#signedkatia

3fs x reader ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟

ʚɞ ⸝⸝ WHEN MAX first tried to kiss you on a random night in junior year, the abruptness of the circumstances made you initially panic and unintentionally reject him. Faced with your feelings, you realized that night that you loved him, and determined to confess next week. But, your friendship of 10 years is irrevocably damaged when, on Monday morning, he introduces you to his new girlfriend of a day. For the first year after a decade, Max and you don't talk, and it seems fate has no intention of reviving what you've lost. Until, in senior year, Max accidentally slams his locker door into your face, sending your AP gov project flying, and the teacher forces you to redo it with his help.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ warnings : VERY long slowburn (worth it i swear trust me) , swearing , kissing

— 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 proved itself capable of the one thing nothing else could do: separate you and Max.

2nd grade had been witness to a budding friendship. 4th found you inseparable. 7th sealed your bond with a promise. 10th felt certain that, of all worldly impossibilities, your friendship ending was the most impossible.

But 11th was your ruiner. One weekend in junior year did what 10 combined years could not. It saw through the complete decimation of the fondest and most ardent of bonds. It did it so well, in fact, that it had been a year and some since you had so much as conversed with Max. Senior year found you the exact opposite of what had thrived heretofore.

The ruination of your friendship could be narrowed down to one, seemingly uneventful night, not halfway through December. Max was over for your annual watch of a Christmas Story, which you'd been planning and prepping a week in advance for with snacks, hot chocolate, candy canes, and Christmas decorations. As always, Max brought the marshmallows, and, like every year before, you sat on your couch before the TV, with cups in your hands and smiles on your faces, occupied in laughter and jokes.

Every adult, peer, friend, and teacher you had ever had plotted—whether secretly or openly—on the matrimony of the two of you at some point in your later lives. Everyone expected elementary school sweethearts out of you. You guys were just... too perfect together.

But, for all the expectancies of romance, you had never truly considered Max in that light. Of course you thought it could happen, and you wouldn't mind or object if it did, and you even pondered on the prospect of a life with him, but you were never forced to make a definitive answer on the subject and therefore, never really stressed about it.

Until, in a singular moment, a breath, a sigh after a bout of laughter, with your shoulders pressed together and the oh-so-familiar redolence of his cologne occupying your nose, you were forced to.

One moment, Max was looking at you, and you, him, as a fond friend might another fond friend. The next, he was looking at you as an ardent lover might another lover. Those sweet brown eyes softened wholly and his lips twitched expectantly. The curve of his nose threw shadows over his eyes, which seemed to struggle between your line of sight and your mouth, and his cologne grew palpable in the air between you the closer he leaned, so you could smell the breath of hot chocolate fanning over your face and see, closer than ever before, the beauty marks dusted about his skin.

Here was the question before you, so unmistakably clear that you could not possibly reason with it. Max was going to kiss you. But would you let him? You freaked out. In one singular daze of thought, your limbs froze in paralysis and your mind stuttered sporadically for an answer to this age-long question: did you love Max how others wanted you to? Would you kiss him? Would it ruin your friendship? What would become of the two of you? He gave you all of 10 seconds to decide the entire trajectory of your connection.

But 10 seconds wasn't enough. You turned your head and, in this one movement, left the question hanging limply between the two of you. Your cheeks were thoroughly flushed and hot and your hands shook beneath your thighs. What was this? What had he done? What had you done? You didn't think of how rejecting his kiss would make Max feel. Of course, it was undoubtedly awkward the entire night after that, but you were so caught up in your own thoughts that you had no mind to give to him.

You needed time. You had never considered this as a real possibility. That night, lying awake in bed, you spent hours simply tracing the familiar memory of his face in your mind and going over every emotion you had ever felt for him. When you had butterflies the entire night of the 8th grade dance as he kept to you, were those romantic butterflies, or friendly butterflies? When he got you flowers after your first boyfriend broke up with you and you noticed how handsome he had grown to be, was that completely platonic? That one time he put his hands on your waist while you were play fighting, did you blush because you loved him, or because it was funny?

The more you thought this over, the more anxious you grew. You wrung your sweaty hands on the comforter and licked your parched, pale lips nervously. Max. Max. Max.

"Max," you whispered to yourself. And the sound of his name on your tongue was so sweet, so lovely, so perfect. "Max." Again. "Max... Max..."

And you knew. You loved Max. You wanted to kiss him. You hadn't turned away because you didn't love him, but because you hadn't known you had. You were a fool. Of course you loved him. You had always loved him. His laugh, his smile, his eyes, his humor... you had loved him for so long, that you had gotten used to your own feelings, and had failed to notice them sooner.

You were bursting to tell him. It was a Friday, and you felt that it would be too sudden to show up to his house over the weekend to explain, so you decided that, the first thing Monday morning, you would find him in the school halls and confess.

It was with this plan in mind that you walked eagerly into school 3 days later. But Max was not in the cafeteria where you usually met, or in the library, where you could sometimes find him.

The first bell rang without any appearance from him. You checked everywhere, but nowhere was the smell of his cologne and the sound of his silly laugh, so that you felt fruitless in your attempts to look for him and gave up.

Perhaps he was out sick or something, or late... either way, you had begun walking to your first class alone and even pulled out your phone to ask him of his whereabouts, when you saw him.

Max was tall. His shaggy brown hair was unmistakable from where it was peeking up from out of a hubbub of heads ahead of you.

Here it was. How would he react when you told him? Would he scoop you into his arms and kiss you then and there, in the middle of the hallway? The thought exhilarated you. You would tell him and everything would click.

"Max! Max!" He didn't initially hear as you called his name, but, with struggle, you managed to cut close enough to him to catch his attention right as he rounded out of the hallway and into his first period class.

Your best friend of ten years turned around and seemed surprised in finding you there. His brown hair fell in that familiar way over his eyes, and his eyes softened in a way that they only did when they were looking at you. There was a girl at his side. You looked eagerly between the two of them, bursting to just confess.

"Y/N," Max drawled choppily, as if he was choking on your name, and looked with such an expression of wounded pain at you that you faltered and stopped smiling, wholly confused.

The girl, who you recognized as Ava, Max's ex-situationship, smiled kindly at you and cocked her head, unknowingly intercepting. "You must be Y/N! I've heard so much!"

"Hi," you breathed, still looking at Max for an answer to this confusion.

Again there was silence, and Max took the initiative to break it. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat and motioned to Ava. "You know Ava, Y/N. Her and I are... are dating."

At first, you thought you didn't hear him right. Dumbly, you looked between the two of them, and your lips subconsciously mouthed the word to yourself. "Dating." As soon as it clicked, you felt as if a bullet to the chest wouldn't have hurt nearly as much as did this here shock. "Dating," you said again, with barely the breath to say it.

In one moment, your hopes were shattered. Your heart ached with all the ill-used love for Max occupying it, and you could hear it palpitating in your ears. Don't cry. Don't cry. Tears threatened relevance and your head spun cruelly. Max, dating this girl? After he had almost kissed you? After you were so willing to give yourself over to him?

"Wow," was all you could say, and you forced a twitching smile onto your lips, turning to Ava. "You're in for it," you quipped hopelessly, and were happy to see that she didn't suspect you.

"Oh, yes," Ava laughed. "I know I am. But, don't worry. I'll take good care of him. He's off your hands."

Even though you didn't believe you could bear the sight of Max's face, your eyes were irresistibly pulled to him. His countenance was such as you would never forget. He looked at you with such awkward pain, as if you were nothing more than a stranger he felt bad for. You could see the whispers of disdain around his mouth. He appeared to be holding back from something.

Max reached out to you as a friend might a few times after that. He even asked if you were ignoring him, or mad at him for some reason. You weren't mad. It wasn't his fault he didn't love you, and that you had misinterpreted things wildly. But you could never look at him the same again. You could not pretend to be his friend or hide the wounds he had wrought you.

