Chapter Text
The silence of the room felt heavy, suffocating, and simultaneously far too loud. Bradley woke with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t sit in his muscles so much as in his bones. The kind that made him feel older, heavier, like the last forty‑eight hours had aged him a decade. He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, tracing the molding with his eyes until they blurred. His entire body felt like it had been put through a woodchipper, then wrung out, stomped on, and then politely asked him to smile about it. A sensation that was amplified every time he blinked and felt the sharp, rhythmic pulse of his swollen eye.
He flops back onto the bed with a groan, staring up at the ceiling like it personally wronged him. The springs groaning in sympathy, he has no motivation to move. He could happily lie here until the universe collapsed. Yesterday had been a fever dream, the sheer audacity of that smug bastard's smirk, the way he’d draped his arm over his shoulders, the sickening sweetness he’d feigned in front of his parents. It was enough to make him want to crawl into a hole and never emerge.
But no. His parents want lunch with just him, thankfully. No Max, no fake boyfriend, no touching, no hands on his waist, no whispered “sweetheart” that made his skin crawl. No freshman smiling like he’s the sun incarnate while he dies inside. He sighs so hard it rattles his ribs. He sat up, his movements sluggish. His reflection in the vanity mirror was a horror show. The dark purple bloom around his eye and the gap where his tooth used to be made him look like a street thug rather than the polished, elite athlete. He winced, carefully layering a bit of concealer over the bruised skin and adjusting his collar to hide the faint, stinging marks Max had left on his neck during their "affectionate" display.
The thought of lunch at the hotel dining hall made his stomach churn, though he wasn’t sure if it was nerves or self-loathing. He knew what was coming. This lunch is probably about the X Games. About the cheating, the fire, how his older brother would never have done something so reckless. His black eye throbs at the thought. So does the empty space where his tooth used to be. His looks match the way he feels, like a disaster. The fact that he’d lost and looked like he’d crawled out of a gutter while doing it was a wound to his pride, one he wasn't sure would ever heal. But the fact that they thought he was dating a Goof? That was a catastrophe of cosmic proportions he really wasn't sure he'd ever recover from.
He sighed heavily, feeling sluggish and hollow. His mind felt numb, like it was wrapped in cotton. He still couldn’t believe any of it had happened, the X Games disaster, the cheating scandal, the fire, the humiliation, and then Max Goof of all people rubbing salt in the wound. He checks the time, 11:20 AM. Their getting lunch at noon. Perfect, just enough time to get dressed and mentally prepare for whatever lecture awaited him. He still can’t believe the last two days happened. He still can’t believe he let Max Goof pretend to be his boyfriend. Twice. In front of his parents.
He pulled on a clean shirt, careful to not mess up the concealer, adjusting the collar for good measure. He tried not to think about the marks Max left. Or how they got there. Or how Max had the audacity to look good last night.
Nope. Not going there.
He grabbed his keys and made his way to his car. The hotel isn’t far, thank god. His mom insisted they eat at the hotel's restaurant and for once he was grateful. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. And just sits there for a moment, trying to hype himself up. It’s fine. It’s just lunch. At least that freshman won't be there touching you every five seconds like some clingy golden retriever with no concept of personal space.
He exhales shakily. He can handle his parents, the disappointment, the inevitable comparisons to his older brother. He could handle it, anything is better than enduring Max Goof’s hands on him while he spews more lies about their “relationship.” He tightens his grip on the wheel, knuckles turning white. Whatever this lunch is about, he’ll survive it because Max Goof won’t be there. And that alone makes today a thousand times better than yesterday.
As he navigated the short drive to the hotel, his mind kept circling back to Max. He could still feel the phantom pressure of his hand against his lower back, the way he had leaned in close enough to smell cheap cologne, purposefully aggravating him while putting on a show for his mother. Every time the memory surfaced, his heart hammered against his ribs, a volatile cocktail of blinding rage and a confusing, molten sort of heat he refused to label.
He pulled into the hotel parking lot with a knot in his stomach. The place was exactly the same as always, grand, polished, and quietly intimidating. His parents only stayed here when they visited, which wasn’t often, but the building never failed to make him feel like he needed to stand up straighter and pretend his life wasn’t a complete disaster. Tall glass windows reflected the late‑morning sun, and the entrance was framed by marble pillars and neatly trimmed hedges.
