A/N: I got this idea in a very random fashion that isn't worth much talking about. This will be my first Max Ride fiction in a very, very long time. This fiction will be darker than my other ones, mostly because I have gone through much more compared to when I first started writing fan fictions, and also because I've more experience, gotten older, and perhaps more mature. I wouldn't go so far to say that I have matured a whole lot, but I have matured slightly and that is what matters.
I'm also at 'that point of your adolescence' when I begin to like darker themes. It should wear off within a year or so. It seems my fascination with all things black, red and depressing lasts longer than the usual persons', seeing as I've been experiencing it for at least 4 years already. It is going away slowly, very slowly, but I do pride myself in recognising this stage and preventing myself from going too deep into it.
It may seem a little confusing at first because I toyed with the ideas of suspense and word definition which I have come across in a few fictions before. I just hope this story makes sense. I might also be at the 'point of your life' when I like to incorporate everything and anything nice into my stories or various related medias regardless of whether they fit or not. Do pardon me. Maybe I'm at the 'point of your life' when I like to pretend to be mature. I don't know what to say about that.
Just another note, I haven't yet read either 'Max' or 'Fang' so I will not be touching on anything to do with them. In fact, my memory of the third and fourth book is so hazy it might as well not be there at all. You may assume that this story is somewhat AU.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any part of the Maximum Ride series, and all characters belong to James Patterson.
Pair (n.) — Two corresponding persons or items, similar in form or function and matched or associated
"Just give it to him already! Whatever he needs just take it from me! I don't care! Take them! Do it now!"
Max bolted up in bed, hair damp and face wet with cold sweat, her body shivering like a leaf in the wind. Her breathing came out ragged and her eyes frantically darted abound like a mad man, hands tightly clinging on to a fistful of moist white sheets. She could feel every muscle tensing quickly and sporadically, like an annoying twitch that wouldn't get out of your wing after a good day's worth of flying except much more painful and uncontrollable.
Nightmares can do this to people. Nightmares of the past can break a person, and even if Max wasn't exactly human she was dangerously close to one, more so than she had ever been before.
She tried to control her breathing but they came out as weak quivers, and her body shook with every intake of cool, midnight air. Forcing her heart to quell its erratic beating Max clenched and unclenched her hands slowly and steadily in an effort to force this rhythm onto her pounding heart. Her chest was beginning to hurt and her ears could only hear the echoes of the intermittent hammering slowly losing its strength and fading into the softly blowing breeze.
Gulping was something she found out helped when she breathed too quickly. It forced the trachea to close hence interrupting breathing. She found comfort in the steady tumble of her hair as the wind played with it like Angel sometimes would when she was younger, a time when Erasers and Flyboys did not chase them like hounds after meat, and a time when all of them had their wings intact.
Trembling, Max inched her fingers toward her back. It had been three years already and the flock finally settled down after the destruction of yet another facility. She hated this last facility most. While the School gave birth to her and gave her those inhuman avian DNA as well as a life of freak-hood nicely wrapped up together in the same package, it also gave her a family she could go back to; Fang, Iggy, Nudge, Gasman and Angel were always there right behind her, although increasingly often until that day, Fang would be right next to her instead, grasping her hand.
The last facility stripped almost everything away. Set on a precarious scale, the fate of both her and her family could not be determined until they had finally brought the facility to its whitewashed knees. That facility tore her family apart like a blade through flesh, brutally and so cleanly there was hardly any time to miss them. They were insane, forcing her to go on a slice of bread daily and a few drops of water every five hours or so. She didn't want to know what'd have happened if her family hadn't come to save her.
The rescue mission lasted much longer than any of them had expected and involved the unintended capture of Angel and Iggy as well. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise for within the walls they were able to scout the place, Angel with her mind-reading and Iggy with his hyper-sensitive senses. Compared to the both of them Max felt completely useless and helpless. She spent nights thinking to herself that if she hadn't been caught all these horrid things wouldn't be happening, neither Angel nor Iggy would have to waste their waking hours thinking of how to escape. Fang, Nudge and Gasman wouldn't have to worry incessantly for their safety and hers.
The long awaited day finally came, though, and the flock was reunited once more amidst blood, bullets, severed robotic arms and fallen feathers. None of the flock left the trashed facility without shedding blood and feathers, but Fang had the worst injury of them all, an injury which threatened his very existence as an avian American—his wings had been all but ripped off his back.
Max recalled vividly the excruciating pain etched on Fang's usually blank face, his fingers curled like claws and dug painfully into Max's arm as she let him grip her in vain hope that it may lessen his pain. His beautifully dark wings were now stained an ugly, gaudy shade of bright red from where bullets had pelted and metal fingers had slashed. She could hardly bear to look at the lone ligament joining his left wing to him as the wing lay limply on the bloodied rubble.
