short drabble-type 200 word thing based really, really vaguely on mcr's i never told you what i do for a living.
The thing about the nightmares is how startlingly un-funny they are. He's never had any like these before, the sort where you wake up with your breath caught in your throat, blanket wrapped suffocatingly tight around your arms. Max would love to laugh them off, but he can't.
he blinks once, looks straight ahead at holland. he looks for a moving chest, for signs of life, and instead sees blood and vacant eyes and he's not moving. he closes his eyes and the screaming starts again- max feels fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and holland holland holland-
And it's over, right? Because he can feel something bubbling up in his chest, something like the ugly offspring of hatred and terror. Max pries his eyes open and tries to ignore the phantom tugging sensation in his hair. He's not there anymore. No one is hurting him. His hair's gone now, anyway, although the dreams are making him wish he could scalp himself to ensure that he never feels that tug again.
Yes- Holland is still there, passed out with an arm over his eyes. No blood on his face. No bullet holes. It was nothing but a dream.
Max shudders.