He killed the engine of his car, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He smoothed his collar, checking the reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. He looked wrecked, inside and out. At least he’d done a decent job with the concealer, but no amount of makeup could smooth over the jagged, swelling reality of a bruised eye or the hollow, aching gap where a tooth used to be.
As he stepped out of the car, he smoothed his shirt and straightened his posture, pulling his habitual mask of arrogance over his features. If he had to walk into the fire, he’d do it with his head held high. He just prayed that for once, for just one hour, the name "Max Goof" wouldn't leave his parents' lips. He knew it was a lie, the conversation would eventually shift towards his "boyfriend," but as he walked toward the lobby, he clutched onto that sliver of hope. Whatever they had to say about his failure at the games, it couldn’t be worse than having to tolerate another minute of Max’s touchy-feely charade. Or so he told himself, even as his pulse raced, betrayed by the thrill he knew he shouldn't be feeling.
Inside, the lobby was all gleaming floors, soft gold lighting, and the faint scent of expensive candles. A fountain burbled in the center, echoing off the crystal chandeliers that shimmered like frozen rain. He swallowed hard as he made his way toward the hotel’s built‑in restaurant, a place fancy enough that people came here just to eat, even if they weren’t staying at the hotel. He spotted his parents immediately. His mother was radiant, her blonde curls bouncing with every animated gesture as she spoke. She spotted him, her face lighting as she waved him over. His father gave a small nod, already halfway through a glass of water.
A waitress approached him, mid‑twenties, dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, wearing a fitted black vest over a white button‑up, with a gold name tag pinned neatly to her chest. She smiled politely as she guided him to the table, “Right this way, sir.”
Bradley followed her to the table, every step making his stomach twist tighter. He sat down, trying to look composed, even though his nerves were buzzing under his skin.
"Bradley! Darling, you’re just in time," his mother chirped as he slid into the chair.
"Good to see you, son," his father added.
“Good to see you too,” He murmured, eyes dropping immediately to the menu. If he didn’t look at them, maybe he wouldn’t have to see the disappointment he was sure was coming. His heart hammered against his ribs. He felt exposed, waiting for the inevitable pivot to the X-Games disaster or the humiliating reality of his "relationship" with his so called "boyfriend". He kept his head down, gripping the edges of the heavy, leather-bound menu as if it were a shield.
His mother launched into small talk, how they slept, how lovely the weather was, how nice it was to see him. He nodded along, pretending to read the menu, though the words blurred together. Something was off. They weren’t mentioning the X Games, the cheating, the fire or Max. The longer he sat there, the more suspicious he became. His father asked about classes. His mother asked about his friends. They both smiled too easily, too gently like they were handling him with kid gloves.
He hated it.
"So," his mother trilled, her bracelets clinking together, "How have you been?"
"Just busy," he muttered, his eyes glued to the list of appetizers. Why aren't they talking about it? He waited for the lecture on his performance, the disappointment over his loss, or at least a comment on the "boyfriend" they’d met yesterday. The waitress returned to take their orders, notepad already out. His parents ordered quickly while he picked something at random just to get the menu out of his hands.
As the waitress tucked their menus under her arm and departed, he finally dared to glance up and nearly jumped out of his skin. His mother was watching him, smiling softly. He quickly adverted his gaze, he hadn’t made eye contact with her once since sitting down.
"Look at me, Bradley," she spoke softly.
He didn't want to. He looked everywhere else, at the centerpiece, at the waiter refilling water three tables away. He felt the phantom throb in his jaw, the stinging heat of his bruised eye.
"Bradley."
She leaned across the table, her hand moved with a terrifying grace, her fingers tracing the air near his face before fluttering down to his cheek. She didn't press down, just a feather-light brush near the bruised skin around his eye, “Oh, sweetheart…” she whispered, “Does it still hurt?”
The skin around his eye pulsed with a sharp, sickening heat. He wanted to flinch, to swat her hand away, but he stayed frozen. His throat tightened, the bruise throbbed under her fingers, but he forced himself to shake his head, "It’s fine," he lied.