Maybe it was foolishness to draw back and away from the friendship, but, on top of not wanting to cause trouble for Ava, you yourself couldn't feign indifference on this matter and felt it would only hurt worse to try. You were far gone, even when he texted you "i miss you" at 4 am 5 months into their relationship, or after he broke up with Ava the summer of senior year.

For the first time in 10 years, Max and you went a week without speaking. Then a month. Then a year.

— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 miss Max. You watched his videos biweekly, and thought of him constantly, but you did not miss him.

When senior year started, you believed it would become easier to tell yourself this lie. You wouldn't have many classes with him, and you'd be so preoccupied with school... It was a fresh start of sorts! Sure, you pined over him endlessly the year before, but this was new! You did not miss Max.

You thought it could get better. You thought the new grade would allay the ever-present ache in your heart and tame the persistent love for him you tended quietly. But, senior year was not as kind as you thought it would be.

At first, it seemed promising. You only had one class with him: AP gov, period 5. Only one hour a day spent helplessly trying not to look at him and furtively drawing into yourself whenever he did. But this one hour a day proved itself more hellish than 3 classes everyday last year. Your ache was magnified in this one hour and renewed itself like a virus. This stranger that you knew everything about... this stranger that you understood better than yourself. This stranger whose side you'd been at when he first started his channel, and first hit 1,000. This stranger that you had to pretend was nothing more than that.

Still, you promised yourself that you would try. And you did try. So hard, in fact, that January of senior year found you still trying. You woke up every morning and tried. You got to school everyday and tried. Tried not to miss your friendship, or his laugh, or the way he'd say your name, or the shape of his lips. There was nothing more you wanted than to experience one more run to Sweet Frogs with him, or place bets on how many views his next video would get. Max and you were over. There was no hope of being friends with him, and the way he'd scrambled to Ava last year told you there was no hope of being anything more. All you could do was lie to yourself and pretend he didn't exist.

A project was a good way of going about this.

You were a nerd at heart. And there was nothing that excited you more than the intrigues of history and English. This project was perfect. When Mrs. Leveon first orally assigned the class an in-depth clay model of a functioning civil society and a paper on how your model proves itself a conducive and successful civilization compared to some of the most reputable present-day governments in 5th period AP gov in January, you were seized so in blissful exuberance that you momentarily forgot about all your troubles with Max.

Your two favorite things: writing, and history, and suddenly, you were teeming with ebullience and gazing ardently at Mrs. Leveon as if promising her then and there that you would make her proud.

Presentations were to take place a week from the initial day of assignation, and, being as excited as you were, after class you made sure to sign up to be the first. Not only was this an opportunity to nerd out, but it was an opportunity to hopefully abstract you from your own feelings as one might keep to labor or toil in the circumstance of necessary distraction.

And it proved successful. When you had such an intriguing obligation before you, you found that you looked up Max's channel significantly less, and thought about him, if not with less pain, then at least less often. In fact, you found that whenever you pored over something or emerged yourself in your interests, it was easy to relieve yourself from that burden of pain.

You worked up until the due date. The little time before first block of the morning of presentation found you perfecting your clay model in the cafeteria, bent over glue and tape and paint.

It was perfect. You decided to make it much more historical than the assignment required, adding medieval touches and architectural antiquities. You were never the craftiest of the bunch, but with such a masterpiece before you, you believed you very well might've passed.

You'd made sure to look nice that day, replacing your usual sweats for a cute jean mini skirt and polka dot top. Not because you'd be presenting in front of Max. It certainly had nothing to do with that. You just wanted to look nice. And you had spent so long on the project...

This presentation simply had to go well. You wiled away a week in preparation, and it was the most excited and productive you had felt in a while, since...

No matter. Not even Max could deter you from this.

The model was rather large. To get to your first class, in which you would be presenting, you had to balance the written-portion of the assignment on the clay and be careful not to drop anything on your way there. You had only to think of the look of blissful approval on Mrs. Leveon's face when she saw what you had been toiling over for a week before nerves were seizing you by the handful and palpitations picked up your heart.

It was in such incantations that you turned into the correct hallway. AP gov was the last door on the left, and the nearer you drew the more irrevocably you were seized by passion. The hall was emptying. You—

No sooner had you made it halfway down the little passageway then you were tumbling backwards with a hit straight to the forehead. Confusion sat unkindly beneath your eyelids as did the ruins of your little clay society all around you.

You hit the ground. Confounded, and with a head pounding and irritated, you gazed left and right and found that your civilization—which would receive such a good grade for its remarkable stability—was now in dilapidation. A hand found your throbbing brow bone and attempted to rub the pain away.

But... what had happened?

Looking upward, your eyes focused on an open locker and a boy's face. Ah... your ruiner. What were the chances that he had swung the door to his locker open right as you chanced on walking by? What were the chances he did so on this day of all days?

"Oh, gosh— Y/N, are you okay?" he scrambled, kneeling down before you and lightly seizing your arm. His voice was oddly familiar. And how did he know your name? As your eyes focused, a deadly pang ran straight through your blood.

Max.

You could cry of shame. Your project which you had toiled endlessly after was ruined, and on top of that, you'd embarrassed yourself in front of Max. Oh, God. Why did it have to be him? What bout of fate was out to get you? Oh, and he was so cute. Of course he was so cute, in his concerned, serious little manner. With his soft brown eyes, his angular nose, his care-free brow... Why? Why???

"Oh, gosh. I really didn't mean to— I'm so sorry—" the boy pleaded, and began helplessly picking up the pieces of your project for you.

You were so utterly ashamed that you could do nothing but shrug him off in your state of mortification and crawl around, collecting about you your bearings and your ruined masterpiece. His apologies rang incessantly in your ears, left ignored.

This was the first time in a year that you had spoken face to face. If you ever were to speak again—which you didn't believe was a possibility—you did not think that this would be the circumstance. His voice was as you remembered it. And why was he talking to you like you were just another student? But, were you not? Why was it so weird to hear him talk to you, not as your best friend, but as just another peer?

With the pieces of your project collected onto the base in your hands, you pushed yourself to a stand and bit your cheek. He was so nice. And he was being helpful, and concerned, and cute, and attempting to gather about him some clay, but you couldn't keep yourself from indignation. Of course he had to be the one to ruin your project.

"I'm sorry—" he tried again, flushing of shame as he got to a stand and placing some clay on the project "I can help you make a new one— please—"

"It's fine," you just barely uttered, cutting him off and forcefully pushing past him, never letting your eye meet his.

With tears of utter frustration threatening relevance, you made it into the safe haven of the classroom and took a clamorous seat at your desk, dropping the project by your feet and your backpack on top of it. Your peers all cast furtive, bothered glances at your noisy entrance, but so caught up were you in trying not to cry, that you barely noticed.

A few seconds after your arrival came Max, just before the bell, whose backpack was slung over one, broad shoulder and whose brown eye you caught upon entrance. His shaggy hair brushed his brows, which curled upward in concern, and in shame you blushed for letting a tear fall.

Upon the bell, and a few minutes into class, which students spent chattering away, showing off their projects, and which Max occupied himself in looking at you, Mrs. Leveon came in, dressed primly and decorously for the big day. She presently greeted the class and set her usual cup of tea on her desk.

"Now, shall we? We have so many lovely presentations, it seems, before us... I hope you're as excited as I am! Now..." her eyes sauntered to her desk, where a little pamphlet sat inscribed in names. "Who's up first?"

Before she could call your name, you stood, wishing to just get this over with. Tense and rigid, you grasped the hem of your skirt in your slick palms and curled up the fabric.

"Y/n! How intriguing!" Her eyes abstracted upward. "What have you for us?"

Tears choked your throat. What could you say, to help mitigate at least some of the shame wrought? "I... I don't have anything," you breathed, and uncontrolled, a few hot tears streaked your cheeks.

