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Escaping Camazots is like being shaken from deep sleep.
Max rubs her eyes twice in a minute, trying to believe fully in reality. It feels like navigating a dream, only half-aware how much of it isn’t real.
She tries explaining this, but words aren’t enough to encapsulate how jarring it is to converse, to move without feeling like there is a pair of stalking eyes on every step, and navigate the world with free will.
The days bore along when in solitude, Max taking to any ounce of home she could find in a place that was not. She sang herself lullabies her mother stopped singing when she was six (Susan was singing on the other side, and there is just so much Max would’ve given to have heard it).
She recounted the days of Summer, before grief rewrote her future. Her group of boys she found again and again, while staring at the stubbornly unchanging sky. She squeezed her eyes when they got wet thinking too much about how good they made being thirteen. Their laughs played in her mind until it hurt. Lucas’s always rang softer and sweeter than anyone else’s. She longed to have her hand tugged on by El, to have Dustin over-explain topics she pretended not to care about, watch Will doodle in the corner of his homework sheets, and even teach Mike some basic skateboarding tricks to make him seem less like a total loser. It was the only way she was able to avoid losing herself completely. If walls could speak, that damn cave would know every story Max could recall off the top of her head.
Max one day discovered a handful of chalk pieces while walking a memory that was not her own. Max started counting days, as far back as she could recall, and onward until the tally’s started to just feel like bars of a prison cell. She rubbed her hands raw from trying to make them disappear. The scrapes against her palm were a welcomed distraction for a few minutes.
Touch felt distant, like she didn’t own much of herself while there, which wasn't entirely incorrect. So as long Henry blocked every exit, Max only had so much of herself to hold onto. It was his memories, after all.
She tries to hold herself in the now, once it’s all said and done. It’s wildly easy at first. Lucas smiles at her and it’s so damn warm. Max indulges. It feels like her world is there again, greeting with a brightness she hasn’t seen since early childhood, and she’s leaping into it before she realizes her feet are off the ground. The landing is rougher than she had imagined it would be.
The dust from war settles. What’s left is the startling realization of just how horrifying Max’s existence had been for eighteen months. She hadn’t a single companion until little Holly Wheeler came venturing through the woods with bravery mountains taller than her stature. That sort of isolation is easy to drive someone mad. Max is sure if it weren’t for her history of loneliness, it might have been more lethal.
It starts small, Max awake in the middle of the night, grazing her fingers on Lucas’s cheek. She lives with the Sinclair's for a bit while her mother picks up the pieces of their shared, broken life. They shouldn't share a bed, but both find it difficult to sleep for the first couple months. He always wakes up and grabs her hand and squeezes until the pressure is enough to make her believe again. She does it six times one night, and each time he smiles, squeezes her hand until it almost hurts, and waits until she’s asleep to follow suit.
The thick slashes of her ability to stay focused in one place start to widen and spread like cracks in glass, until Max starts to think she’s going insane. Somehow it’s more all consuming than the isolation itself. This time she knows she isn't trapped so far from home, she's here spending the days next to her mother and counting her breaths, or tracing the scars on Lucas's hand, but there are nights where she lays awake and stares at the ceiling, softly wishing for the feeling of being home to fully settle into her chest.
It feels like a betrayal, some days. She had spent so long alone, losing the ability to keep track of time itself, and begged to be home so desperately. Now she's finally with most of the people that made living bearable and the wish to 'go home' is heavy on her tongue.
The dragging weight of her limbs and the numbness of her body makes it all heightened and impossible to ignore, though she certainly tries. As the months trudge on and mobility returns to her like the slow melt of winter, it makes everything a bit easier. Though her foot falls asleep, or she keeps her hand tucked under head for too long, and she's back to watching El at the gate, nearly ready to sacrifice her life for a world that doesn't understand her enough. Those days she calls the Hoppers residence and stops holding her breath when she hears her best friend's voice. If it's bad enough, she'll beg for El to visit. Which she does, and doesn't ask when Max hugs her like she's going to be ripped away at any second. El is good when it comes to kindly not questioning Max's strange new habits.
Television screens are easily overwhelming. It feels teasing, with all its heightened colors and voices. That isn’t real, not technically, but Max’s life is, and still she stares too long at the fuzzy characters and the world around her becomes fuzzy too. Max throws up three separate times while trying to get through a movie and blames it on nausea from medications.
Lucas asks twice if she’s sure, and Max nods and smiles. She wants to tell him what it all really means, but every time she opens her mouth, the words run dry and she’s back in that damn cave, talking to walls.
