Chapter Text
Max shoved whatever else he could back in his suitcase.
Not that he unpacked much to begin with.
He only took out his toothbrush from the little side pocket, and there were a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts he'd draped lazily across the end of the bed frame.
But other than that, the rest of his clothes and personal shit had been left untouched.
Only because he usually preferred to just push through the week or two he had with his dad and get the hell outta there as fast as possible. Meaning, he couldn't risk getting too comfortable.
Five whole days. That was how long fall break forced Max to survive under his dad’s roof.
Though, he didn’t spend most of those days under said roof. As, Max always managed to find something to do. Something to get him out the damn house. Away from the man who made it impossible for him to relax.
To so much as exist around the guy without being scrutinized or judged was completely foreign to Max.
Sometimes he managed to leave without his dad even noticing. If he was lucky.
Today, he just prayed he could make his escape before his dad tried to talk to him or throw some kind of passive aggressive comment at him on his way out.
Max was in no mood for the usual bullshit—not that he’d ever really had much patience for the old man in general, but today, he really couldn’t handle anything else.
It was bad enough that his dad’s usual berating already left an extra sour taste in his mouth, but it would also just be yet another thing to add to Max’s long list of problems.
Problems he, himself, had to deal with.
Problems he—kind of—caused…all by himself.
Come on, let it go already, he demanded himself, the pulse throbbing heavy in his jaw.
Forget the party. Forget Richie. Forget last night.
And, God, he wanted nothing more than to scrub the awful memories of last night from his brain. Just dwelling on it was already pounding behind his temples.
But it was stuck to him like rot.
For this wasn't something Max could just bury. How was he supposed brush something like this under the rug?
No, this was an open wound. Fresh, jagged, and infected entirely.
This wasn’t something he could shove into a dark corner and pretend didn’t exist.
Not when Sarah’s cruel, victorious expression was seared into the back of his eyelids.
Not when dull, lingering ache in his knuckles kept reminding him of the impact against Brad’s face. That almost sickening crunch of bone and cartilage echoed in his mind, making his stomach turn over as he leaned heavily against the bed frame.
"I hate you."
The words carved themselves into his skin, an indictment he couldn't wash off.
Richie.
Jesus. Richie.
Everything about Richie Lipschitz had infiltrated his senses, haunting his bloodstream. The ghost of him was painted across Max's vision no matter where he looked.
The dark streaks of makeup stained beneath his eyes, the tear-tracks cutting through the grime, the desperate, frantic way he’d pressed himself against the tub as if trying to shrink out of existence completely.
Trying to escape Max.
That stung. More than he wanted to admit.
And his voice—God, the wrecked, raw sound of it. Slurred, trembling…
Petrified.
Broken. Completely and utterly broken.
You made my life a living hell.
It never fucking ends.
I just want the pain to end.
Max winced, a physical recoil from his own brain, his white-knuckled grip on the zipper pull cutting into his thumb as he yanked it shut.
For probably the first time in his life, campus felt like a sanctuary. He was starving for the highway, desperate to put distance between himself and this suffocating town.
Except the guilt was coming with him. He couldn’t outrun that.
He forced himself through the motions, on complete autopilot as he scanned the bleak bedroom one last time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
Then, as if right on cue, his phone buzzed in his back pocket, a jarring pulse against his hip that made his chest tighten.
He snatched it out so fast, it nearly fumbled right out of his hands and onto the hardwood floor below.
Steph.
Shit.
Unfortunately, ignoring her right now wasn't an option; if he didn't answer now, she’d just keep calling.
His own fault, really. When he got back last night after what felt like the longest drive of his life, he’d been the one to text her.
In a moment of pure anguish and desperation to tell somebody, Max had sent her a few texts, briefly updating her on his situation.
“Steph i think i fucked up. Like royally
Tldr i went to one of brenda’s dumb house parties and some shit went down.
Whenever you get this could you like call me?
Asap”
Honestly, he shouldn’t have told her to call him. Not while he was still at his dad’s anyways. But he wasn't thinking at all after he got back from Richie’s.
He couldn't believe he’d been able to form a single thought after the night he endured.
Bracing himself, he accepted the call and lifted the phone to his ear, feeling his pulse flutter in his throat.
