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For the longest time he had envied him: Evil Max simply never thought to put his eyes through the lens of the alter ego—simply seeing it as a waste of time to begin with.
Although: the bitter taste in the tip of his tongue can't quite lie—That, without piqued, the destiny of bearing the sight would still reach him in a way, the simplicity of it scared him a bit—of how he was intimidated, on the smallest thing as seeing how someone else was doing.
But on other hand: it wasn't just anyone, it was Max himself—A mirror of himself.
Someone he could've the placed of,
Someone more favorable than him,
An Inseparable piece of him.
But at last: the need to be as desired, as liked, and as favorable as Max overcome his inner fear of bearing the sight—He walked into the decision, knowing that his heart would ache the moment he get the slightest of different treatment—knowing that his heart wouldn't bear the burden of what ifs.
And so thus: for once, Evil Max decided to take the half of Max's consciousness—slipping just enough to let himself sees what's going on, but not yet enough to make Max loses control over himself.
It didn't take long until the cruel twist of fate played it's game right Infront of his eyes:
Max grew restless as he sensed Evil Max presence, something that was expected—the nails of his seems to made it way onto his palm, scratching it as he clenched his fist hard—Barely able to contain himself.
Before something pried the stabbing sensation away: Nugget.
"You'd hurt yourself" he simply said—he performed the act of compassion as if it was nothing, whilst the worried look painted across his face. Perhaps—this was the norm, in a world Evil Max didn't get the chance to even life nor exist in. "I don't want you getting hurt." His eyes downed
Evil Max was aware of his presence; that, at least, had never been in question.
He had seen him often enough for the sight to lose any novelty—glimpsed him in corridors, across rooms, in those quiet intervals where attention wanders and settles where it will: Familiarity, however, had done nothing to dull the unease that followed.
It was the way his gaze lingered on Max that unsettled him.
it felt almost indecent to witness. Each time it happened, a sourness rose within him, sharp and involuntary, as though his body rejected the scene before his thoughts could form an objection: The sensation gathered at the back of his throat—bile without cause—while his breathing faltered, catching against itself in shallow, uneven drafts.
".. to think about it, are you okay?" Nugget pressed on, as he stares back at the still restless Max. "You've been acting rather odd." He added on, the utter care and worry was painted across his face, whilst Max managed to choke out a breathy chuckle. Trying to assure him: even when Nugget was clearly not convinced.
It was strange for Evil Max:
He told himself it was disgust. That would have been the simpler explanation, the one most readily accepted by those who preferred their emotions arranged into clean oppositions.
Yet he did not hate Nugget.
Contrary to what others assumed—contrary, even, to what he occasionally claimed for the sake of convenience—hatred never quite took root. It hovered at the edges of his reactions, suggested itself as an appropriate response, but it never settled into anything he could sustain. There was no heat to it—Only that same persistent tightness in his chest, that same disordered breath.
What troubled him was harder to name.
He found himself watching, despite himself, the quiet devotion written so plainly across Nugget’s features—the way his eyes softened when they rested on Max, the way his expression seemed to shed all calculation, leaving behind something unprotected and painfully sincere. It was a look composed of nothing but regard, stripped of ambition, free of mockery or fear. A look that assumed, without hesitation, that its object was worth cherishing.
Evil Max did not resent Max for receiving it. The feeling that took shape within him moved along a different axis altogether.
He wished—though he would never have admitted it aloud, not even to himself in clearer terms—that such a gaze might once, even by accident, have been turned toward him. He wanted someone to look at him like he looked at Max: he wanted all that Max have, He wanted a chance to live and be somebody—to feel warmth of passion in his heart, rather than the seethed jealousy.
The thought lingered only briefly each time it surfaced, retreating as soon as it risked becoming articulate.
He had learned to live without that kind of attention; he had built himself in the absence of it. And yet, confronted with its existence in another’s eyes, he could not prevent the faint, unwelcome ache that followed.
It was not hatred that tightened his throat and stole his breath: he hate to say that his airflow was tightening, that he couldn't console himself upon the moment faced with his utmost desire, he should've been able to keep on fooling himself—to convince himself harder that Nugget was saying it to him rather than Max, considering that Evil Max was seeing through his eyes.
It was the sudden, humiliating awareness of a tenderness that had never been his to receive.
"I'm.. fine, you don't need to worry." Max managed out, although it was clear he was still hurting from Evil Max's presence inside his head—The monkey then flashes a thin smile, trying to convey Nugget into believing further. "You've been so worries lately, it's just that .. I believe I should develop my own individuality." Max continued on, not wanting to always rely on Nugget.
Even when look of disbelief painted on Nugget's face, he nodded anyway: still eyeing deeply—As if Max might faint out anytime soon: ".. you know that there's no such things like doing too much for you, right?" Nugget mumbles under his breath, looking down at the ground—before his eyes returned to Max. "I care about you deeply."
And at that: Evil Max's felt as if he was struck: He understood, of course—that he was only rehearsing a kindness that had never been directed at him. But rehearsal, he found, was sometimes the closest he could come to possession. And so he allowed himself the pretense—he fooled himself to believe it, because the alternate version of him was to accept nobody would have seen him with such love pang his heart.
To be regarded as something other than a villain. Not redeemed—he was too lucid to indulge in fantasies of absolution—but simply acknowledged as a person with ordinary human excesses: was something he yearned for.
He was no fool: his act was built on the fragile foundation he call self worth—and hearing Nugget admit it was unbelievable—It was as if the words punched him in the guts, wherest he has nowhere to go; as his heart was wretched dry of every sense of toughness there is, stripped bare to someone who wanted to be loved. his eyes opened wide—as the sight of what he wanted the most was given right Infront of him:
Just not quite towards him.
And knowing that: Evil Max decided to retreat, he slipped out of Max's consciousness, as the half cyborg grieved what could've been his—What was stripped from him, what he could've have to himself—Evil Max grieved it deeply, he blames the twisted humor of fate to sprawl it for everyone but him: to give him the sight of heaven, then stealing it when it's directly fed to him.
In the absence of such recognition, he learned to borrow what he could from the lives of others. There were moments—brief, carefully stolen—In those moments, he would pretend that the warmth reflected in Max’s gaze belonged, in some altered and more merciful reality, to him.
Just if people didn't see him with such blind eye.