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The first time Sam met Max was in fact not the first time. In faded memory, like a Polaroid photo left under the sun, Sam had opened the front door to see Max standing there with his toothy grin. It looked funny because he had a missing tooth that left a gap in his upper teeth. He'd pulled at Sam's paw so they could go play together and break things. It could've been designated as an odd memory, because it was the very first memory that Sam had of Max. But it was obvious they had known each other before that time for what followed next in the very young mind of Sam.
What Sam thought in that moment was something along the lines of, "This is Max and he's my best friend."
It was true when they started to grow older and became more independent to run about the pollution rich New York city, the place they called home with sardonic quips about the air quality and general oily uncleanliness. It was true when they threw mud pies stuffed with leaves at each other, it was true when they traversed through New York's sweaty subways and car-belching streets and it was true when they ran through alleys and climbed over fences with malarkey on their minds, their laughter echoing off the chipped brick walls of the sagging buildings.
It was true that a red string connected them, tied around their fingers like a gift from fate. If one blurred their eyesight they could see the red string, one end tied around Sam's pointer finger and the other end tied around Max's smallest finger.
It was an indication that they were soulmates and should never be separated. When they grew older and were sent off to school to learn the bare minimum in preparation for life teachers still complained about them, tried to separate them as much as was socially acceptable but it never took. Sam was too stubborn to stick by Max no matter the consequences and Max was at his most eager to bite if Sam was taken away from him. It was expected for them to be quiet and docile but they were never good at going with the grain.
Expectations followed then into adulthood, as soulmates were expected to pour a ludicrous amount of money into their wedding. It was a hefty wedding gift of debt from the merciless industry that picked apart people's insecurities and made them bleed money to fix them for one singular event. Quick and easy weddings were seen as gauche, even more unsophisticated if those looking to get married actually did what they wanted instead of adhering to generic opulence. It was considered a faux pas to not bankrupt oneself over a lavish wedding to their soulmate: anything less than manufactured perfection was abhorrent in the eyes of the masses.
Which was why when Sam and Max got old enough and saved up enough money from odd jobs here and there, plunking the dollars and coins in dirty mason jars, they took a road trip to Las Vegas. They got married by a Betty White impersonator and had a sumptuous wedding feast of onion rings afterwards. On the way back to New York they ignored the tradition of champagne and continued to celebrate the marriage with gas station slushies. This wedding was indicative of their future.
Expectations, however, continued to follow them. For the vast majority of people, being tied to a soulmate meant making soppy love songs on a precious guitar to an enraptured audience of one that dripped with sentimentality and spoke of roses and smoky mascara and papers soaked through with ink, like candle wax holiness that set the text aflame with gold. It meant making moon eyes at each other and softening everything so their every day life was full of dewy-eyed poems and marshmallows. It waxed lyric about dancing in meadows stuffed to the brim with wildflowers and dancing perfectly to every step in imagined music, because it was a heart song between two beloveds. The tells that pointed to people being soulmates were treated with reverence.
For Sam and Max being tied to a soulmate meant that whenever they felt the urge to dance it meant Sam got knocked over by an energetic lagomorph or Max got tossed up into the air after he teased Sam for successfully fulfilling the stereotype of dogs having dog treat breath. It was similar to whenever they got into a fist fight. If Sam ever got his banjo out to play a nonsense, irritatingly played tuneless song Max would often be found in the corner grinding his teeth in irritation before engaging in retaliation that showed how exasperating he could be too. They liked to use their red string to trip people. Their lives were together and theirs and they liked it that way.
Life continued onward. They always bounced back from whatever was thrown at them because that's just how it was. They got caught up in the crazy mechanics of life that ranged from meeting their past selves who were jerks and stole a time traveling elevator, to having to help out Satan through a mid-life crisis burnout, and Max finding out he had psychic powers. What they didn't know was that the final one was the beginning of the end.