Steph wasted no time.
“Hey! Sorry I didn’t answer last night, I won’t lie I was kinda wasted at some really cool party on the coast.” She chuckled, her voice hoarse, as if she’d literally just rolled out of bed. She probably did, actually. “But that’s not that important…not right now— Uh, what’s up with you? What happened?”
“Fuck, where do I even start, dude?” Max huffed, collapsing backward onto the unmade bed, the springs groaning beneath him.
"Damn," She muttered. "Sounds pretty serious."
She laughed.
Max just made a face. A face she, thankfully, couldn't see.
He dragged air into his lungs and tried to force the words into order. The catalyst. Sarah, and the poisonous atmosphere she brought with her.
The reaction was instant—a harsh scoff over the receiver, Steph’s familiar sneer practically tangible through the line.
Max could practically hear her rolling her eyes in that Steph-like-way.
“I still really hate that bitch,” She stated, very matter of factly. “And also, let’s not forget that she was also, like, the worst person back then, too.”
And so was I, the bitter voice in his head added, though he swallowed it back down.
Steph hummed in acknowledgement.
Max stood up, digging his knuckles into the back of his neck as he paced. “But, I guess she kinda had some points,” he muttered, his eyes fixating on a crack in the drywall. “I guess…that’s what kinda—”
“Scares you?” She finished.
Well, damn.
Max shook his head, until he remembered he was on a call and blurted, “N-Nah. Well, kind of? No, it’s just…it was more like…I dunno, but it was like, super fucked up. P-Putting me on the spot and all that.”
However, he knew the real answer, even if he couldn't force his throat to shape the words. It wasn't just fear—hell, it wasn't even about Sarah or Brad anymore; it was the sickening exposure of having his worst truths laid bare without his permission.
“Yeah, she’s psycho, dude. I wouldn’t take anything she says seriously.” Steph said, her voice holding a bit of an edge to it for a second. “God, still, sorry she did that to you. See, if I was there, I woulda gave her drunk-ass hell.”
Max forced a breath past his tight throat. “Yeah. Wish you were there.” He bit down hard on the inside of his lip, tasting salt. “‘Cause, it kinda got worse after that…somehow.”
“Worse?” Steph mumbled. “Like…how worse?”
“Okay,” Max let out a sharp, humorless sound. “How much time ya’ got?”
Steph hummed. “Not much, but I don’t care. I make my own rules, so lay it all on me.”
The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. He wanted to spill it all out, to purge the poison, but the sheer weight of the narrative threatened to choke him before he could even begin. As if he even knew where to begin all.
He’d been trapped in a loop, replaying every agonizing detail, but standing here trying to articulate the wreckage left him completely...
Speechless.
For once.
Max dragged a heavy breath into his chest, squeezing his eyes shut. “God, dude, it was so bad.” He pinched the sore bridge of his nose.
“Talk to me.” Steph urged.
“It’s so embarrassing, though.”
“Bro, I swear to God— TELL ME.” She laughed a little, but Max could tell her little patience was wearing thin.
He groaned, “Fucking fine. Jeez.”
Steph scoffed, “Mkay, drop the attitude, bitch. You asked me to call you.”
He could hear the playful grin in her voice.
“Uh huh…starting to regret that.” He said in this, playful sing-songy tone.
Steph scoffed, “Oh, shut up. No you’re not."
Max rolled his eyes, stopping his restless pacing and coming to a halt in front of the cheap, warped mirror mounted on the closet door.
The reflection that stared back at him was haunted. Dark, bruised hollows sat beneath his eyes, making him look drawn and exhausted. He averted his gaze, disgusted by the evidence of his own unraveling.
“Okay, so…” He clicked his tongue, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “After the whole Sarah-thing, I went outside to, like, get some air and all that and you’ll never guess who I found out there.”
Quiet settled over the line. Steph knew when to hold back, giving him room to breathe when the floor started swaying beneath him. Max always liked that about her.
Max carried on. “Richie. Dude was puking all in the bushes.”
"Lipschitz?" Stephanie huffed out a breath of amusement.
"Uh huh." Max nodded to no one in particular.
“Holy fuck. Seriously?”