Mrs. Leveon stared blankly in return. "However do you mean?"

"I— broke— my project is... it's— broken. I broke it— on my way— I dropped it—"

"Mrs. Leveon, it's my fault." Presently the teacher's eyes diverted away from you and found another object. Max. You glared over at him and bit the inside of your lip.

Max stood as well. With much more confidence, and many less tears, he ran his palms down his jeans. "I... I broke her project."

Oh, God.

"I... I accidentally knocked her over, and the project broke on impact..."

In a desperate attempt to discredit his claim, and without sparing him a glance, you refuted quickly. "No, Mrs. Leveon... that's not... true. Thank you, Max, but— he's trying to take the blame for my own carelessness. On the way to school, when I was getting out of my car, I— I tripped— and—"

"No, it's really my fault, you don't have to vie for me—"

"I'm not trying to," you sent a look his way, "Mrs. Leveon—"

"Y/N," he almost pleaded, his eyes locked on you. "Why are you—"

"Mrs. Leveon—!"

"Both of you! Quiet!" The teacher cut in, perturbed by your rattling mess of language. "I don't need excuses. I don't do excuses. I also don't do arguing in my classroom. You both should know better, as I expect more from seniors. Max, since you seem so willing to help, you may help Y/N turn in a new project by Friday. Now. I wash my hands of this. Who's next?"

This. Was hell. Or at least something close adjacent. Without looking at Max, you slumped back into your seat and buried your hot cheeks into your propped up hands, focusing your teary eyes on your desk.

For the entire class, you assumed this position. Even when Max went up to present and frequently attempted to catch your eye. Even when you heard him whisper your name on his way back to his seat. As the hour passed, you felt your nerves slowly soothing, and your cheeks promptly cooling, and at some point you managed to lift your head and assume indifference until the bell rang for dismissal.

"Presentations will proceed next class!" Mrs. Leveon was sure to reiterate as everyone hurriedly packed their bags and scurried out.

Sluggishly, you drew yourself up out of your seat and kept your eyes locked on your backpack as you propped it and slung it over one shoulder. You were moving desperately slow, hoping Max would leave before you. But he did not. With the class near empty and the teacher sorting papers at the board, Max weaved through the multitude of desks and found yours easily.

Before he could even speak, you cut him off and looked up at him. You'd decided to be as cordial and indifferent as possible with him. "You didn't need to do that."

"But it was the truth—"

"No. I mean you shouldn't have done that," you uttered and bent over to pick up your project.

He seemed to struggle for an answer, as silence intruded rudely, and only managed upon your resurfacing. "You know, I don't mind helping you with your project. It's my fault it broke, so it's my responsibility..."

How he spoke to you now was so painfully different from how he spoke to you before. There was none of that carefree humor about him that you loved so much.

It almost stunned you. You forgot your own head when you looked into his eyes and noted their peculiar familiarity, and how much you had missed them. Your brain blanked and was filled incessantly with the smell, sound, thought, knowledge of him. Scrambling for something and with nothing else to say, you yielded gradually and pursed your lips.

"Are you free after school?"

— 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 easily expect to find you, at any given time, in the school's library. You often retreated there after hours to study or read or just relax. It often found you stressed, whether over tests, projects, or seminars, but none so excessively as that evening, where half your steps of the day alone could be attributed to the pacing you did to walk off your nerves. Under such circumstances, not even the library could offer refuge.

Naturally, under the extensive trepidation of knowing that Max could at any moment walk through the library doors and see you, you retreated into your mind. Your interests were the best way of easing your anxiety.

So, the first place you retreated into upon setting your stuff down at a table was the classics section. The librarian had told you that the British Library's replica of the original printed Pride and Prejudice copies had just been donated and it was for this replica you were looking for, scouring the various shelves, authors, and sections.

It worked well enough. So well in fact, that, as minutes elapsed, you failed to notice a certain someone's entrance and perusal until he accidentally caught your line of sight between the gaps of a book on the opposite side of the standalone shelf you were browsing. Startled, you started backward, and he smiled bashfully in greeting.

"Max, hi," you breathed, conversing through the books.

"What're you looking in here for?" Max questioned fleetingly, with his hands in his pockets and the beginnings of blush on his cheeks, and he looked about the shelves.

You cleared your throat and gathered about you your bearings so you were not completely dumbfounded before him. "A— a replica of the original copy of Pride and Prejudice. I heard it just came in, and I've been looking for it for the longest time. When I heard I just had to see... it has all three volumes and even a few letters Austen wrote to her family! But, I can't find it..."

While you were talking, Max's eye locked on a blue box and he reached over his head, pulling it from the shelf. "This?" He flashed it between the books and waited for your confirmation.

Upon seeing it, you excitedly yelped and abandoned your place, rounding the right side of the shelf onto his side and joining him where he stood, so that your shoulders bumped. "Oh, it really is it!" You squeaked, and took it from his hands. You struggled to open the box and, with flashing, exuberant eyes, you beheld the three volumes of the book in all their glory. "Can you believe this?!"

Max was looking down at the back of your head as you put the box into his hands and perused the first volume, beaming at such a display of authentic, familiar giddiness and tracing your figure with his eyes. His lips parted around the whisper of your name and his eyes softened extensively.

"Look, look," you angled the pages for him to see, "it even has all the printing errors! Jane Austen meant for this paragraph of dialogue to be split into two, but they printed it into one, and she was really, really pissed about it because it ruins the rest of the conversation— see?"

But, he was not looking at the book. The moment you glanced up to confirm whether he was in fact paying attention, you locked eyes with him and were immediately pinned under a most fond and passionate stare. His eyes were twinkling and burning all at once, and the pink of his lips parted to pass a breath. Max was very close. His cologne had stayed the same as it was for 10 years, which you only noticed now, and which made you nearly stumble back in surprise. In an instant, your smile of petulant exuberance dropped, and he sporadically, forcefully drew in a breath, as if it was most difficult—as if he was struggling—struggling to breathe, to hold back, to tame his mind. "You and Pride and Prejudice. Some things never change."

This reference back to your friendship made you blush excessively. All at once, you remembered nights of binging the 2005 adaptation together, of going to the movies for its 20th anniversary with him, of geeking to him about it... You looked back down, and, after a moment of silence, shut the volume with a thud and placed it into the box, which you then took from his hands and shut. Max cleared his throat and his hand fell to the nape of his neck.

"I'm sorry," you bit painfully, "I got carried away. Now that I've seen it, I think I can focus well enough."

Max's answer was not waited upon. You turned on your heel and made your way to the open hall used for seating and work.

He would not do this. You felt your wound reopening, and you would not let him wrench it agape. It had been so long since you even heard your name on Max's lips, and to hear him reminisce on your friendship was too painful. Could you even make it through this evening?

Well, you made it tolerably enough. Mainly because, as time elapsed and you and him worked separately and quietly, you felt yourself easing a bit into your work and finding comfort in the stressless energy between you. You worked on painting and he, clay figures, which took him no less than forever, as his sculpting skills were not exactly exceptional. The more time you spent in each other's presence, the more reminiscent was it of late nights in his room, quietly sitting together and working on homework or thinking separately. It was always so nice to just sit with Max. How you missed it. That evening rather soothed the ache for him inside of you by allowing you to relive the best moments of your friendship.

It became so easy around him, that, near the end, though still tense, while working over the project, you even mutually began to agree on how thoroughly AP gov bored the two of you, and how Tyler Fritz ruined the class entirely with his antics. He asked you about your mother—who still talked about Max daily—and you, his... about your three cats and if Daisy was still as chubby as she was a year ago... The conversations were few and far between, but they still helped in allaying the environment.

At the very end, as you two were packing up and pushing in your chairs with a quarter to 8 on the clock, Max suddenly seemed to remember something, and, setting his backpack on the table, he slid the zipper and pulled a bottle out.