It’s never been unusual for everyone to talk at rapid speeds in jumbled heaps until it becomes a mess of excited agreements and small bursts of arguments. Max had thrived off of it so long, having only gotten used to the brutal side of relationships. They’ve been so messy and scattered, but it’s been the kind that’s shown up more as splatters of paint on a canvas than a junk drawer that is difficult to navigate.
Max is good at inserting herself again until she isn’t. Dustin will unknowingly speak up halfway through her sentence, as he’s always done and she’s always done, but Max loses her own thoughts instead of continuing unflinchingly. She tries to string the conversations together, but her hands fumble and it all becomes tangled.
She starts speaking up only when it gets quiet, otherwise leaning close to El or Lucas to add quiet commentary. It’s not what they know about her, and it makes her sick to see their eyebrows dip and their mouths form a frown when she gives up, but sometimes it’s easier to not try at all.
Lucas takes her aside one day, when everyone else ventures to the kitchen for snacks. He asks if something is wrong, or if something is worrying her.
She shakes her head. Her tongue isn’t paralyzed, but it feels like it is when he peers too close. She’s trying, dammit, but her throat just tightens when there’s something she desperately wants to explain.
He squeezes her hand tighter then, too.
It’s one of the few things that reminds Max that she’s real, and this world exists now. It could be enough to make it easier to digest one day. She hopes it will be.
It’s all almost okay. Just enough that Max is able to wear her front and save meltdowns on the matter for when she’s alone (which is seldom). She’s carried on this way her entire life. It doesn’t surprise her when it’s the way things continue to go, even if she might be able to voice it all if she tried harder.
Then, the bled-through bandages Max has been frantically holding against her past start to splatter across the clean, neat top blanket of healing she’s tried to set out.
She doesn’t mean for it to show the way it does, she never has when it comes to the seemingly genetically predisposed habit of giving until there isn’t anything left, and crushing herself under the weight of nothingness.
They’re all sleeping over at Mike’s. The basement is mostly put back together and the walls of his house are patched up. There is still evidence of a monster trying to split up a family, but like everyone and everything else, the house is on its way to healing.
They’re watching The Goonies, a pick by Will. Mike initially suggested Star Wars, but El had promptly wrinkled her nose and told him she didn’t like it the first time he tried to make her watch and she certainly won’t like it now. Despite all the worry collecting in the pit of Max’s stomach, she laughed. El’s new found sass is just another reminder that they’ve been cut loose from it all and there a promise of normalcy they never got the chance to have before.
Everyone settles into their spots. Max puts her head on Lucas’s lap. His arm drapes over instinctively and casually, as if they’ve always been this touchy. Max can’t figure out if it’s more her need to be close to reality or Lucas’s need to feel every small movement of Max’s body. Will once joked they’re like bonded cats, and it made Max scowl and Lucas grin.
It’s fine at first. Max has upped her tolerance of TV considerably, and perhaps even enjoys a re-watch of something comforting. Last weekend Susan came home waving a tape of The Muppet Movie. While Max rolled her eyes and pretended to be annoyed at the prospect of watching a childhood film, they sat shoulder-to-shoulder with a shared bowl of popcorn for its entirety.
They all start off relatively quiet, save for the few bouts of commentary or memorized lines spoken aloud. It’s comforting to be back in such a familiar space, engaging in something incredibly simple. She might even suggest a follow up movie, might even agree to a watch of Star Wars, so as long as Mike and Dustin don’t lose their breath over trying to explain lore. El might despise her for it, but people have hated her for less, and she’s quick to forgive.
The boys do a lot of quoting and popcorn throwing. It’s entertainment aside from the movie itself, and the sight is reminiscent of older days. She’s incredibly grateful that despite their growth in height and maturity of voices that they haven’t changed much otherwise. It’s made adapting to regular life slightly easier.
Three-quarters of the way through, Max starts to feel her eyelids become heavy. She fights it for a few minutes, determined to enjoy the entirety of the night, but Lucas begins to rub her arm rhythmically. She’s a little annoyed. He’s gotten into a habit of coaxing her to bed whenever she’s visibly sleepy. Max hasn’t slept through the night in a long time, and she can’t recall the last time she moved through the day without a blanket of exhaustion.
Lucas leans his head down and pulls the blanket that pooled at her feet up to her shoulders.
“You’re tired. Just sleep, it’s okay.”
“I want to watch,” she mumbles defiantly, although the honest truth is that she’s extremely content. This sort of calm happiness has been difficult to achieve. Her constantly fired nerves are finally relaxed, and it’d be nice to stay awake through it.
