Cause for Concern ✓

eight

final stunning aesthetic (and my personal favourite) by the lovely ladyofstars

SATURDAY. 02. OCTOBER. (unedited)

"MOVE! Move! Move, please! Thank you! Hey, can— yeah, you! Move!"

The voice was familiar in a distant kind of way, like the sound of an old favourite song or a rerun of a long-since ended TV show. As distant as it felt, it was crisp as the Autumn night, the kind of voice that was made for delivering impressive speeches and winning debates. It was a voice that announced dominance before the walk, the posture, the facial expression did, especially now that someone had stopped the music and the only background noise was people pushing, shoving and complaining, asking each other what was going on.

Nick DeMarco was stood on the deck— his deck— and Max imagined— based on the sound of his movements— him marching sternly towards them. Humorously, he wondered how much trouble he was in. More importantly, he wondered how fast Nick would kick him out of the house for hitting Tyler. In his mind, that asshole had probably painted an image of being unscrupulously and ruthlessly attacked after an attempt to have a harmless and honest conversation. It wouldn't surprise him.

Purposely taking one stride over the two small steps leading up to the deck from the ground, Nick towered over Max and Cole who were still side by side. As he sat clutching Cole's coat around his shoulders, his mind raced with assumptions of how angry Nick was with him— he already sounded a little pissed off which wasn't good for anyone but especially not a guy like Nick. Guys like Nick didn't like to get pissed off which meant that when they were, they weren't fucking around. If Max hadn't been so exhausted, he might've cared a little more.

He whistled. "Hey," he said, gently kicking his foot into Max's shin. "What's your problem, dude? You come into my house, you punch my friend in the face and now you won't even look at me."

Max lifted his head to look at Nick who squinted down at him through the darkness. For the first time, he noticed that Nick was loudly chewing gum, blowing and popping bubbles, and wondered how he'd ignored it before. "Cole?" He asked, another gentle prod with his foot into Max's shin. His voice was a little more high pitched when he next spoke. "Is that Max Oran?"

"Yeah, Nick," Cole said, standing up from where he'd been kneeling beside Max, one knee and one foot flat on the deck. "That's Max Oran."

Nick held his hands out. Max didn't accept. "Come on, dude," he said, flapping his fingers upwards. "You're almost blue."

After a moment, Max accepted the offering of his hands and felt himself being pulled into Nick, who promptly wrapped an arm around him and was leading him back inside.

"Can you guys move! Out of the way please!" A pause. "Get out of the way!" He shouted, practically scolding all the teenagers who were shoving their way to the door to see what he was doing.

Upon his insistent shouting, they finally began to disperse through the house, spreading more evenly rather than squeezing together in a lump of mass like they had mere seconds ago. The music started up again and whoever had turned the lights all the way up had dimmed them down again, back to that soft, faint glow. Max thanked God that he didn't have to feel like he was being paraded, freezing and sore, through a house full of nosy teenagers, like he was in some kind of zoo or freak show.

What had happened should only be a big deal to him and to Tyler— the only other person who could be pissed off was Nick. Nobody else had any business sticking their noses or craning their necks out the door. It was a private matter. To him, anyway. How could private could it really be after Tyler's whirlwind through the house? If it was anyone's fault then it was his. If he would've gone quietly and accepted the damage then nobody would've noticed a thing.