She hummed, a low, melodic sound of disbelief. Keeping her hand there for a second longer, her lips thinning into a straight, sharp line. She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push. She withdrew her hand gently, smoothing her napkin in her lap. “Well,” she chirped brightly, deliberately shifting her tone, “your father and I have been looking forward to catching up with you.”
He swallowed hard, grateful for the distraction when the food finally arrived. The waitress returned balancing three plates with ease. She set down his mother’s grilled lemon‑herb chicken, perfectly sliced, arranged over a bed of roasted vegetables then his father’s steak frites, the meat seared dark and glistening beside a pile of thin, crisp fries. His own dish was a simple pasta primavera, colorful and steaming, the kind of thing he could eat without thinking too hard.
He preferred it that way today. They all began eating, the soft clink of silverware filling the space between them. He dove into the meal, grateful for the excuse to keep his mouth full. He chewed the tender pasta, but the tension remained, coiled tightly in his gut. Every clink of silverware against the china sounded like a starter pistol; he felt like a deer trapped in the headlights, waiting for the inevitable shift in tone. He kept his eyes on his plate, not wanting to meet his parent's gaze, not wanting to see the look in their eyes when the conversation would turn toward the X Games, the cheating, the fire, the disappointment.
But it didn’t. His mother chatted lightly about the hotel spa. His father mentioned a new project at work. They asked whether he’d tried the new café near campus, nothing about the X Games, his mistakes. The longer it went on, the more suspicious he became. Halfway through the meal, his mother dabbed her lips with a linen napkin and looked at him with a bright, almost too‑pleasant smile, “So, sweetheart, you’re still coming home for spring break, right?”
The question snapped him out of his fog. He blinked, daring to look up at her, “Yes?” he answered, because that had been the plan since they last talked a month ago. Why bring it up now?
She hummed happily, “Wonderful," turning to look at his father before swinging back, "I was thinking we could set an appointment to get that tooth fixed before we leave for our trip.”
Ah. That made sense. He ran his tongue along the jagged, empty gap in his gum, the familiar throb pulsing behind it. The vanity of the request stung, but it was so mundane, so normal, that a wave of relief washed over him. He wouldn't have to be a walking advertisement for his own failure anymore. Two more weeks. He could survive two more weeks. "I can call the family dentist first thing tomorrow," his father chimed in, "I’m sure he can fit you in. He owes me that much."
He managed a weak, tight-lipped smile, nodding at them both. "Thanks, Dad. That’d be... that’d be great."
They resumed eating, the silence settling back over the table, not necessarily heavy, but thick with the weight of the day before. He ate in silence, pushing a piece of pasta around his plate as his parents finished their meals. But as the plates were cleared, the frequency of their glances grew. His mother and father shared a look, a silent, loaded communication that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His father’s brow was furrowed, a mirror image of the concern etched into his mother’s features. He gripped his water glass, bracing for impact. This is it, he thought, the shoe was finally dropping. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that made it hard to breathe.
Then, his mother reached across the table and laid her hand gently over his. She began to trace small, soothing circles over his knuckles with her thumb. “Bradley…” she began, voice soft. She glanced at his father, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod, shifting his weight to lean in. He felt the blood drain from his face. This was it, this was the moment the shoe finally dropped. He braced himself, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, breath held. Instead, she sighed gently, eyes drifting down to their joined hands before lifting to meet his, "I... we've been thinking about yesterday," his mother continued, her eyes searching his, damp with a sudden, overwhelming empathy, "And we wanted to apologize. If we've made you feel like you couldn't... like you couldn’t be open with us about who you are, or who you're with."
He froze, his mind reeling. What? That was… not the shoe he expected to drop. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, “I— what?”
His mother squeezed his hand, “You seemed so nervous yesterday…”
"We felt like you were so... guarded," his father chimed in, his voice gruff but kind, "Seeing you with Max... we realized we probably put a lot of pressure on you. We thought maybe you were just uncomfortable bringing your boyfriend around us because you were afraid of how we’d react," his father nodded, clearing his throat, "We don’t ever want you to feel like you have to hide who you are. And we’re sorry if we’ve been the kind of parents who made you feel like you had to hide, and act a certain way just to please us."
