Chimney Swift
i am confusion
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TL;DR
Now at 5-ish shots, Max pushed too hard at Lemon's secrets and got himself slapped. Nothing about this should be remotely surprising.
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tl;dr
Max Berkowitz
We accept the love we think we deserve.
Lemon didn't answer Max's question. Again.
Max groaned in frustration, reaching for the bottle again, though he knew that he wasn't going to be told what he felt he needed to know.
She convinced him to start drinking. Max had always said that he was never going to drink. He spent all that time begging Isa to stop, now Lemon...
Lemon said she'd answer any question truthfully, in exchange for getting to watch him down another shot. Now he'd taken four, and she hadn't told him a thing.
She didn't want his help. She didn't want him to do anything.
She just kept asking him to stop, to leave her alone, to stay out of her problems.
What kind of a friend would Max be if he left people to suffer alone?
He'd always told himself that people shouldn't be left alone. People who say the things that Lemon had said... if he left her alone and something happened to her, then...
There was a hypocrisy in this line of thinking that he didn't want to think about. If he thought about it, it would feel real.
As soon as it had come over him, the sudden high of confidence he'd found had crashed back down, and he was left alone with this muddled, alcohol-drowned mutation of the anxiety that he had come to accept as his normal.
His hands couldn't shape the words he wanted to say. His fingers had gone numb, his arms feeling heavy and imprecise. He had to do this another way, because he couldn't just sit there and be quiet. The thought of letting this drop felt like a knife at his throat.
He grabbed his phone and side-eyed back at Lemon until she did the same.
why are you pushing?
because you're trying to push people away so you can be alone and hurt more
Like Isa
Like Isa
I’m not like Isa
Yes you are
You're drinking to forget about things
You're hiding from people
You're hurting yourself
You think your life is ruined and you want to die and you think you ruined other people's lives
You're just like that
You're drinking to forget about things
You're hiding from people
You're hurting yourself
You think your life is ruined and you want to die and you think you ruined other people's lives
You're just like that
You’re acting like a knight in shining armor and you’re nothing but a broken kid.
Broken.
Was that what Lemon thought she was?
...She said that about him, not herself. The association didn't click.
Max wasn't broken. She wasn't talking about him. He was talking about what she felt. This wasn't about him. He was fine.
Max didn't have problems. Lemon had problems.
He couldn't wrap his head around the idea that people couldn't see that.
Broken.
He turned off his notifications and dropped his phone down at his side, refusing to acknowledge that last statement. He had absolutely nothing to refute it with-- maybe because on some level, deep down in the darkest hole of his subconscious, he knew that it was true.
Broken. Broken. Broken.
He had nothing to say but to apologize, to admit that he was lying to himself. He couldn't do that, so he said nothing.
His turn to play the silent treatment lasted hardly a second before Lemon's hand slashed into his face, smacking him square in the nose.
Max cut off a startled cry by quickly clamping his hand over his mouth, immediately feeling blood trickle down the back of his palm.
No way. No fucking way.
Did Lemon seriously just break his nose?
It wasn't broken, just bleeding and stung, but Max was still in shock. He just got hit. His friend, the most pacifistic person he knew....
He couldn't believe it.
Coughing out the breath he'd been holding, he hurriedly dragged himself to his feet and marched back into the house as fast as he felt that he could without falling over, only remembering to turn back and retrieve his phone at the last minute before he kicked the door back open and disappeared into the hallway.
He spent the next 10 minutes helplessly wandering the halls trying to find the bathroom. The Moore's house was an ostentatious-but-elegant seaside mansion that definitely had more than one bathroom, which meant that Max must have walked past it several times before he finally found it.
He spent a long time just staring blankly at the mirror, after he'd finished up. Weakly leaning on his elbows over the marble countertop, not noticing he'd left the faucet running. He couldn't hear it, after all, so he had no reminder that he'd forgotten. Max would have cut off his own hand for wasting water.
His nose had stopped bleeding and he was able to clean most of it off, but the red mark that Lemon's hand had stricken over his cheek contrasted starkly over his paper-white face, that already stained with a drowsy blush. He brushed his fingers over the abrasion and winced.
No matter how long he peered into them through his reflection, his pale blue eyes looked glassy and unfocused, like he was feverish. Or drunk.
But he wasn't drunk.
Even if he wasn't willing to admit that he was under the influence, at the very least Max had to admit to himself that he looked that way.
Broken kid.
Max considered hiding out here for the rest of the night, until everyone else went home. He just wanted to be alone.
His head was buzzing, his nose still hurt; he felt dizzy and nauseous and out of breath and hot and too many emotions for him to process all at once.
But after a while, he pushed open the door and shame-facedly walked back out, not knowing what to do with himself anymore. Find one of his friends and try to chat away the rest of the night, grab another drink and try to forget what happened, or maybe he should just leave now while he could. Though he eventually chose to just head back to the room where he'd left Levi and Jenelle, the thought of talking to them again hurt his stomach. He couldn't handle another lie right now.
He was right all along. He didn't fit in at parties.
code by valen t.
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