Chapter Text
The truth is, there is nothing Bradley loves more than the comforting sense of being in control.
He feels it when he submits a flawless assignment, and when he wins an argument, and when he gets away with breaking the rules because he’s smart enough not to be found out.
It floods him from head to toe when his feet are firmly placed on his board as he cruises around campus - when he basks in the cheers of other students watching him skate; because he can feel the weight of their opinions right in his palm, can twist them and bend them exactly how he likes them best. It’s liberating, the admiration. It clears some space in his chest for his lungs so he can breathe more deeply.
Now Bradley is lying in his bed and the only sensation permeating his body is the slight ache in his upper back that is starting to protest its long-lasting position against the soft mattress. He hasn’t gotten up in a while, can’t really bring himself to when this perspective, the straight view at the ceiling corner where a spider has left its web and then supposedly vanished behind a piece of furniture, never to be seen again, is so comfortable . At least the ceiling corner won’t judge him. And, fuck, he isn’t usually this pathetic, is he? He sure hopes so. This is a new fucking low, and he’d better pull himself together before anyone else notices how much he’s letting himself slack off.
Despite the mental self-deprecation - which is more than justified, because Bradley has been acting pathetically, with his failure in the X-Games marking the starting point - he can’t bring himself to get up from his bed, so he rolls over instead, burying his face in his pillow. The semester only just started, which makes his behaviour even more idiotic; for Bradley to feel so lethargic after only two weeks. For the first few days he tried to blame it on the last scraps of summer temperatures - circulation, this and that - but by now leaves have started falling and their campus never seems to catch a break from the perpetual cold breeze autumn brought with itself, so Bradley’s excuse evaporated alongside the hot weather. In fact, he feels even more miserable now that the sun isn’t shining. It’s one of the things he’d rather take to his grave than tell anyone about because it’s just as ridiculous as his current behaviour; but after almost twenty one years of autumn- and winter-induced lethargy, Bradley is familiar enough with his annual mood swings that he knows what to expect.
He did however think he’d have a little more time left: he usually only starts feeling like this towards the end of October. He supposes it must be the lack of motivation for the school year, since his summer break wasn’t exactly recreational.
Apropos ‘lack of motivation’: The last time Bradley left the stupid dorm room he has been forced to live in was yesterday. He is still mourning the loss of the Gamma fraternity house even though he had all summer to process his ‘eviction’ (as his father helpfully put it.)
The dorm room is considerably smaller than the space he used to occupy, and it was a little bit of a hassle fitting all of the books his education postulates into the dorm. He spent multiple nights arranging them in his preferred order, and even then he had to make space for a few of them on the windowsill because they wouldn’t fit onto the shelf. He has considered adding a floating shelf to the room since there isn’t enough space for a proper bookshelf, but Bradley doesn’t know whether the dorms would allow such a permanent construction, and he would prefer not to get evicted a second time; so the books will have to remain at risk of yellowing due to the direct exposure to sunlight innate to their current location. Bradley made sure to choose his least favourite books for that exact reason.
It’s not raining outside, but the gloomy clouds towering above campus suggest an imminent change of weather, and Bradley does not want to subject himself to it to an extent that exceeds listening to the thin water drops tapping against his window. There is barely a point in leaving the dorm anyway. He already went to the grocery store yesterday, so he has enough food. The constant threat of rain prevents any sane person from trying to reach anything with their skateboard. And even if Bradley did finally put the board currently lying under his bed back to use, it wouldn’t be the same; no one watches him anymore. No one cheers for him when he lands a trick. How could they, after what he did? It’s like his past actions are refusing him the privilege of ever standing on a board again.
If Bradley is honest with himself, this is probably why he has been avoiding the company of his classmates like the plague; nobody cares about him anymore. Most people ignore him, others look at him like he’s the bane of their existence, and he isn’t sure which one he finds worse. The only person who still talks to him outside of class is Max Goof of all people, and that makes Bradley so angry that he wants to give his stupid skateboard a proper push and hopefully send him to the moon - or at least into the nearest trash can. If it weren’t for their godforsaken bet, he probably wouldn’t have resorted to such an adverse kind of sabotage during the X-Games and thus wouldn’t be stuck in his current situation; a dorm with a flickering ceiling lamp that is gradually edging him closer to insanity, and without a single friend.