His lips paled at an astonishing rate, pink draining out of his face as well, like rain streaking down a windowpane. She gripped his clammy hands when tears refused to fall. Fang couldn't die. Damn it he was her right-hand man! He was supposed to stay beside her forever! She wanted to scream, to yell at him to stay awake as she saw his consciousness slipping away while the light in his eyes flickered to a halt, but her throat remained parched and dry from the weeks of near starvation and dehydration.
Before he was taken away by the medical emergency team which arrived so late they might as well not have come at all, Max saw him trying to look at her but his best efforts could not offer him anything more than a hazy portrait of her desperately wild eyes devoid of almost every other emotion but anxiety and anguish. He tried to cling on to her but his vision blurred out of focus before he could do much more, leaving a lifeless, desiccated, and not quite avian anymore boy in Max's malnourished arms.
Jeb was there with the medical team and assisted in loading Fang into the helicopter. No ambulance could travel the bumpy terrain into this wrecked facility grounds. Max clawed at Jeb's sleeves, begging him to do anything he could to save Fang and his wings, as the children came clambering up into the helicopter without being told to do so. The rest of the flight was spent in nervous dread, hooking Fang up to machines and once more pleading Jeb to do something.
As soon as the helicopter touched down Max rushed out of it after Fang, not noticing that they had arrived at the Martinez veterinarian. In her world there was only one thing—a dying boy lying uncomfortably on slowly reddening sheets tightly holding on to a fine thread which was his key to life. She had never felt this lost before, this fearful, and this terrified.
He was wheeled into the emergency operating theatre which had been prepared the moment the Martinez received news of Fang's arrival. Max could only assume that they had gotten a bed larger than the usual ones the clinic had, so that Fang's legs would not dangle off it and look more lifeless than it already was. The flock waited outside with her, and they could have worn a hole in the ground with their pacing.
When the 'Operation in Progress' light went out Max was the first to bombard the surgeon with questions, and while his reply had not been the most dreadful one it had nevertheless been incredibly unpleasant.
"He is not out of danger yet. We will be keeping a watch on him to monitor any changes in his situation."
Max then asked about his wings, a crucial part in forming their identities. Even though they hated their wings for cursing them with a life of constant movement they could not deny that they brought them together. For one of them to lose their wing or wings was something none of them could imagine. The last time she saw them they were almost separated from his self.
"We could reconnect his right wing but the left on is unsalvageable."
His words hit like a ten tonne rock. Fang had always been beside her, flying with her when she couldn't fly on her own, flying for her when she couldn't fly at all, and flying ahead of her when she needed someone else to guide her along. His wings were so beautiful too; no matter how bright the day or how harsh the sun they retained their enigmatic black-purple appearance, almost as if they were calling her into their depths. How could such beauty be lost to something so ugly and crude like the facility?
"Take my wings."
"What? Miss, we cannot do that. There is no guarantee that we will succeed, and if we try you may not be able to fly again either."
"Take them! Just give it to him already! Whatever he needs just take it from me! I don't care! Take them! Do it now!" For the first time in months Max felt the sting of tears at the corner of her eyes. Why was reality this painful? Why did it have to take everything from her? Fang was her whole world, he was the reason she was still alive and not fish food at the bottom of an unknown river after some desperate case of suicide. He was the reason for her very existence, avian or otherwise.
"But we cannot—."
"TAKE THEM!"
Max shuddered as she recalled that day. Those very words she said three years ago still rang in her mind, not giving her any moment of peace. Her hand slowly rubbed the stub where her wing used to be. It didn't hurt anymore, but it did when she first came out of the operating theatre. She told herself to stay strong because Fang needed her to be strong. He wasn't there to support her now; it was he who needed her to support him. She could not fail him when he had always been there for her.
Her other wing was still connected to her back, whole. She could flex it and flap it just like any other wing, but it would never fly. It takes two to soar and she only had one.
If asked whether or not she regretted her decision her answer would still be a resolute 'no'. If she could see him soar in the air again, majestically, like he was king of the skies and like he owned the blue expanse, her sacrifice would be worth all the pain and sleepless nights. He had to fly. He was, quite literally, made to fly. The very grace he had when he spread his wings to take off was something she never had no matter how hard she tried to imitate.
She still longed for the sky, for the days when all six of them would do somersaults in the air, but she contented herself with watching them, because she knew that it would be more painful to see one of the flock sitting all by themselves on a sun-kissed deckchair watching as the rest of their siblings rolled in midair, laughing and having fun.
Slowly, she slid back into bed, resting her head gingerly on her pillow. There was still time to sleep, and hopefully this time her past would not come back to haunt her dreams.
