Maybe In Another (After)Life

Goodbye, Friend

July 16, 1994

Max Lincoln sits on the faded couch in their practice studio, easily ignoring the sounds of his bandmates messing around as he focuses on his nails. There's a chip on his left pinky that's been bothering him all day and he's just now getting around to painting over it.

He carefully dips the tiny brush in the bottle of polish and wipes the excess off on the sides. He just finishes brushing the color over his nail, chip completely covered, when a sudden thud on the cushion beside him makes his hand jerk.

"Aw, Levy," he complains lightly. He frowns down at the dark blue streak now covering his finger before he turns to the Australian shepherd beside him.

Said dog just pants happily at him with a tennis ball in his mouth and his whole backside wiggling back and forth in replacement of his docked tail.

"Sorry, Max," Reggie calls with a sheepish smile, clearly the one to have thrown the ball.

"Not on the couch," Alex sighs. "There's enough dog hair on everything already."

Max frowns and closes the nail polish, pointing at the drummer with the bottle. "Levy can get on the couch if he wants," he tells him. "It's not his fault he sheds."

"Hair on everything," Alex repeats pointedly.

"Come on, Alex," Luke says as he walks over to the couch. He reaches out and scratches between the happy dog's ears. "It just adds character to the room. Besides, Levy's one of us."

"Yeah!" Reggie agrees. "He's, like, our mascot or something." He gasps. "Guys! We have a mascot!"

"Don't call my best mate a mascot," Max scolds playfully, smiling when Levy barks in apparent agreement.

Luke hides his own smile when Max says 'mate'. Six years in California haven't lessened the Aussie's accent at all.

"Hey," Reggie says in protest. He gestures vaguely between himself, Luke, and Alex. "I thought we were your best friends."

Max shrugs. "You three fall right behind Levy," he informs them. He holds up both hands when they start to complain. "It's not personal, boys. It's just that Levy doesn't get in the trash. He's trained."

"We do not get in the trash," Alex tells him with a completely offended look.

"Yeah," Luke says. He rubs Levy's head one last time then flops down on the other side of Max. He's close enough that their sides press together but neither makes a move for any distance. "Where do you even get that idea?"

Max rolls his eyes. "Maybe those street hot dogs you three are always eating?" he asks sarcastically. "I mean, those things are nasty, man."

"They're not that bad," Reggie claims.

Max doesn't even seem to hear him. "You're basically eating trash," he continues. "Next thing you know, I gotta listen to you three chunder."

"Chunder?" Alex repeats in confusion.

Luke points at Max. "You're making that up," he accuses. "There's no way that's a real word."

"It is too," he insists, grabbing Luke's hand and pushing it down.

Reggie suddenly perks up. "Oh, oh, I know that one!" he says excitedly. "It means to puke. Right?" He looks at Max for confirmation like an excited puppy waiting for a treat.

"See?" he says happily, gesturing at the bassist with the hand still holding Luke's. "Reggie knows what's up."

Reggie hisses a quiet 'yes' with an excited fist bump while Alex just shakes his head. Neither one of them even questions the handholding. Max is a physically affectionate guy; that's just how he is. He always has been.