#fire-walk

Max dreams about pirates. 

She dreams about a pirate in particular, with eyes as blue as the Caribbean sea. Her hair, long and flowing in the wind like the sails above their heads, is as gold as the riches they’ve pilfered. She’s fearless and beautiful and Max knows without a doubt that she’d follow her captain anywhere.

When she opens her eyes, real life isn’t quite so beautiful -- the blues and golds and the sounds of the sea in her dreams are replaced with the pale yellow wall of her bedroom and the low hum of the city outside her window.

Her head hurts like a bitch, too. Slowly, she pieces together the why -- she got drunk as hell last night.

She got drunk and kissed Chloe last night.

Said Chloe -- decidedly not her Chloe, because the universe just loves being cruel to her -- sleeps soundly beside her right now.

Well, maybe under her would be a better way to put it, she realizes with a panic that’s only subdued thanks to her sleepiness -- Chloe’s arm is around her while her head rests halfway between her shoulder and her chest. This would be fine if she could move out of that position quickly and they could pretend like it never happened, but there’s no feasible way to do that without disturbing her friend.

She is, for all intents and purposes, trapped. 

It’s... stupidly fitting, actually. 

And they fit stupidly well together, too.

Instantly, Chloe thinks of several ways to do that–ones that have absolutely nothing to do with the zipper. She’s looking at it though. Or, rather, at the stretch of freckled skin it’s baring to her while open. At the indent of her girlfriend’s spine and at her shoulder blades.

When she comes up behind Max, Chloe holds the zipper in one hand, her other trailing her fingertips over exposed skin before she zips the dress over it. The process leaves more of her girlfriend’s back covered, but not all of it…

Chloe dips her head lower so she can begin kissing a path up from the bit of her shoulder that’s still uncovered, her fingers dancing along the fabric near her legs as her lips find their way up to Max’s neck. Next to her ear, she murmurs, breath hot and voice gravelly, “Let me know when you want me to zip up your dress.”

It felt so real.

Something inside her told her she should be protesting. Sadly, that something that spoke about sanity and not being late was naught but a mere whisper next to the yelling voice that compelled her to let her go on, to allow Chloe to kiss all her worries away, all the sadness... the grief.

And every kiss felt like it left a trail of fire all over her skin, marks that would never go away because she would remember. That, and every other moment. There was nothing she wanted more but to drown on it, letting herself being consumed by the fire. Damned be the black dress that separated her skin from Chloe’s, so rudely...

“Chloe,” she half murmured, half moaned, an arm making it’s way to grab her hair, an attempt less to guide her on her neck and more of feeling she has something to hold on, “I’m going to be late”, and as eyes closed, tears began to fall unceremoniously, “And since it’s your funeral, I don’t think you want that, don’t you?”

It's strange -- she grew up here, spent most of her life here, but it feels like a that was a different lifetime.

There are places in this town that are etched forever in her memory, but she hasn't had the heart to visit them yet. Her memories are, of course, what drew her here in the first place (she can go ahead and tell herself a million times it was Blackwell's photography program, but she'll always know in her heart that that was little more than an excuse), but at the same time, she's... scared of them, in a way. She's scared of tarnishing a good thing, and most importantly, of having to face her biggest mistake: not having kept in contact with her best friend.

It's like a game of tug of war -- at the same time that she's terrified, she feels something like an otherworldly call to just do it.

She's been playing that game for two weeks, and today, the side of her that wants to be done with it wins.

She packs up her camera and tells herself another little lie: that she's headed up to the lighthouse to take some nice shots she can show off once classes start for real. She tries not to linger on the thought, on the hope that maybe Chloe will be there, waiting for her at the spot they said they could always find each other at in another life, but it remains in the back of her head no matter how hard she tries to push it away.

It's a stupid wish, anyway. It's been five years and she doesn't even know if Chloe still lives here, let alone that she remembers or cares enough to be there.

On the hike up, it's not too hard to focus on other stuff -- the view is as beautiful as her memories would have her believe and late Summer means the wildlife is out and about. She can hear rustling coming from a little deeper in the woods and is about to investigate, when something bright blue in her peripheral vision steals her attention away.