In terms of metrics, Sam experienced the worst day of his life when Max unlocked his psychic powers with all the upending of their daily life that came with it - his little pal's brain getting stolen being a standout moment. And then it morphed into the worst week of his life when Max lost control and turned into a gargantuan monster, a lost cause that had to be put down for the good of New York.
Sam wasn't the type to have stress drill down onto his brain because his life with Max was utterly carefree. But sometimes he'd blur his vision just to ensure that the red string was still there, to ensure that he had a chance to save his little buddy. But the threads of fate were pulled by a merciless hand: it was too late to save Max in the end. Sam never felt more helpless.
In the aftermath when Sam was told there was absolutely nothing to be done to bring Max back his vision blurred. He knew it was over when the red string was absent from his finger. He turned away and went out into the streets of New York, wiping at his eyes as he walked - anywhere. He was untethered and drifted aimlessly.
Max was gone. There was nothing left to say or to do and it felt akin to being dropped out into the middle of the Atlantic ocean. During that time he didn't want to picture a world without his little pal by his side.
In comparison to life it wasn't a long separation but for Sam it was enough. That was why when Max - the one from the other timeline, one that lost that timeline's Sam - popped up in that stolen time machine it was about three seconds before Sam scooped him up into a bone-crushing hug. Max had to pinch the nape of Sam's neck to make him loosen his embrace.
But he didn't jump out of the embrace. He gripped Sam's lapels. That was all Sam needed to know in that moment. They forwent going to work and headed home. For at least thirty-six hours there was hardly any time where Sam was out of Max's sight and vice versa but really, that wasn't all that unusual for them.
It was unusual that for weeks afterwards they'd have dreams about their respective grief made manifest in having to see the other die. It wasn't every night but it was enough for one or both to wake up as a sweaty mess, and for Sam it'd feel like his heart was trying to wrench itself out of his ribcage. Those dreams left him cold and lonely, the painful past pressing its glacial fingers against his lungs. He'd know when Max woke up from his own nightmares because he'd be staring off into space but there was nothing funny about his frozen expression.
On nights like that Sam would lead the way to their tiny kitchen and root around the fridge for them to split a hunk of cheese. Or if either felt particularly out of sorts they'd go to the Desoto, drive around erratically as usual and get milkshakes. Sometimes they fell asleep in the car. Sam would wake up with a crick in his neck and have back pain for three days but it didn't matter whenever he woke up with Max settled against his side. Then their morning would get started by Sam pulling at his cheeks to wake him up and Max would kick him in the ribs and all would be well.
As time went on the nightmares occurred less and less. Their daily lives went on as usual, full of outlandish car chases and making perps splash blood onto the concrete and whittling away the hours with whatever entertained them. Slowly but surely life went back to how it was before, their adulthood following the same pattern as childhood where they were always together.
But it was on a particular evening that the day's work was done and the pair were watching late night trash TV shows that a particular topic rolled around in Sam's head and felt like he was prodding at the space left behind by a loosened tooth. By some freak weather or the butterfly effect of some unlucky schmuck dropping her ice cream sundae straight onto the floor of the ice cream parlor, Sam's mind was muddled with a question.
He was lying on the couch with his arm under his head. Max was sitting on the floor, making new holes into the wood with his hammer that he ultimately tossed aside when he got bored. Sam's mouth turned upward, and it wasn't because of the slapstick antics on the TV. It wasn't long until the hazy colors of the TV as the show he and Max were watching tapered off and turned to static because there was nothing left to follow it up for the night. Sam switched off the TV and watched Max stretch, getting off the floor and climbing onto the couch to sit on Sam's stomach.
"Hey, you didn't knock the breath outta me this time, little buddy," Sam said to his husband. "You tuckered out or somethin'?"
"Nuh-uh. I'm a creature of the night," Max said. He yawned so loud Sam half-expected a comical onomatopoeia to emerge from his mouth. "I run with th' bats an' the wolves an' the hedgehogs."
"I dunno, pal, you've started to conk out at ten thirty."
"What about you, old man?" Max retaliated. "I see you sit down in your office chair and cross your arms to nap like those geezers that play chess in the park."
