1990 Something
By Pseudonymous Entity
Summary: Lies don't end relationships - the truth does. Max, struggling under the weight of his father's overwhelming presence, anxiety and secrets, discovers Bradley has his fair share of experience in both and might be the only one who can help. But can Max handle it when Bradley's secrets are far more sinister? These two may have gotten off on the wrong foot but as they keep running into one another they make some alarming realizations, about themselves and the people in their lives.
AN: In which a father and son have a conversation. Sort of.
-Pseu
"I wasn't always like this
Watched you break me now you blame me
I wasn't born with all these scars..."
-Born Without a Heart
Max crawled out from under the table, baggy jeans sliding over the polished wood floor of the library.
Golden sunlight filtering through the large arched windows to his left had him squinting his eyes. He could see, even in this immaculately clean room, dust particles suspended in the beams of light. The metal studs on his jeans made clinking noises as he moved, and he hoped they weren't scratching the floor. It probably wouldn't do too much damage, honestly, but Max couldn't afford to pay anybody if someone got upset about it.
Gripping the straps of his backpack, he pushed himself up to his feet, shooting a withering look at Bradley Uppercrust. The upperclassman stood to his right, long fingers sorting through the textbooks and singular green notebook on the table before him, then placing them into his bag with an amount of organization and patience Max would never, ever have.
He didn't just stuff everything in his bag and hope he found what he needed later, like PJ, but he didn't take much time to think about it either. Max put the books and binders at the bottom, and everything else on top. Anything small he put in a little zip bag. Bam. A system.
Sort of.
Bradley's dig at Max's choice of friends and his fashion wasn't too bad. Not the worst he'd seen from the upperclassman. It wasn't exactly a virtue or anything, but Bradley's ability to spit acid at people on a dime was just as impressive as his skills on a skateboard. Maybe more so.
The comment instead came off, to Max's not unpleasant surprise, more teasing than pointedly mean or dismissive. A definite step up from some of the heated animosity that always seemed to seep into their interactions. Nothing too bad. Nothing like the bullying of Max's youth. Sometimes, and Max would never admit this, he found it funny and only pretended to be offended.
"Speak for yourself. I'm not the one wearing the same red polo every day."
A super small and hardly noticeable part of Max even enjoyed their interactions. It was sort of fun having someone he could be a little nasty to. Oh, he could tease Bobby from time to time, but the teen was so unfathomably positive and supportive Max didn't think it was possible to actually rile him up.
"Don't be ridiculous, freshman," Bradley said, the smallest of smiles on his face. "It's maroon. Red is your color."
Max bit his lip and thought quickly, adjusting the straps of his backpack so he had something to do with his hands. Bradley seemed like he was in a good mood right now. He'd even lied to Max's dad to help him hide, which Max wasn't sure he'd fully processed yet. So...maybe he could take advantage of Bradley's sudden charity and try to convince him to check out Bobby and PJ's skating skills. Or at least be on friendlier terms.
Being friendly with the Gammas came with some sweet benefits. Like invitations to one of their notorious parties. As a non-specific example Max definitely hadn't daydreamed about.
Right. He took a breath, opened his mouth, and then his throat closed up. Around the corner of the shelves came his father, eyes locking on to Max like a heat-seeking missile. No way. There was absolutely no way this was happening again. Not now.
He could feel his body freeze up, bracing for whatever fresh hell was headed his way next.
That was how Goof luck worked. It was a jinx.
Maybe his family was cursed. Maybe one of his great-great-grandfathers was some wicked traitor of history, long lost to time but significant enough to damn his descendants throughout the remainder of human history. There had to be an explanation because Max could not think of a thing he had done in his life to deserve this.
"Maxie!" his father called out. The collective irritation of the other library patrons was almost tangible.
"There ya are, son." His father beamed, stomping his way over, oblivious to the disturbance he was causing. He had all the enthusiasm of a kid at a theme park, looking around at the library with exaggerated expressions of interest.
As if Max hadn't already brought him here the day his dad arrived in a desperate bid to find someplace else for his father to spend his time. The library, the cafeteria, the courtyards, the gym, the club fair. None of it held a candle to his enjoyment of following Max every waking hour of the day. Barging into his dorm room. Stalking him through the halls and across campus.
Max darted a quick glance toward Bradley. The upperclassman had not yet left and was now in fact rearranging his already organized textbooks at a suspiciously slow speed. Clearly intending to bear witness to the unfolding drama.
The universe hated Max. It must.
"Couldn't find you in your dorm this morning, kiddo," said his father, coming to a stop before him. "Luckily, I managed to track you down!"
Like an evil bloodhound, Max thought unfavourably. He was trying not to look at Bradley again. His father's shirt was an eye-burning yellow and red pattern that pretended to be Hawaiian. Max did not need to look to know what Bradley thought of his father's fashion.
