#chapter 40

The front door slammed hard behind him. He didn’t mean to do it — just had his hands full. Sauntering in with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a half-eaten protein bar in his hand, and the faint tang of gunpowder still in his hair from the range.

He flipped the light switch, the chandelier flickering on. Max stopped mid-step.

As the room illuminated, Lando’s figure apparated in one of the wingback chairs in the corner of the massive entryway, his frame half-swallowed by shadow. He’d been waiting there for hours, unmoving.

Max followed his gaze to where it was fixed on the floor. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that he was somehow entirely unaware that Max had entered the space at all. The leader appeared statuesque – still, silent. The only sound in the whole house was the low hum of the heating system and the way the lightbulbs buzzed faintly overhead

“…You scared the shit out of me,” he muttered, quieter now.

Lando looked up.

Max flinched, just slightly.

There was something wrong in the way his eyes didn’t focus. They weren’t bloodshot or wild — they were just quiet. Dead, in that way that meant something had been gnawing at him, slowly and constantly, until the bone showed.

“…Lando?”

The man before him didn’t answer – just blinked once. Max took a careful step forward. “You okay?”

Still, Lando didn’t move, didn’t blink.

“Okay. Cool,” Max said under his breath, reaching for the fridge again. “I’m just gonna—”

The glass shattered before he even saw Lando throw it.

It exploded against the wall behind him. Max ducked instinctively, pieces of it bouncing off the tile.

“What the fuck? Mate–”

“Where were you,” Lando hissed.

Max blinked. He wasn’t afraid, but even he wasn’t immune to the caution that had his heart speeding up in his chest. “The docks. Uh, cleanup from the Vos case.”

“I called.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t answer.”

Max dropped his bag. “What’s going on?”

Lando stood.

“You told her.” 

Max froze.

“You know I don’t use that name with her,” Lando said, voice still even. “You knew that.”

Max took a step back. “Wait—”

“You knew,” Lando repeated, louder now. “And you said it anyway.”

Max’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Lando crossed the room in two strides. “I asked you one thing,” he seethed. “One fucking thing.”

“Lando—”

“She looked at me like I was a stranger.”

Max’s back hit the wall. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She looked at me like she was afraid I’d kill her.” Lando’s hands curled into fists. “Like I was someone she didn’t recognize. Like you killed whatever chance I had left!”

“I didn’t know she answered—”

And that was when Lando shoved him. Hard.

Max stumbled, didn’t fall. No words came from his mouth – he didn’t even lift his arms. It pissed Lando off. 

Why won’t he defend himself?

So Lando shoved him again, harder this time. “Do you even get what you did?”

Max’s head jerked back from the force, but he stayed silent.

“You gave me away. You gave her every reason to– to hate me.”

Lando’s eyes searched for a reaction, desperate for something, anything. But Max’s face remained painfully neutral – his expression one of sympathy if anything. 

That pushed him over the edge.

Lando threw a punch.

It hit squarely across Max’s jaw, knocking his head sideways — but Max didn’t retaliate. He didn’t even flinch.

So Lando hit him again. Harder.

This time Max staggered, but still didn’t raise a hand. Lando delivered another blow to the ribs now, sharp and fast and angry. Max grunted from the impact, doubling over slightly but still never moving away.

“Fight back!” Lando yelled. “For once in your life, fucking fight me back!”

Of course, Max didn’t.

Who the hell did he think he was?

“Hit me back!” Lando snapped. He punctuated his words with yet another shove.

Max didn’t.

Lando swung — an open-handed crack across Max’s jaw. The sound rang out in the room, echoing against the high ceilings. Max barely turned his head.

“Fucking do something!” Lando yelled, shoving him again. “You ruined it. You ruined everything.”

Max stood there and let Lando push, swing, throw his fists again and again until his chest was heaving, fury spitting from every part of him except his face — his face stayed blank, controlled, like he couldn’t afford to crack.

“She looked at me like she didn’ recognize me. Like I was somethin’ she regretted.”

Lando’s fists kept coming, now low, angry hits that never quite landed right, like he didn’t actually want to hurt his friend. Like he didn’t know what he wanted, but just that something had to break.

“I had her,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was safe there. I was fucking— normal.”

“She was going to find out one way or another,” Max finally spoke. There was no agitation in his voice, only a sad sort of acceptance. But still there was no regret.

Each hit landed in quick, precise succession, each motion borne of years of practice. 

He didn’t realize when his eyes had gotten misty. “Shut the fuck up,” he spat. Then, quieter, he confessed, “I didn’t want you to be the reason she did.”

The next hit landed higher, somewhere near the collarbone. Max flinched but still didn’t raise a hand of his own.

Lando hated it.

“You don’t get it,” Lando hissed, barely breathing now. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose the only good thing left and realize you’re the one who ruined it.”

Sweat dripped from his brow, running along his brow bone and into his eyes. His chest breathed with every breath. “Why won’t you fucking fight me?” Lando snapped.

Max finally stepped forward, not to swing — but to wrap his arms around him.

Lando froze.