"Compensation for being late here today. And, also, the reason I was late," he chirped, and proffered the drink in his outstretched hand.

With gaping eyes, you took it from him and stared between him and the object. Your favorite flavor of vitamin water. He had remembered your favorite flavor of vitamin water from a year ago, and even went out of his way to buy it for you.

"I... I don't know if you still like it," Max quickly defended, suddenly meek as he saw you hesitate. "But, at some point... well... I— I thought—"

"Some things really do never change," you intercepted, easing his momentary bout of stress.

That night, sometime between brushing your teeth and pulling your pajama pants on, you sauntered over to your desk, where the empty bottle of vitamin water rested, and, carefully, you slipped into your chair. Your computer booted up and within minutes you were scrolling Max's channel and pulling your knees to your chest, smiling stupidly at his jokes and tracing his face with your eyes. Max. Your best friend. Who you spoke to the entire night as if a stranger making small talk, but who had remembered the drink you bought a year ago every time the two of you drove to the store together, and had gotten it for you. Looking at his channel was so... odd. The jokes he made were so familiar, and so him, and so often repeated between the two of you, and his laugh you could hear in your dreams, and his smile was engraved beneath your lids... and yet...

Something changed. After a year of not speaking, one day had managed to bring you two together. You didn't dare let yourself think that this could mean something prospectively, but, you turned the idea over and over again in your mind as you gave way to abysmal sleep.

— "𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔... throw my figures out...?!"

Things were different. It was the second day of Max's help— a Wednesday, and, in one day, things had become so... different.

It was easy to be with Max, not only because of his humor, but because you guys used to be best friends. You knew everything about one another. It felt like you guys just hadn't seen each other for a long time, but were recently reunited, and all this in one day. Things were, of course, not exactly perfect, but were certainly somewhere around where they had been one year ago, and that was a step.

Before class that morning he (accidentally???) bumped into you and ended up walking you to first block. The entire way you talked about how you were absolutely cooked for your upcoming math test and how he'd just failed his. Then, while he had 2nd lunch and you were stuck in math, he snuck you a snack and some apple slices into your class for you. Last block he texted and told you that the library was closed but that he'd be home alone and you were free to come whenever after school, which resulted in a long conversation all throughout English about the La La Land in concert you had gone to see last month and how sucky his theology class was.

You supposed that last night had just been waiting to happen. It was waiting to break the ice, and it was successful in doing so.

"I had to..."

You were getting no where with this project. Yesterday brought you about halfway, but now, with Max sitting against the door and you sitting on the edge of his bed, talking about the book you just finished, you were getting nowhere. Until Max chanced to notice the severe lack of clay figures scattered about your project on the ground.

"They were perfect—!" He breathed with a laugh.

"They were airheads!" You giggled defensively, and sat up. "And, I didn't throw them out... I just put them away..."

"Your project is gonna get a bad score without them, mark my words," Max insisted over the bedpost. "Then you'll be sorry."

"No, because I'm going to make better ones." You slid off the mattress and scooted over to the project, taking the lid off the clay container and scooping some out. Max shuffled over from his place by the door and sat close enough so that your knees were brushing. "Take notes."

You began kneading the soft dough into a ball, and he scooped out his own and followed. Carefully, you molded a head out of the clay, and then limbs, and a torso... though he tried, Max's ended up looking exactly as it had the day before... an airhead—corpulent, short, and flattened.

You couldn't keep from laughing as you compared the two, putting them up beside one another, and though Max thoroughly enjoyed hearing your laughter, he was not having it.

"0/10 notes. I learned nothing."

"That's unfair. I think I deserve a higher score just because you owe me after destroying my project."

"Yea? Well you owe me for throwing out my figures," Max demanded in return, lifting his eyebrows at you and holding your line of sight with a mocking stare. "I'm leaving a bad review on yelp."

Another successful night. You were nearly done with the entire thing, and... and Max was... and you guys were... talking and it was all so sudden! So... abrupt! One moment you would've never dreamed you'd speak to him again, and now he was walking you to your car, texting and making sure you got home safe! Again you stayed up watching his videos and again you fell asleep with the thought of him quietly festering. But... what was this? And what did this mean? And what were you hoping and expecting out of this, and would you be disappointed? How did he feel? What would come out of this? Would you stop talking completely once you weren't obligated to work on this together? Did you... want that?

Thursday was no different. First period AP gov consisted of you trying not to look at him for completely different reasons than before. Lunch found you reading a book and laying outside in the grass with him and a few other friends, and in study hall you accidentally bumped into each other in the library and ended up perusing the shelves together the whole block.

It wasn't unusual to see him around like that, but it was unusual to actually converse and socialize with one another.

Before study hall was over, you mutually agreed for him to come over to yours and finish it up then.

This was the last day before presentation, and the project was tolerably ready. For some reason, you were extra nervous to see Max that evening, and, after school, you wiled away the in-between time in watching his channel.

You had been perusing it a lot more recently. You had always watched it frequently, but it was now a twice-a-day type of thing. Being around him more made you miss the reality of your friendship more, and looking at Max through the lens of youtube helped give perspective to the circumstance and bridle the feelings.

So, when you saw Max arrive in his car through your window, you were still propped up in your chair, halfway through a FNaF fangame play-through. Leaving your computer, you sat down by the project and got to working.

He kept his promise, and, not an hour after school ended, he was pushing your bedroom door open with a beaming smile and a six-pack of vitamin water in hand.

"I'm not too early, right?" He cocked his head and shuffled in, placing the waters by the project with a thud and taking a seat on the opposite side of the cardboard.

You shook your head with a smile and motioned to the drinks, "you came prepared, I see? Is a six-pack necessary?"

"You're not complaining, are you? Because, I like this flavor too...."

"No, I'm not complaining," you said quickly, and put your hand on the bottles to stop him from sneakily grabbing them. "Thank you, Max."

Not exactly the reaction you were expecting, but, the boy across from you abruptly flushed, and his mouth carefully shaped the word "Max", again. He wiped his face with his arm to hide it, but you could see the whispers of redness on his ears. "We'll— we'll need them... for the last stretch."

Not exactly noticing his sudden bashfulness due to your own preoccupation in your thoughts, you perked up. "Oh, that reminds me. I'm pretty sure my mom bought chocolate fudge brownie ice cream last night for us. Let me go check."

In reality, knowing that Max and you would again be meeting, you had gone to the convenience store around the corner late last night and bought both of your favorite ice cream of 10 years just to be prepared, and it was for this that you went downstairs. Slipping past your mom's incessant and unending questions about Max and how it was going, you grabbed two pints from the freezer and 2 spoons, running back upstairs.

Upon your reentering, you found Max not on the floor where you left him, but leaning over your desk. When he heard your entrance he turned around and held up the miniature of Elizabeth Bennet. "They came," he smiled, and motioned to Mr. Darcy.

"They did! Just this morning." You had told Max about the Pride and Prejudice funko pops coming in the mail the day before, which you were now referring to. "And this, too," you added lifting the pints.

Max smiled cheekily and put the miniature back, his back to you as he looked down at them. "Did they meet your expectations?"

Sauntering over to his side, you put the ice cream down by your keyboard and looked over at him as he nervously toyed with the figurines. "Anything Pride and Prejudice-themed meets my expectations," you quipped and sent him a smile as he glanced over at you.

Max seemed uncharacteristically nervous. Like that Tuesday when he first broke your project. He turned over to you and drew in a breath. "Y/N, I've been meaning to say. Well, I..." his hand flexed uncontrollably and he shifted on his feet, not knowing how to act. Your heart leaped. "There's..."

In an attempt to recline onto your desk, he placed his hand on the wood and his finger hit the keyboard, booting the computer to life. This would be no problem, if not for the screen's contents. Instead of loading to a password page, or a new tab, it loaded directly onto Max's unclosed Youtube page, and both of you simultaneously turned to look at it.