Pair (n.) – One object composed of two joined, similar parts that are dependent upon each other
Max stood at the stove, marvelling at how she had finally learnt to cook. Iggy would sometimes come to check on her to make sure the food didn't burn. The past years have been spent trying to rebuild their lives and fitting into society. Their wings were pressed up against their backs most of the time and it was only at home when they opened them for a nice stretch. Max had turned eighteen just recently and she quit school to take care of their home full-time.
School did not satisfy her in the least. If anything, it aggravated her. When Fang had almost died she realised exactly how much he meant to her. He had always been important, more so than the rest of the flock, she grudgingly admit this, but she hadn't felt that frightened until the day when Fang could leave her any moment, forever.
Suddenly nothing seemed to matter anymore. The entire year following his near death experience was spent helping him recuperate and learn to fly again. It had been an awkward experience seeing him with one black wing and one slightly smaller, brown and white one. He did not say anything when he saw his new left wing, just flexed it slowly and looked at her, almost like he had an entire night to think about how he should react and decided to do nothing at all. She remembered feeling a deep sense of loss when he extended his left wing, like a part of her was gone forever.
But the relief she felt when he took off after a year of muscle therapy far outweighed her emptiness. She watched him fly upward unsteadily, as if testing out his new wing to see if they would hold him up. In the beginning his flight had been shaky and even flying in a straight line proved a problem for him, but after another two years he flew as if the wing was his, like it had always been there.
Whenever he came back down from a flight she would glance longingly at the wing that was once hers but not say a word. Fang's dark eyes would sweep over her with an emotion that Max could not decipher, his quiet eyes drinking her image into their depths. His eyes remembered her. He had grown more silent after he got his new wing, and conversations between them were curt at most. They had drifted apart within these three years that whenever Max saw him she would clamp down on the ache in her heart and walk on. His eyes always looked like they wanted to lock her out of his world.
She missed the days when they spent late nights talking about how afraid they were, just two of them sitting at the ledge of a cliff lit only by a crackling fire. His lips would occasionally tug into a small smile, or sometimes a smirk, as they spoke in hushed whispers to keep the others from awakening. Sometimes on a particularly quiet night when the moon shone brightly, sitting on her pristine white sheets alone, she still felt his hand on her skin, leaving tingling trails of burning warmth. When she closed her eyes she saw his smothering gaze looking at her, only at her.
She would suddenly become aware of how handsome he was–olive skin and endless dark eyes lending him an almost untouchable beauty. In her dreams she often leant in to run a hand through his tousled hair, enjoying the sensation of burying her hands in it. She clung on to him tightly in her sleep, not blinking even for the slightest moment for fear he would disappear the next second. He was already slowly vanishing from her life in reality, she didn't want to let go of the Fang in her dreams. Even just an hour of delusion was fine. Dreams were the only place where he would open his arms to her.
Whenever she awoke she faced the harsh reality of the great distance between them. He was insanely popular at school and there wasn't a week that went by without yet another confession to add to his belt. His silence was alluring, and even if he didn't say anything people gathered around him like moths to a flame. He was surrounded by girls all day—girls with sassy swagger and a wicked wardrobe, girls with ten dictionaries worth of information in their heads, girls with a mean ride and gorgeous flowing hair—that there was no end of the long string people to keep him company.
Max could never get close enough to him for anything, and it pained her to watch him being surrounded by girls who, by all standards, were more beautiful, more intelligent, and had much more to offer to him than she. She couldn't stand beside him without feeling ashamed for not being as qualified as the rest, although these days they would find themselves at opposite ends of the same room, leading very different lives—lives that were almost completely unrelated in any way.
If she had to see him with so many girls all vying for the honour of being his girlfriend and suffer the throbbing pain in her heart she would rather not see him at all, no matter how much she missed his wonderfully ravishing face. She longed to reach out and feel his cool skin against her hands like she always did in the past, but now she did not dare to even take one step toward his room to touch his sleeping face, an unguarded face she hadn't seen in almost three years.
Turning off the gas she stared as the stew continued to bubble. Slowly she tore a piece of bread from a slice she had cut earlier and dipped it into the boiling pot. Thick, meaty liquid dripped lazily from the bread, steaming as they fell in dollops back into the pot. Max was mesmerised by the way the viscous liquid seemed to be suspended by an invisible thread, lowered ever so slowly, bead by bead. Time seemed to pass so slowly these days when Fang didn't speak to her. They were like strangers living under the same roof.
She gently blew the piping hot piece of bread and pushed it into her mouth, licking her fingers where the stew had spilt onto them. They stung from the scorching broth, but that was nothing compared to the heavy hurt weighing on her chest, suffocating her. If anything, the burning skin served only as a slight distraction to mildly numb the pain in her heart.
