Cause for Concern ✓

four

MONDAY. 27. SEPTEMBER.

"YOU'RE a bastard," Cole said as the noise of the cafeteria faded out behind them. "Have I ever told you that?"

Knitting his brows together, Max barked a laugh as they turned into the almost completely empty hallway. "Few times," he said, after pretending to consider it. "Remind me, though. Why am I a bastard?"

"Because you scared the shit out of me," Cole said through his teeth, tightly pinching the back of Max's neck as they turned into the hallway. "I was beginning to think your dad might've actually killed you."

"Wonder what gave you that idea," he said, jumping at the quick pain and swatting Cole's hand away. As he rubbed the back of his neck, he threw a glare in Cole's direction and, based on the mischievous smile spilling over his pink lips, he caught it— and didn't acknowledge it.

And he had the audacity to call Max a bastard.

"Could be something to do with the fact that we messaged you Friday night to see if you were okay and you didn't get back to us until three a.m. on Sunday," he scoffed. "I called you and everything, you dick."

"Sorry," he said, failing to bite back at smile and fixating his gaze on the floor as they walked through the mostly deserted hallway.

It wasn't like he'd been ignoring them— he hadn't meant to, anyway. Honestly, he'd barely even touched his phone over the weekend. Any time he thought about responding to messages or calling people back, he became exhausted. What it was, he didn't know, but he couldn't bring himself to reply to anyone, especially not when he spent all weekend rotting in bed. Worse yet, he'd barely slept a wink and he only seemed to have an appetite in the middle of the night.

He felt a little better knowing that Cole and the others had tried to talk to him, just to see if he was okay. Usually, friends reached out to him to find out what kind of punishment he'd received and laugh about the trouble that he'd caused. That was nice sometimes, to take things easy and not get too in your head. He felt good entertaining friends with his bullshit because at least that meant that someone was getting something out of it.

Sure, some of his old friends did used to ask if he was doing okay but that always felt like more of an inconvenience to them, like a compulsory task for them to complete before they could get to the good stuff. He wracked his brain trying to think of people before Cole and the others who asked if he was okay because they genuinely cared to see if he was okay but he the list of names he came up with was scarce.

They had passed by a handful of friends gathered at a locker, laughing and gossiping, and a couple bickering quietly by a water fountain, communicating solely through hushed shouting and exasperated huffs. Other that, the squeaky white floors were trod on by no other feet than theirs. It was to be expected since it was still technically their lunch period and kids were discouraged from hanging around in the hallways. Everyone else was in the cafeteria or in class, the library or the field outside.

They passed rows and rows of pale blue lockers, and Max gazed at the award trophies and the posters and the same artwork that had probably been on display for years.

"No, you're not sorry," Cole said. "Don't apologise just to apologise. I hate that."

Max grinned.

"You're such an asshole," he muttered, nudging into Max.

Max nudged into him back. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, allowing himself to enjoy the profile of Cole's face as they walked, "I responded to you first— even before the group chat."

"It does make me feel a little better," he admitted, his playful smile spreading into an almost bashful grin as his eyes trailed over the floor. "But you still pulled a disappearing act."