Oh, God. The initial shock was nothing compared to the following, utter shame. Max, astonished, drew out a shaky breath and started back from the desk, and you flew forward. "I—" shaking, you took the mouse and made a desperate attempt to get rid of the tab, but it was all too much. Such embarrassment. He had been witness to you stalking his page 2 days into re-knowing one another, and in such a manner... right after he was about to say something evidently important! You couldn't believe this. You didn't know what to feel but embarrassment. You wanted—needed Max to leave. Now. You could not bear to sit through this with him.

"Y/N," Max began, noticing your tremor and placing a hand on your arm.

"No— oh, God. Please, leave, Max," you pleaded, finally managing to close the tab and now shamefully trying to usher him out. "Leave, please."

"What? Y/N," Max exclaimed, not seeming to be fazed by the youtube, but not willing to leave.

"No. Max, leave. Now," you pointed to the door, biting the inside of your cheek until you nearly drew blood. Your emotions were on high, and you couldn't deal with his presence. "Max, please."

"Y/N," he tried again as you actively began forcing him out.

"Max, leave! Just, please!"

"But I really don't mind—!"

The door shut in his face and muffled his voice.

"Y/N! Please!"

You slumped against the other side and hung your head limply between your knees, listening to him plead with you for five long minutes, his words barely coherent and his cologne seeping through the cracks of the door endlessly, until he knew you would not respond or open it, and finally, finally gave up, sluggishly retreating.

You began crying. Not out of shame. Not out of embarrassment. Not because Max had just caught you stalking him. But because you realized the extent of your delusion.

You had been a fool. Nothing but a fool, to convince yourself that somehow your connection with him could work out again. Max seeing his page on your computer was not what you were upset about, it was what led you to realize the extent of your delusion in regards to your connection with him. How could you convince yourself that everything was fixable, after it had been, not only broken beyond compare, but had grown rusty and fragile over a year?

What had you been thinking? You and Max had stopped talking for 13 months, and in 2 days you had convinced yourself that it could work out. What would happen when your love for him became stronger than your ability to hide it, as you were sure it would, because you still. Loved. Max. What would happen when the sentiments of the pain he'd caused you came back to haunt you and rendered you again unable to be his friend? It had been a year since he did that to you on that December day with Ava, and you still felt the same, insurmountable pain as you did in that very moment. What would happen when that pain became unbearable?

Max's texts were left ignored the whole night. You heard each of them ring from under the covers, up until 2 am, but you did not dare look at the screen to see what he was saying. You had two blissful days of hope, fooling yourself that this could work. You would not let yourself be fooled again.

— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 dress up nicely for the presentation. You barely even finished. You walked into AP gov period 5, third block the exact opposite of what you'd been on Monday morning: unprepared, indifferent, and meek.

Somehow you had managed to get through your first 2 classes of the day. You had not seen Max. You had avoided him, hid in the bathroom like a kid.

You could not avoid him forever, though. The first thing you saw upon walking into AP gov, period 3, were Max's brown eyes, waiting for you at the doorframe. They latched on, and you pretended not to have seen them. Not to have noticed. Beelining towards your desk and putting your things down, the second thing you saw was a vitamin water on your desk and a little piece of paper wedged beneath it.

You slid into your chair, and, without sparing a glance his way, opened the note and read the first few words.

If this is about what was on your computer...

You crumpled the note. No. No, it was so. Much. Worse. Oh, Max. What would be different if you had only kissed him, instead of turning your head? What would be different if you hadn't waited 3 days to confess, but had instead went straight to his house? Oh, Max. What would be different if you hadn't allowed yourself to simper and wimp?

Everything conducted itself normally, despite nothing be normal for you. As usual, Mrs. Leveon walked in with her cup and placed it on her desk with her various greetings and smiles and pencil skirts. Then she checked her little pamphlet for names and singled you out.

"Y/N?" She called, glancing upward and smiling at you. "I trust you're ready?"

"Yes, I am," you choked, standing up and sliding out of your desk. Almost robotically, you leaned down and grabbed the cardboard model, sauntering to the front and standing before the board. Don't cry, Y/N. You mustn't cry.

You cleared your throat. You didn't trust yourself to not look at Max, so you just stared at the board on the opposite side of the classroom to make sure you did not. You could feel his eyes on you. Mechanically, you placed your model on the table in front of you and turned it so the class could see. With shaking hands and a shaking voice, you began pointing to the various structures and blabbing. You didn't know what you said or why, or how it related to the topic, but you said it as if on autopilot. Without having rehearsed it, or practiced, or memorized. You just talked.

A few questions came in—strictly for participation points—and those, too, were not spared. The presentation passed as if in one singular daze—a miracle, as the very feet below you threatened collapse at any given moment.

But you did it. Somehow, you did it. With shaking legs, you walked back to your desk and slid in, and for the rest of the class completely burrowed into yourself. You needed to get out of here. Just knowing Max was a few seats beside you... just feeling his eyes on you. God, you needed to get out.

As soon as the dismissal bell rang, you did exactly that. With record speed you slung your backpack on and discarded your presentation for good, beelining down the hallway and into Main Street. You couldn't even be in the same school with him. You had to go home and cry into your pillow or something. Anything but this.

The hallway was one singular hubbub of passing students. You pushed through endless backpacks and endless voices until you eventually clawed your way into open air and found yourself—most graciously—at the doors. Gratefully, you stepped out into the open air and relished in the breeze around you, working wonders on your sporadic nerves.

Your car was parked in the easternmost parking lot. You pulled your keys out of your pocket and began fumbling to unlock it, even though you were ways away, when you were unexpectedly stopped in your tracks.

"Y/N—"

You whirled around. Max. There he was, pushing out of the doors. His shaggy brown hair broke over his eyes and his lips twitched convulsively, painfully as he desperately caught up with you, and, before you could react, his backpack fell onto the grass by the sidewalk and his face was pressed into your abdomen. Max, with stuttering steps, was on his knees before you, his hands on either side of your hips and twisted into the fabric of your sweatpants.

"Max—" you breathed in shock, attempting to pull back, but his strong hands held you closer to his face.

"Fight with me. Yell at me. Slap me. Hate me, Y/N," he begged, his teary, red eyes looking up from your abdomen. "But please. Don't leave me."

"What are you doing?" You demanded, attempting to pull his hand up. But he shook his head and breathed—sobbed—sporadically into your skin.

"You left me once. You left me for an entire year. And every day has been torment. Every day has been hell. Do you know the extent of the despair I have felt every hour without you? Fuck, I can't live without you, Y/N. Not for another moment. I can't bear to breathe if it is not your air. You consume me. Entirely. So hate me, fight me, slap me. But please. Don't leave."

The sky was breaking over in clouds, and sheaths of rain yielded to the gray tufts in aggravated torrents of downpour.

You didn't know what to say, how to react. All you could do was stare down at him like he had two heads and muster up all your fleeting strength to scavenge your mind for an answer. Your head was spinning, and your heart was pounding in your ears and in your vision. Rain soaked you and fell cinematically over Max's handsome face, mixing somberly with his hot tears and dripping down his neck.

But the only emotion left for you to feel was frustration. It was with this that you bitterly shook your head and forcefully wrenched his hands off of you, stumbling backwards. You, too, became victim of tears as you yelled over the rain. "No. No, you can't do that, Max. You can't do that to me. That's unfair. You're being mean," you sobbed.

Max jumped to his feet, towering over you now, and stumbled forward, desperately trying to feel you again.

"No," you choked again, shaking your head. "Not after what you did to me. You're being selfish. You hurt me, Max. You hurt me!" now you were screaming, "3 days after we almost kissed! Do you think I've forgotten about that? It didn't even take you a week to move on from me. 3 fucking days, and you found some girl to date! After I—"

"No, no," Max sobbed desperately, shaking convulsively. "No, that's not— don't do that— don't say that."

