terrified and ready simultaneously, his stomach flipping, the worry a tug of war in his chest.
Eventually, Seb left, and as he made his way to his car, he offered a small wave before he got in. Another contact to add to the list, Max never thought it would happen.
Though there was one he hadn't used yet, despite getting it so early on.
Daniel's.
He wanted to, but every time he stared at the message box, his mind would go blank, and Max would back out too quickly. It was becoming increasingly apparent what was happening, and he knew he couldn't do it again. He tried not to think about it, shoved the thoughts into a cardboard box, crammed them all in so that it was a struggle to close, before hiding it.
Yet it was a cycle he couldn't break, and his phone would stare back, empty messages never sent, heart in his throat.
Daniel made him feel weird.
Wierd felt like too negative a word to use towards Daniel, actually. It was different, new, yet it was the same as an old sentiment he had experienced once, too long ago now. Something long forgotten that felt like an overgrown sign in the woods, the moss too thick to read what was once there, tree roots wrapping round the base in a vice-grip. Wood rotting slightly, hidden behind foliage so you couldn't see the curling splinters being held together by leafy stems, the green outweighing the moulding browns.
Max felt like the moon, hung amongst the stars, watching the quiet stillness settle as the world fell asleep. Daniel was the sun, all blindingly golden and warm rays that you could bask in during busy city afternoons. He was wisps of amber that cascaded down, ringlets of an orange peel, fruit generous in the palm of your hand. He embodied everything summer represented, tied together with the checkered cloth you'd lay out for a picnic. Max felt as if he was held in winter: frost-covered windows, ice spindles crawling up glass panes, as the heat of your breath fogged them up.
They felt so different, but that was what brought him in. Opposite ends of a magnet, their dance orbited around one another, stepping into a constant swing of back-and-forth.
Daniel felt safe.
But with safety came fear: fear of longing, of losing, of having to move on.
He watched from where he sat, taking a drag of his cigarette and letting the plumes of ash stir against the back of his throat before pushing out tendrils of smoke that swirled up into the sky. On the other side of the window, Daniel and Arvid were a well-oiled machine, working away to get orders and drinks done, the café oddly busy for a random Wednesday morning. Max took note of the way Daniel worked, so effortlessly, the smile he would give to customers, and the charming glint in those honey-brown eyes. Something ugly was sitting behind Max's ribs, pressing into the cartridge of his heart. If Daniel was all oranges, citrussy sweet and the gentle tang, Max was lemons and limes. His flesh bitter, the bones from his ribs forming pointed fingers that scraped against the rind, squeezing out droplets of juice in the form of tear-shaped droplets.
A hand reached up to his chest, and he continued to watch Daniel and Arvid, two individuals he had become so fond of, even though he had just moved to the city. Then he felt the rings that sat on the chain underneath the fabric of his T-shirt, the two bands a constant reminder of what once was, and what could never be again.
Loss— no one prepared you for the insurmountable grief it brought. A crushing weight that flattened lungs and shredded organs until you were nothing more than a bleeding, raw heart, soul fractured, sat in a puddle on the tear-stained floor.
Max blinked. Daniel looked over and caught his eyes, offering a toothy grin and a wave.
He waved back, chest tight as he realised he couldn't go through the pain all again, he couldn't allow himself to fall again.
But a part of him, timid against the argumentative internal chant, told him it was already too late. Max had started the descent, and he was probably never going to be able to stop it; the fall was inevitable, the feelings shackled to his soul, and the blush across his cheeks a constant, warming reminder.