"We're the same age," Sam replied, reaching up to flick his nose.
"I try to tell the masses that I'm not a trophy husband but I'm just too irresistible," Max said smugly. "You ain't half bad yourself."
"Sweet talkin' ain't gonna make me forget that you stole an’ drooled on my pillow last night," Sam said fondly.
"I needed yours 'cause I spilled soda on mine. The ants got to it," Max said, stretching himself out so that he lay flat on top of Sam. "Aren't you glad I threw it out the window?"
"Yeah. It was funny to hear that car crash pile-up," Sam said. "Too bad it stopped at seven cars."
Max laughed at the memory. Sam made a mental note to shoot the remaining pillow in half. For a few seconds the room was quiet and Sam decided it was as good a time as any to broach the subject that was on his mind.
"Max?"
"Yeah? Sam, don't ask about that strawberry cheesecake that was in the fridge because I ate it."
"Yeah, I figured, pinhead. You left your teeth marks in the plate," Sam said, reaching up to ruffle his fluffy head. He decided to rip off the proverbial bandage. It couldn't be put off forever, and bluntness was both of their fortes. "You an'... the other me, you were soulmates, yeah?"
"No doy," Max said, making a face like Sam said something exceptionally stupid. Maybe he wasn't wrong.
Sam continued on with his question, "At the risk of asking another stupid question, were you two..."
"Famous for the hot dog eating contest of two thousand and four? No, I ate too much kettle corn before the contest and the hot dogs tasted like mold so take three guesses as to what happened next."
Sam grimaced. "Well, that answers that question, the same thing happened with... he got sick on deep fried cookies, though."
For a moment Max's grin faltered, silent in that way that made it clear in parallel his thoughts went to the Sam he used to have. "He watched me get all tangled up in the balloons afterwards and called me a knucklehead."
"Yeah? That is what you are," Sam said, earning a swat to the shoulder. He continued, "What I wanted to ask... Did ya... we had a red string, so did you two have somethin' like that?"
"Nah, nothin' that anyone else could see. You ever heard of the one about color?" Max asked. At Sam's unsure hum he continued, "It's th' one where you only see colors if your soulmate is alive."
The weight of that simple statement laid heavy on Sam's chest. His eyes briefly glanced at Max's desk where his art supplies were strewn out. Earlier in the day when Sam was tearing up the new stack of paperwork and half-watching Max go to town on his art, he'd wondered why Max had mixed up blood red for slimy chartreuse. At the time he chalked it up to an artistic choice. His breath went out in a heavy sigh.
"So you..."
"Yeah. When everythin' when black and white after - you uh... I figured it was over," Max muttered.
Sam's beating heart lanced with pain. He expected a gory retelling of how the - other him turned into a monster like a sick parallel, him all the same - bit the dust. He would've relished in it, if meant that Max didn't have that look on his face right now. It was almost the same as the maliciously fey expression Max always wore but only his husband could know the difference.
"'M sorry, Max," and Sam didn't know what he was apologizing for. But the weight in his chest was unaccustomed and at any minute felt like it could be a black hole that'd tear up his insides. Sam decided to not say that out loud because it was supremely embarrassing and Max would ask what cheesy film he stole it from.
Max's paws gripped at his shirt, a sort of Max-flavored condolence. It kept Sam grounded in a way, an acknowledgement that he carried that weird, unprecedented pain too and needed enigmatic, comforting affection. "What're ya sayin' sorry for, Sam? Unlike that time ya stole my cheese danish, that ain't your fault."
"You stole my caramel ice cream," Sam shot back, relieved to fall into an easy rhythm. It was one he had decades of experience with.
"It was lying on the desk. Am I not supposed to take it when it's so easy?"
"You always did like to take the easy way outta schoolwork, Max," Sam replied, suddenly getting a rush of nostalgia. "I'd say you would win the yearbook title o' half-assing any homework that came your way."
