Cause for Concern ✓

three

SATURDAY. 25. SEPTEMBER.

FRIDAY played like a song in Max's head— like a terrible, trashy song with a frustratingly catchy chorus that looped from one popular radio station to another.

By the time he was tumbling out of bed and out of his room, it was nearing three in the afternoon and the hangover was hitting him hard. Well, the hangover and the dull ache in the back of his head from where his dad had pushed him against the wall. The room was spinning by the time he'd trudged far enough to grab hold of his door handle and stable himself against the door frame just to stop himself from falling over.

When he finally managed to regain his balance and pushed himself away from the frame, he pressed his palm flat against his forehead and winced at the uncomfortable heat that prickled across it, an unwelcome warmth dancing over his body. As he slipped into the hallway and left tossed sheets and strewn pillows behind him, a wave of nausea washed over him and he shivered, descending the stairs that creaked beneath him. He clutched the banister until his knuckles were white and forced himself in the direction of the kitchen.

Unfortunately, the weight of the silence that fell over the house triumphed over any appreciation he might've had for the serenity. There was always something uneasy in silence; always something unspoken that lingered in breath and passed through diverting eyes. Silence always told Max something wasn't quite right. Even when he went to bed, he liked to have the fan on or some kind of white noise playing like a lullaby to bring him to sleep.

"Did you have a drink last night before bed?" She muttered. She hadn't made a noise coming in— she never did— but he'd known she'd been there anyway.

Almost surprising himself, he'd made it to the kitchen without the spinning of his head bringing him towards the floor or the nausea swirling in his stomach coming through his throat. His elbows were resting on the kitchen counters as he waited for his toast, and he lifted his head from his hands, turning around to face his mom who stood under the kitchen arch.

"Yeah," he uttered, resting his head in his hands once more and massaging his temples. "Few shots, ease the head pain."

"Aspirin go out of style?" She hummed.

"I didn't know where to find it," he murmured, his head flushed and heavy. He did know where to find it, actually. It was in the cupboard just to the left of his head but aspirin hadn't exactly been the kind of relief he was looking for.

"What time did you go to bed?" She asked. No further questions. They both knew that trying to give yourself a hangover wasn't a suitable cure for headaches or feeling lightheaded. All it was was drinking yourself into more eventual pain— or at least some temporary discomfort. Anyone knew that. She still didn't ask, though.

He had to stop himself from nearly laughing at how briskly she skipped over the subject. His dad would've probably bought a lock or something to make sure his drinks were permanently out of Max's hands; his dad would've cursed him out for stealing his drinks and he would've laughed and his dad would've cursed him out more for laughing. That was easy. That made sense to him but his mom's machinery didn't run that way, her cogs turned differently to his dad's.

"Four, I think." It was half true. Closer to five, technically, but he hadn't fallen asleep until six. Then up at nine. Then asleep at half past. Then up at eleven twenty-two. Then in and out and in out for the proceeding hours, though most of the 'in' consisted of his body trying to persuade him he was asleep while his head raced, desperate to convince him that he'd been awake the whole time. Didn't make much of a difference to him, all he cared to notice was that he was exhausted and felt like shit, so much so that he was beginning to question if he was coming down with something. A fever, maybe.