Her gaze travelled out the window above the stove, onto the five figures high up in the sky. She missed flying too, but with one wing there was nothing she could do. She ran her fingers under cool water for a minute as she continued to stare, dazed, at the sky. The house was deathly silent. For that moment it didn't quite occur to her that if she insisted on looking directly into the sun her resultant blindness may shake the foundation of her family. She just wanted to see him, flying, carefree, like a bird not bound to the earth. He flew with both his wing and hers, and that was enough for her. She thought for a moment that she wouldn't mind if what she last saw before going blind was him climbing the wind, flying for both him and her, both of them together.
Whenever she looked he was always flying in a wide circle, as if to watch out for danger. She wondered if being on the run for so long had ingrained this flying pattern in him, and she liked to flatter herself by imagining he was doing so to keep her safe—her, who lost her wing and couldn't fly. She liked to think he hadn't forgotten about her and wanted to protect her even though she would never stop denying that she needed others to keep her safe. She liked to think she still meant something to him, was still precious to him.
Remembering the pot on the stove she pulled her hand from the running water and turned off the tap. She gave herself time to calm the chaotic emotions in her before she stuck her head out the window and yelled, "Lunch time!"
Pair (n.) – Two persons who have something in common and are considered together
Fang did a little back flip in the air, feeling the wind press against his face. His hair had grown so much that the tail he put it in did not stop it from slapping him quite painfully. The sun tried to kiss his face but he turned his hair to it. He had more important things to do than bask in the white glory of the midday sun. His routine hadn't changed since he started flying again. Whenever he flew he always orbited one thing, a thing he wanted to guard more than anything in the world even if the person herself did not realise it.
He flight looped again and the wind ruffled his feathers gently. His flight may seem lazy but ask anyone from the flock and they would say he was on alert, prepared to speed off with the slightest hint of anything threatening. Iggy noticed both his flight pattern and how he kept his flight controlled and his muscles somewhat tensed, and had called out to him once with a silly grin on his face, "How is lover boy doing?" If there was anything to grab hold of in midflight Iggy would have been dead in no time. Iggy was lucky Fang only used his fist. Fang often wondered if blind people had too much time on their hands that they meddle in others' affairs.
When the flock first escaped from School one of the first things they were taught was: At the first sign of trouble, fly—preferably away from the trouble. For years they adhered steadfastly to this, but she couldn't now no matter what. So he told himself that instead of waiting until trouble comes to find them, which by then would be too late, he would get rid of it before she could be placed in any danger. She couldn't watch out for herself, so he would watch out for her. He didn't trust anybody else.
He made a small dip and rose again, feeling a kind of assuring strain where his wings met his back. He always loved his wings, how they caught the sun but never let it go, but he loved her wings more. Somehow though, whenever he looked at his left wing he would be filled with self-hatred and intense loathing. Her wings looked wonderful on her, and it wasn't just a pity that she could no longer use them, but a tragedy.
He couldn't stand the sight of her wing on his back. It reminded him of the stupid sacrifice she made just to accommodate him and let him fly again. Why did it never occur to her that her wings on anything but her would look ugly? Why didn't she realise that she was the only person who could make them shine so beautifully? What was the point of giving him her wings if he couldn't bring out their splendour? There was a reason why they were her wings, not his.
She looked best in the sky, more at home, more relaxed, more like the girl he fell in love with. He hated himself for tearing her from the sky like a hunter shooting down a bird to keep it in a cage. 'Sing,' he would tell it, but it wouldn't. It couldn't. There was no way it could sing when its heart was filled with sadness and longing for the blue heavens.
He tried out a manoeuvre Iggy showed him the day before. He wanted to rip the wing off his back and give it back to her but he knew she wouldn't accept it, being the idiotically stubborn girl he found himself obsessed with. Why had he fallen for such a person in the first place? She was neither very beautiful nor feminine, a combination he should have favoured. Instead he fell for her intense gaze, her determined spirit, and her bossy attitude. What exactly did he see in her?
He recalled when he first awoke after the surgery that saved his life and flying career to darkness and quiet beeping and humming of nearby machines. He later learnt that it had been almost a month since the surgery. Amidst piercing sounds of medical equipments he heard a soft breathing. He knew it was creepy that he could recognise her by the sound of her breathing but he was not bothered by that fact. What he was most bothered by was that he could feel two wings against his back. He had been sure his left one was a goner.
His left wing had felt awkward, almost like it didn't quite fit him. Curious and also slightly afraid to know what he might find, he had touched the wing and shock and disbelief caused him to sit up immediately. He glanced at the sleeping figure resting her head on his legs, and felt an insane urge to shake her awake, take her in his arms, and crush her until she could no longer breathe. He wanted to yell at her for being an idiot, make her realise that what he wanted was not her wing, but just for her to be there. In fact, he would rather her wing stay on her.