Bradley sometimes wonders why he did it, but every time he realises that he can’t find an answer to his own question. He only remembers the scorching desire that overtook him when he climbed his board that day; the desire to win, to beat Max. Bradley has always loved to come out on top; but he hadn’t known the real meaning of ‘obsession’ before that handshake at Bean Scene roughly a year ago. He hadn’t felt the word trickle into his bones, hadn’t seen it burn in his own eyes as he looked at himself in the mirror. There simply seems to be something about Max, he has realised, that drove him crazy.
Which is why he has decided to put all the energy he can muster into avoiding him. Bradley isn’t very fond of the idea of ‘self-reformations’ or any such thing - he isn’t nearly optimistic enough to believe that a person who is so rotten they’re considered to be in need of change could ever improve much, because by then, it’s probably too late for them anyway - but even he doesn’t recognise himself when he thinks about the way he acted last year. It was a perfectly normal year, much like his first one at college. His classes weren’t too difficult, so it should have been fine. But then Max showed up and everything seems to have gone downhill ever since, so clearly he must have been the causal factor. And Bradley may not be able to reverse what happened then, but he can try to prevent it from happening again, so Max has been moved to the very top of his list of people he does not want to interact with.
Which is difficult, because Max interacts with him all the time. It really is infuriating. Especially after he won and then blew off their bet like Bradley needed pitying. He immediately felt miserable when Max crossed the finish line before him and he was struck with the realisation that he’d really have to carry a goddamn towel around for him; but the fact that Max thought he had to take mercy on him afterwards angered Bradley even more. Like Max didn’t even care about any of it. Like it meant nothing to him.
And now he thinks he can just come up to Bradley like they’re - well, not quite like they’re friends, but like they get along or something. Bradley doesn’t get along with Max. He doesn’t want to. And he highly doubts the feeling isn’t mutual.
Bradley’s first guess was that Max is making fun of him. The way he approached him on the way to the class they share, not at all furtively with how loud the rolling of his wheels sounded against the pavement, and asked him “how he’s doing” - Bradley only scoffed and told him to go and fool someone else. He hoped the snarly response would deter Max from whatever it was he was hoping to achieve, but it unfortunately did not. Max sighed, then made a sharp turn and came to a halt right in front of Bradley’s feet. Bradley managed to stop just in time to avoid bumping into him and making them both topple over. He was ready to snap at Max again, but Max snapped quicklier; “I was trying to be nice!” he said in a tone that wasn’t at all what Bradley typically would perceive as ‘nice’ - but it did the trick, because Bradley immediately shut up. Max went on to say something about how he didn’t want the two of them to repeat last year’s hostilities, and Bradley glared at him, because, what the fuck did Max want from him? Couldn’t he see Bradley was busy walking to class all by himself? So he said, “I don’t need your friendliness,” and walked off.
This was not the only time Max tried to talk to him. There was a moment in the library, and one time he walked into a cafe Bradley was currently ordering a cup of coffee in, and then there is also their shared class at the end of which Max sometimes waves at him goodbye. Bradley simply cannot figure out what he is hoping to gain from this. He has nothing to offer, least of all to Max, who, considering their history , should be striving to keep as much distance between them as possible.
So, overall, there is not much Bradley can do aside from focusing on his studies; but he’s caught up on all of his work now (his reputation has been ruined beyond repair; he’s not going to let the same thing happen to his academic performance.) It feels awful, to have nothing to do and to want to do nothing all the time. Bradley has never enjoyed learning all that much, perceives it more as a necessity rather than a choice, which isn’t too far from the truth. He hasn’t ever looked forward to going to classes, but now, it’s the only thing that manages to distract him sufficiently from the other things that are happening in his life. Or rather, from the things that aren’t happening. It’s all so terribly boring, Bradley really doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Whenever he felt like this before - like things were spiralling out of control; his control - he would seek out Tank, who would somehow know what was going on even though Bradley never said anything, and they’d plot some sort of scheme. Something to do. Something that would make Bradley feel better. They never talked about it that way, but it was evident in the patience Tank mustered for him, in how he went along with his shit, supported him; that he was always aware of how Bradley was feeling. Tank has always been good at that stuff. He’s an honest person, not only to others but also to himself. He had the honesty Bradley lacked, in a way.
Now Tank is probably in his room in the frat house, or at some bar. Hooking up with a girl or playing a drinking game with his new friends. And maybe that’s also a part of what is making Bradley so miserable; the equilibrium Tank helped him maintain for years has tipped to the wrong side, and Bradley is incapable of repairing it by himself. He knows he has no right asking anything of Tank. He wouldn’t dare; after all, Bradley does have some self awareness.
