#VIRGINLIT.  sporadic   writing  activity    &    mutuals-only    portrayal    of   max dennison  from    disney's  hocus  pocus.   by  sara,  27  +  she  /  her. quick guidelines  beneath  the  cut.

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caught him brooding, in a little mood. exasperated, he'd told her that he feels like an idiot. and of course, in her kindness and all her wit, she'd tried talking him out of his self-made hole. but how's he supposed to do that? it isn't like he's not trying to move on from that night. it had been easy, at first — maybe dani was just too tuckered out, and maybe he was just too elated at 'winning', for it to weigh on him more than the physical reminders. can't say what changed ; he's got the girl. his sister isn't witch-food. the gnarly purples and blacks of his back and shoulder have faded to a tender yellow. it's harder now. dani's been waking him up, or maybe he's been waking himself up. he's just gotta check, you know? be sure. and more and more, he is reminded that everything would have just been normal, boring high school for him, and dani wouldn't be playing tough if he'd just ... not lit that stupid candle.

❝ yeah, easier said than done. ❞ he murmurs it, sour at himself. not her ; she is a saving grace in all of this, and she doesn't deserve his temper. trying to be better about that too. shape up, dennison. there are people that rely on him, people that he came close to losing because of his 'california attitude' — his parents keep asking what's gotten into him. it isn't that he likes salem all of a sudden, it's just that he feels like he sorta ... whatever. he sighs, rolls his admittedly still sore shoulder, and fixes his face into something less seething with self loathing. for her, looking at her, it's easier than anything else these days. she softens him and he covets her patient company, ❝ but i got a feeling that if anyone could teach me how, it's you. ❞ he even finds it in him to smile — if there is one thing he cannot bring himself to regret in all this, it's her.

she can't have all the answers either. she was there too. he might not see it, makes a habit of shaking dark bangs from his face to look at her right anyway, but it's gotta be heavy on her. he can't rest his weight on her. he's fine. ❝ ... guess that's not really what you mean though, huh? this is one of those second act 'you must do this on your own' things, like in the films. ❞ sorta how it felt in hindsight, those days following. surreal. but he's getting hit with a heavy dose of reality. doing his head in, makes him dizzy — sort of a lot lately. he just wants a break from the vertigo, to be grounded in that boring, high school life. it'll do them both some good, and so he pivots, ❝ speaking of movies ... you wanna go? robocop 3 is playing. ❞ or is she still grounded? his fault too.

he appreciates her, above all, trying to be positive : though it does little to soothe the pit in his stomach, the itch in his brain that's been saying 'something's wrong' all this time. the physical ache is gone, but sometimes, when he relaxes, stops letting the thoughts that linger consume him entirely, it catches up still : that same feeling of loss, dread at what's to come like he's lived it already. he can't rest — doesn't a lot of nights, not lately, not since he noticed the lightening of hairs. at first it was sort of easy : push his hair a different way, even pull the hair if there was no way to get around it but now . . . his head is all messed up, a million places aside from her kindness. it's a distracted response that leaves him in a quiet, ' y'think so? '

he'd been nervous to say it at all — to burden her with anything else of that night. any more hiding though and he'd be bald before he was twenty. that'd be super obvious, & he'd never hear the end of it out of dani ; which, ultimately, is why he brought it to allison now. — how do you tell your little sister that she'll probably outlive you? that it's a sacrifice you put on her shoulders and that she's expected to just deal with it?

' i don't know, allison. ' he admits this earnestly. for once he doesn't have the answer, doesn't know what to do to fix it. he's used to be so solid, always knew what to do then —— he hasn't felt that way since winnie took what she did from him. always feels a little out of his own self, like something exists seperately from all the rest of him. it sounds crazy when he tries to put it to words, so he doesn't bother, he just leans forward in his seat now, & his head makes it's way to rest in his hands once her's is clear. all he really does know is that if he looks at allison too long, it'll be bad. he's afraid the tight feeling in his chest will burst and he'll cry, or shout, or that her smile will become synonomous with her sadness ( pity? fear? he can't figure it out, exactly, but knows he doesn't like what he caught there ), somehow.

he can't trust himself, but allison? ' — what do we tell dani? '

his hands are sweating in a way they haven't since baseball camp. the lack of confidence, he supposes, is similar . . . but worse. way worse. it's about dani. & he guesses, now and more than a little inconveniently, the swarms of kids in the streets that he definitely does not want to hit. he'd tried his best to shout at them to get out of the street, gave up on that. moved onto honking in an attempt to jostle them, but that was also pointless. he's agitated : with the sandersons, with how stupid he was to leave dani alone. it's a feeling with a loud presenece in his throat, in his ears, all the while beneath it, in his gut , it's remorse that eats at him. it makes it hard to focus.

irritation bites at the back of his neck as max navigates around charlie & his angels, car at a creep in his caution. there's no time for all of this, hardly the space left to worry about anything but his sister. he's supposed to take care of her, but all he's managed to do tonight is put her in danger. it's so crummy of him, & man, does he feel it. as they depart from the busier streets & hit a side road, he wants to speed, wants to slam his foot on the pedal and not let off, & thank god for allison speaking up, reminding him of what more is at risk besides what's already been lost in his shortsightedness.