He stared at them, completely stunned into silence. They thought— they actually thought his awkwardness around Max was because he was struggling to come out. Not because Max Goof was the most irritating human being alive and had spent the entire day touching him, teasing him, lying through his teeth. Not because he had been seconds away from committing a felony at that dinner table last night. The "tension" they had misinterpreted as him being closeted or ashamed was actually pure, distilled irritation at Max for sitting too close and for the way he had smirked at him every time his parents looked away. He felt a bizarre, hysterical urge to laugh, swallowed down by the sheer weight of his own resentment towards that freshman.
He swallowed hard, unsure what expression he was making. "I—" he started, his voice cracking. He looked at his mother’s worried face, then at his father, who looked genuinely remorseful. He didn't know whether to laugh or scream. They thought he was being awkward because he was closeted. They had no idea he was being awkward because the guy he was "dating" was the bane of his existence and was currently making his blood pressure skyrocket whenever he entered a room.
His mother’s smile softened even more, “It’s alright, sweetheart. You don’t have to explain anything right now. We just want you to know we love you. Exactly as you are.”
His father nodded firmly, “Always.”
He slowly nodded, his throat tight. Saying "Actually, I just hate him" felt like a bridge too far, especially while they were sitting there expressing such earnest, loving support. He looked at his father’s pained expression and realized he had two choices: explain that he was actually just hiding his burning hatred for a rival, or lean into the misunderstanding to get them off his back. He chose the path of least resistance, offering a tentative, trembling nod, "I appreciate you saying that," he whispered, feeling the weight of the charade sit heavily in his chest, "It’s... it’s just been a lot."
His mother let out a shaky, relieved sigh, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, "We just want you to be happy, Bradley. And if that’s with him... well, we’re trying."
Bradley lowered his gaze, his face burning. He was a fraud, and he was being rewarded for it, all while Max, the bane of his existence, was currently being credited for his "happiness." He felt like he was drowning in the irony, trapped in a lie built on the foundation of his parents' own misguided compassion. She gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go, her tone brightening as she mercifully changed the subject, “Now,” she smiled, picking up her water glass, “tell us more about your classes this semester.”
He exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of him in a way he didn’t expect. He still felt guilty, still felt bruised both physically and emotionally. He still felt like the last two days had been a fever dream. But for the first time since the X Games, since Max, since everything… he didn’t feel like he was about to be crushed. And that was something.
For a fleeting, fragile moment, he felt the knot in his chest loosen. Though his relief lasted all of three seconds. Then his mother smiled, as if the universe couldn’t stand to let him have one peaceful moment, she brightened and folded her napkin neatly, “Well! Before we forget— your father and I were thinking we’d like to have an early lunch with Max tomorrow before our flight.”
Every ounce of warmth, relief, and gratitude evaporated. He had to physically force his facial muscles to relax, terrified his face was twisting into a scowl. His jaw locked so tight it hurt. He tried to brush it off casually, “Oh, uh… I'm not sure he’s free,” he lied, his voice sounding thin to his own ears. His mother cut him off with a gentle but firm wave of her hand, "Nonsense," she pressed, reaching across the table to pat his hand, "We adore him. And we didn’t get nearly enough time with the two of you yesterday.”
He nearly choked on air, feeling that familiar weight of their expectations bearing down on him. They were looking at him with such genuine, misguided pride. The guilt hit him with the force of a physical blow. How could he argue? How could he reject their happiness after they’d just apologized for being overbearing?
His father nodded in agreement, “It would mean a lot to us, son.”
He stared at them, feeling the guilt coil around his ribs like a vice. They’d just apologized. They’d just told him they loved him. They’d just made him feel like he wasn’t a disappointment. And now they wanted lunch with Max, the bane of his existence. The man who had spent an entire day touching him, teasing him, lying through his teeth, and smiling like he was enjoying every second of his suffering. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t say no, not after that conversation.
"Right," he forced out a stiff, reluctant reply, his stomach turning over, "I’ll… see what I can do."
"Wonderful!" his mother boomed, beaming with a satisfaction that felt like a mockery.
His father smiled approvingly, “We’re looking forward to it.”