"You insult me, Sam," Max said primly. "You know I'd quarter-ass it. Isn't it great to see my school ethic flourish into my work ethic?"
"I don't think you get graded on ripping off a perp's fingers, little pal."
"I should get graded on that damn elevator, thing was a pain in the ass to use," Max grumbled.
"'Cause you're short?"
Max pinched Sam's sides for the quip. For a moment he actually went quiet and contemplative which would be on the same level as rotating his brain around and feeling a single one hundred yen coin tumble around in there. Sam knew from experience, transporting his little buddy's brain back to his body. A sudden pang went through his heart again. Maybe it was too soon to think of that situation as funny.
"Does it feel weird?" Sam asked.
"What? Does what feel weird?" Max went off on another tangent, true to his Swiss cheese-like memory. "We ate chips for dinner so it is weird that your belly don't sound like a creaking ghost ship, full of bloody skeletons and golden doubloons that turned out to be chocolate, we couldn't even eat them because they got kelp in them through the wrappers, Sam, I've never felt more ripped off in my life!"
"It's cute when you remind me of our previous adventures through run-on sentences," Sam replied. "I mean, is it weird... to not see anything in color anymore?"
"Eh. Guess it's good I don't gotta wear glasses," Max said. "Everythin' would just look like grey blobs and no way in Hell would I wear contacts. I'm not a nerd."
"I know, little buddy." Sam's voice came out more melancholic than he intended. Max patted at his chest.
"'Aw, don't fuss over me, I'm fine. Sides, ain't all bad. The world looks like th' noir films you like," Max said. "And, ya know. 'S better to see you in black and white than to not see you at all."
Sam gave a small smile at that. His paw wandered to stroke at Max's back. In idle moments like this he thought of Max's back as something that artists would yearn to draw. He envisioned the slant of Max's spine like charcoal against snowy white paper. It was hard to think sometimes when he laid his eyes on his little buddy.
That train of thought went off into a five way crash when Max scooted up Sam's chest and he made Sam go cross-eyed he was so close, because he was an annoying creature most of the time. He was dimly blurred, a stark indication that the brightly colored red string that tethered them together for their entire lives up until - that moment - was gone forever. It didn't hurt as much to think about right now, though. Max was here, after all. And he didn't know where his other self or this timeline's Max ended up but if Sam knew himself and his little buddy then he had hope that those two ghosts found each other eventually and the pairs would be happy and complete.
Sam lifted Max up to lie down on his chest so that he could properly look at his husband with clear eyes. He took in every detail, putting it in his memory with every other image of Max burned into his brain just because he could. His paw was still on Max's back so the other reached to squish his cheek, because he was cute and that annoyed Max sometimes to make him snarl. They hadn't gotten a phone call in a while so they were due for a tussle. Right now though Sam thumbed his cheek, sentimentality meant just for them alone.
"Guess it don't matter," Sam said.
"What don't?" Max asked. "The question of what came first, the chicken and the egg? God, Sam, you tell me I got the brain of a cheese log. We figured that question out years ago."
"Shut up, bonehead," Sam said, but laughter was in his voice. "I mean, it don't matter what kinda ratty string we got tied to our fingers or if life is all greyed out. You're always my little buddy."
"Grody, Sammy. You're gonna give me cavities with how sappy you are." Max groused light-heartedly, and the childhood nickname set off a flash flood of nostalgia and fondness in Sam's chest. It seemed Sam was his too. Max proved his love then by giving a bite to Sam's fingers and for the fact that he risked it all to come back to Sam.
The rest of their evening melted into slowed-down mischief, bantering barbs and grumbles when they finally got off the office couch to head back their apartment and up to their bedroom to properly sleep. Max flung the covers off and burrowed into the center of the bed. Sam curled up beside him, enveloping them in the blankets. Sam draped an arm across Max's chest and watched him conk out before drifting off into sleep himself.
A definite contemplation played like the background music of a record on a phonograph in Sam's head, an eternal loop of a thought.
"This is Max and he's my best friend."