“We’ve seen this movie like ten times. Go to sleep, we’re all right here,” he whispers. The rhythmic movement starts up again.
El must hear him despite his soft voice and the jumbled conversations from the other boys, because she turns around. She gives Max a kind look. Max can’t help but smile in return as she always does when El looks at her like that. She’s been a goddamn manifestation of sunlight despite everything they’ve been through. Max sometimes feels like Supergirl healing from the sun when they’re having their own time together.
“It isn’t worth it to stay awake if you are sleepy. They are so loud, I can barely hear it,” El says. Lucas laughs and Max can just feel his grin from above her head.
Max makes a comment of agreement, although it’s hardly a sound that can be deciphered at all. Lucas laughs again, adoringly, and uses his nails to gently brush her hair back. He kisses the top of her head. That makes her squirm and stick her tongue out, giving a faux gag.
“Jerk,” he whispers, “go to sleep. I’ll wake you up after.”
She nods, although is hardly on her terms. Her eyelids shutter closed, and sleep draws in until Lucas’s touch is faint.
-
One of the more bothersome aspects of life post-coma is Max’s tendency to become disoriented from sleep.
Pleasant dreams or horrid nightmares create their own problems, but dreaming always leaves Max only half-believing she’s awake for the first hour or so. It’s nauseating as hell to stand in front of the mirror with a toothbrush half out of her mouth, trying to collect her thoughts into streamline thinking. The edges of her vision curl into a fuzziness that is hard to keep at bay. She spends every morning drenched under a cold shower, opening and closing her fists to stay anchored to her body.
Max hates napping. It’s already a job just to step out of sleep without feeling insane, and naps make the disorientation twice as bad. She’s always been a night-owl. Partly because she needed time to preserve her sanity and exist without cruel family members breathing down her neck. Nighttime has always been her favorite. It never felt lonely, even when she’d climb out her window and only be comforted with crickets and stars that were faint from light pollution.
There’s steps Max has taken to make fully waking up a little more digestible. She takes her time with pushing away blankets and letting the morning light temporarily breach her sleep-coated eyes.
She hopes, like everything else, this will need less attention with time.
It is unfortunate that she forgets this aspect of her life when the coziness presses sleep upon her so easily she can’t think too much about it.
Max jerks harshly awake. Her shoulders jolt and bump against something sturdy, and a weight goes to her side. She loses her breathing for a second and blinks several times to clear her vision, although it doesn’t do much for the filter that seems to coat everything.
She can vaguely make out a movie playing and the shapes of Dustin and Will sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV.
Max pushes herself with arms that feel like jello. When she turns her head, Lucas is giving her a worried stare.
She looks back at the TV. They’ve picked The Labyrinth.
Max rubs her eyes hard. Henry isn’t standing at the entrance of a cave, nearly looking human. There isn’t more running she has to do. This isn’t a memory, at least not yet and not his, and it certainly belongs to her.
Lucas reaches one hand out. He squeezes her hand. It doesn’t bring her down like she desperately wants it to.
They’re watching The Labyrinth. They're in the basement. They're kids again, not monster fighters.
Max is—She’s in the cave, screaming and crying for something she’s worried she’ll never get back. Lucas is telling her it’s just a nightmare. It’s hard to keep track of the days.
She’s here, isn’t she? And she’s there—all the time, no matter how far she gets.
Lucas loosens his grip and Max hates it. She needs him to be her anchor. She also can’t stand how unreal it all feels. She is breathing, isn’t she?
He lifts his hand to her face and tucks he hair behind her ear.
Max shoves his hand away before it’s really a thought and clumsily gets on her feet. She’s only partly aware of her stumble upstairs and into the bathroom, forgoing even shutting the door, and turning the handle of the faucet to the coldest it can be.
The shock takes away her breaths. Max can hear herself beginning to constrict her crying, although it’s not much use. She sniffles and cups cold water onto her face until the edges un-blur enough to make living feel slightly more natural.
She gives way to the shaking in her legs and sits on the floor, scooting back until her body presses against the wall.
Max isn’t sure how long she’s alone for. Knowing Lucas, it can’t be for too long.
His face is peering at hers before she knows it. He glances at the open door and shuts it before getting on the floor across from her. The bathroom is small enough for their legs to touch.
“Max?” He asks. He lifts his hand. Then retracts it. “Can I?”
“Please,” she murmurs. He smiles small at her and moves to sit beside her. Two arms wrap her and tug her in so close she can hear his heartbeat.
All roads wind their way to him. She’s been telling herself this for a while.
“I’m sorry,” Max says. Her words sound a little strange. She’s not completely sure it’s all her own, but she’s mostly sure it is and that’s going to have to be enough for right now.