Maybe Max could convince him to pity him. Gaining any sense of fashion growing up with that as the example was a damned miracle. Okay, so maybe the fashion sense dig earlier struck a nerve. Just a small one.
"I brought you a surprise," his father was saying, "to make it easier for us to find one another. I noticed we have a hard time keeping our eyes on each other in this big ol' school, so I thought this would solve the problem."
Max watched, in horror, as his father unfolded a similar shirt of yellow and red. He thought, for a wild moment, he ought to burn it as an offering to the gods. The old and the new. One of them would have mercy on Max, surely.
"Thanks...?" Max reached out and grabbed the offending shirt, holding it with his fingertips like it was potentially radioactive. With those colours, it could be.
"...copy of your class schedule."
Max looked away from the shirt and blinked. "What, Dad?"
"So we can coordinate meetin' up between classes," finished his father, holding out a hand to Max expectantly.
Max's heart twisted in his chest. Damn, damn, damn. He could not show his schedule to his father. He couldn't show him, and he couldn't for the life of him think of a good excuse for why.
Max was not getting a degree in business. A degree in business was one of the only things that persuaded his dad to let him go to college in the first place. It was all a lie. If his dad knew, if he found out, Max would be packed up and on his way home by the end of the week.
Shit. What the hell was he gonna do?
His father's arm was still outstretched, waiting for Max to comply.
"I, uh, left it behind. In my dorm," Max heard himself say.
He could see the flicker of annoyance behind his father's eyes before it was replaced with his customary cheerfulness. "That's alright, Maxie. We can stop by and pick it up before lunch."
No we can't.
"...academic advisor. Want to make sure we take most of the same classes next year. We're gonna be business buddies, pal!"
"I, uh, Dad?" Max swallowed. "What was that about next year?"
His father was using large hand gestures as he animatedly explained how he threw out all the food in the mini fridge because it wasn't healthy for growing boys. "...through your fridge in the dorm and threw out..."
"Dad," Max tried again, through gritted teeth. His hands were beginning to shake, so he clenched them into fists, willing the trembling to stop. The sound of his father's insistent chatter grating against his unsteady nerves.
The familiar tightness in Max's chest grew larger, and his vision began to tunnel. He knew he was breathing too fast. Knew the creeping coldness invading his arms and crawling up his back was threatening to spill over. Taunting him.
"Dad," Max snapped, his words clinging to his throat and struggling to escape. "I don't want to do that. I need some space, okay? I can't... I can't handle all of this – you – right now."
"Space?" His father's voice was tinged with incredulity. Then he laughed and slapped his knee. "Good one, son. We're going to have a swell time, the two of us. Best buds, father and son, going to classes together. Comparing notes. It's going to be great, Maxie!"
"It's not... I appreciate it, Dad," Max lied, "but I, uh, need to learn to manage my own life. That's what I'm here for, right?" He tried to smile.
"You're here to get an education, son," his father corrected. "We can still have fun, but let's not forget the point. Don't be so eager to grow up. You've got some time..."
"Yeah, I guess, but–"
"...let's focus on getting through school, and we'll face grown-up things later when they come. Lucky to have me here to guide you, aren't you, Maxie? Why, I bet other kids would kill to have their parents here helping them out..."
Max sincerely doubted that.
On cue, as if sensing Max wanted to argue with him, his father hunched his shoulders and widened his eyes. "...a little too much, but I just love you so much, kiddo. Not everyone has someone to take care of them..."
He winced. Guilt squirmed its way into Max's growing frustration and panic, a sticky goo tangling everything around it. Warping his other emotions until he couldn't tell what he felt anymore.
"...glad I get to be here and see the last of your childhood before you grow up and leave your old man. Go out into the world," his father said, "and... and leave me behind." His dad theatrically pretended to wipe away a tear.
Max hated when his father did this.
If he knew Max was unhappy. If he knew Max didn't want to do something. Why not just let it be? Why act like a kicked puppy every time Max didn't immediately give in? He loved his father. So much. Honestly. He should be grateful, he was grateful. But, wasn't he allowed to be upset?
Or...was that selfish?
"Dad," Max's throat was so tight he could hardly get the words out, voice breaking. The nails of his fingers digging into the palms of his hand rhythmically. He could feel the eyes of annoyed students in the library watching the largely one-sided conversation his father's too loud voice insisted on carrying out. Could predict their whispers. In an instant, Max felt like he was fourteen again, small and overwhelmed.
His father kept right on talking. Max didn't even know what he was talking about anymore, the world around him suppressed to a rushing in his ears, a throbbing in his neck, a wet slick feeling down his back and between his shoulder blades. His eyes burned.
I can't breathe.
2024
AN: On that note, hope you're enjoying the story so far.