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"Dyschronometria is a condition of cerebellar dysfunction in which an individual cannot accurately estimate the amount of time that has passed (i.e. distorted time perception)."
—What to know about “Dyschronometria/Distorted Time Perception” … A Concise Review.. (n.d.). (n.p.): Dr.Hakim Saboowala.
"Charles, please don't go."
He sounds like wood. Max knows it, the same way he knows he has all day for probably years. But as much as he wants to put some emotion into it- into anything -it's just. Hard. He can't remember the last time he was able to muster much of anything beyond his feeble apathy.
Well. Besides despair. He still feels that regularly.
Charles just rolls his eyes and neatly sidesteps Max's hand. He should've see it coming, in all honesty; he's fairly certain he's tried this one before, and likely with much greater passion.
It didn't work then either.
He's tried everything before, it seems. Except he knows he can't have, because if he had then surely he'd have broken this fucking time loop. It's the only reason he still bothers sometimes: he knows there must be something he's missed.
He doesn't know what day he's on. He hadn't thought to try and count at first, and then by the time he'd realized this wasn't going to be a couple whacks and then it's over type of deal, he couldn't figure out if it'd been two weeks or three. When every day's the same, how is he supposed to tell what was real and what was just in his head?
It's shocking how quickly Max's brain has filled up with useless information and flashbacks to failed attempts. Some days- most days -he can't even get out of bed. He's too full-up on memories of a sunset that doesn't actually exist even though he's seen more often than his own mother's face.
Sometimes he wishes he could take notes, just to straighten everything out. If he could write it down he'd probably be fine. But everything reverts to yesterday when time rolls backwards, and there's no pen or pencil that can resist the reset. Max should know. He's tried them all.
Near as Max can tell, he's the only exception to the rule. He's heard of time loops before- who hasn't? -but he never expected he'd be caught in one. And if he was, he at least figured that it'd involve a race of sorts. Maybe a bad result to recover, or a crash to avoid.
Instead, it's centered around—
"Max, you are being ridiculous," Charles says sharply. It cuts through Max's thoughts like a knife, but he doesn't bother to argue. Charles is right. "All day, I have indulged you. Do not touch the toaster, stay out of the second bathroom, do not walk Leo- I have given into every one of your increasingly bizarre demands. And now you want me to cancel dinner?"
That's because the toaster might've had a loose wire that would spark and fill the kitchen with smoke, because the shower in the second bathroom could have sprung a leak and left the tiles slick with water, because Leo's leash ran the risk of tangling Charles' legs and tripping him into traffic. Max knows these things because he's seen them. Charles doesn't because he, at least, has been spared the million memories of this monotonous, monstrous day.
It's the only small mercy of this entire fucking thing. Max is the only one suffering- unless, of course, Leo remembers too.
He still licks the ice cream off Max's spoon on the days Max digs the pint from the back of the freezer. He's pretty sure that means that even if Leo does know, he's at least forgiven Max for never being enough to save Charles the way he deserves. They've gotten close, over the last ten-hundred-thousand days. Sometimes Charles laughs over how attached Max is to the little dachshund, and Max just cuddles them both close and tries not to cry. In the meantime, the cats are as affectionate and indifferent as ever.
Right now (and it is right-now right-now, not tomorrow or yesterday's right-now) though, Charles has asked a question and Max needs to answer.
"Yes," he says flatly. For a moment, he even has the audacity to hope it works.
And then Charles' eyes narrow, and the despair returns full-force. A tidal wave, dragging Max down and down and down. "Seb will be there, I want to see him."
"Let me drive you, then," Max offers. There's a tinge of desperation in it, because he's made it to five in the afternoon and he can't remember the last time he lasted this long. Maybe this is it. Maybe his reflexes are quick enough to avoid the crash he knows will come if he's not there to stop it.
And even if they aren't- does it matter? Then it'd take him out as well, and at least he'd have tried something. He rattles his brain but can't recall ever making the trip to the fancy new restaurant Charles picked to meet up with some old friends tonight.
Max can barely remember their faces, even. He hasn't seen them in years, though the little calendar on his phone tells him he just played padel with Lando and Alex just yesterday.
"No. Perhaps if you hadn't been so rude earlier I would be more inclined to let you join. Think on that."
Max deflates, sinking deeper. That's— fine. It's fine. It's valuable feedback for tomorrow's today, at least, if he goes this same route again. If he goes any route.
It's more likely, though, that he'll stare at the ceiling until he forgets, and by the time he's willing to try again it'll be like this never happened. Just another failure to toss on the pile of half-baked plans and undercooked memories.
He's stopped keeping count of those, too. It's all sand in the hourglass, slipping away, and Max has long since stopped being scared of finding out what happens when the top half is empty.
He's hoping for it, even.
The door clicks shut and Charles is gone. Not for good- he'll be back in bed by the time the sun rises for tomorrow's today. Untouched and unbroken by whatever tragedy is waiting for him.
Unlike Max.
There is of course nothing to be gained by standing in the entryway and watching Jimmy bat around his catnip-fish toy in the living room, so Max decides to haul himself off to bed. It's early for it, maybe, but no one's going to judge him. The cats don't care, Leo is sleeping on the couch, and Charles is—
Charles is—
Max buries his grief. It hasn't happened yet, and until this fucking time loop is broken it hasn't happened at all.
He'll try again tomorrow. Probably. Maybe the day after, just because the stretches between real attempts are getting longer and longer, and Max is getting more and more beaten down by the failures. He used to be known for his determination, he thinks, but even he can only hit the wall so many times before he concedes defeat.