He has been wallowing in self-pity for hours now, rotting in his bed like a child on the first day of summer break, and thus, the idea of smashing his head against the nearest wall is becoming increasingly appealing. There are few things Bradley despises more than feeling sorry for himself. He is aware of the sort of person he is, and knows just as well that it’s his problem; he doesn’t need to pretend that whining about how tragic his life is will make it any better. He had it all under control just a semester ago. He’ll simply have to reestablish that control and everything will return to how it’s supposed to be. He isn’t sure how, entirely, he’s going to go about it, but it can’t be that difficult, can it? After all, people loved him then, and he knows how college gossip works. Topics of conversations come and go, and at some point, everyone grows tired of them and moves on. And Bradley knows it will never be the same again: He isn’t part of the Gammas anymore. He has lost his friends. But at least the slighting looks will stop. He knows he’ll pull himself together once he doesn’t feel like everyone is having opinions about him that he no longer has any influence on.
*
It is Friday night when Bradley finally decides to stop being dramatic and get a grip. He knows Mochachino is performing at the Bean Scene, and knows she hates him, but assumes her performance will mean that the cafe will be well-visited enough that Bradley won’t stand out too much. He could sit down at the bar, talk to someone who doesn’t know him. He’ll listen in on some conversations to get an idea of what people are talking about at the moment, which might make it easier for him to figure out how to reestablish himself on campus.
So there he is, pulling his coat he put on tighter to avoid getting the sensitive material of his sweater soaked and to shield himself from the icy wind. Autumn has to be the nastiest season of them all. At least winter has some aesthetic value; Snow-coated landscapes are certainly more pleasing to the eye than the wet, tattered leaves he keeps stepping on. Bradley really hopes they don’t get stuck on his shoe soles. It’d be a hassle if he had to clean them.
Bean Scene’s sign glows and blinks in the dark like it’s beckoning people into the comforting, warm interior of the coffee shop. Bradley sighs as he rubs his shoes against the floor mat briefly before entering.
He blinks at the change of atmosphere. As always, the cafe is dimly lit by its few ceiling lamps, and the smell of coffee and something sweet fills Bradley’s senses. It’s a nice cafe, he has to admit. If only they wouldn’t hire such ridiculous performers all the time.
Mochachino is already filling her seat on the small stage and whispering her poetry into the microphone before her. Bradley doesn’t like her, but at Bean Scene, she may well be his favourite artist. The preposterous texts she reads out are by far preferable to that jazz band he saw twice last year - their saxophone player kept running out of breath; it was painful to watch - and to that dance group whose moves are always just a few beats off. Bradley passes through the back of the cafe and, as soon as he reaches the bar, waves the bartender over. “One coffee latte,” he orders in a low voice that matches the general volume of the conversations in the cafe. After all, he wouldn’t want to disturb Mochachino’s performance.
The bartender nods and walks off. Bradley is the only person sitting at the bar, still wrapped in his coat. He should have taken it off at the entrance and hung it on one of the hooks next to the door; though it’s too expensive to be left alone, so he’d rather not. But it’s getting warm now, so he gets off the bar stool to shrug it off and folds it over his arm.
His coffee is served just as Mochachino reads out her final line. The bar breaks out into applause and Bradley brings the steaming cup to his lips.
He watches her pile up her notes and step out of the spotlight and into the dark cafe. He hopes she doesn’t see him - as he said, he is perfectly aware of her disdain for him, and would like to avoid getting into an argument with her. Although she seems busy enough kissing her boyfriend at one of the tables in the front right now, so Bradley doubts she will take note of him as long as he stays quiet. He doesn’t plan on drawing attention to himself tonight.
Seeing how Mochachino is clearly distracted, he allows himself to drag his eyes over the rest of the tables. Most of the customers are unfamiliar faces. Since the cafe is located on campus, it’s especially popular with freshmen who haven’t had the time to explore the area and find better places they can spend their evenings at yet, it isn’t surprising that Bradley would hardly know anyone. Mochachino’s boyfriend seems to have brought along his little friend and another girl Bradley doesn’t think he had seen hanging around with them before. Not that he pays a lot of attention to their friend group, anyhow.
His eyes wander back to the now empty stage and he wonders whether anyone else will perform tonight. But then the spotlight pointing at the chair and the microphone is turned off, so he supposes not. It’s probably better this way.
Bradley is so lost in thought that he misses the sound of someone clearing his throat, only realising it was there a second later, when someone taps him on the shoulder. He immediately spins around on the barstool and his eyes fall on dark curls. Which, great. He’s only been here for around ten minutes and reality is already deviating from his plan.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Max says, raising his eyebrows like it’s a question. He lifts himself on the bar stool and leans back a little bit, giving Bradley a look that is so- smug , like he caught Bradley, or something, and it takes him all his self control not to sigh in exasperation because the conversation hasn’t even started yet. And Bradley hopes it starts soon so it can be over just as quickly.