He'd reluctantly confessed their earlier encounters to her, laying them out right after they happened. But this—this was a collision course no one could have predicted. Max definitely couldn't have, anyways.
“Third time’s the charm, I guess?” She chuckled nervously after the words left her mouth.
“Uh, no.” He snickered, scrunching his nose in disgust. Far from it.
Her breathing shifted, softening into something almost gentle. A flicker of pity, perhaps, reaching through the speaker.
Pity felt like acid in his stomach.
He didn't deserve any of it.
“Before I could even try and help him, though, out walks Brad—“
“Ewww fuck that guy.” She groaned. "God, remember when he used to hit on me?"
“Yeah. He fucking suuuuucks,” Max agreed, groaning in unison with Steph. “I’ll say this: the only thing I did last night that I have no regrets about was punching that asshole square in the nose.”
A beat of silence passed, and then Steph exploded into this disbelieving eruption of laughter.
“REALLY?!” She cackled, “Holy shit, wait, you punched him? Did you break his jaw? Nose? Wait—shit, who am I kidding, of course you did!”
A dark, grim flex of satisfaction touched his mouth, gone as quickly as it came.
“Jesus, that’s so funny.” Steph sighed, “What a little bitch. You’re so sick, dude.”
“Yeah…” The ghost of a smile died on his face.
The temporary distraction faded, leaving the dark reality waiting for him. Steph went quiet, expecting the rest. The hard part.
He technically didn’t have to tell Steph any of this. Max hadn't even found a way to wrap his own mind around the horrors of last night.
Yet over the past two years, Steph had become the anchor holding him to sanity. Beneath all her razor-sharp banter, she actually gave a damn. And even if he felt entirely unworthy of connection, a fragile, desperate corner of his chest needed someone to hold the mirror for him.
So he spoke, letting the words spill out to drown the static in his head. Letting her piece together the wreckage because he couldn't bear to look at the jagged shapes alone.
“I just…I had to do something about him, y’know?” He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “He came out there all…drunk, a-and he just wouldn’t stop talking. About me. ‘Bout Richie…”
“Pfft. Yeah, duh. He’s a pro at yapping,” She dropped her voice to a murmur. “Pretty much the only thing he’s good at, but I digress.”
Max closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. “He’s the worst, but—again—that isn’t even the worst bit.”
He took a ragged, shaky breath and finally unclasped his grip on the secret that had been burning through his throat all morning.
“I drove Richie home—a-and before you say anything, look okay, I know that it was like, really fucking stupid in hindsight, and I shouldn’t have…” he trailed off for a second, but in fear of her response, he continued on.
“—but on the other hand, I couldn’t just, like, leave him there, either, right? He looked miserable and sad and—God, he was so drunk, Steph. I just… felt bad, okay? I felt awful and I still fucking do but it doesn’t even matter how bad I feel because he still hates my guts, bro.”
The words barely rasped past his lips. The suffocating tightness in his lungs didn't ease; if anything, the confession made it harder to breathe.
Max was almost blindsided when all Steph said back was, “You took him…home?”
“Uh—”
“Like, back to your home?”
Max blinked, sputtering, “Wh-N-No?! Dude, no, b-back to his place. Why—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why would I bring him back to my…dad’s place?”
His eyes flicked nervously to the bedroom door, bolted shut against the rest of the house. He crossed the room silently, checking the handle to ensure the lock was fully engaged.
Steph laughed, “Well, I dunno, because you were feeling pretty generous last night apparently.”
He let go of the brass knob, exhaling a quiet, trembling breath. “Yeah, well, ain’t making that mistake again.”
“Besides," Max adds, "I wouldn’t have brought him back here, no matter how bad I felt for him. He suffered enough.”
“Good point,” Steph sighed. “But, let’s run all that back real quick; what do you mean he still ‘hates your guts’?”
Max let out a short, hollow bark of laughter. “Exactly what you think it means. He still hates me.”
“Come on, you don’t know tha—”
“Uh, yes, I do. Wanna know how I know?” Max scoffed, “The guy told me himself. He was like, super fucking drunk, but trust, I got the message. Loud and clear.”
Steph didn’t say anything else. A cold and heavy silence stretched from her end.