“What the fuck are you doin’—”

Max didn’t let go. The older boy only pulled Lando in tighter, arms solid around his back, anchoring him like the only thing keeping his brother from falling apart. “I’m sorry,” Max murmured into the embrace, just loud enough to be heard. “I’m sorry she found out like that. I’m sorry it hurts. I’m sorry you feel like this.”

It wasn’t some soft hug or some gentle embrace. He’d wrapped his arms tight around his best friend like he was anchoring a bomb about to go off. 

Lando struggled—panicked, almost. His hands shoved Max back, his fists pressed against his chest, but Max didn’t let go. Lando thrashed then, resisting it — hands gripping the back of Max’s shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to shove him away or hold on for dear life.

Then, all at once, he sagged. His fists uncurled, his breath broke, and he just sank into Max’s chest.

The first sound punched out of him like he’d been holding it in for years. It wasn’t a sob, nothing nearly as clean. It was just broken air – a gasp that never made it to words.

His fists curled into Max’s shirt like a child’s, like a man clawing for something to hold onto before he drowned.

Max didn’t say anything else. He didn’t loosen his grip either. He just held Lando there, steady and quiet, while the boy who’d built an empire on blood and bones finally cracked apart in someone’s arms.

And all Lando could do was cry into Max’s shoulder, fists clenched in the back of his shirt, like if he held on hard enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real. Lando let himself grieve.

Not for the job.

Not for the reputation.

But for her — for the look in her eyes when she realized who he really was, and for the version of himself that could never exist again.

His friend offered him no empty platitudes, made no shallow efforts to fix it. Max didn’t say she’ll come back, or she loves you, or you’ll be okay.

Because any of that would’ve been a lie.

Lando stood there in the middle of his own house, in the arms of the only person left who knew what it meant to be both loved and feared — and for the first time in a very long time, he let someone hold the weight with him.

Even if only for a minute.

Lando didn’t remember how they got to the couch.

One second he was breaking apart in Max’s arms like glass on tile, and the next he was crumpled into the corner of the leather cushions, legs pulled up, face buried in his hands, his chest still shaking with the tail-end of sobs that had no words left in them.

Max sat beside him – not close enough to crowd him, just there like a weight keeping Lando tethered to the floor.

Lando didn’t cry often.

He knew how to punch a wall, knew how to stare into nothing for hours, how to work until his hands blistered just to keep the demons quiet. But crying? That was something other people did. Something weaker men did.

Max didn’t let go when Lando collapsed into him, hands clutched in the back of his shirt like a man going under. He didn’t let go even when the sobs turned ragged — the kind of sound Max had only ever heard once before, in that dark office after Daniel died.

He remembered that night too well — Lando drunk off his ass, hands shaking, gun cold and pressed against the side of his own head, whispering, “I tried. I really fucking tried. But it doesn’t work. None of it fucking works.”

Max had disarmed him without a word, yanked him off the chair, and stayed with him until dawn.

Just like that night, he sat with him. They had never been the type for overt friendship or long speeches or grand gestures. Max could only look at Lando, this unmovable force he’s seen rise through the ranks of Monte Carlo’s darkest empires. He watched over his friend like a guardian angel dressed in a black sweatshirt and washed jeans.

With both hands holding the side of Lando’s face, Max looked directly into his eyes, fixing him with a glare. He didn’t say I love you – they didn’t do that.

He’d said, “Do that again and I’ll kill you first.”

It meant the same thing.

The pendulum clock on the wall ticked softly, each tick beating monotonously through the empty of the grand living room. Minutes or hours ticked by, but Lando remained slouched on the floor, his back pressed against the wall and his head in his hands like it might all disappear if he didn’t look up. His breathing had steadied, but only barely. The hiccuping edge was still there, wrecked and uneven.

The sobs didn’t stop quickly.

They came in waves — deep, ugly, bone-shaking things that tore through Lando like his chest might cave in from the weight of them.

Max didn’t say a word through it.

He just held him, hands braced between Lando’s shoulder blades like he was keeping him stitched together by force. His shirt soaked through from tears and heat. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Not even when Lando finally sank to his knees, dragging Max down with him.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours — the mansion quiet around them. 

Max knelt a few feet away, eventually getting up to rummage under the bar cabinet for something that wasn’t a bottle. He came back with a hand towel before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returned, the cloth was warm.

He crouched down in front of Lando, still quiet, and gently pulled his hands away from his face. Lando didn’t fight him, though he did flinch at first — some ancient instinct to push away help –to handle it alone, to bury it deep and move on.

He didn’t say anything — just gently wiped Lando’s face, brushing the warm washcloth over his temple, jaw, the trail of tears that had dried on his cheek. The warmth of the hot water emanated from the fabric like a patch of summer sun, warming Lando’s skin with its lingering tendrils. 

It was awkward and clumsy, but careful. Max had never been good at this kind of thing. He wasn’t the shoulder-to-cry-on guy. He didn’t have the gentle touch, didn’t know the right things to say, didn’t know how to make grief feel lighter.

But hell would freeze over before he left Lando like this.

So he did what he could.

“Sit still,” he muttered. “Don’t be a baby about it.”