“Oh, how come?” Bradley responds and lifts his cup off the table. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t think I’d run into you either.” He should have thought about it - of course Max would be at one of Mochachino’s recitals. He supposes they must be acquainted, and it’s not like Max would spend his Friday night in his dorm working on assignments. He doesn’t seem like the type to worry much about studying, considering how Bradley is regularly subjected to overhearing his constant whispering during lectures, like he couldn’t care less about what their professor has to say.
Max hums. Bradley takes a sip of his coffee.
“So, what brings you here?”
Bradley blinks in irritation. Where is Max trying to get with this useless small talk? What is Bradley even supposed to respond to that? It’s a coffee shop! Does he have to justify himself for visiting a coffee shop?
He tries his very best, focuses all his energy on not saying any of those thoughts out loud. This cannot end in another one of their scenes. Although Max seems so keen on it.
“I felt like drinking coffee,” Bradley answers with a shrug, takes another demonstrative sip, and Max nods.
“Really? All by yourself?” he asks, with his stupid, cocky eyebrows raised again, and, fuck. Bradley really tried not to turn whatever this is into an argument, but he isn’t going to let that little asshole make fun of him without consequences.
“See, you might not know this since you evidently love to run your mouth at any given moment, but some people actually enjoy sitting at coffee shops in silence. And I was doing quite well, believe it or not, before you came over, freshman.”
Max appears perplexed and Bradley is almost proud of himself for shutting him up. Satisfaction flares hot in his chest as he watches Max’s lips part slightly, so slightly it would have gone unnoticed if Bradley weren’t focusing on his expression. But then they melt into that wide, smug grin again, and Bradley fails to realise his mistake before Max says it,
“Sorry to disappoint, Brad,” He puts emphasis on the nickname because he knows Bradley hates it, and the layer of complacency in his voice is so thick it practically drips from his lips. “But you’ll have to come up with a new name to call me. I’d suggest ‘sophomore’, but I think you can be a little more creative than that.”
Max winks at him and Bradley slides back on his stool, his arm leaning on the counter. He distantly takes note of the music that is now permeating the room from the speakers in the corners, which must have been turned on at some point while they were… conversing. He pushes it to the back of his mind and shifts his attention back to Max.
“I’ll make sure to think of something,” he says, because his mind won’t come up with a better comeback. Playing along is still better than nothing.
It seems to satisfy Max, whose gaze flits over Bradley’s face once before he turns towards the bar. Bradley watches him snap his fingers to catch the bartender's attention and then order his coffee, letting his arm rest on the counter. Bradley’s eyes catch on something shiny at Max’s ear. Bradley assumes the piercing - a long piece of metal going through the cartilage of his upper ear on each side - must be new, since Bradley hasn’t seen it before and the skin around it is visibly swollen.
It’s not Max’s first piercing; he has two on each earlobe, one that goes through his antihelix on his left ear and one on his right eyebrow. Bradley doesn’t care much for jewellery, but he knows piercing through cartilage hurts, so he was mildly horrified when he first saw the one on his left ear. His feelings towards the new one are not much better.
“What?” Max asks. He does not allow himself to dwell on the fact that Max just caught him staring.
So Bradley says without another thought, “Do you enjoy inflicting pain on yourself?” and the look of utter confusion on Max’s face is priceless.
“Are you asking me if I’m a masochist?” It is at this moment that the bartender hands Max his drink, and he doesn’t disappear to the back of the bar again before shooting the both of them a somewhat disturbed look. Bradley has to suppress a shudder. Alright. He is not ordering anything at this cafe until this particular bartender is replaced by someone else. The staff members at Bean Scene come and go like the seasons, anyway.
Max is still looking at him, and Bradley clears his throat. “Your ear,” he clarifies. He tries to make it sound like Max is the one getting the wrong end of the stick here although his interpretation of Bradley’s statement was technically correct; but there was still no need to make it weird by saying it like that!
The confusion finally melts off of Max’s face and is replaced by mild surprise. “You noticed,” he says, and Bradley thinks, obviously , but doesn’t say it aloud. Instead he comments, “It’s fairly swollen.”
Max rolls his eyes at him. “I know that.”
