#losercore

(amnesia au, same universe as my ficlet on ao3 called rewind!)

3:28pm. Tick, tick, tick.

The clock on the wall above the door— it’s so loud in Klay’s head that he barely registers what the doctor is saying. 

We’re really proud of the progress you’ve made throughout your stay… the tests all came back great, you know. I know, I know, I’m a doctor and I believe in science, but moments like this I allow myself to believe that there is something out there— up there, because you know, this start to your recovery is remarkable. Of course, we have the matter of the retrograde amnesia, but we’ll be doing weekly check-ins and you’ll come back here to hospital and meet with our neuro team for some exercises and— I assume Max… will be taking you— Yep, yeah. I am— Okay, great. Great. That’s good… Okay, and…

Klay slides his eyes from clock, down, down, down. In the corner, Max is sitting up straight, refusing to look anywhere near Klay’s direction. He’s only wearing a plain t-shirt and some sweats, but his shirt is crisp. His curls are flat, unruly, like he hasn’t bothered with it for days, opposite to his clothes. His face, Klay thinks, feels like it’s covered in shadow. The dark purple bags under his eyes, the wrinkle by his lips with how much Max keeps them pursed. It’s different from what Klay remembers. Klay remembers the boy-ish easiness in Max’s face, the gleam in his eye, someone who was still coming into himself. It’s like this, that Klay realises he doesn’t remember looking at Max much, before. Or, ever.

Or,

Tick, tick, tick.

Klay slides his eyes lower, focuses on Max’s hands, the way they’re curled tight into themselves on his lap. His fingers are peeking out, and Klay watches as Max’s nails, bitten short, struggle to pick at the skin of his other hand. At some point, Max’s hands give up, and he crooks his index finger and thumb to pinch at the loose skin on the side of his other hand.

“So, am I good to go?” Klay interrupts. Max’s fingers let go of his skin, and when Klay looks up, Max is staring at him; eyebrows up, eyes wide. Like he forgot Klay was there, which is funny, because the only reason they’re here in the first place is because of him. Because he’s thirty-seven and still apparently can’t take care of himself. “I can go home?”

“Well. Um, yes, as long as you— or at least Max, got all of that, and…”

“Yep, yes. I got it all,” Max says, quiet, but firm. 

“Okay, well, they are just going to come with the wheelchair and you can just sit tight, and we’ll go ahead and be able to wheel ya out of here! Congrats again, Mr. Thompson, on being able to get out of here, and…”

Klay looks back up at the clock. 3:40pm. Tick, tick, tick. From the corner of his eye, he watches Max shake his doctor’s hand, watches them talk about a few more things, watches Max tuck the little notepad he’s brought with him every time the doctor comes by into his back pocket.

Klay looks down, quiet, picks at the sweats Max brought him from home, old Warriors sweats with the frayed Golden Gate logo by the pockets. He rubs at the logo, watch it crumble into eraser-like shavings under the pads of his fingers.

Steph visited two days after he woke up. It was different, with Steph. Max looked different from how Klay last remembered him. But Steph, his Steph, looked the same— he almost didn’t believe it when everyone told him he lost over two years of memories. How Steph looked, how he made Klay feel as soon as he walked into the room, it was all the same.

Steph had given his parents hugs first, then turned to Max like it was the natural thing, before he had settled in front of Klay. He made some joke about how awful Klay looked, and next thing Klay knew was his jaw was hurting from how big he grinned. Max had stepped out after seeing it, left them alone.

Tick, tick, tick.

“Klay,” Max says, and Klay blinks once, twice, looks up at him. He’s smiling at Klay, but they don’t reach his eyes. “Are you ready?”

It's quiet except for the leaves. The leaves are loud, rustling against each other, the wind blowing through them.

And also because Max is pulling the branches of his neighbour's lemon tree down from above his neighbours brick wall, shaking them with one hand.

"You should get out of the sun," Klay snorts, "Into the shade. That way my neighbours won't see you commiting a felony."

Max gasps, letting go of the branch abruptly. It's a series of things from there: the branch bouncing back up against the force of Max letting go, Max standing up straight, and subsequently the lemons Max was hoarding in his shirt—pulled to create a bowl to lay the lemons he had already grabbed— spilling out from the sides.

"It's not a felony," Max hisses. He leans down to grab the lemons he dropped and the rest of the lemons scattered around the pavement that had fallen with his shaking. "It's called creating community. Love thy neighbour and all of that. They would be happy that I'm taking some lemons out of their hands considering how much they have in abundance."

Klay opens his mouth, but Max goes on, "And maybe if you helped me instead of just standing there."

"That's called aiding and abetting," Klay laughs, but he leans down to pick up some more lemons from the sidewalk, shaking his head while doing so.

Max is usually such a.... rule follower. Klay didn't think Max would ever be the type to grab his neighbours' fruits from their tree without asking. It was honestly hilarious, somehow made Klay's heart swell that there were so many facets of Max that he didn't know as well as he thought he did.

"Stuff some in your pockets too," Max commands.

"Alright Martha Stewart," Klay mutters. He stuffs three lemons in each of his shorts pockets and tries not to huff at how ridiculous he looks. Not more ridiculous than Max, who has resorted to stuffing lemons under his armpits. "What are you even going to do with all of this."

"I don't know. We can put it in our water. Bring some to your mom and dad."

Klay feels a tingling at the edge of his fingers like this, the same tingling in his fingers that he gets when he lets himself have a beat and realises this is his life, can't believe it's his life. Max making a home in it, with all the people he loves. He wiggles them against the skin of the lemons he's holding, warms it up like it'll help the feeling in his chest.

"Okay, and I'll tell them all the crimes you committed to get it for them," Klay grins.

Max rolls his eyes, "Shut up!" He stalks past Klay back to Klay's house, comically curling into himself to save the ones he has in his shirt. "And to think I was going to put on that stupid, frilly apron you loved and bake you something with these lemons...."