“It’s okay,” he assures, his fingers tighten and pull on her sweatshirt, “I was just—is this about your nightmares?”
Max nods.
“Do you want to…tell me? What it was?”
She shakes her head. “No. I can’t—I can’t talk about it.”
“Okay. It’s okay. You don’t have to,” he holds her head, “It’s just that I know there’s something wrong that you’re not saying. It’s been worse lately. It’s like…”
It’s like you’re not here.
Max rubs her eyes harshly to refrain from losing what hold she has on reality. “Please don’t say it.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I wanted to—you're just not yourself. I’m worried and I don’t want you to have to feel like you can’t tell me everything.”
“I don’t.”
“I believe you, but there’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
Max pushes her fingernails into her palm. It feels like gasping after finally coming up for air.
“There’s always something wrong,” Max laughs flatly. She straightens up again and gives minimal space between them. She keeps her head on the wall but turns it to look at him. He’s quiet, holding his breath as she struggles.
“Sometimes I don’t feel real. Or like…everything else doesn’t feel real. I know I’m here, and alive, but it doesn’t always feel like I am. Like I’m still in his memories.”
She swallows down bile and pushes her nails further in.
“I don’t know, it’s stupid. Sometimes everything has a filter and everything is too bright or too blurry, and I feel like I’m in a dream. Or something he’s made up for me.”
He holds his gaze steady. Max huffs and hugs her knees close. She lowers her head and cups her hands over her neck.
“How often?” Lucas asks. She lifts her head. He shakes his foot gently. “How often do you feel like that?”
Max shrugs. “Are you my shrink?”
Lucas doesn’t laugh. She’s not sure that she wants him to, although it might alleviate some of the weight on her chest.
Her voice drops into a hoarse whisper when she gets the hint he’s not going to drop it any time soon. It’s hard to knock him off course when he’s on his worry train.
“A lot, I guess. It's usually not that bad and I can ignore it. It’s only really hard when I wake up. Or when there’s a lot happening.”
“Does it, um, does it feel fake right now?”
“Me or everything else?” Max asks.
“All of it.”
“Yeah,” she says, then sitting up straighter and trying to smile, “I’m okay. It’s fine. It’ll pass.”
Lucas frowns. “It’s not. You haven’t told anyone? Your doctors?”
Max shakes her head. She stands up and paces for a few seconds before pausing and leaning against the counter. “No? I mean, it sounds crazy.”
He remains sitting. “It sounds like a lot,” he says instead, “a lot happened to you.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. She hates when people say that. It’s a lot easier to pretend that nothing did, or that it doesn’t matter, or didn’t change her as much as it did. Sometimes her mom gets a funny look on her face when Max says or does something that is so unlike her old self. The first time Max had a panic attack in the car after a doctor's appointment, Susan looked at her with such deep heartbreak that it made Max want to break free out of her panic to sooth her ache.
“A lot happened to all of us.”
“Max, don’t do that.”
Lucas’s voice takes on a frustrated tone. He stands up. It’s his turn to pace in the small room. He takes to sitting on the edge of the bathtub instead. Max lifts herself to sit on the counter. She rubs her hands up and down on the soft material of her pajama pants and bunches her fingers in the fabric.
“There’s a lot of stuff you haven’t told us that happened when you were alone.”
His voice tightens on the last word. Max looks at her shaking hands.
“Lucas, nothing happened for so long. That’s the issue,” she sighs, “it was scary. But for most of it I just…I had myself. And too much time. There’s been far worse scenarios.”
“Max.”
“Lucas.”
“Max, being alone for that long is,” he sniffles under his breath, “that’s scary, too.”
“Yeah, but I’m not anymore. And if I were to go crazy, I should’ve gone crazy then. Not now. We’re good now. I’m good.”
Lucas stands up. He makes his way to Max and leans against the wall across from her. He crosses his arms. “I still get nightmares. A lot. And there’s a reason my house doesn’t have any clocks that aren’t digital. That wasn’t just for you. Do you know that I hate the sound of celery or carrots snapping? And last month when I visited my aunt? I threw up after we went into the attic to look for picture albums.”
He rubs his face. “It’s not all good. You don’t have to be all good. I’m not, and if you think anyone else is you’re sure as hell wrong.”
“Lucas,” Max’s voice wobbles despite how much she tries to steady it, “I can’t be okay with everything feeling the way it does. I just need to be normal.”
“You don’t have to be okay with it, Max, that’s not what I’m saying. I just think, maybe there’s a reason. It makes sense. I mean nothing was real for you for a long time. And then you woke up and suddenly everything was. You’re not crazy. You’re just…”
“Really messed up?” Max tries.