"Say what! I was ready to confess to you, Max. I was ready to give myself over to you. And I was going to do it. And then—! And then that girl— and you're dating her—" you were sobbing uncontrollably.

"I didn't know," he pleaded, pushing his wet, soaking hair back over his head. "How was I supposed to know how you felt, Y/N, when for 5 years I had been trying fruitlessly to show you how passionately I felt about you, with nothing to suggest the slightest encouragement!? How was I supposed to know how you felt when you rejected my kiss, and every other advance I made to you ever before!?"

"By asking me, dipshit! You never asked! How could you know if you never asked me! You... you..." you began pointing your finger into his chest and pushing him backward, "you gave me 10 seconds, in that almost-kiss, to decide the entire trajectory of our friendship, and when I panicked and unintentionally rejected you, instead of just fucking asking, you bet everything on that one night! And then you went off... and that girl..."

Max shook his head and looked away, apparently not liking this part. "I never loved Ava. Never. Not even when I was talking to her while we were still friends. I never loved Ava because it was only ever you! And I only began dating her, because... because I was convinced that you didn't like me, and I felt that... I thought that I at least deserved to feel loved... if not from you, then from someone else," he sobbed, "but it was wrong... and... and..."

You both went silent, staring at each other through the cover of rain. In that moment, you didn't have to say anything to each other. It clicked simultaneously to both of you how much had gone wrong, and how much had failed to be communicated. You'd lost a year because you refused to talk. Max's cheeks were hot and red. His mouth was twitching around his words and his eyes were burning in fiery, passionate love and desperation. You could see his shoulders convulse, just as your entire body was.

He was the first to break the silence. With flashing irises and a shaky, broken voice, just barely audible over the loud rain, he managed. "Do you love me?"

You licked your lips and shook your head, lowering your chin. "I loved you, Max."

He smiled painfully. "But do you love me?"

There was silence again. Your entire being was screaming yes. It was the most simple question and the most simple answer. Yes. Yes. Yes. But, your mouth froze around the word the same way you froze when he tried to kiss you, this time, not from hesitation, but because you were so seized with passion, that your mouth could not possibly convey it correctly.

But it was no matter. He knew. Max always knew. From one look, one breath, on sigh, one movement, Max knew. He knew you so well.

In one, stumbling step, your best friend of 10 years covered the short distance between you and pulled you desperately onto his lips, holding you by the waist, then the hips, then the neck, then the thighs. His teeth clashed passionately, hungrily, with yours, a mix of saliva, rainwater, and salty tears riding the breath between you. It was a kiss that had waited ten years to happen. It was a kiss that would wait 10 more.

"Yes," you whimpered in the short space of time where Max pulled away to angle his head the other way and delve his tongue into the cavity of your mouth. "Yes. Yes, yes, yes. I... love you... Max..."

"Fuck," he whispered against your teeth, and his desperate mouth, working on its own, drunken accord captured your bottom lip. "Fuck— you drive me crazy—"

You had never seen Max in such a state of ardent hopelessness. His eyes were burning, red with love-sickness and locked on your lips each time he pulled away for breath and his own mouth couldn't have them. You could feel the threshold of his skin thrumming beneath his wet shirt, clinging to his chest, and the heat and desperation riding on his tongue as it explored yours. He looked drunk on your lips, so far gone that he couldn't even make coherent sentences, and was desperately blabbering into your mouth, intoxicated.

Your hands tangled into his wet hair and you breathed in the scent of his lovely, musky cologne. Let him be drunk on you. You were drunk on him. This was what you had missed junior year, and now, nothing could keep you from an endless supply senior year.

"Fuck," Max whimpered lowly, and his hands found your waist and pulled you against his body. "If it's the last thing I do, Y/N. I'll make up for 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑."

,,

࣪ ׅ 𐔌ㅤ signed,

katia ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟

3fs x reader ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟

ʚɞ ⸝⸝ MAX HAS been trying to bag a date with you since 10th grade, but as you're a bit of a Kat Stratford—independent, outcasted, and opinionated—he is always met with rejection. You're sick of his persistence and loyalty to you, so when you two are paired for a project, you determine to attempt to set him up with Lacy Schuler, a snarky mean girl who's been dogging after you for "stealing" Max, in hopes of finally getting him off your back...

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ warnings : swearing ,, suggestive ending ,, long but not a slowburn and worth itttttt ,, inspired by wicked king

— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓, considering your circumstances, that you had an unalienable right to dislike Max.

What that right was, you yourself did not know. There was nothing he had done exactly to entice such longstanding aversion towards him in you, except, perhaps, endlessly pursuing you, but, other than that, Max had infamous notoriety for his humor, his generosity, the ease of simple friendship which was endowed in him...

Still. How favorable he posed himself mattered little to you. You disliked him all the same.

At first, when you'd transferred to your present school in 10th grade and he first saw you, the rather direct way he had of coming up to you and promptly begging to take you on a date was nothing but amusing.

It's not that you had any particular aversion towards dating, but that, as a celebrated "witch" or "radical brute",—the title was interchangeable, and quite accepted by yourself—dating was, to you, a hindrance—for lack of a better word. It was never something you considered yourself fit for, and, try as you might, you could not picture yourself as a girlfriend. You were yourself a genre of Kat Stratford: independent, obstinate, loud, and opinionated.

Without knowing your name that 10th grade day, and breaking from his friends in the hallway, he immediately found you behind your locker and, struck with a look of pure adoration, the first ever words he said to you were as such: "have you ever seen Amadeus?"

Your rejection to watch it with him a few tries later did not deter him. In fact, his countenance was seized in what seemed to be a higher level of eagerness and passion when you did, and he whispered: "that's okay, Mozart was a brute anyways. What about Peeping Tom?"

It would be fine if it ended there. But Max didn't stop. It was as if being the schools' most outspoken, stubborn, and non-conformational pupil wasn't enough.

For him, it was absolutely crucial to get just one chance with you. He was never a half-loving type of guy. When he loved, he loved fully, and persistently. And he loved you. Nothing, to him, was comparable to such a feat as simply being liked by you. He was determined for it to be so, and tried practically every month.

And he was so charming, not at all constant in the creepy, pathetic way, that if you yourself were not so impervious in your desire to stay single, you would've folded. He was easy, and gentle, and kind, and loyal, and ready to worship the ground you walked on...

But... you just didn't know why he tried with you. Never before had a guy exactly thrown himself at your feet, "witch" as you were, so you just attributed it to his fancy.

Each new attempt he made—which was practically biweekly—you slowly hated him more, until you full-on despised him by 12th grade. He was incredibly open about it, not at all ashamed. The entire school knew that Max was irrevocably in love with Y/N "heinous bitch" L/N. And your said reputation of misandry and crudeness was further confirmed by your unwavering aversion for him, made unmistakably clear.

But, while you didn't like Max, it was easy for others to faun over him.

Being somewhat of an outcast naturally meant having innermost counterparts, who took great pleasure in gossiping cruelly about you. You did not mind them—being indifferent to the opinions of others—but any chance you got to get them off your back was sought after.

For 2 years you had been dogged about by their "headmistress", Lacy Schuler, for being Max's "muse". Not like it was within your scope of doing, but she liked having a target to go after, especially if that target was you. And liking Max as she did meant having a perfect motive for clowning you.

So, your hatred for Max was intensified. If he could just leave you alone, you surmised that everything unpleasant in your life would be easily eradicated. But he was determined to make your life hell.

"It won't be that bad," hummed your friend as she picked limply at her bread. "It's just one day."

Sitting across from her at the lunch table, with your head in your hands and your stomach in cruel knots, you couldn't think of anything worse than having to work with Max on your AP seminar project.

