Max was feeling oddly nostalgic. And he knew, from experience, that nostalgia wasn't all that fun, and that the best cure was to find someone to go drinking with.
So despite the hour, he was totally at Mitchell's door.
"Me? I've been--" Catastrophic in large amounts, since the last time he'd seen Max, "--fine," he said, stepping aside to let Max through. "What about you, mate? What's been going on?"
"A real host would not have known if he had school girls or a large burly alcoholic knocking on his door," Mitchell said, twisting the top off his own.
So despite the hour, he was totally at Mitchell's door.
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"...Max?"
He grinned.
"Hey. Long time no see."
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"I was thinking the very same thing." He cocked his head slightly. "How've you been, Mitchell?"
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"Oh, you know me. Business as usual."
Except for that whole world disappearing and the soul-searching that had happened over a few hang-over-heavy mornings.
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"Want a drink?" he asked, wandering into the hallway, towards the kitchen. "I've got beer."
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"Is this a trick question?" Max asked with a smirk, following Mitchell and letting the door swing shut behind him.
This was Max, after all. Of course he wanted a drink.
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He figured the guy would catch it. "It's called being a host." He grinned, snatching another beer for himself.
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Duh.
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Because, as Max had learned from television, school girls were not students, they just wore hot uniforms.
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"Actual school girls," he said. "Maybe selling stamps, whatever."
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Maybe they just knew to avoid Max because he'd come to the door with a beer in his hand.
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