In the end he did nothing, just felt the wing until he fell asleep again. While his wing was just as smooth it was also slightly firmer with more defined muscle. Hers, which he had most of her life to admire, was softer, lighter, and much less wiry. He could tell them apart with just a brush of his fingers over them, and the dark of the night could do nothing to mask the fact that her wing was now his, and she had one wing less. Gone was her ability to fly, gone was her key to the heavens.
When he woke again in the morning he found her looking expectantly at him, her blond hair tangled as if she hadn't brushed it once since that fateful day, bags under her eyes. His eyes looked back into hers, devoid of emotion, for he had carefully kept them locked away. If he was to show how much he detested having her wing he was sure she would crumble, strong leader façade a thing of the past. She was the one who lost a wing, why was she worried about him? Slowly, he had unfolded her wing from his back and had been mildly surprised to find that it actually worked. He appreciated the structure of her wing, lithe, strong, very Maximum, but was disgusted that he now owned it, at how he accepted it.
He did a loop in the air before returning his scrutiny to the house and thoughts to his ponderings. He felt the muscle in his left wing ripple with effort to keep him airborne. Her wing had been difficult to use when he first tried it out, but her expectant gaze haunted him so much that his urge to make flying with her wing a success overrode his self-disgust for even thinking about using her wing. It was his wing that was ruined, so why was she was the one bound to the ground? Why is it that she was the one denied the sky? In fact, what if he ruined her wing as well while trying to fly?
He often saw a fleeting expression of loneliness crossing her eyes and each time desired to scoop her in his arms to soar in the open skies with her. He was afraid, though, that he would break her wing. The muscles in it were supposed to lift her, not him, and some conditioning was required before he could fly consistently. He wanted to ensure the wings could bear the weight of both him and her before he took her to the skies, but at the rate their relationship was deteriorating he might never have the chance.
It would be a lie if he said he always wanted her to be close to him. The year following the operation he desired to put as much distance between them as possible. He was not yet ready to face her. He could barely contain his revulsion whenever he used her wing that he felt it was safer if he just kept quiet, lest he said something inappropriate and cause her hurt. It backfired when the distance between them put her on the edge and caused her so much frustration that slowly, even on her part; they began to drift apart beyond what he would have liked, almost to the point of no return.
Things got worse when they re-entered school. He always knew himself to be somewhat attractive but the attention he got from both the boys and the girls far exceeded his expectations. He was not prepared to handle such a situation, a situation where she was so discouraged by the immense number of girls he had at his side seemingly twenty-four seven that she walked away from him on her own accord. Somehow their eyes never met, and every time he turned to look at her she was already leaving the classroom, head hung low and eyes adverted from him as much as possible.
He had forgotten how to show affection. Whenever they passed by each other in the hallways, he surrounded by his group of classmates and her alone, he could feel her eyes on him, and even if he did turn to acknowledge her his eyes held no warmth, they were like frosted windows glazed over hazily. He wanted to reach out to her but it had been so long he forgot how to. All he could do was continue staring at her back as she disappeared around the next bend.
He really should have seen her dropping out of school coming. Every day in school was like passive torture, seeing her once best friend spending more time with other people than her. He despaired when he realised he would see less of her than he already did since she would be spending the day at home instead, but when he thought about how she wouldn't have to see him surrounded by a wall of people separating them from each other he rejoiced in his heart, thinking that perhaps, her pain might lessen.
He considered dropping out as well to save her mind from wandering, but realised that even if both of them were at home neither would know what to say and the silence would grow awkward, heavy even. This discomfort, he wanted to spare both her and him. He would wait for the day when he could finally come clean with her, when he was no longer afraid to accuse her of giving him her wing, when he could be certain that she was ready to hear him out, to approach her.
Faintly, as he launched into a slow dive, he heard her calling them in for lunch. He had spent the past three years thinking about her, getting ready for the day when he would speak with her, and he had procrastinated enough. Perhaps, he thought as he glanced down on her tired eyes from his dive, today was the day.
Pair (n.) – Two persons who are married, engaged, or dating
Max ladled the stew into bowls when she saw the flock begin to descent. The pot had enough stew to fill six bowls five times over. Balancing all six bowls on her two arms and one head she made her way to the dining area and set the bowls down as gently as she could. She could hear the flock touching down now, running across the crisp, grassy field to the house. She smiled wistfully and imagined the grass crunching under her feet as she landed after a long flight. Still smiling, but sadly this time, she made her way back to the kitchen to retrieve the pot.
Her movements were slow as she shuffled back to the dining area with the weight of the pot and its contents in her hands. She was used to carrying such items by now after a year of helping out domestically. Nudge's chattering was efficiently filtered as she neared the dinner table. She saw Angel's head of golden hair bobbing up and down while she walked, and Iggy's mildly red hair towering over the rest of the flock. She smelt Gasman even before she saw him. Then, when Fang came into view, she stopped observing the rest of the flock altogether.