Something in Bradley’s chest jumps at Max’s obvious annoyance, and he makes an effort not to grin. “You know how high the infection rate is for cartilage piercings, right? I can only hope that you were smart enough to at least seek out a professional for that.”
Max makes his face look unimpressed, but his fingers are tapping an erratic rhythm against the table top, nails creating a dull sound. It’s something he does sometimes when he talks to Bradley; a sign that he’s getting worked up. Bradley can’t help but feel pleased with himself.
“Well, thanks for the advice, Mr. human biology major,” Max grumbles, and Bradley hums.
“I’m just saying.”
“It’s very heartwarming to see you so concerned about my health,” Max replies, leaning a little closer, and Bradley doesn’t like the insinuation at all. It’s such a Max thing to do: To take away Bradley’s jabs and turn them against him. “I’ll make sure to tell you in case it does get infected. So you can get some practical experience.”
“And what makes you think I’d be interested in mitigating the consequences of your questionable decisions?”
“I don’t know.” Max shrugs. His teeth show when he grins like this, and they’re so white Bradley would think they were false if he didn’t know any better. “You had quite a lot to say about them a second ago, so there must be some interest there, don’t you think?”
Bradley scoffs. His collar is too tight on his neck, and warm. “I’m not cleaning your self-imposed wounds, Goof,” he says and looks off to the side. Max hits the tip of his shoe against Bradley’s ankle.
“ Please just call me Max,” he says with a slightly pained expression, and Bradley raises his eyebrows at him.
“Now, you shouldn’t throw rocks in glass houses,” he says, and one corner of Max’s mouth lifts into a lopsided smile.
“No idea what you mean, Brad,” he says, and Bradley sighs.
“Precisely.” He doesn’t even have enough energy left to get angry about it. Max lifts the drink he ordered and finishes it in one go. Then he hops off the bar stool and gives Bradley a long look. Just as Bradley is about to get annoyed at him after all, he says,
“Then I’ll leave you alone with your coffee and your beloved silence.” Bradley sighs again and nods, hoping to get his annoyance across. Judging from his grin, it’s working. “I’ll see you around.”
Bradley watches him leave. Then he finishes his coffee, decides he has had enough for tonight and pulls on his coat.
*
Every morning, Bradley takes a look at his skateboard like he’s checking whether it’s still there. It’s unnecessary because he never takes it outside anymore, and what kind of idiot would break into his dorm room and steal the loose-wheeled skateboard from under his bed? Nobody.
The back of it is completely scratched by now, and the vice he’d require to fix the wheels are in the Gamma house’s kitchen’s cupboard, so it’s unsalvageable for now. He looks at it for a moment, then puts it back under the bed, and goes to class.
Bradley was six years old when he got his first board. He’d been begging his parents for one for ages, but they had their preconceptions about the sport - too dangerous, too dirty; the usual concerns - and would not budge no matter how incessantly Bradley begged them. Eventually, his dream of skating down a halfpipe vanished like all his other visions of things his parents didn’t approve of; Bradley could sense his father would snap at another request, so he let it go.
But unlike Bradley’s other wishes, this one didn’t end there. On Christmas of 1986, he found an oblong present that was almost as tall as Bradley when set vertically on the floor. It was signed by his aunt, because his family doesn’t believe in telling their children fairy tales, so Santa Claus was never of concern to Bradley - at least he knew who to thank for the hobby that would dominate the following years of his life. It also meant his parents knew who to thank for the possible head injuries, and so Bradley did not receive any more gifts from aunt Carol for two years following that christmas morning, but the skateboard was definitely worth it.
And now he’s letting his board rot under his bed. What an ungrateful nephew he is. Bradley scoffs at the thought.
Biology is his favourite subject at the moment; the only issue is that he has to walk past the Gamma fraternity house to reach the facility. It annoys him to be confronted with what he’s lost; the frat house looks so beautiful in comparison to Bradley’s tiny dorm room. He never dared complain about it out loud - his father had preemptively sneered at him to count his blessings before he could even think about the fact he’d have to move out. Told him he should consider himself lucky he didn’t get expelled. Bradley was forced to spend all summer working at his uncle’s country club because his dad was so furious about the problems Bradley was causing him, he refused to pay for his new dorm - lucky for Bradley, the golf club pays quite well, so at least his efforts - ten hours a day, five days a week of polishing golf clubs, running after old, sweaty men to prevent them from misusing their equipment, listening to that one greenkeeper go on and on and on about how his wife wants a divorce (which Bradley does not doubt after hearing that guy talk for multiple shift in a row) - earned him a decent dorm with a stove and a microwave and a small bathroom. Bradley would not have been able to cope with having to use the floor’s community kitchen, or worse, the shared showers. As he considers the even more horrible outcomes his eviction could have had, he decides he should definitely spend a portion of the next family reunion sucking up to his uncle, just in case his father’s ire isn’t soothed until next year and Bradley has to finance his dorm room himself again. Securing himself a job can’t help, even if that job nearly cost him all that remains of his sanity.
