'til the road and sky align

[ CHAPTER FIVE: Bated Breath ]

Max does not, in fact, corner Yale when the man steps into the exact gas station he works at.  It wasn't like he was waiting for the right moment to pounce, or anything. He was. . .being a good employee. The man looked like he was looking for something amongst the convenience store shelves, and, of course, Max had to help him. Civic duty and everything.

"Hello, sir," he says, eyes focusing on the side of Yale's head where the dude's glasses disappear behind his ears. Max hopes his stare feels like a fucking drill into Yale's head. "Are you in need of assistance?"

Yale's keeps his eyes down. Those absurdly eexpensive bottles full of sparkling water bullshit on the lower shelf must be so interesting! "No, thank you," he grounds out, teeth gnashing.

With a smile, Max adds, "It seems like you need help, sir."

"Well, you're wrong," Yale snaps back at him, smile tight. He's got his hands clenched at his sides, but at this angle, Max can't see the ring on his left hand.

"Sir, if you're looking for food or drinks to share, I can direct you to the correct aisle." As if the gritty corner store spanned the same meters as your avarage Walmart, or Tesco, or whatever.

Feels much bigger with you here, Max's brain supplies -- though, whether it is a cheesy pick up line, or something foreboding that has only recently manifested in his subconscious is beyond him. He keeps his mouth shut.

Yale turns around. He's got that look: kind of distracted and momentarily placated. He hides his hands behind his back, though, so fuck.

"Oh, no, thank you," he says. "That won't be necessary."

Max raises an eyebrow. "Eating alone tonight?"

And it's like a flipped switch. The best analogy Max got has something to do with blinds, or maybe even a curtain that drapes over Yale's face -- or maybe it's something to do with a fire extinguisher. Someone fires it at Yale's face and it smothers out anything until it's completely covered with white. Something about hiding.

Yale's face closes up like a safe, a door being slammed in your face, sudden walls guarding a glass castle, or something. Whatever it is, it happens before Max can even say shit like, "I'm kidding," or whatever.

"That's none of your business," Yale says. Another metaphor: ice. His voice is pure, fucking liquid nitrogen.

Max opens his mouth.

Of course, the universe takes kindly upon him. As if summoned, the manager fucking screams at him from the back office. "Hermoso! Stop fucking around! I better fucking see your ass at the register, or I'm fucking letting you go this time."

"Yale--" Max starts. He reaches for Yale's wrist, but then he sees his own ring finger and jerks back, electrocuted. "Yale. . . ."

Helpless Max. Conflicted Max. Need to keep him here or I'll lose him Max. But I really need this job Max.

"Go."

Older Yale. Adult Yale. Got his head on correctly Yale. Can't get anything from his face Yale.

"Yale--" Max gets cut off by his own intake of breath. It's dizzying.

There's something akin to pity in Yale's eyes. Max doesn't have it in him to argue about that look right now, but like Hell he'll forget it.

Yale nods towards the cash register. "Please go." And though he's not talking about leaving his life forever, it still feels like a rejection.

The bell above the door rings.

A woman and her son walk in, their clothes matching the dirt bikes attached to the back of their car parked out front. The kid immediately takes off to scour the aisles with the energy reserved for little kids and people with ADHD or something. The mother, presumably, steps up to the register, wallet in hand.

She spots Max almost immediately. He gives her a smile. "One moment, ma'am."

He turns back to Yale, but he's already turned back to the row of room temperature water bottles and boxes of hard candy.

Max does not make any kind of sound from the back of his throat, nothing that sounds strangled and pleading.

Max weaves around the shelves. Every step feels heavy, like a magnet keeps him rooted to where he was standing. Here, next to the soft serve machine, it feels colder. Max barely registers it before he's back behind counter, where he settles. It's warmer here since he's standing next to the few heaters, but his fingers are numb from the cold.

The woman smiles thinly at him. She hands him the money for her gas, and shit.

Ka-ching. "Will you want a receipt, ma'am?"

From the corner of his eye, the doors swing open. They close automatically after him. The aisles are empty.

The woman nods. Her kid places a candy bar on the counter, and he beeps it too.

The kid leaves with a wideass smile, the woman with a hand on his shoulder. He would've dashed off without her; he seems like that type of kid.

"Maxwell?" Boss calls. "You working overtime tonight?"

Max buries his head in his hands, and tries to find a way to answer without spewing anything that would get him fired. He leans against the counter like it's the only thing that could ever keep him sane, upright, or both.

He settles for, "Yeah, okay."

Not like she'll get angry at him; she needs this money just as he does. She'll still be there, though, when he gets back, waiting patiently.

At least he's nice to her. He may have fucked up shit before, but he puts effort for her. He made a vow. He's not some horny college rockstar anymore. He's Maxwell Hermoso, a few thousand in debt, with a woman with rough hands waiting for him at home.

Max's voice cracks, "I'll take tomorrow, too."

"You sure?"

"As I'll ever be."

And that's all he can say right now.