His movements were purposeful, different from their usual aimlessness. Something about him had changed. Max could tell this even if they hadn't spoken much for the past few years. It was something she had that no one else did, the special ability to notice such slight changes in him. Of course, she hadn't spent the years as his best friend eyeing other men, so that was to be expected, not that there were many other men to eye back then. They were always in secluded areas, and when they weren't they didn't stay long enough for any of them to get to know other people.
She turned her gaze from him. It hurt to look at him and it still did. Lowering the pot onto a large coaster permanently set in the middle of the table she pulled out her chair as she had always done, and put down the tea towels she used earlier to keep her hands out of direct contact with the pot. As she was about to sit she heard him speak—to her.
"May I have a word, Max?" His voice was steady and calm, as if he had rehearsed the lines over and over again before saying it to her, just to be sure that he got the words correct, and that he didn't stumble.
Her body froze while a small, insignificant part of her rejoiced that, even after all these years of silent treatment, he still regarded them close enough to call her by her nickname. She did not miss out the formality in the rest of his words, however, and stopped herself from getting her hopes up. She didn't need them to be crushed again. Her bruised, teenage heart couldn't take much more abuse, especially not from him.
"Yes," she said after a short moment of silence. What else could she say anyway? "Yes you may." Her back was still turned to him, not that she wanted to know what kind of eyes would meet hers. She didn't want to be disappointed yet again. Him acting like he didn't know her had hurt enough.
All of a sudden she could feel his heat on her back, sending all the nerves in her body alight and tingling.
"If possible I would like to speak with you privately, in either of our rooms." Fang's voice was low, and to Max it sounded like a growl of a predator to his prey. His breath tickled her neck, in a way she was too embarrassed to admit was pleasant. For all she knew he might want to tell her that he had gotten himself a girlfriend and that he had planned to leave the flock forever to elope with her.
"This way then," she said, trying to sound like she was completely unaffected by how close he was. They hadn't been this close since a long time ago and having him so near to her stripped her defences readily. She could already feel her legs giving way.
As she left the table, uncomfortably aware that every eye was on her, she felt his hand grasp her arm strongly but not painfully, as if to support her, as if he knew she was not completely capable of standing on her own. She swallowed a gasp of surprise. She tried to convince herself that it meant absolutely nothing at all, considering how distant they had been in the past years, but her adolescent heart could not stop its excited fluttering. She could not help herself but expect something to happen, perhaps that they may reconcile and become like they used to. Or maybe more, a suppressed corner of her heart whispered quietly, just barely daring to hope for such a turnabout.
With his eyes still on her back she led him to her room, not feeling quite as exhilarated as she should have been that Fang had given her his implicit consent to enter his room. She wasn't sure she would feel comfortable in his room either.
When both of them were in her room Fang shut the door behind him, locking it as he did so. Without anywhere else to look at, Max reluctantly let her gaze fall on him. There he was, in all his tall, dark, mysterious glory, standing in her rather empty room. She hardly dared to believe that he was actually here, so close to her. For the first time in so long she felt that if she just reached out she could pull him into a tight hug just to show how much she missed his assuring presence.
Suddenly, without warning, the emotionless mask fell from his face and Max saw the weariness in his eyes, coupled with a hint of uncertainty and sadness. He looked at her, his dark eyes now swirling with more emotions than she ever thought possible, and said to her, gesturing at her bed almost lethargically, "Take a seat. This might take a while."
Feeling oddly brave, she told him, "You come and sit too."
She saw a glimmer of surprise in his expression before it vanished. Then he smiled at her, an unguarded smile she had been hoping to see for what felt like forever. Taken aback, she scarcely prevented herself from stumbling over her feet and sat on her bed more heavily than she would have liked. She felt his weight cause the bed to sink a little further. It was comforting, having physical proof that he was there, to show that he was not just some figment of her imagination conjured by an overly-Fang-deprived mind.
Silence passed between them, reminding her of the times when they just sat and listened to each other breathe. It had been comfortable, and it still was. She could get lost in this moment. His rhythmic breathing soothed the turmoil in her heart, and she wondered if hers calmed his mind as well. He seemed to be holding out well enough on his own, though.
"You're incredibly selfish, Max." She had not expected him to break the relaxed air so soon, and most definitely not with an accusation that twisted her gut ten times over. The slight, barely there, sigh in his voice gave away his emotional state, but Max, in her paranoid state of mind, heard nothing but cold, undulated hatred. Her face paled to the colour of snow.
"I…" she opened her mouth to say something, to try and tell him that she wasn't being selfish, but realised that she had no idea what he was talking about.