Bradley keeps his eyes on the floor as he walks past the Gamma house although every part of him itches with the urge to look, like he might have already forgotten the sight. He hasn’t, of course. The house is ingrained in his mind so deeply, he can picture it vividly when he closes his eyes; sometimes his dreams trap him in one of its rooms, and he is made to wander through its halls aimlessly, with the vague feeling he is looking for something but not really knowing what it is, until he finally wakes up.
The walk to his biology lecture is long, but it’s worth it. If Bradley had a choice, he would not necessarily have chosen this branch of studies; medicine is tedious and complicated and Bradley hates having to put in the effort. He tries not to think about it too much. But there is something about biology that fascinates him earnestly, which sometimes gives him hope that the degree he is aiming for could actually make him happy one day. Maybe it’s the competent professor, or maybe the illustrative course book. Bradley doesn’t know either, and neither does he care to find out. It doesn’t matter; even if he didn’t like it, he’d have to take the class nevertheless.
And so his day is off to a considerably good start. But then he enters his next class, and that class happens to be calculus, and there is Max Goof, occupying the spot Bradley mentally assigned to himself at the start of the semester. He’s sitting cross legged on the bench, taking up more space than a single person ever should, with his board draped over his lap like he’s scared it’ll get stolen if he loses sight of it for two minutes. Which Bradley has to admit might not be a totally unreasonable concern, considering how many admirers he gained after winning the X-Games. Bradley had his fucking flip flops stolen once, so surely there must be freaks who’d get off on taking Max’s skateboard.
“Alright, pack it up Goof,” Bradley says once Max is within hearing distance. Max breaks off the conversation a guy sitting in the row in front of Bradley’s involved him in. He swirls around to meet Bradley’s eyes, looking up at him with a mildly confused expression. It’s almost entertaining.
“This is my seat,” Bradley explains with, in his opinion, commendable patience. Max doesn’t seem to appreciate it very much, as he only raises a brow.
“Didn’t know we had assigned seats,” he says, completely unimpressed, and does not budge a bit. Frustration flares in Bradley’s chest. Leave it to Max Goof to make calculus even more insufferable than it already is.
“Goof, I swear to god if you don’t get going within the next minute-”
“Then what? What are you going to do?” He’s grinning, propping his arm up on the backrest of the bench and reclining against it, brows still raised so high they disappear under his locks. Bradley is suddenly acutely aware of the way the people closest to the row are lowering their voices, glancing at them and whispering to one another. A snicker reverberates in Bradley’s ear, and while he used to love turning people’s attention to himself by starting a fight, he can’t stand it now. He wishes they’d simply mind their own business. He’s making a fucking fool of himself. Max is right: What is he going to do? Nuke the entire school? Try to set him on fire again? He can’t fucking go around and threaten a guy he literally almost got killed, not matter how much he wants to strangle him when he’s flashing him this complacent expression.
“Fine,” he says, keeping his voice low in a futile attempt to evade their audience's overly curious ears. “At least move over.”
He averts his gaze as he says it; it feels too much like a defeat to be confronted with Max’s large eyes while he admits it.
Max surprisingly complies without another word and tucks his board between his legs to make space for Bradley, sitting down properly. He seemes so fucking friendly last time at bean scene, so why’s he so set on getting on Bradley’s nerves now? How’s Bradley supposed to keep up with this?
The snickering and whispers around them don’t die down for a few minutes after that, and Max seems completely oblivious to it. He’s returned to his conversation, completely unfazed, while Bradley can’t help but listen in in the hopes of catching a word or two of what they’re gossiping about. He acts as though he’s revising his notes for the class, scanning the page on his desk without registering a single word. He’s too busy discerning the whispered words, and suddenly wishes he had just surrendered and sat in the back of the class, where no eyes are on him. Bradley is picky about the kind of attention he wants on himself, and negative attention is not included in his taste.
Everyone finally shuts up once the professor enters and starts her lesson, and Bradley breathes in as deeply as he can while remaining silent to calm his racing heart. It must be the stress he’s been under, with how much he had to work. He should visit his GP next time he gets home and make him prescribe him something for that.