He lifts hands from his face. “I was going to say adjusting, but yeah, sure. How can you not be at least a little messed up?”
Lucas nudges her and she scoots over. He stands by her and intertwines their fingers. Max leans into him. The world clears up a bit more.
“What if there’s a name for it? Something that can explain it more? I can help you figure it out.”
“What if there’s nothing to figure out and I’m just messed up forever?”
“Then I’ll help you feel real. I’ll give you all the kisses you could ever possibly want.”
Max gags. “That’s all for your pleasure.”
“Go ahead, Max, pretend like you don’t love it. You’re just as soft, and romantic, and sweet—“
She shoves his chest. He lets out a large laugh and pulls her back into his side. His hand plays with the ends of her hair and it’s like pulling on the string of a balloon. His touch has a way of her keeping her grounded. Max is glad he’s not one to boast about these skills, otherwise there would never be an end to it.
“If nothing feels real, tell me. I’ll do anything,” he says, “maybe I’ll tell you all the lore behind the lord of rings.”
“If you want me to keep my head on earth then you won’t do that.”
“We’ll see,” she can hear the shit-eating grin in his words, “I’m really glad you’re real. And mine.”
Max turns toward him more. She wraps her arms around his torso and leans into his chest. Lucas’s arm cradles her back. Their steady breathing falls into a similar pattern. Max doesn’t say anything after that.
They curl up on the bathroom floor for minutes. Max feels her body grow tired again, and she wards it off with a grumble of needing to get out of this room and back downstairs. Lucas shrugs it off. They could be anywhere at all and he wouldn’t mind so as long as they’re together.
Their bubble is reluctantly popped with pounding on the door.
“Lucas? Max? Are you done being gross?”
Wheeler. Max huffs.
Lucas helps her to her feet and unlocks the door with a very certain expression. “Not one for subtly.”
“You’ve been gone forever.”
“He’s my boyfriend. I can take up all his time if I want to. Unless you want to kiss him.”
Mike’s face turns into one of complete disgust. “Well if you’re not completely crazy you can come down and finish the movie. We paused it. I’m sick of hearing Dustin going on about behind the scenes of it.”
Max feels her shoulders tense. “I’m not going crazy,” she replies sharply.
Mike squints at her. When Max doesn’t relent her stare, something shifts in his expression. He relaxes his eyebrows and shrugs. Mike shoves his hands in his pockets.
“No judgment. I lost my sanity a few years ago.”
“Did you ever have it to begin with?” Lucas asks.
Mike scoffs. “Bullying from Max is one thing, but I will not tolerate it from you. Asshole. Can we go?”
“Can you get a life? And, it’s fine. I’ll stay up here. Or go back home, I guess. I’m not in a movie mood,” Max shakes her head.
“We’ll go home,” Lucas corrects.
“Fine by me, but you’re the one who has to break the news to El. She says she hangs out with too many boys and not enough Max, which doesn’t make any sense, because Max is barely a girl.”
If it isn’t for the soothing hold that Lucas has on her, she’d spring on Mike. He should feel fortunate that she isn’t interested in separating from Lucas. Max rolls her eyes.
“El is perfect and wonderful. How did she ever end up with you?”
He throws his hands into the ear and turns around to stomp downstairs. Max sometimes worries he’s stuck in the temperament of being a little boy just starting the depths of puberty, the way he fluctuates emotions. If it weren’t for the fact of it entertaining her and their similar temperaments fueling their strange friendship, she’d comment on it more.
“Let’s go say goodnight and go home?” Lucas nudges her.
Max nods. “Sounds much better than listening to Mike.”
“He means well,” Lucas says as they move toward the basement stairs.
“I know,” Max shrugs, she stops him when they get to the door, “can we…don’t tell anyone about my issue. I don’t need them asking questions. Especially El. You know she gets worried.”
“They mean well, too,” he says gently, squeezing her hand, “but, yes. You know I wouldn’t tell anyone if you didn’t want me to. They’d be the last ones to judge, though. And if you ever feel ready, I’d help you.”
“Thank you.”
She leans into him to feel his heartbeat closer to her ear. “No movies for a little bit. Is that okay?”
He shrugs and looks at her with a teasing smile. “I usually just look at you the entire time, anyway. You’re my superstar.”
She releases his hand and turns the door knob. Max glances back at him with a roll of her eyes that is hardly genuine. She can’t help the twitch in her lips when she makes a face of annoyance.
“You’re obsessed with me.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.”