Lando didn’t fight, didn’t speak. Just stared blankly ahead while Max knelt down in front of him and started wiping the salt tracks off his face. Gently, without making it weird.

There was something devastating about it — this man who’d snapped ribs without blinking now trembling like a kicked dog on his own leather sofa.

Max didn’t push, didn’t ask for the full story. Not when he already knew the shape of it.

She found out. She looked at him like he was a stranger. And it broke him.

“Hurts,” Lando rasped eventually, voice thin and distant.

Max didn’t stop wiping. “I know.”

“She looked at me like I was something to run from.”

“You are,” Max said quietly, wringing out the cloth. “We both are. But we never were to her. That’s the difference.”

Lando’s mouth twisted like he might start crying again, but he didn’t. Not yet.

“Would’a told her. I was gonna tell her. I just… didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Max said, standing. He grabbed the throw blanket from the side arm of the couch and tossed it over him. “I did.”

Lando didn’t argue.

Max ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to. We’ll figure it the fuck out anyway.”

He helped Lando out of the leather jacket he still wore, peeled off his overpriced watch, tossed it aside. Instead, he got him a bottle of water and pushed it into his hands when Lando wouldn’t look at him.

“You’re gonna need that,” Max muttered.

Lando took it, and sipped silently. Max sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Max wrung out the cloth and pressed it to Lando’s jaw, wiping away the salt trails and blood where Lando had split his own lip on Max’s shoulder. He moved slowly, methodically — not like a soldier tending to a wound, but like a brother. A best friend. The only person who’d ever seen all of him and stayed anyway.

Lando didn’t look at him. Instead, he just stared past Max’s shoulder, those grey-green eyes far too hollow.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger,” he eventually murmured.

Max didn’t answer. He just kept wiping, moving to Lando’s temple, the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his throat.

“I thought if I could just keep it quiet, like, just long enough or somethin’— I could… fuck, I dunno. Be someone else? Be Liam, I s’pose.”

He laughed once. It was empty.

Max set the cloth down.

“You loved her,” he noted aloud, not like a question.

Lando’s voice cracked when he spoke again. 

“She loved me too,” he whispered, a sinner in a confessional. “She trusted me.”

“She trusted Liam,” Max corrected, his tone far too gentle and patient for the dagger those words sent straight through wherever his heart used to be.

“Same fucking thing.”

“No,” Max insisted, more firmly now. “S’not. You made up a name and let her build a whole world around it. That world broke the second she found out you weren’t real.”

Lando flinched, like Max had finally struck him, the impact tangible.

Max sighed and sat beside him, arms resting on his knees. “But you were real,” he added. “That’s the messed-up part. You were real with her. Every minute you gave her? That was you, not some… persona. Don’t rewrite that part.”

“I can’t get her out of my head.”

Max nodded. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Silence. 

Lando didn’t respond. His breathing was shallow again, too fast. Max didn’t miss it. He turned, sudden and sharp. “Lando.”

No response.

Max grabbed his wrist with a sense of urgency. “Lando. Look at me.”

Those eyes — glassy, gone — finally met his.

“Don’t do that thing. Don’t disappear.”

Lando didn’t argue, but the way his jaw clenched said enough.

Max didn’t let go. He lowered his voice, steady and cold now. “I swear to God, if you pull the same shit you did after Daniel—”

Lando’s face twisted. “That was different.”

“Bullshit.” Max’s grip tightened. “You locked yourself in that office with a gun and a bottle. You think I’ve forgotten that?”

Lando looked away. Shame flashed across his face like a scar re-opening.

“You try that again,” Max warned, “and I swear I’ll fucking kill you myself. That Daniel shit? That gun-in-your-mouth bullshit? I swear to God, Lando, I’ll kill you myself. You hear me?”

Lando blinked at him, then gave a weak, almost-scoff of a nod.

Max leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.

“I mean it,” Max insisted. “I’ll strangle you, bury your body, give a shitty eulogy and then cry about it for a week. Don’t test me.”

That got Lando’s attention.

He looked up, bloodshot eyes sharp with surprise. When he looked at Max, at the furrow of his brows and the intensity of his glare, all he could see was care.

Care that he didn’t deserve.

His voice was barely there. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Max didn’t blink. “Do I look like I care?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “I already lost Daniel. I’m sure as hell not losing you.”

A beat.

Then Lando nodded, just once.

Max nodded, got up, reached over and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, tossing it into Lando’s lap with a grunt.

“Now go to bed, dumbass. You look like shit.”

Lando gave a breath of a laugh — hollow, but real. Max stayed on the floor for a while longer, just in case, but didn’t say another word. 

Once Lando’s eyelids fluttered shut, his body slumping into the mold of the sofa as it succumbed to the exhaustion of everything he’d been through, Max stood and pulled the blanket over him like he used to after night jobs when they were teenagers — before the titles, before the guns, before the blood.

Then he sat in the armchair across the room and stayed, just like always. Because sometimes loving someone — really loving someone — means holding their broken pieces until they can do it themselves again.

Even if it means bleeding a little in the process.

a/n: sorry for the extra long wait and a bit of a shorter chapter than we've been used to lately. hopefully you all still accept this as a thank you for all your patience while i was out.