"I'm not here to tell you I hate you. I just wanted, needed, to say to you, let you know, that by giving me your wing you condemned me to something akin to living hell," he spoke, every syllable so soft she strained to catch his words. When she did hear them her heart plummeted and any warm blood left in her turned cold immediately.
He pressed his fingers to her lips when she tried to tell him that she didn't mean to cause him pain. The gentle and almost intimate way with which his fingers so lightly grazed her lips spread confusion within her, at the same time sending fire up her face from where his finger touched her. His touch was unexpectedly soft as if he was dealing with something delicate, and this closeness made her very self-aware for no reason at all. Her thoughts were thrown into even more disarray as his actions contradicted his words, making no sense to her.
"I didn't like the idea of taking what was rightfully yours. If I did not protect my wings so be it, but why did you have to give me your wing?" His voice cracked painfully, letting Max in on his suffering. "It was your wing, Max, why did you have to be such an idiot and give it to me?"
"Because you are precious to me, and being able to fly is precious to you."
At her reply he lost his cool composure entirely. "But you are infinitely dearer than flying! It hurts so much, Max! Do you know how painful it is to see you from above, looking up to me from the ground because I stole the sky from you? Do you know the stupid, silly smile you put on for show in front of me to get me to fly again tears me apart? If I cannot fly with you I would rather not fly at all! Max, you're such an idiot! Why can't you see that I don't want anything but to be with you?"
Her eyes had gone wide from his rare display of raw emotion. He was practically begging her to free him from his endless torture of flying without her but her trembling hands only held on to his, offering nothing more than a simple touch. Slowly, gently, she rubbed his hands with the pads of her thumbs, circling his skin lightly in a similar fashion to how he would calm her by rubbing between her wings. She was at a loss and she didn't know what to do.
His shoulders shuddered violently, and the only sign that he had calmed down by even just a fraction was the slight loosening of his grip on her hands. All she could see was the top of his head, that shaggy head of black hair, as he fixed his eyes to her sheets. "I don't want to see you smile for me, Max. I want to see you smile a genuine smile, but you haven't done that for three years."
"How can I, when my best friend suddenly decided that he wanted to wage a cold war with me? Maybe if you smiled at me just once in this entire length of time I might be able to smile back at you, with whatever remnant bits of honest gladness I had left, but you didn't. You were so cold, so distant. How can I even imagine that you actually cared for me in these past few years? All I could think was how much you hated my wing, and that I had pushed on you a burden you didn't want. Maybe it was such a disgusting thing you didn't want to have anything to do with it. Maybe I was being cocky to assume that you would accept my wing," Max's voice was nowhere near steady. She choked on her own strangled cries and swallowed back her unformed, unshed, tears. Fang had finally stopped shaking. With surprising agony in her voice, she screamed at him for the first time in three years, "How can I?"
All was quiet. Even from her room, the closest to the dining area, she could not hear the clinking of silverware hinting to her that the others were still eating like a crazy argument hadn't just occurred in her room. Of course they heard, Max thought resignedly. If she could hear them eating normally why couldn't they hear her yelling like a mad person?
"I know your pain. I can logically understand where you are coming from, but emotionally I cannot empathise with you," Fang's voice said, slowly gaining in volume from a hushed, barely there whisper. "I cannot feel your pain when I am preoccupied with my own. I acknowledge my own selfishness, but I did not choose to feel this pain. You chose this for me, Max. You chose this for us."
She felt tears gather at her eyes again, and the more she tried to blink them away the more they swelled, until they fell over her lids and spilt onto his hand. The way he was accusing her of bringing this agony on both of them hurt even though she knew his argument was sound. He was always so blunt when he wanted to get straight to the point, so blunt that even a little euphemism wouldn't help in the least. Then there were also times when he was so difficult to deal with, when he would beat around those cursed figurative bushes for hours, teasing her until he deemed her annoyed enough to blow up anytime.
"I know, and I'm sorry," Max forced. Her lips were ready to clamp down on her, now that her tearing had evolved into what must be the most spectacular sob-fest of the century. Her nails dug painfully into his hands while her head was pressed against his chest with so much force it probably hurt, part-avian or not. She vaguely felt him nudge her face gently with his cheek, feeling her tears spread over both their faces, as if he was trying to share in her misery.
"But I also know that every night you blame yourself, even if you might not notice it yourself, perhaps not for causing us pain, but for being the reason for the widening gap between us. I also know about your nightmares, how you wake up in the middle of the night dreaming of that day. I don't want you to remember me, who almost died, me, who needed another wing to fly," Fang uttered, his voice right next to her ear. He had somehow pulled his hands out of her vice-like grip and tugged her closer to him, her wailing still a loud, muffled noise against his chest.