He managed a weak nod, but inside he was screaming. Because tomorrow, he’d have to face Max again. And endure another round of fake‑boyfriend hell while pretending everything was fine. He took a long, slow sip of his water, staring over the rim of the glass at nothing. He was trapped. He could almost see Max now, the smirk, the way he would lean into his personal space just to see him squirm, the infuriatingly talented way he played the part of the doting partner. He slumped back in his chair, wondering how his life had spiraled so catastrophically in forty‑eight hours. As his parents continued to chat happily about reservations, he felt the ache of a headache blooming behind his eyes. It was the worst kind of complication, wanting to hate someone who was currently holding his social reputation, and perhaps a small, buried part of his sanity, in their hands.
The silence of his bedroom was heavy, thick with the lingering scent of anxiety and the ghost of his own poor decisions. He lay flat on his back, limbs feeling like lead, staring at the ceiling as if they might offer a clever escape route from the reality he had foolishly orchestrated. Yesterday had been a masterclass in psychological warfare, or perhaps, in the art of self-sabotage. His parents, usually distant and perpetually disappointed, had been surprisingly warm, seemingly eager to embrace the "Max" who had charmed them with his easy, lopsided grin and faux-affectionate glances. But the joy they’d expressed, the genuine, softening look in his mother’s eyes had was the reason he was currently hovering over his contacts list, finger trembling with irritation.
He’d come home from lunch with his parents feeling wrung out but… okay. Not great, not good, but okay. The apology had meant something. For a brief, fleeting moment, he’d felt understood. And then his mother wanted to have lunch with Max again. Now he was back in his room, contemplating what cosmic crime he must’ve committed in a past life to deserve this. He thought he’d dodged the bullet. After the dinner fiasco, he was sure Max would be glad to never see him again. But the guilt, that nasty, persistent parasite, had forced his hand. He couldn't handle the crushing weight of his mother’s pride when she spoke about meeting a "nice boy" like Max.
He dragged a hand down his face and groaned. What possessed him to agree? Why didn’t he lie? Why didn’t he throw himself into traffic? He could still back out. He could text his parents and say Max was busy. He could say Max had spontaneously died in a tragic "accident," or that he fell into a woodchipper. But then he pictured his mother’s disappointed face, her soft smile, her warm hand on his cheek, the way she’d apologized for thinking he didn’t trust them and guilt gnawed at him like a starving rat. To bail now would be twisting the knife in the wound.
He rolled onto his side, to glare at the wall. He really, really didn’t want to text that bastard. He shuddered as the memory of yesterday's performances washed over him. Max leaning into him, touching him, whispering things that made his skin crawl. Max, that smug, infuriating bastard, had played the part of the doting boyfriend terrifyingly well. Every lingering look, every casual brush of their shoulders, every sickeningly sweet comment Max had made had felt like a needle under his skin.
He groaned again, pressing his face into his pillow. His parents had been so sad. So convinced he’d been hiding himself from them. And the truth was… he had. He didn't want to tell them. He had spent years carefully constructing a fortress of privacy, ensuring his parents lived in a world where his sexuality was a non-issue simply because it was non-existent to them. Not because he didn’t trust them, but because he genuinely didn’t know how they’d react. He’d spent years assuming the worst. Years convincing himself it was safer to say nothing.
Yet, here he was, trapped by his own drunken mistakes and the accidental discovery that had forced his hand. He supposed he should be grateful, they hadn’t screamed, hadn’t disowned him, hadn’t even looked at him with anything other than a slightly clumsy, desperate desire to do better. And he was grateful. He just wished gratitude didn’t come with a side of Max Goof. Fine, he thought, his jaw tight. One more lunch. Then they leave, and he never has to look at that freshman again. He sighed aggressively, sat up, and reached for his phone like it weighed fifty pounds.
“Please be busy,” he muttered to no one, “Please, for once in your life, have something better to do.”
Bradley [3:48pm]
My parents want to see you for lunch before they leave tomorrow.
He hit send before he could talk himself out of it, then he tossed the phone aside, letting it clatter onto the comforter as he spread his arms out, staring at the ceiling again. Please be busy, he prayed to a ceiling fan that didn't care. Please be doing something important. Please have better things to do than make my life a living hell. Maybe—
Ding.
The silence lasted exactly sixty seconds, a minute of blissful, crushing hope. He scowled so hard his face hurt, his heart hammering against his ribs. He snatched the phone up, holding it directly over his face, squinting as if he could prevent the words on the screen from being true.