From the exact moment Ms. Maddens paired your names together in her boisterous tenor tone, you slumped into your chair and kept yourself from yelling in frustration. Alone with Max. You knew he would use this to his advantage.

Then, with his charming, bashful smiles and red cheeks, his immediacy in finding you right after class and asking where you wanted to meet... you knew that foolish, burning look in his eyes when they found you so well that you were practically friends with it.

"One day..." you clamped down on your cheek and rubbed your eyes. "One day..."

"Hey, look at it like this," Ivy perked, tossing the crust into her mouth and speaking loudly around it. She readjusted in her seat and swallowed, "you know Lacy Schuler..."

"Do I now?" you groaned and shook your head. Being alone with Max in the cafe down the street meant much more attention from her, even if it was solely for academic purposes.

"And how pathetically she likes Max," Ivy giggled into her hand. "Well, is not this the perfect opportunity to get him off your back?"

You retracted your head from your hands and looked dumbly over at her, posing an inquisitive brow. "I've tried that."

"Well, can't you just... stress how pretty Lacy is... and how perfect they'd be together? Try setting them up. I'm sure it'll toot his horn," Ivy mocked jokingly, "I mean, Lacy's not known for her brain is she?"

At first, you wanted to refute, but you could find no wrong in her statement. Lacy was incredibly pretty... and if Max knew that he was sought after by the school's prettiest girl, perhaps he would abandon "Y/N the witch" once and for all and terminate all your worldly problems. You pursed your lips and toyed with your necklaces.

"Give him advice on how to shoot his shot... Tell him what to do... he'll totally flip!"

"You think so?" you chirped with a small smile, and narrowed your eyes.

"Oh, are you kidding? You underestimate the prowess of teenage boys."

— 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 been expecting?

That Max would walk through the cafe's doors and immediately try it with you, in his charming, love-struck way? That he would relish in the thought that this was almost like a date, sitting across from one another, sipping on the smoothies he bought without your knowing?

Well, yes. But, to be fair, that was absolutely something he would do. And though Max's affections to you were still made blatant and unchanged, and there posed no difference in that eager way he had of speaking to you, he had not tried you once.

Not one quip about the circumstances, not one eager attempt to beg of you more time...

You were ready to reiterate what you did every time: "lay off, Max. You know my answer."

And you were ready to hear a whispered: "any answer from you is fine with me," through a twitching grin.

But he didn't. It was very strange.

Well, he still bought you the smoothies, and you frequently caught yourself in his line of vision whenever you glanced up from the project... but, other than that, nothing to recommend him to you. He acted exactly the same, with his charm, his jokes, his flush, but at least kept himself from that.

It really unnerved you. For two years now you heard the same thing from him every time you saw him, but now? It made you uncharacteristically nervous.

You spent all that time together attempting to build the courage to throw Lacy Schuler in his face, when, before, you were ready to shove it down his throat at first sighting. Now, you just couldn't bring yourself to propose it.

And what was this? Were you seriously nervous in front of Max?

Not at first you weren't. Max, in his loose sweats and red hoodie, walked in balancing chocolate and strawberry smoothies alongside his binder that he'd acquired from the front counter and, with that familiar, cheeky grin about his lips, placed a glass before you, sliding in the booth across from you and cocking his head.

When he smiled at you like that, and spoke with you as he did, it was easy to scowl at him and curl your lip. But, as time wiled and the likelihood of his proposal making an appearance lessened significantly, you found the familiar sense of exasperation you felt around him easing into queasiness, until you had passed 3 hours at closing in the cafe without ever having acquired the courage to mention Lacy.

You offered to finish the last of the project on your own—as you were the only one of the two who'd brought your bag—and began presently storing it away in your duffel, rushing to get out before the waitress started pushing you out the door.

"Let me walk you to your car," Max proposed, reclining with his thighs against the table and his hands gripping the ledge. He lowered an eager stare at you, the kind you knew so well, and a smile danced fleetingly on his mouth.

Licking your parched lips and slinging your bag over your shoulder, you shoved your hands in the pockets of your jacket and nodded him forward. "Just this once."

This was entirely unexpected, both by him, and you. Max sprung to his feet with an astounded look, blatantly shocked that you were joining his side and taking him up on his offer rather than telling him to fuck off. Quickly, though, and without fail, his mouth slashed into a grin and you smiled stupidly to yourself as you walked up beside him, rolling your eyes.

"Don't get any ideas, Max," intercepted you as you cut in front of him.

The waitress was closing up and cleaning off the empty tables. You thanked her and, retracting your hand from your pocket, nudged the door open and stepped through under the litany of chimes announcing your departure. A brisk, northern wind found your hand quickly in your pocket again and the lower half of your face buried in the high-neck of your jacket.

"Where's your car?" you called to him over your shoulder, hearing the door swing shut behind him as you stepped down and the thud of his own feet succeeding yours.

"Wherever yours is," he quipped, and finally managed to join your side instead of trailing. You tossed him a penetrating glance as you strolled down the street to the walkway across the road.

"I hope you mean across the street, then," you hummed.

"Across the street it is," his eyes twinkled under the flickering light of the overhead streetlamp. There were no cars on the road, and you crossed over easily. Between talking with him and looking both ways, you were trying to manage Lucy Schuler's name. When, in the parking lot, you'd weaved through the various cars and he pointed out his not far from yours, he hummed a small, "told you."

You veered left with him and he walked you all the way to your door, which you presently opened and stored your bag on the seat. You half-expected him to, as you were emptying your things, turn around and leave the night on that note, but he reclined on the car opposite you and looked at the back of your head.

"So, what changed?" he hummed, and cocked his head. "I think I like this a lot more than the whole cussing out act."

"Goodness, I'll make a note not to let you walk me to my car anymore," you blew out with a roll of your eyes, and, straightening and pushing a strand of your hair out of your eyes, turned to him. Seems he still had more to say.

"Nothing, then," he breathed, and a chuckle occupied his lips. He glanced down, then up again, and found your eyes.

"Nothing." You pressed your hands beneath your hips and rested against the rear side of your car, pursing your lips at him. Well, there it was.

After a bout of silence occupied in looking at one another, and on this very familiar, pleasant note, Max pushed himself off the other vehicle and prepared to walk away to his car. His shoes scuffed the pavement and your eyes followed him, as if expecting to see him stop and stay. All at once, your brain scrambled and you remembered Lacy Schuler. You couldn't afford nervousness now.

"Max," you breathed, and found your heart leap when he turned back eagerly and looked at you through low-set, softened brows and hazel irises. Shuffling your feet, your mouth stuttered around your next words and your nails incised crescent moons in the skin of your palms. "I have... do you... know... Lacy Schuler?"

Max's head tilted left and he gazed at you through inquisitive eyes. "Lacy Schuler? I... do."

A shiver found your covered skin, and lingered where Max's eyes brushed over. "She's... pretty, no?" you breathed, and grounded your feet.

Max's lips tightened and he looked at you as if he couldn't give two shits about some Lacy Schuler or her looks. "Tolerably," he hummed dismissively.

"Well, she likes you. A lot. And, therefore, hates me," you began. "I just thought... wouldn't it be so nice if you made a move on her? I mean... it's the nice thing to do, to give it a chance. And I can help you, if you need it..."

All at once, Max took a step back, and his head retreated back as if deeply offended, his eyes darkening wholly. He couldn't believe his ears for what they'd just heard. He took a moment, eyes slacking and finding the ground, but tried again and succeeded in finding it. "Give it a chance?"

Quickly, and almost defensively, you jumped to explain yourself, "it's just that... so many people... and... she's liked you for so long... it would do you both good."

"Really? As if I've ever cared for a girl who likes me," he forced a laugh, attempting to sound cool but coming off indignant.

That line made you cringe over yourself, and you sucked in a breath through your teeth, your cheek twitching. "You could learn to care," you demanded, growing sour and cold and all your nerves sliding away. "Would that be so hard?"