He finally manages to calm himself down enough to focus on the lesson. The class isn’t particularly interesting, but it’s not the worst, either. Easy enough at least, as long as he takes notes. Speaking of taking notes.
“Hey,” Bradley hisses, roughly shoving the tip of his shoe into Max’s ankle. “Stop fidgeting so much, the whole desk is shaking.”
Max, who has been bouncing his leg up and down for the entirety of the lecture - which is driving Bradley absolutely insane - furrows his eyebrows like Bradley’s words exceed his realm of comprehension.
“What’s your problem,” he asks, which is so idiotic because Bradley made that pretty clear in his last comment, didn’t he?
“I can’t focus because of you, Goof,” he whispers sharply, and that finally shuts Max up - though he shoots him one last glare before doing so. He isn’t even taking notes, just sitting there and staring at the professor’s presentation with an expression that makes him seem pretty lost. His leg stays still, but now he’s thrumming his fingers against the desk. It’s annoying, but it’s better than what he was doing before, so Bradley decides to ignore it for this lesson.
After what feels like an eternity, the professor dismisses the class and Bradley crams his notebook into his bag immediately. He doesn’t want to spend another second in this classroom, on this seat, next to Max and his bothersome nervous habits.
He shoulders his bag and then his name is called out behind him. Bradley doesn’t know why he actually does stop when he hears the call; he already recognises the voice. Seconds later, there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“What do you want now,” Bradley asks and his legs finally continue to move. Unfortunately, Max doesn’t have issues keeping up with him.
“I was wondering if you’d let me borrow your notes,” he asks like that’s a normal fucking request to make. It probably would be, if Bradley were anyone else.
“Forget it,” Bradley laughs incredulously. What the fuck, honestly? First he steals his seat, then he spends the entirety of class bothering him instead of paying attention, and now he’s on the scrounge? “Pay attention next time.”
Max clicks his tongue. “It’s no use. I don’t get calculus.”
Bradley scoffs. “I fail to see how that’s my problem, freshman.”
“Still no longer a freshman,” Max reminds him, and Bradley can practically hear the annoying grin forming on his face. And his own headache alongside it.
“What about your friends? Are they too dumb to take notes, too?”
Max glares at him and Bradley does not miss how he has to tilt his head back just a little bit to do so. The fact that he’s smaller than Bradley is by far the least infuriating thing about him, Bradley mentally notes with a complacent grin of his own.
“Bobby and P.J. aren’t even in calculus,” Max says, like it’s Bradley’s responsibility to keep a mental list of all his classmates for each course.
“Good for them.” Bradley can see the point Max is trying to make and decides to ignore it in the same breath. Max is funnier to observe when he’s frustrated.
“Come on, Brad,” He draws out the vowel of Bradley’s abbreviated name, like he has any right to address him like this. “Don’t you wanna make amends?”
Bradley promptly freezes. Is this why Max keeps bothering him? Is he expecting Bradley to force himself to be nice to him out of guilt, or some shit like that? Well, if he still thinks he can guilt-trip Bradley into doing what he wants, he must be extremely delusional.
Bradley lets the anger coiling in his stomach guide him, just for a moment, and grabs Max by the shoulder - not so hard it’s painful, but roughly enough that the casualty is wiped off his face. “Listen up, Goof,” he says through gritted teeth. “I have enough on my plate already, so you should go and find someone else to harass. Got it?”
Max frowns at him, his lips parted slightly, and the ridiculous hoop at his eyebrow gleams up at Bradley. Then he has the gall to grin .
“Hit a nerve there, didn’t I?” he asks, the tip of his tongue swiping over his bottom lip briefly, and Bradley lets go of him like he got burned.
“Dream on, Goof,” he scoffs before he leaves Max standing in the hallway and makes his way to his next class.
*
Another horrifying aspect of going back to a school you committed arson at is that said school is going to force you to atone for your past actions by engaging you in communal tasks such as tutoring. This becomes even more horrifying when taking into consideration who it is Bradley is apparently supposed to be tutoring on this godforsaken Thursday afternoon.
“What the fuck,” he mumbles to himself, bringing his hand up to massage his temples as he approaches the library table the lovely Miss Marpole directed him towards before turning back to her computer.
“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” Bradley says instead of a greeting. He is met with a slightly puzzled look.
“I’m here for- wait.” Max looks at him like he’s solving a riddle, and then his face melts into a tired expression that probably closely resembles the one Bradley is wearing.
