silverhammer | March 11, 2016

Max only makes it home because somebody's nice enough to give him a ride. Somebody figures it's safe to pick up the guy on the side of the road without shoes or a phone, or even any cash and give him a ride halfway across town. Max figures it's the first bit of good luck he's had in days. That and the fact that he didn't drive Linda after parking her at Ocean View.

Though, it's not like anybody put the bottle in his hand Tuesday night.

"Thanks, man," Max says, as they stop near the building, and Max climbs out of the guy's sedan, "I... I owe you one."

"Just take care of yourself," he says, and Max nods, though he doesn't know what the hell that even means. The only thing he knows is that whatever happened to him the last couple of days can't happen again. He was supposed to come home, and now here it is, three fucking days later and he doesn't even know where to say he went. There's a black hole there now that sucked him in, and now he doesn't know how to pull himself out of it.

Max's head is still pounding, even as he boards the elevator and rides it up to the top floor, putting his key in the lock to the apartment and opening the door.

He's told himself, told Brian and Lucy, that nothing about this is a big deal. He's tried to ignore the fact that he's been trying to ignore how his head buzzes when he walks into a crowded room, how a flask became his go-to whenever he felt like just hiding for days at a time...

He can't ignore this.

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From:

minimumbullshit

He was waiting for it.

Since Lucy turned up in his office, desperate and sincere. Before then, if he was being fucking honest with himself. They'd been in a holding pattern for months, and this wasn't the kind of anticipation that got Brian hard. This was the grind of everyday life, of building his agency from nothing and being a father to his son, while he watched his partner's life fucking unravel.

Waiting for it, knowing it was happening, knowing that rock bottom had to be hit before anything would change, wasn't exactly preparation for the reality of the situation. The reality was a hell of a lot more mundane than the explosion he'd braced himself for. Instead, Max didn't come home one night, and that in itself was noteworthy. He couldn't remember if they'd ever laid out that particular ground rule in so many words, but coming home at night was something they both did. No matter what.

One night was noteworthy. Two nights, and Brian spent the day shouting at interns and underlings, his darkening mood sending most of his employees running home early for the day. The third night, Brian didn't sleep. He sat at the window, smoking cigarettes, his own glass of whiskey sitting largely untouched on the sill.

That morning, he called out of work, if only because of the risk of lighting fire to the fucking building or tearing it down with his bare goddamn hands. He was furious, fucking livid, or that's what he thought, until he stood in the kitchen, blending a fucking kale smoothie for his breakfast, and realized that what he was... was terrified.

Before was able to stop himself, he shattered his glass in the sink, and sent Kimmy scrambling to hurry Gus out the door for the day. Distantly, as he watched them go, Brian made the decision to give her a bonus check, at the end of the week. She deserved it.

When the door unlocked and swung open around midday, Brian stood at the kitchen counter -- Christ, he didn't know if he'd even moved in the last fucking hour -- his hands braced against the marble. The worst of it, the part he hated most, was the relief that swelled up, sick and weak, in the pit of his stomach.

Because there was Max, in somebody else's goddamn pants, no shoes, looking like shit-- smelling like shit, and Brian loved him. Just fucking loved him, and wasn't that just fucking great.

"At least you didn't lose your keys," Brian said, with his special brand of mocking levity, "We won't have to have the locks changed."

Edited Date: 2016-03-30 06:23 am (UTC)

From:

silverhammer

Max doesn't know why he expects Brian to start yelling. He knows Brian's not like that, and that the two of them have never been like that with each other. Maybe it's because he feels like he deserves it. He's been gone for fucking days, and if Brian asks where he's been, he's not even going to have an answer.

"Yeah," Max says, and he lifts his keys in response, jingling them a little in his hand. The thing is, he doesn't know where the hell he's supposed to start here. Running one hand through his hair as he tries to forget his pounding head, Max crosses the room to the kitchen, setting his keys on the counter.

"Take the day off?"

From:

minimumbullshit

"Sent home for bad behavior," he said, with a tight smile. Brian wasn't really the type to back down from a fight, but he didn't have the first clue how to navigate this conversation. With Max closer, only the bar counter separating them, Brian pushed himself away, drawing in a deep breath and turning to walk into the living room.

"You should go upstairs, take a shower." He stopped in the middle of the living room, arms falling heavily against his sides, and threw a fleeting look toward Max, over his shoulder. "You fucking stink."

From:

silverhammer

Max has always been good with making light of a lot of things. As it is, he's even been able to mostly make light of all of this until now. But Brian tells him he needs a shower, and all Max can think of is where he woke up not too long ago, of not knowing where the hell he was or what he'd done the night before.

Yeah, he needs a shower, but it's sure as shit not gonna fix any of this.

As it is, Max nods and heads for the stairs, but pauses before making the climb to the bedroom.

"Can you spare a sec when I get back?" he asks, though he doesn't know what kind of answer to expect.

From:

minimumbullshit

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?" Brian said, giving Max an exasperated look.

"I don't know about you, but I have a feeling this is going to take longer than a sec."

The last few days were spent sick with worry, but now, with Max standing there, it was instinct to start building those walls back up again.

From:

silverhammer

"Yeah," Max says, and nods again before heading upstairs, though somehow, there's a part of him that's surprised. Not so much that Brian's not gonna split, but that he didn't tell Max to get the hell out the second he'd opened the door. It's not something he's been waiting for, too wrapped up in his own shit to consider the possibility of it, but walking through that door after days gone, he'd been expecting it.

When the words don't come, there's still no relief. And even after he showers for nearly a half an hour, he still doesn't feel clean. He leaves his clothes— someone else's pants— in a corner on the bathroom floor and pads downstairs in bare feet, his hair still damp.

He's not sure where the hell he's supposed to go from here.