for her to say it outloud, what he knows must have been the case all night even if they've both been playing pretend for dani . . . ' there's nothing to be scared of, ' bravado! he's been putting it on all night, only now does it feel like a bold faced lie rather than protection. ' those old crones will fall for it. ' he hopes. truly, sincerely, hopes that their tricks will work this one last time, just long enough to get dani & binx safe ; if even just them. max reaches a hand over — not before wiping it dry on his pants — squeezes just above her knee, ' we've got this. '

there's all those gross books & whatnot in his parent's bedroom : the one's with the couple on an unrealistic scenescape, the titles something max would never say outloud. he used to think it was sorta lame, and sort of . . . phoned in? what little he dared to read on the backs of them, at least, while helping pack his mom's stuff. but now, in brisk winter air under clouds that should sour his mood, used to sunny l.a as he is, he thinks he gets it. allison has got her arm looped through his, head on his shoulder, & max thinks he's never felt warmth deeper in his core than with her, when they're like this, just sort of chilling.

he thinks about how one of those writers would describe this, her : autmnal, he thinks. the beggining, the weird part where it sorta heats up again & fends off the cold just a little longer. false fall, his dad calls it, but there's nothing about her that feels fake, almost feels offensive to make the comparison. he wonders if it's any consolation were he to say he can't imagine longing for any other season anymore? he probably should just think of something better. not that he's gotta woo her or anything, already bound as they are, but it's like if he doesn't let something out, his heart will jump right out his chest. it's just so full ( close to feeling whole again . . .? )

max must not be looking too closely at where he's walking, too busy looking at her, always it seems, ever since he's been here -- her free hand comes across and lays firm on his chest to stop him from becoming a victim of bikehicular manslaughter, & his hand finds her's there, holds it firm as he turns into her fully. her voice is warm, like steam from a warm drink. that's probably something they'd say in one of those books. or in a sixth graders notebook. ' oh, uh, ' he laughs ( unphased by close calls ) & to share it with her feels freeing. he shrugs casually, against the pounding of his heart, against the boyish instinct to hide away the red creeping onto his face, ' yeah. guess i'm having a good time. '

after the Incident , max's parents think everything is finally settling in back to normal ( aside from the freak window accident ) -- more and more often, they wake up or come home to max & dani together, on the couch, like they used to after max would have helped her with her homework, or when he was conned into watching some show or movie or another & it got late enough that dani fell asleep & max, by leaving her alone & going to his own room, didn't want to seem like he hadn't been there the whole night keeping an eye on her. so soon after though, neither of them find much comfort in being alone, & regardless, whether or not he did feel uneasy, it'd still be his job to take care of her.

max always believes poppy. no matter how small, no matter how many false monsters under the bed, in the closet, outside her doors happened, he’d always check thoroughly ; those things are real, after all. in her teens when poppy definitely doesn’t believe in those things anymore, max still pops in of the nights, just to be certain. at some point, it became more for his peace of mind than hers, though it has its roots in him being well aware how it feels to not be believed by your parents & striving to make sure that poppy never has to learn.

max's mom is a photographer! there's about eight gazillion pictures of max tucked away in a scrapbook somewhere ; it was probably her who took the picture on their nightstand of him, allison, and dani the following halloween. when his parents move again for his dad's job, max ends up hanging on to most of her older cameras which he ends up giving to poppy across a couple birthdays.

for awhile, they look for something to help with the missing years ; without the book though & with all the phony stuff they have to dig through & with all their previous experiences with magic mostly boiling down to feeling like stabbing, twisting knives, max calls it off. he figures whatever pros are out there won't ever outweigh the cons. after the decision, he mostly swears off all magic stuff , save for the occasional check on the sanderson house which still has air thick with it if you know what breathing it feels like. they stop doing that, too, or at least max stops coming along once it seems the sanderson story & home has lost it's thrill in the age of technology entertainment or whatever else is keeping teens occupied & away — the dust tells him nobody but them have ventured out there in a long time ( definitely that, and definitely not him being aware of every piece of furniture there, of anything that could be out of place )

when he wakes , there is a brief moment of confusion. he finds the cieling of his bedroom first -- the one in salem -- and , like many times before, the only way he can be certain it's not just longing worming it's way in to his subconcious ( reminding him of the distance ) is the faint tingling in his arm , telling him she's been there the whole time, for real. he's still groggy, but knows their time is wasting . they're only back from college for awhile, after all, and who knows when her parents will let her have free time again? 'tis the season, he thinks glumly, for families to take the front seat.

max goes to sit up, determined, only to be quickly placated by a hand firm on his chest. she sounds like she's been up for a bit, looks it too when he rolls his head to the side to look at her. pretty crosses his mind first, followed by jawdropping ( though he manages to keep it together this time ), and, rather unfortunately, with his brain having no space left for anything but her : tubular. she speaks while he stares, his smile going dopey. " hey, who am i to argue? " max decides he doesn't care that his arm is falling asleep, he wraps it around her tighter, feels her settle back in. the rain hits the window in earnest now, but it's pittering loses to that of his heart easily.