She turns her head to look and sees that it's a butterfly -- a blue butterfly, bluer than any other she's ever seen before.

Entranced, Max starts walking towards it, camera in hand. The little critter doesn't seem phased by her presence at all -- it just goes about its life as normal, making a graceful landing on a yellow flower that contrasts beautifully with the color of its wings.

One Sony World Photography Award, coming right up, she thinks to herself as she snaps a picture.

Max spent the whole weekend in her dorm.

In fact, she ended up turning back to her homebody habits and spending a lot more time there, since she wasn’t hanging out with Chloe as much anymore.

Since she wasn’t hanging out with Chloe at all anymore.

Kate was the first to notice, and thus, the first one to learn about what had happened (not the whole story, of course -- Max just didn’t have the energy to explain the whole convoluted, awfully embarrassing thing. She just told Kate they broke up and was glad she didn’t ask any questions). The wonderful friend that she was, she began to stop by Max’s room more often, or sometimes invite her over to hers. 

It helped keep the bad thoughts away -- like how maybe she’d really, actually ruined her friendship with Chloe, because they hadn’t talked or even texted since that Saturday morning -- but there would always be a time when Max would be alone and everything would resurface and come flooding in. 

Her best friend of over 10 years was... really gone from her life. Again. 

Because of something stupid she did. Again.

It was hard. It was goddamn near unbearable, at times -- especially when reminders of her were literally everywhere in her room. The Polaroids up on her wall, the childhood pictures tucked away in drawers, even her guitar reminded her of Chloe -- of that one day when she’d sang her that song and had felt so full of hope. 

False hope. Of course.

At first, it just hurt to think she’d fucked up so monstrously badly this time that Chloe would really just completely ignore her for days, but then...

Then Joyce called her.

Max’s blood ran cold as she picked up her phone. 

Joyce explained that Chloe had left home three days ago with no explanations, not even a note. That she’d been acting strange the preceding days, too, her bad habit of sleeping entire days away resurfacing the same way it always did whenever things got really bad. That she wasn’t answering her calls or texts, and that Max was her last hope before she and David got the police involved.

Max told Joyce that maybe she was in California with Rachel. She had to be, right? It’d make sense. 

She hoped it was the case, but... why would she be ignoring Joyce’s calls? What had she done?

Needless to say, Max didn’t sleep at all that night.

continued from

Max rolled her eyes. “You can’t just say ‘I dare you’ to get me to do anything ever,” she argued, going for a sip from her glass, momentarily forgetting what was in it. It makes itself damn well known, though, as soon as the amber liquid comes in contact with her tastebuds. Max makes a face and shakes her head, the pirate eyepatch she wore on top of her head, kind of like a headband, falling back down. It makes her giggle again, though this time it’s a little more short-lived.

“I’m not that easy,” she concluded.

A year ago, Max would never get drunk like she is now.

She despises the taste of alcohol. Despises the smell. She’s deathly afraid of how stupid she may act under the influence. 

But the past couple of years have been insane -- after enduring some hardcore time-fuckery, a goddamn storm that wiped her hometown from the map and then didn’t, more deaths than she even knows how to count, leaving the love of her life behind in a timeline she’s pretty sure there’s no getting back to... fuck, she thinks she damn well earned herself a drink or two.

Or ten.

Yeah, ten’s more like it. 

Following a Rachel outburst that may or may not have ended her and Chloe’s relationship (they fight a lot, so it’s hard to know if it’s really over or just temporarily over), Chloe had pulled out a bottle of vodka from the cupboard and somehow roped Max into sharing it with her. 

They’ve gone through a few of the stages of drunkenness: there’s been music blaring from the TV speakers and getting furniture out of the way so they can dance like crazy idiots, there’s been prank-calling and even a failed attempt to cook something. 

Now, though, they’re tired and miserable and Chloe’s telling Max about something or other that happened with her and Rachel. Max is only half listening, but she doesn’t need the full context to know that it’s largely just complaining -- Chloe’s waving the near-empty bottle around, gesturing widely; Max’s vision is blurry but she thinks she can see the telltale glint of tears in her friend’s blue eyes. 