"Kimmy and Gus go out?" Max asks, mostly just for something to say.

From:

minimumbullshit

While Max was upstairs, Brian sat down on the sofa, knees on his elbows and his head in his hands. He couldn't think. He couldn't fucking stop thinking. Jesus, what a fucking mess.

At the sound of Max's footsteps on the stairs, he lifted his head.

"She got out as soon as I got home from the office. She's a lot smarter than she looks," he muttered, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He drew in a breath and finally asked, "Where the hell were you?"

From:

silverhammer

It's a question that should have an easy answer. Any other time, and it would've. But as it stands, Max still doesn't know the answer to it. After waking up on an unfamiliar floor, he hadn't stuck around to get everybody's names.

There's a pause before he answers, because for a second, Max thinks that maybe he'll remember what the fuck happened. But it's all still a blank. Days gone.

"Some apartment across town," he answers, "Before that, I don't know. Shit."

From:

minimumbullshit

"A three day black out. That's impressive," Brian said, his tone carefully measured.

The worst of it, the fucking worst, was that Brian still wanted to reach out and touch him, just to reassure himself that Max was all right. He shouldn't have given a shit. Max was a grown man, and just because they lived together, it wasn't Brian's job to look after him.

If only he could've just been angry. That would've made everything so much easier.

"You know, I was worried fucking sick," he admitted, wiping a hand across his mouth and coughing out a miserable laugh. "I just kept thinking... what if he's gone? Please, God, don't. Don't let him be gone." He laughed again, brokenly, and his eyes were fucking burning now.

From:

silverhammer

It's not what he expects Brian to say. Then again, he doesn't know what the fuck he's expecting. He guesses there's a part of him that remembers every time he fucked up at Princeton, every lecture he got back home, even though there's nothing to make him think this'll be anything like that.

In some ways, he wishes Brian had freaked out on him. That might be easier.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I don't..." Max starts, but it feels like bullshit, because he knows it's not enough. Because he doesn't know how he spent the past few days and doesn't even know who he could ask about it.

Max pauses again. There's a moment where he thinks about joining Brian on the couch, but thinks better of it, keeping his distance on the other side of the living room.

"I can't keep fucking doing this."

From:

minimumbullshit

He laughed again, and it was broken and brittle and God, did he fucking hate it. Abruptly, he pushed to his feet, pacing toward the door, feeling like he might crawl out of his own fucking skin.

"As far as hitting bottom goes, it could've been a hell lot more dramatic. I'd even say you got off easy."

He was digging in the knife now, twisting it, though he really wasn't sure which one of them he was hurting.

"But I'm glad we agree on something."

From:

silverhammer

There's not really any part of that Max can argue with. He woke up on somebody's floor with no idea how the hell he got there, but he could have woken up in a hospital. Or in a hospital. Or not at all. He knows Brian's right; he got fucking lucky.

"Probably," Max answers, knowing it's an understatement, still waiting for Brian to lay in on him even though he's pretty convinced Brian won't. And not that it's any kind of excuse, but he figures there's something that needs to be said at some point.

"Jude's gone."

From:

minimumbullshit

Jude's gone.

Even Brian understood the significance of that. Despite his own opinions about Jude, whom he'd found tedious at best, he understood that kind of friendship. He'd done a lot of shitty things to keep from losing Mikey, over the years, and up until a couple years ago, the idea of living without Mikey around had been a hard pill to swallow.

Drawing in a breath, Brian turned back toward Max, his lips pressed into a thin line. When he reached a hand out toward Max, beckoning him closer, he hesitated, but only because he didn't want to admit to himself that it hurt, just a little, that Max had sought out comfort in the bottom of a bottle instead of with him. Christ, he was fucking losing it.

"Come over here," he said, sounding almost impatient.

From:

silverhammer

This shouldn't be Brian's shit to deal with. It shouldn't be Lucy's and it shouldn't have been Jude's. Not that Max ever dumped a lot on Jude in the first place. Once, he found Max on the floor of his apartment, convinced he'd been sent back to that fucked up version of Darrow, but beyond that, Max could put on a show. He'd gotten good at drinking away the smell of jungle and that feeling that reminded him of being Over There.

With Brian, it's not so easy.

Which is why when Brian reaches for Max, he doesn't hesitate, wrapping his arms around the other man and burying his face in his shoulder.

He used to think he had the pieces put back together again, but now he feels even more lost than he did before. The only thing Max knows for sure is that he can't go on like this. Something's gotta change, or the next time, he might not wake up at all.

From:

minimumbullshit

Brian was quiet for a long time, with Max wrapped up securely in his arms, his cheek resting against Max's hair. Stroking a hand up and down Max's spine came naturally, and he didn't think twice about pressing a kiss to his temple.

"So, what do you think? In-patient, or out?"

From:

silverhammer

There's a moment where Max doesn't speak, trying to make sense of what Brian's just said. Or at least, letting it sink in.

"What do you mean, like, a hospital?" he asks, pulling away a little. It's not that he hasn't been in one before, since he came back from Over There. They pumped him full of drugs at the V.A., but this feels like something different.

From:

minimumbullshit

"Rehab. Or a spa retreat, if you're a starlet with a coke habit," Brian said, his hands resting on Max's shoulders when he pulled back.

"Believe me, I think therapy's bullshit, but you said it yourself. Something's got to change."

From:

silverhammer

"So a loony bin," Max says, even though he's been in Darrow long enough to know nobody really calls it that anymore. It's 'therapy.' And hell, he's known people who talked about going to therapists, talking about their problems with a shrink.

The fucked up part of it is, even though he decided a long time ago that he didn't give a shit what he thought, the first thing that pops into Max's head is the look that'd be on his dad's face if he knew.