My Better Half [3:49pm]
Sure thing! What time? :)
He let his arm fall limp, the phone landing on his chest with a dull thud. He scowled at the ceiling, his breath hitching in his throat. Even through the screen, he could practically hear the smirk in those words. He groaned again, the sound long-suffering and pathetic, and pulled his comforter over his head. How, exactly, had he managed to turn his life into such a magnificent train wreck? And more importantly, how was he going to survive being alone with the only person on earth who knew exactly how to make him lose his mind?
“How is this my life…”
Max honestly hadn’t expected to hear from Bradley again so soon. After getting dropped off last night, after dinner, after all the touching and the fake‑boyfriend nonsense and Bradley looking like he was about to strangle him, Max was pretty sure the guy would either avoid him forever or show up at his dorm with a restraining order. So when his phone buzzed with a text from his "better half" he’d stared at it for a solid ten seconds, convinced it was a hallucination. And then he read the message.
My Better Half <3 [3:48pm]
My parents want to see you for lunch before they leave tomorrow.
Max had blinked, then blinked again. Then laughed out loud in the middle of his room because of course they did. Of course Bradley’s parents who had spent all of yesterday looking at him like he hung the moon wanted another round. And of course Bradley, who had looked like he was dying inside the entire time, had been the one forced to deliver the invitation. He had replied before he could overthink it.
Max [3:49pm]
Sure thing! What time? :)
And that's how he found himself downtown after he had slipped out of his dorm like a thief in the night, successfully avoiding his friends'' inquisitive gaze. He couldn't quite explain why he was doing this, why he was walking down the sidewalk, adjusting his collar, and checking his reflection in a storefront window every thirty seconds. He did not need the interrogation that would follow if his friends'' found out he was willingly going to lunch with Bradley Uppercrust and his parents again.
He could already hear PJ’s voice, “Max. Buddy. Why are you like this?”
He shook the thought off and kept walking, hands shoved in his pockets as he made his way down the sidewalk. Bradley’s parents had picked a fancy little place near campus, close enough that Bradley had simply texted him to meet them there. Which, honestly, Max couldn’t blame him for. If he were Bradley, he wouldn’t want to pick him up either after the stunt he pulled at dinner. Not that he regretted it, he couldn’t help it the opportunity had presented itself. And Bradley had looked so… flustered.
His mind drifted back to Bradley’s outfit last night. The sleek black button‑up, the tailored pants, the way he’d looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine. Max caught his reflection in a shop window and realized he was smiling like an idiot. He immediately wiped the grin off his face, “Nope. Absolutely not. We’re not doing that,” he muttered to himself. There was no way he was letting himself like someone as infuriating, arrogant, and uptight as Bradley Uppercrust the third. The guy was a prick. A rich prick. A prick who had spent most of yesterday glaring at him like he wanted to commit a crime. He shook his head hard, trying to get his act together. He hated Bradley. Obviously. The guy was a pretentious, polished, overbearing prick.
He had a job to do, a role to play. One more lunch. One more round of pretending to be the doting boyfriend. He could handle that, probably. He exhaled slowly as he continued down the sidewalk, praying he’d be able to keep up the lovey‑dovey act once he got there. It was a game, he told himself. Just a stunt. But as he turned the corner and saw the restaurant’s awning, his heart gave an inconvenient, traitorous thump. Max smoothed his hair, slowing his pace to a cool strut. He was going to have to be charming, attentive, and sickeningly sweet. He had to be the perfect boyfriend to a man who wanted to strangle him.
Early spring had the nerve to be beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made Bradley even more annoyed, because the world really shouldn’t look this pleasant when he felt like he was waiting for his own execution. The weather was mild, sunny but not hot, with a cool breeze threading through the air and rustling the budding leaves overhead. The outside seating area of the corner‑stone restaurant was shaded by wide umbrellas, the tables arranged neatly along the sidewalk where students and locals drifted by in a steady stream.
It was the kind of afternoon that demanded a light jacket, but Bradley sat stiffly in his chair across from his parents, feeling every degree of the temperature shift against his skin. He was dressed in a clean navy button‑up and dark jeans. Nothing like the tailored black ensemble from last night. He didn’t have the energy for that level of effort today. His hair was combed, his bruised eye was mostly hidden behind sunglasses, and he’d done his best to look like a functioning human being. Not that he felt like one.
