Oh my goodness, you guys actually told me about your freaking Christmas presents! I forget who it is, but I think it's CakeIsAGoodFriend (?) but either way, chocolate is a fan-fucking-tastic present and you have nothing to be ashamed of girlfriend! I hope no one thought I was bragging about my presents.
Also, no, you are not supposed to drive while hopped up on medication.
Trust me.
Chapter 11: Sweat
Third Person (Whoa….)
In the stifling heat of Fang's black car, Max is turning red, but she doesn't mind. She doesn't feel smothered, she just feels nervous and jittery. Her whole body is alive and whirring with the anticipation of what she's planning. What she's plotted. She can't believe how much courage it actually took her to get off her butt and meander over to Fang's place, but she'd gotten there, she'd felt incredibly proud of herself.
"Where do you want to go?" Nick asks. His voice sounds like gravel, but it's astonishingly sexy. Max blushes at the thought.
"Umm, anywhere with burgers. And bacon." She smiles at him. Her teeth are slightly yellowed, and there's a chipped one near the back, she has a pimple on her chin, and sweat is beading near her hair line, yet she somehow still manages to look better than any girl ever could.
Better than Lissa ever could.
Fang feels something sitting on his chest, and he closes his eyes for a second, subject to the agony that is loss. He wishes, again, that his mother was around. He want so desperately to tell her about how wonderful Max is, he wants to tell her that he's having chest pains, and he should probably see a doctor. He want to tell her that his medication is making him drowsy, but all he can think about is keeping Max with him.
He wants to kiss Max too.
"Only you Max." he chuckles lightly. He knows that in reality, he was choking on the dusty air of his car, but Max thinks this noise is beautiful. Her face lights up, and her cheeks even dimple slightly, so Fang doesn't mind.
"Yeah. Anyway, I need to ask you some serious questions." She says, not so seriously. Things are almost like they used to be to Max, sitting in his baby, listening to Death Cab, talking about a future neither one of them actually thinks exists.
"Like…?" his voice is quieter than normal. As every boy knows, once a girl gets serious in a conversation, she's either pregnant or wants to talk about (Shudder) feelings.
So, of course, Nick's mind is reeling. He's thinking much too fast, but the meds are slowing him down a little. He doesn't want to hurt Max, he really doesn't, but he doesn't want her to get too close to him either. He knows how Max is… too trusting, too impulsive, too… innocent almost. And he thinks, his mind going off on a tangent, that maybe that's why she has PTSD. Maybe her mind was too innocent, pure, untainted for something as disgusting and horrifying as suicide. Something so dirty. And while his mind is off on this tangent, another one appears in front of him, the fork in Green St., and he wonders will Max think he's dirty? Disgusting? He thinks it about himself all the time, there's no telling what she'll say. Max, who's always been able to speak her mind, will know that he's weak, and he can only imagine what she'll speak. This bend is dangerous, and dangerous thoughts lead to a leering mind, a leering mind state, in which he is driving- with Max- and paying attention to the toxic words playing in that metaphorical boom box in his mind, and therefore, not paying attention to the road.
His mind is running like that last sentence. And makes just about the same amount of sense.
"Depression."
The word is 10 letters across, but so-so- deep. There's so many ways to describe this. He could say it's like being underground, under tons and tons of cold, soil, cement, and asphalt, and still somehow, painfully breathing. He could say, it's a hole in the ground, or just a hole. He could say it's a dent- because, isn't that was a depression is? – but in his mind. He could say so many things but there's acid in his body, and it's devouring the pills and the pills are devouring his right mind, leaving him with the left- I mean, what's left- and he's always been more so right brained.
"What about it?" he smirks at her cockily, trying to make her angry, or flustered, so that she'll drop the subject. He wants her to ask about Lissa, he wants her to ask about sex, he wants her to ask about drugs, school, his Aunt- fuck- even Iggy, but not that.
Not that disease.
"What's it like?" she says, her voice a quiet, itchy whisper. It grates at his skin grossly.
"I don't know." A new song fades in, and they pull up to Jr.'s, the best (and only) burger joint in a 20 mile radius. He unbuckles himself quickly, too quickly for the noxious chemicals in his bloodstream, and he stumbles and sweats and sighs in the heat. His heart is beating, and it's too loud and he wishes it would just stop all together. He just wishes he wasn't so fucking stupid. He wishes he would've saved her. He wishes Max would see what a prick he is.
He wishes he could save her too.
He's lied to her, and Max knows it. But she's fine. A little nervous maybe, but fine. Her palms are sweating, like the rest of her, and, as she enters the joint, like the Diet Coke a 40-something-year-old lady is drinking with her burger and large fries.
She thought: "Lardaass" before immediately feeling like a total piece of shit. A terrible, judgmental person.
They take a seat. Max's thighs stick to the cheap plastic of the chairs, but she doesn't mind because it's cooling her off. Usually Nick would playfully fan her or something, but he's just making it worse. His close proximity, smelling like sweat, Old Spice and… copper isn't helping anything. In her mind, she realizes that he smells fucking terrible but she doesn't care. It's Fang, and that's all that matters.
She wants to know what goes on in his head. She wants to see behind those dark, jaded eyes of his. She wants to know what scares him. She wants to seem in control in front of him. She wants to be the strong one for a few moments instead of being this huge, annoying charity case. She wants to help someone instead of being a fucking burden all the time.
It started for Max right before graduation. She was popular, athletic. A total tomboy, but completely stunning while doing so. Her skin was tanned, her hair was sun streaked and the freckles on her cheekbones made her seem sweet and innocent. She had, and still does, a body like a Coke bottle, that could make a boy trip over air. She made people do double takes on a regular basis in her small hometown. And she loved it. She loved working in her family's diner, behind the counter, giving change, listening to dimes nestle against quarters. She loved the families that came in and smiles warmly at her and whispered, "Is that little Maxie?" to her parents, who smiled proudly and announced what championship she'd just been to. She thrived on it.
Only later, after the Woman, did she realize why.
Max needed a sense of… love. May it be artificial or completely real, she needed to be needed. She needed to take care of other people, because a that's what made her feel taken care of. The hugs she got from crying friends made her feel better about the cancerous aunt in the hospital, the boyfriend, Dylan, who she knew was cheating on her, it made her feel better about the father who was always pushing, whether it be into her life, for her to do better, or her body down the stairs- he was always pushing. But Max was strong, according to the rest.
And when she saw a woman, name unknown, face formerly gorgeous, body formerly to die for, she realized how fragile she really was. And didn't like it.
All in all, the whole experience was traumatizing.
That's why she wanted- needed- to dissect Fang.
"Why are you here? Why'd you come from Phoenix?" she asked smartly, ready to take on this challenge. Even though she was sweating.
