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Lucas had always loved the colour blue.
It was the colour of the sky he used to ride bikes under with his friends, their only worry being if they’d have enough money to afford Slurpees for everybody. It was the colour of the lake he and Erica would splash around in as young children, clueless to the terror and loss that would become the backbone of their teenage years. It was the colour of Max’s eyes, eyes that he was once able to read like a book. Eyes that hadn’t opened in over a year, and that may never open again.
Lucas had always loved the colour blue, but sitting here in the cool, sterile hospital room, a place that seemed to emit an air of lifeless icy blue, he wasn’t so sure.
Max wouldn’t have wanted him here. She wouldn’t have wanted him wasting away his life waiting on a girl who might never wake up, and she wouldn’t have wanted to be lying here, vulnerable and helpless, on display like a statue at a museum.
But Lucas didn’t know what else to do with himself. Every time he closed his eyes, every time a room got a little too quiet, his mind filled the silence with Max’s pleas not to die. Every night when he tried to sleep, he was right back in that attic. Some nights it was exactly like the real thing, Max dying in his arms, him sobbing and screaming. Other nights it was different— Max was dying in his arms again, but instead of whispering about how scared she was, she would shriek at Lucas about how it was all his fault. Even though Lucas knew Max wouldn’t really blame him, he blamed himself, so it stung all the same.
Following advice from Steve, Lucas had tried to stay positive. He had tried to remember that Max might wake up some day and they could both be happy again. He had tried to look back on the good times they’d had together, but he was struggling to remember times when Max had been anything but a soulless body, her mind somewhere he couldn’t reach.
Lucas wasn’t the only one hit hard by Max’s coma. Dustin got quieter, Will kept turning to whisper things to Max before realising she wasn’t there, Mike was taking shots at the Party members in a subconscious attempt to replicate the dynamic he’d once had with Max, El spent most of her time training to get her revenge on Vecna, and Erica barely left her room anymore. She and Max had been closer than people realised, adopting each other as the sisters neither of them had ever had.
The only time Lucas could ever see Max was through memories. But it was hard to envision her face without a dark blue light cast upon it, and crimson blood streaking her porcelain cheeks. Memories didn’t last long before they were plagued by flashbacks of that night. It saddened Lucas, knowing that a girl who had once been so lively and so here now lived on only through fragmented memories and a breathing tube. Even when his memories weren’t spotted with nightmares, his recollection of her was getting less and less trustworthy as the days went on. He was starting to forget what her voice sounded like.
When Lucas was 9, his grandmother passed away. He only saw her about once a year, and so it didn’t affect him all that much. But his mom was devastated. He remembered hearing her sobs through his bedroom walls, her voice fighting through tears as she told his dad how she didn’t understand why this was happening. Lucas didn’t feel like that now. Lucas completely understood why this was happening. Because of him. Because he wasn’t there for her, because he didn’t see the signs early enough, because he couldn’t get to the Walkman before Jason.
Everything that happened could all be traced back to Lucas.
It was his fault Max was gone.