He propped his chin in his hand, tuning out his parents’ light conversation as he stared at the passing crowd. Every so often, he wondered how he’d managed to dig himself into such a deep hole. Fake boyfriend. Two meals with his parents. His parents thinking he was hiding his sexuality. And now this. He really, really didn’t want Max to show up. But if he didn’t show up, he’d have to explain why his “boyfriend” stood him up, and that was somehow worse. He suppressed the urge to sigh. What a fool, he thought, masking his internal spiral with a hollow stare. You dug this grave, now you have to lie in it.
Then because the universe hated him, he spotted movement across the street. Amidst the blurred motion of the sidewalk, a familiar silhouette cut through the crowd. Max, walking down the sidewalk like he owned the place. Bradley’s stomach dropped, Max was dressed casually today, thank god for small mercies, but still unfairly good‑looking in a way that made him irrationally angry. He wore an oversized denim jacket over a faded graphic tee. He looked effortlessly, infuriatingly disheveled, his hair was a little messy from the breeze, and the sunlight caught on his grin as he scanned the restaurant patio.
Bradley felt a hot, prickly surge of resentment rise in his chest. It wasn't fair that Max could look like he’d rolled out of bed and still command the attention of the entire block. He scowled behind his sunglasses. Max spotted them and waved enthusiastically, that signature dopey, lopsided grin blooming across his features.
To Bradley’s horror, his mother waved back just as brightly, "Oh, look, Bradley! Is that Max?" she chirped, her face lighting up with genuine delight. Bradley felt his stomach drop, he wanted to melt into the pavement, but his mother was already calling out, "Max! Over here! We saved you a seat!"
Max jogged across the street, dodging a cyclist with a carefree ease that made Bradley’s teeth ache. “Hi!” Max chirped as he reached the table. Max slid into the empty seat right next to Bradley, far closer than necessary. Their knees brushed. Bradley’s entire spine went rigid. Bradley had to fight the reflexive urge to shove his shoulder away. He forced a smile, a brittle, glass-like thing and gritted his teeth until his jaw throbbed.
"Hey babe!" Max chirped, sliding an arm behind Bradley’s chair.
Bradley had to physically stop himself from gagging. He curled his hand into a fist in his lap, burying his hand deep into the fabric of his trousers, twisting the cloth until his nails bit into his palm. He forced out a strangled, “Hey,” he managed, his voice strained through gritted teeth, "So glad you… made it."
Max smiled, the "lovey-dovey" act clicking into place like a loaded weapon. He made sure to lean in just a little too close, just a little too heavy, feeling the tension in Bradley radiate off him like heat from a radiator. It was a game, that was all.
"Oh, Max, it is just so wonderful to see you again," Barbara beamed, ignoring the subtle, murderous tension radiating from her son. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, "Bradley has been so quiet tonight, I was beginning to think he wasn't feeling well. Tell me, Max, dear, how are you this morning?” she asked warmly.
Max lit up like a Christmas tree, “I’m great, Mrs. Uppercrust! Thanks again for inviting me.”
"Oh, call me Barbara, dear! And please, eat something. You're far too thin," she insisted.
Bradley forced his mouth into a tight, strained smile, nodding mechanically as if he were fascinated by his mother’s inquiry. Mentally, he was screaming. Every time Max shifted, a casual slide of his leg against Bradley’s, a lingering hand on the back of the chair he wanted to shove him into the street. His mother kept glancing at him, little flicks of her eyes, checking to see if he was listening, if he was engaged, if he was being a good boyfriend.
He kept a smile plastered on his face, the muscles in his jaw screaming, fighting every instinct in his body not to visibly wilt. He tried, he really did. He nodded at the right moments, hummed politely, pretended to be interested. Meanwhile, Max kept scooting closer, inch by inch. His eye twitched, he kept his arms crossed tightly against his chest, his gaze darting between his mother’s delighted face and Max’s smug one. Stop scooting closer, he thought, his internal monologue turning into a frantic, high-pitched plea. We are in public. There is a whole chair of space. Use it.
His mother was asking Max about his classes, his major, his hobbies, things he absolutely did not want to hear Max talk about because he was too good at sounding charming and genuine. It made him irrationally angry.
“And how are your friends doing?” his mother asked.
