strawberry fields forever [for Max]

[because_thesky]

The apartment's walls are no thicker than Jude's head; he can still hear the television and the shaggart that carted it in, the two things most deserving of his girlfriend's attention and least deserving of his own.

You'd think a girl with Lucy's conviction could understand the difference between not caring and caring too much, but he's not the

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[so_heavy]

When living on Pink Punch Island, if you come across the familiar face of someone from your past, it's a good idea to keep in mind that no matter how it seems, there's always the sliver of a chance that their face is the only part of them familiar. Max knows this, despite having never been afforded the experience. He's capable of logical thought, he just generally chooses not to employ it.

Like now, for instance, because that is fucking Jude down the beach and he knows it, down to the marrow he knows, like he knows his own name or his own face or the taste of a cigarette.

They've done this once before, the two of them, but Max was on the other side of it. Couldn't account for the way his stomach would drop out and his throat would go tight with hope, and he wonders if Jude felt the same back then.

He's a blur of freckled limbs and blonde hair and then he's literally on top of Jude, bowling the both of them over, skinny arms wrapped tight, face burrowed into the hollow of Jude's neck, unconcerned about paint or sand or propriety

[because_thesky]

Into the television set, then, like Alice down the rabbit hole because oh, wouldn't he follow Max anywhere?

Hadn't little Alice been dreaming in the end, though? The better question, really, is oughtn't he rather be dreaming, and better still, does it even fucking matter? Like the argument sticky skin and hot sun present, Max certainly feels real enough, a bruising tangle of limbs on the sand and hot breaths against his already hot collar and, just, Max.

The way his arms fit around Max's waist is unthinking and right, rolling them over out of happiness alone; wanting to hit him or kiss him and just shy of glad they're too tangled for him to do either, once he's back flat on the sand and there's a strawberry mashed in his hair, he can feel it against the shell of his ear all wet and bristled. Like he'd actually tossed them onto the beaches he'd seen in his head, instead of against a bloody wall. "Fuck me," he asks, "What about you, ye twisted bugger; I missed you." It might sound more accusatory if the fact of it didn't just

[so_heavy]

The thing to do here is explain the obvious change of scenery and insist that insanity wasn't involved, but there was a moment, before Max laid his hands on Jude, when he wondered if he was dreaming. The rich drawl of Jude's voice reminds Max of what needs to be done, and fuck it if it's not the appropriate reaction.

He leans up, hands deep in sand on either side of Jude's head, stares down at the beautiful mess of him and says, "You're on a magical island, Lucy's dating some jock and I'm in love with you," matter of fact, like he's reciting a grocery list.

[because_thesky]

He ought to be used to this, Jude thinks--maybe not being sticky and covered in sand, or staring up at his best friend steady and helpless as if Max were holding his head instead of handfuls of sand--but the way Max can turn his life (and now his stomach) upside down, shake him up and pin him down at the same time just by saying a few unexpected words.

But that's Max: you can know him like you know yourself and still be surprised. He's like the blank canvas, the sheet of paper; Jude looks at it and can see how he's going to fill it, knows what he wants to put there, but he never knows how well his hand is going to express what's in his head. Max gives him the same paradoxical sense of certainty and uncertainty.

And sometimes, Max says I'm in love with you and he's just a blank page, no inspiration, no actions Jude knows to take. It's like a game, three unbelieveable things and he has to pick the one that's true. He can't decide if that's the first or last one he'd pick. "I think the war's gone to your head Max," he starts,