“Calculus, I presume,” Bradley poses in the most derogatory way one could possibly enunciate the name of a college course. Max leans back into his chair like he wants it to swallow him whole and grabs his cup of coffee. It leaves a trail of froth above his upper lip. Bradley pours so much disgust into the next look he gives him that he probably guesses and licks it away.
Bradley frantically looks down at his coursebook.
“Now it is your problem that I don’t get it,” Max says, and Bradley sighs.
“Aren’t you a physics major? Why are you specialising in something you’re bad at?
That gets Max to finally abandon his overly lax position on the chair and lean forward. “I’m not bad at physics! I’m just struggling with calculus. I’ve always been good at math up until this course!”
Bradley raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t buy it, just to spite Max further. In truth, as long as Max doesn’t try to compete with Bradley for top of the class, he couldn't care less whether he is good at anything. But Max evidently loves to get in his way, so maybe he should start worrying about that.
Then again, the reason they’re here is that Max is failing calculus. So Bradley’s point remains: Max’s grades are none of his concern.
“Alright. What do you need help with,” Bradley asks before their bickering can continue. They’re already here, and Bradley doubts asking for a different tutee would make him look any better, so they might as well actually talk about calculus. There aren’t any private matters Bradley wishes to discuss with Max, anyway. Why would there be.
Max looks at him for a moment, like he’s waiting for Bradley to say ‘psych’ and start being an ass again. When he’s done testing him, he grumbles something unintelligible before flipping open his own coursebook. “I didn’t really get the integration stuff we did last semester, so I’m even more lost now that we’re expanding on that topic.”
Bradley bites back a remark about how Max even managed to pass calculus last term. Instead he merely sighs and opens the according page so they can get started.
It turns out that Max really isn’t as stupid as Bradley thought; he just needs the rules explained to him in a very specific manner, which Bradley manages to get a feeling for relatively quickly. The only issue is the noise disturbance emanating from the nearest table; permanent fits of giggling and whispering that are clearly directed at their table - the girls aren’t exactly sly when pretending not to look over at Max.
“Goof,” he whispers, because it’s seriously starting to give him a headache. “Tell your groupies over there to shut the fuck up.”
Max raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “My what ?”
Bradley rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. They’ve been mooning over you the entire time.”
Max perks up at that, which is not the reaction Bradley was hoping to achieve. “Really?” he asks, and turns his head towards the girls’ table - he is so obvious, Bradley would laugh if he weren’t so annoyed about it.
“Come on, this really isn’t the time to make new friends,” Bradley attempts to redirect Max’s attention to himself– to calculus. “You don’t want them finding out you rely on my help to pass your class, do you?”
Max finally swirls back around to look at him. “Okay, first of all,” he points a finger at Bradley, “You may be tutoring me right now, but that doesn’t mean I ‘rely on your help’ to pass or anything. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He places his forearms on the table and shifts his weight forward. “And second, I don’t care that much about what others think of me. Maybe you should try that too.”
Bradley scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I thought you were all confident,” Max continues, and Bradley’s hands curl into fists under the table. “I didn’t expect you to need so much validation.”
“You’re fucking deluded,” Bradley spits, and it’s like Max takes that as confirmation of his point, which is so infuriating, Bradley has to scoot back in his chair a little bit.
“No, like, seriously,” Max just won’t shut his mouth, like he’s completely unaware of how he’s riling Bradley up - but Bradley knows it’s quite the opposite. Max enjoys teasing him. And to him, it really isn’t anything more than that: simple teasing. Bradley, on the other hand, feels like he’s being subjected to some kind of psychoanalysis, which, to say the least, is highly unpleasant. He does his best to push his discomfort down: it’s already pathetic enough that he’s letting Max’s words get to him in the first place. He doesn’t need Max to know about it too.
“Everything you do is so…showy. I just mean, relax, dude, we’re college students. Nobody cares.”
Nobody cares? Sure, if nobody cared, there really would be no use in trying at all. Bradley has no doubt Max’s life works like that: He could fail all his classes, drop out of college and become a street artist or run a food truck or something and his dad would still be crazy about him. His family and his stupid friends would support him no matter what. It’s so wretched - how dare Max give him advice, like he has any idea of what it’s like outside his bubble of happiness, where the ruling force seem to be the fucking power of love and friendship?
“Don’t act like you know anything about me,” Bradley snaps, hands gripping the table to shove his chair back. “Alright? Because you don’t. And you look really fucking stupid pretending that you do.”
Next thing he knows, Bradley is marching out the library, clutching his calculus coursebook to his chest, leaving Max sitting at the table all by himself. And he swears on his mother’s life that couldn’t care less.
*