Beautiful, ocean-blue eyes that... goddamn, she loves more than anything in this entire world. 

Either the best or the worst idea ever pops into Max’s mind. 

She could kiss her. It’d stop her talking about Rachel and thinking about her and suffering so damn much because of her, hopefully.

In a matter of seconds, everything Max has been thinking about vanishes from her mind and that’s the only thing left. Kiss her, damn it. Do it. Just fucking do it. You can rewind it it goes badly, anyway...

Fuck, it’s so loud. 

She wants it so bad. 

Max feels like a spectator, rather than the protagonist in this insane display of bad judgement, as she watches her hand move towards Chloe and snatch the bottle away. She sets it down on the floor by the sofa and shifts closer, tongue swiping over her own lips. God, her heart feels like it might explode as she guides her hand to Chloe’s cheek, touching soft fingertips to even softer skin. 

She feels just like she remembered -- just like her Chloe. It’s déjà-vu mixed together with the nerves that come along with doing something for the first time ever; Max’s fingers tremble a little as she considers retreating, but she’s already this far in, she might as well go all the way. 

So she does. 

Always take the shot.

The sting of a needle, then nothing. Darkness.

She opens her eyes again to the polar opposite -- so much light that her eyes hurt. Camera flashes, and the low, distant rumble of a man’s voice. Mr. Jefferson’s.

“Chloe,” she weakly calls, and gets a scoff in response. She blinks and there she is, lying on the ground with a bullet lodged in her skull.

“Oh, yeah.” Jefferson carefully puts his camera down and starts to move towards Chloe’s lifeless body. “She told me to give you this.” Not quite so carefully, he removes her bullet necklace (Max flinches at the dull sound Chloe’s head makes as it hits the floor) and puts it on her. Looking down, Max sees it’s covered in blood. Chloe’s blood.

“No!” She yells, writhing as she tries -- fruitlessly -- to rid herself of the restraints around her wrists. She’s crying, warm tears streaming down freckled cheeks and mixing with cold sweat. 

It takes a moment for her to realize that she’s not in the Dark Room anymore. She’s in her room, at home, in Seattle, and it’s Chloe’s hands restraining her as opposed to duct tape -- probably just trying to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. 

“I’m s--I’m sorry,” she stammers, chest rising and falling violently as she slowly comes to her senses. Without thinking, Max reaches out with her hand and yanks Chloe’s beanie off her head, checking for a bullet hole on her forehead. Of course it’s not there, you idiot, she internally berates herself, do you think she’d be talking to you if she had been shot in the head?

“You’re... okay?” It’s both a question and a statement. Max throws both arms around the other girl and squeezes her tight against her body until she can feel her breathing along with her.

[continued from]

Ryan once again managed to work his magic in convincing Vanessa to letting his little girl get her way. And just like when Max and Chloe were kids, Vanessa was a little mad for a little while (this time, she covered it up with concern, which was a fair enough reason. ‘We just want to keep our eye on you’, she’d said. Max promptly replied that she’d be under near-24-hour surveillance from Chloe, so she had nothing to worry about). 

Speaking of, Max and Chloe came to the mutual decision that maybe they should leave the reveal that they were together now for later, so that fact wouldn’t influence the Caulfields’ decision. Joyce, of course, would have to know, but Chloe assured Max there wouldn’t be a problem there. Unfortunately that meant David would know, too, but hopefully he wouldn’t flip his lid enough to put a damper on their plans.

Chloe had picked up her phone to call Joyce and let her know she was coming home and bringing Max, but the younger girl managed to convince her that maybe that was more the type of conversation you should have in person. So they made a compromise: Chloe’d drive Max to Blackwell, where she could get her things from her dorm, and then drop by the Two Whales to have what Max could only imagine would be one of the most difficult conversations of her life with her mother.

That was how Max found herself back in her dorm room a few hours later, having enlisted Kate’s help to pack up her stuff. It was a little disturbing, walking in to find her bed sheets bloodstained, from what she assumed had been a particularly nasty nosebleed, but Kate -- the angel that she was -- made sure to get that out of Max’s sight as soon as possible.