Max blew out an unbelieving breath and shook his head. There was disbelief in every crevice of his countenance, "you know better than anyone that you can't just learn to care," he choked. "Not even after two years."

Okay, now this was just personal. He was completely twisting your words. It was your turn to be wounded. You took a step back and your jaw went slack, staring at him in shock. You wanted to say something, to defend yourself, but you came up entirely short. Was not he right? The shock of the reality of his words rendered you unable to speak.

Silence reigned if but for a moment. He caught you, and he knew it. But he was not boastful, or proud. He subdued, thought, and, came up pondering. Max's eyes, which were full of prior disdain, were now occupied in undulating steadiness.

With unnerving, astounding coolness and hidden fury and frustration, he stepped forth until you had to crane your neck to meet his eye, so that you could see clearly the shadows thrown over his face by his nose and lips and smell, better than ever before, his signature cologne where it was sprayed onto his skin, which glittered in the light. At so close a distance, your inhibitions were tested and you were faced with an unsettling, sick desire, that settled sourly in your limbs and glued you to the spot.

What was this? Why was your stomach jumping? Why was your skin burning, and your lips tingling whenever his gaze drooped limply to them? For all his seeming steadiness, there was so much burning, aching passion flaming off the threshold of Max's skin, that it leached into you and found you burning as well.

"Alright, Y/N," he breathed, his mouth leaning in, "you think I should do it—you think I should try it out with this Lacy, because... I ought to? Because she likes me? Because I'd be good at it? Very well, then. If you want to be the mediator, be the mediator. Tell me what to do..."

Stuttering, your brain desperately searching to seize a word in response, your jaw remained slack on potential phrases and you looked with widened eyes at his passion-ridden, solemn face. Your whole body was alert. Sick. Alive and embarrassing in its fervor of confusing intensity. What was it that you were all of a sudden feeling for Max?

"Do you think," Max continued hoarsely, and his head cocked intimidatingly, "if I looked at her like this? And whispered slowly... do you think she'd very much like that? Would it work on her?"

Choking, desperate, and pathetic, you stuttered hopelessly, "probably. Maybe you don't need my help after all."

"Oh, but I do," he intercepted, his voice controlled passion and his fingers quickly finding the belt loops of your jeans and pulling you against his hips. His burning, pleading eyes on yours was a dangerous thing. "You were so good to offer. Why not help me?"

God, what had you gotten yourself into? You were now pressed against him, and his lips were just hovering over yours, and you could feel your body slackening limply into his arms and your eyes drooping to a languid, lust-ridden close. He knew he had you.

"Tell me," he leaned in and captured the lobe of your ear between his teeth, biting, then kissing, then smoothing over your skin with small intervals of licks so that you were mewling into open air and attempting to control the pathetic bout of passion seeping from your skin. "Do you think she would like it if I touched her like this?"

"M— maybe," you breathed into his hair, but your voice was an enemy that cruelly betrayed you, and he smiled into the skin of your neck with all the indignation and fury he felt for your having offered such a preposterous thing. This was not a show of his love for you anymore. This was revenge.

"Would this be enough to capture her?" His hands were now traveling under your jacket, your skin prickling against his cold fingertips that easily found and teased the hem of your bra. "Should I do it like this? Would it work?" And you were pressed against the car, and a soft sigh was passing your parted lips the lower down his lips traversed your neck. Passion bounded off of your breathing bodies.

"Tell me, Y/N, use your words," and his lips were leaving your hot, teeming skin, and you hated it, and you were burning and hot and full of pent-up desires that you needed to take out on him immediately. And he was looking at you and you could cry out of all the frustration and love and pain and passion you were feeling for him. His lips could not resist yours, and they were angrily brushing the skin of yours and desperately begging to clash. "Would your Lacy like this enough?"

"Yes," your lips whispered on command, right into his mouth. Not because you'd meant to say it, or because you even wanted to... in fact, your mind was screaming no, no, no. But everything about this was so yes. And you were looking at yourself from a 3rd person perspective, completely out of control of your faculties and at Max's entire command, and you needed to feel him, needed to have his tongue on yours. "Yes," you breathed into his mouth, and it was the word that pulled the trigger.

At once, Max was kissing you, and his tongue was hungrily delving into the cavity of your mouth and he was angrily grunting into your teeth. It was nothing slow, romantic, or pure, and it was all things passionate, ardent, and ravenous. His fingers clawed at the meat of your waist and rode furiously underneath your layers of clothing, and you swore you could feel the energy teeming off his skin and see dusts of stars beneath your lids. He was letting himself go entirely, abdicating for this kiss, whining into your mouth and pulling your hips wildly against his over and over as if he needed you impossibly closer. "Fuck—" he bit.

Your fingers delved into his shaggy brown hair and twisted into the roots. There was heat everywhere. You felt it pooling in your body and you felt it reacting to Max's touched. When he brushed too close to the peak of your breast beneath your bra you could not suppress a moan from entering his mouth and when his knee pushed between your legs your head spun cruelly and demanded more.

"Max," you mewled as his kisses grew sloppier, more irregular, and more erratic, so that you could barely breathe but to moan his name as his tongue found your neck.

"Say it again," Max groaned hoarsely, his voice a desperate, pleading, raspy whine, "what you always say."

You could hardly think. Your senses were full of him him him. There was no room for thought otherwise. Say it. Say it. Say it. God, this was too much. And your lips were bruising and swollen and your body was riding his.

"I hate you," you whined between the intervals he took apart from you to draw his breath, because it was all you knew in that moment, "I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you. It's all I think about. I hate you so much it consumes me." The more you said it the more you realized how untrue it was.

At this litany of false hatred, Max groaned uncontrollably. He made a low sound and immediately his hand fell to your jeans, grazing over the hem of the denim and wedging 2 fingers inside, teasing you. His mouth worked erratically on yours, leaving sloppy bites and kisses and licks all over the expanse of your neck and jaw and his tongue bruising the sweet spots in your delicate skin until you were crying out into the vacant night.

"Tell me, Y/N, do you think Lacy would like if I kissed her like this?"

"Max— Max I need—" you were sinking into him, and you knew what you wanted, and your hand fell to his and was about to demand it, when suddenly, with a quick gesticulation, his hand adjusted to press your lower abdomen to the cold metal of the car and forcefully separate his lips from yours.

In a singular movement, the passionate dream was over and he was off of you. One moment you were caught up and stuck with him in an endless bout of arduous lust, and the next he was pushing off of you.

"We'd better hope so, hmm?" he rasped furiously into your ear, his voice weaved through with pure lust and pure acrimony.

And in a mess of your own passion, heat, and desire, he left your needs unsatiated, left you pressed against your car. And with the dregs of passion and lust in his eyes and step, Max turned on his heel and abandoned you.

„

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katia ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟

‎ ꫂ᭪ ݁ ,, which of all my important — nothings should I tell you first? ” , Jane Austen

𝐌𝐀𝐗 ( 𝟑𝐟𝐬 )

— one-shots ( slow burns )

.ᐟ JUNIOR YEAR ,, in which, after a year of not talking, you find yourself unexpectedly reunited with your ex-best friend of ten years after Max accidentally breaks your AP gov project and the teacher makes you redo it with him...

.ᐟ PARKING LOT LOVERS ,, as an attempt to get max to stop trying to bag a date with you, you decide to use the upcoming project you were assigned with him to your advantage and try to set him up with a snarky mean girl who's been dogging you about "stealing max"....

— drabbles ( short ficlets )

.ᐟ DAMN CAT ,, max loves your love for cats, but... he can't help hating your new kitten for stealing you from him!

‎ ꫂ᭪ ݁ ,, we are all — fools in love ” , Jane Austen

.ᐟ . masterlist — .ᐟ . about me — .ᐟ . requests (open)

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