A knot formed in Max’s throat, thick and suffocating.
He swallowed hard, fighting the stinging heat behind his eyes. He refused to break down.
That’s probably more embarrassing than the Richie-thing.
Showing weakness over a situation he created was unbearable.
Pathetic.
Finally, Steph sighed sympathetically. “Max, look, I’m sorry. That’s really rough.”
"For who, exactly?" Max inhaled quickly. “Because I'm pretty sure it’s my fault he hates me.”
Steph started to soft-pedal it, and the instinct to shield himself from whatever hollow comfort she was cooking up kicked in instantly.
“It is, Steph,” He huffed. “I fucked up. I fucked him up. That was all me. You can’t keep sugarcoating it.”
“I wasn’t going to.” She tried, but Max wasn’t that naive. “I was just gonna say that you’re not that guy anymore.”
Max dug his teeth into his lip until the iron metallic tang hit his tongue.
“What makes you so sure?” He asked bitterly.
“You’re definitely not the reason he’s “fucked up”,” she said softly, choosing every syllable like she was walking through a minefield. “You’re trying, Max. If you were still the kid you were back then, you wouldn’t have even bothered with ‘sorrys’ and…hell, I dunno, driving him home?”
Max rolled his eyes. “That’s not enough,” he groaned softly. “Clearly, it wasn’t. ‘Cause he sat right there on his bathroom floor and…”
Sobbed.
The image was too raw, too humiliating to unleash into the world. He couldn't bring himself to so much as utter it.
“Look,” he said instead, “I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I hate this. It’s so fucking hard, Steph.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, dude,” She sounded as if she were wincing at her own words. “But shit like this takes time.”
“I know.” Max rolled his eyes again. More at himself than Steph, though. “I know.”
How long, though?
How long was it gonna take for people to see that he’s changed? Or that he’s trying so hard to?
Days?
Months?
Decades?
“That’s the problem,” Max said, his voice dropping into a ragged, hollow register. He pulled the notepad on his nightstand toward him, dragging his thumbnail across the paper until the edge caught and tore. “I hate things that take time. I feel like I’m drowning.”
He wanted to fix it. That was the problem.
He'd spent so much time thinking about what he could do to make Richie stop looking at him like he was some monster that he'd never stopped to consider whether Richie even wanted him to do anything at all.
Maybe he couldn't fix this.
Maybe he wasn't supposed to try at all.
God, that's so grim, though.
“Well, sadly, I don’t think Richie’s gonna be so quick to forgive and forget just because you drove his drunk-ass home,” Steph said, her tone softening, though a dry, humorless chuckle leaked through.
“What else can I do?” Max huffed, his eyes tracking the meaningless doodles he’d scratched into the empty pages. He felt untethered, drifting.
“I’m outta my depth here, Steph. Give me something—anything. Something that isn’t just ‘wait and see.’”
“Okay, okay,” she tutted, a reluctant warmth entering her voice. “I’ll play therapist. Again.”
“Hey!” Max managed a weak, jagged grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “If I have to play fucking...Cupid for you, then you can be my therapist. It’s only fair.”
Steph scoffed. “Oh-ho-Kay! Cupid, my ass.” She barked out a laugh, the sound grating against the silence of his room. “You suck at love-advice, Max. You’re a terrible Cupid.”
“Steeeeeeeph.” Max whined, the playfulness dropping away instantly, leaving behind a desperate edge. “Fucking help me!”
“Like I said, this stuff takes time. Richie’s probably still hurting, Max. And, news flash, I’m sure it’s not just from the shit that happened back in school.” She sighed, a soft, evocative sound that reminded him of every call they’d ever had.
He couldn’t see her, but he could practically hear that warm, comforting smile of hers—the one that usually told him the world wasn’t ending.
But today, Max didn’t believe her for a second.
“In other words,” he whispered, his own sigh heavy, rattling in his chest. “It’s not all about me, huh?”
She hummed. “Not what I said. But… yeah.”
Max let the phone drop against his ear, gravity pulling him down until he flopped face-first onto the mattress. The memory foam swallowed the sound of his groan.