“Oh, they’re great,” Max beamed, smiling too sweetly, “They’re gonna be so jealous I got to see you two again.”
Bradley nearly choked on air. Thankfully, the waiter arrived like a godsend in a black apron before he could flip the table. As they rattled off their orders, Max turned to Barbara after the waiter left with a dramatic sigh, “I’m really gonna miss you both, it's been such a pleasure getting to finally meet you,” his voice laced with mock-sadness, hand over his heart.
Bradley’s mother awed and pressed a hand to her chest, “Oh, Max, dear, that’s so sweet.”
Bradley crossed his arms tightly, staring straight ahead, trying not to roll his eyes so hard they’d fall out of his skull. Then, because the universe hated him, his mother turned to him, “And Bradley, sweetheart—”
He snapped his head toward her so fast his neck cracked, “Yes?”
She smiled knowingly, eyes flicking between him and Max, “You didn’t tell us Max was such a sweetheart.”
He felt his soul leave his body. Max leaned in far too close and whispered, “Tell her, babe.”
Bradley gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, and forced out the fakest smile of his life, “Yeah,” he said through clenched teeth, “He’s… something.”
Lunch arrived like a temporary blessing from above. When the waiter arrived with the clatter of plates, that was the only thing preventing Bradley from having a total meltdown. He didn’t care what it was, just that Max finally had something to put in his mouth that wasn’t his words. His mother received a delicate spinach‑and‑strawberry salad with candied pecans and goat cheese. His father got a hearty roast beef sandwich while Bradley’s own plate held a grilled chicken panini, chewable without too much effort on his missing tooth. Max, naturally, had ordered the biggest thing on the menu: a towering bacon cheeseburger with fries spilling over the edge of the plate. At least it would keep him quiet for a few minutes.
As Max took a massive, unceremonious bite, Bradley felt a wave of relief. Finally, silence. Max was behaving… slightly better than he had at dinner. Which wasn’t saying much. He watched Max chew, mentally exhaling, the humiliating "cat and mouse" game they’d been playing felt like it was finally losing its shine for him, and Bradley was grateful for the mercy. He ate in relative peace while Max chatted with his parents, nodding along, smiling too sweetly, scooting closer every few minutes. He kept his arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending not to notice. If he could just get through lunch without Max saying something totally idiotic, he might actually escape this weekend with his composure intact.
But the silence was short-lived.
So, Max," his mother chimed in, what are your plans for spring break?”
Bradley’s fork froze halfway to his mouth, he whipped his head toward her, eyes wide. What was she doing?
Max finished his bite, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and shrugged with that infuriatingly relaxed charm, “Not much, honestly.”
Bradley’s stomach dropped. He didn't like the look that passed between his parents. That knowing, conspiratorial glance meant trouble. His mother leaned forward, her hands clasped, "Well... we've been thinking," she shared a glance with his father, " and we were wondering if you’d like to join us for a cruise!"
The air left Bradley’s lungs as Max’s smile widened, while Bradley’s face fell into a mask of pure horror. He knew he didn’t like where this was going. Max turned to him with a grin so smug he nearly saw red. Before Max could open his mouth, he cut in sharply, “I’m sure he’s busy.” He shot Max a look that said, Back out of this or I swear to God—
But, Max, in true Max fashion, ignored it completely, "Nonsense!" he chirped, turning to look at Bradley with a grin that made his skin crawl, "I'd love nothing more than to spend the break with you."
Before he could argue, Max reached across the table, placing his hand over his, his palm warm and his thumb beginning to lazily stroke Bradley’s knuckles. Bradley’s heart hammered against his ribs from the sheer audacity of this freshman. His mother let out a soft, delighted "Aww," placing her hand to her chest.
Bradley’s jaw ached from clenching it. He wanted to snatch his hand away, to bolt from the restaurant and never look back, but he was trapped by the watchful eyes of his parents. Instead, he tightened his grip on Max’s hand, digging his nails into the other boy’s skin, a silent, visceral warning. Max didn't flinch. He just held the grip, his expression shifting into a sugary, mock-affectionate gaze. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur only Bradley could hear, "Don't look so tense, babe. The ocean air will do you good."
Bradley stared at him, his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip until Max’s fingers audibly cracked, his mind screaming. He knew texting him was a bad idea.