"I want you to see in your dreams, me, who is now alive and well, me, who now has two wings, one of which is yours. I want you to look at the future and the possibilities it may bring. The past holds nothing for us but memories to entertain ourselves with. I would like a future with the person I love most in the world, and I would like to start building that future now." He pushed his face into her hair, inhaling her scent and just enjoying her company. The fact that she was a wreck was just a minor issue which could be easily overlooked. What was important was that both of them were together and glad with that.
"I'm sorry for being an inconsiderate person, for not speaking to you when you most need assurance that everything was alright after the operation. I'm sorry for being a jerk and an idiot, I'm sorry for not confiding in you earlier. I admit I was being a child back then, so caught up in my own unhappiness that I did not anticipating your insecurity. Now that I know about it I want to make amends," he said quietly.
Max looked up after she had calmed herself down from the embarrassing display, and saw that his eyes glistened with released emotions and withheld tears. She could tell from a glance that actually saying these words had brought the taciturn side of him to his knees begging for emotional release, despite him having gone over this speech many times in his head. He knew he should be prepared for an emotional overload but he had not expected to be so bombarded with sentiment. The actual thing felt different from the practices, so much more overwhelming and euphoric.
His lips curled upwards just slightly, enough to let her know he did not hold anything against her, and that it was safe to let him know if she did, which she did not. She had been so frustrated with their rift that she hadn't paid much thought to what had caused it in the first place. All she knew was that it was hurting her, because his dark eyes would not let her in on his pain. But now she had knowledge that he was hurting along with her, that he wasn't any different from the usual person. She wanted to cry with relief.
All this while she thought she was the only one being taken for a rollercoaster ride, and knowing he was in on it with her made her feel a bazillion times better. Of course, case in point was still, if she hadn't given him her wing all this wouldn't have mattered, but perhaps she would be regretting her entire life not giving up her wing for him. Such selfish thoughts, though, she put aside. Fang wouldn't want her thinking like that.
She gripped his hand tightly and smiled brightly at him, her eyes still watery, "This is the best day of my life."
Through her blurred vision she saw him grin, almost smirking like he used to do so often before the operation, "Then I will make sure to prolong your life so that we can make more memories, better than they are now. That aside, your standards are too low."
Max swatted his arm playfully, wiping the excess tears from her eyes. Her hand was pushed aside gently, and before she realised his lips were all over her face, kissing, and licking, away at places where her salty tears had streaked over. Her face burned; a painful reminder that she was still unaccustomed to such affection. A nervous giggle escaped her lips, which, after lingering needlessly over her eyes, Fang's own mouth captured.
Her face was still painted a bright scarlet when he pulled back, a strand of saliva as the sole link between their moist lips. She wondered, as he drew his tongue over her bottom lip to lick the saliva back into his mouth and consequently elicited a shy squeak out of her, if his olive complexion could blush. She wanted to see his face turn red. It would be a pleasure, she was sure.
Grinning wickedly all of a sudden, she pushed Fang backward so that he was trapped between her and her bed. His eyes widened with surprise, and his lips parted as a reflex. Taking this opportunity, seeing as she would never in her life have such a moment of daring again, she bent down and deftly skimmed her lips over his, feeling more than hearing the sudden constriction of his throat. He wasn't protesting, despite his obvious reluctance at being taken advantage of.
Deciding that she had teased him enough she finally pressed her lips firmly to his, feeling the silent moan too low to hear that reverberated within his chest. She nipped at the corners of his lips lightly, as if tempting him with some sort of forbidden fruit, then stuck out her tongue and licked his well-defined lips. He shuddered beneath her administrations, submitting to her for this while. He wasn't going to be so submissive the next time, or the following one, or any of the subsequent kisses. He was going to take so much control she wished she'd never tried to oppose his authority again. For now he'd let her have her way, because, no matter how inexperienced he knew she was, it still felt good.
She didn't need to ask for permission, of course, since his mouth was already open after being pinned down so suddenly, but she just loved tempting him so, just as much as he tempted her. He reached out his own tongue to meet hers and guided her throughout his cavity. His tongue felt hot against hers, and it sent every bit of her tingling with an unknown sensation. It was a new experience, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. He did not appear to be blushing anytime soon, but hey, she was kissing him senseless, so it had to mean something.
Before lust could take over and make them do something they'd both regret, she pulled out of his mouth, licking up the saliva that came along with it, and rested beside him on her bed. She smiled to herself. The day had gone much better than she could ever hope for, and not only did they make up they actually became something more than friends by some silent consent on both parts.
His hand reached out for hers, entwining their fingers together. They would deal with the others when they came out later. For now they would bask in each other's company, something they had both missed for so long.
Pair (n.) – Two mated animals
A/N: I might be posting an epilogue. Word definitions are from [http :/ www . answers . com / topic / pair]. Remove all spaces. As always, reviews are much welcomed. Frankly, I'm amazed at how little I have to say in this last author's note. I've always been known to rant (look up my later stories).