“Everyone’s got their own shit to navigate, Max,” she said, her voice dropping, losing its flippant edge. “I don’t have a magic fix. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he muffled into the mattress. He pushed himself up, his elbows shaking as he braced his weight. His throat felt like he’d swallowed glass.
“I just… I hate that I’m sitting here, completely helpless. If I’m the one who caused most of his problems, how am I supposed to just… stand by and watch him crumble?”
He abruptly cut himself off. The silence hung between them, suffocating and thick with unvoiced horrors. How could he describe the terror of witnessing Richie’s absolute undoing—a visceral panic response that Max’s own history of violence had planted inside him?
Guilt was an iron weight grinding against his ribs, making every breath feel thin and hollow. He was completely drained.
A stinging burn threatened the corners of his eyes, but he gritted his teeth and forced it back down. Last night had stripped him down to the bone; he had no defenses left, and he refused to let Steph hear him fall apart completely.
Yet she picked up on the fracture. She knew the cadence of his breath, the subtle shift when his walls caved in.
“Hey,” she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Max, look—or, you know, listen. You’re doing fine. Better than fine. You’re actually trying.”
Max sat back up, his body stiff, and harshly dragged his sleeve across his face to erase any trace of weakness. “You really believe that?”
“Yes, dude. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
A faint, exhausted smile twitched at the corner of his lips, fragile and fading fast.
“And despite Richie’s…” she trailed off, her tongue clicking in that way she did when she was annoyed on his behalf. “…less than receptive reaction to your kindness…”
Max flinched, the flash of Richie’s terrified expression striking him like a physical blow.
“You’re trying,” Steph repeated firmly. “That means way more than you think. And, one day, Richie will see that for himself.”
Max gnawed at his inner cheek, a reckless idea sparking and catching flame in the dark corners of his mind.
He stayed quiet, calculating the hours, measuring the miles back to campus, calculating the cost of forcing a resolution.
One day.
‘One day’, meaning not today. Not tomorrow. Not anytime soon.
And that…wasn’t gonna cut it for Max.
“Just try not to jump the gun or anything, mkay?” He heard her speaking, but her words were like background noise, distant and unimportant. “You’re moving at a pretty good pace with everything, so I’d—”
“Quick question,” he interrupted, the desperate pulse in his stomach tearing past his restraint. “What exactly counts as ‘jumping the gun’?”
Steph was quiet for a long, agonizing beat, before he heard the sharp, exasperated groan escape her.
“Jumping the gun’, like, don’t do anything fucking dumb.” She answered wearily, suspicion instantly darkening her tone. “Max… what are you thinking?”
Max smoothed his expression, forcing his voice into a casual, steady rhythm. “Nothin’.”
He lied practiced ease, even as his pulse hammered in his ears, already committing to an idea that was as dangerous as it was foolish.
He had to fix this. Leaving for campus with this festering between them was impossible. He needed Richie to look at him and see a human being—not a ghost, not a bully, not a monster.
Just him.
Max.
“Oh God,” Steph groaned into the phone. “Please, for the love of everything, don’t do anything rash.”
“Mkay, jeez,” Max retorted, a dry laugh escaping him. “What happened to all that faith you had in me, like, twenty seconds ago?”
“It’s there, but slowly dwindling,” Steph replied, deadpan. “So, I repeat: Do. not. jump the gun on this, Max. I'm serious.”
A grim smirk touched Max’s lips in the dark.
He knew Steph was right. He did. Richie needed time. He needed space. Max wasn't going to push him into anything he wasn't ready for.
He could do that.
He could be patient.
But he just…didn't think that meant he had to sit around and do absolutely nothing.
Because there had to be something he could do.
Something that would show Richie that last night hadn't been some fluke. That Max wasn't the same person he'd been two years ago. That he actually meant all those stupid apologies he'd thrown at him the other day.
Maybe that was all Richie needed. Maybe he just needed to see it for himself; when he wasn't absolutely plastered.
Max's stomach twisted at the thought of waiting another week. Another month. Another semester, even.
Nope. He couldn't do that.
Not when he the opportunity was right there in his reach.
He repositioned his phone against his ear, grinning softly. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath.
Steph was still talking on the other end, but Max was barely listening anymore.
He'd figure something out.
He had to.
Had to make this right.
As right as he could, anyways.