Hatchetfield.

Line In The Sand

Max is trying to focus on what Kyle is saying - "if x divided by 9 is y, y is..." - he swears he is, but Kyle's leaning back on the headboard like he's meant to be there and his hair is the same rich, chocolate brown as the cotton under him. It's a hell of a distraction.

He clears his throat, forces himself to look at the work he's done already. The letters swim until he covers them up. Between his fingers, he sees x = 90, and breathes out his relief. Kyle's gone easy on him, like always. "10."

Kyle smiles over at Max like he's impressive; like he isn't stumbling over kids' stuff; like one of those loser freaks under his thumb hadn't found her voice just to get out of teaching him. (He'd let her go without a scratch, the little bitch; Figured he'd give up on himself too, if he had the choice.) It's a lie, obviously, to think that Kyle could be proud of him, but Max has experience pretending to believe it. It barely even hurts anymore.

They keep slogging through algebra, and Max keeps struggling, and Kyle keeps smiling. It's a gorgeous smile. Kyle's already handsome, in Max's books, but that smile just lights up his face. It brightens like a star when he looks down at his phone.

There's a little warning bell going off in Max's head, even as he admires Kyle's pretty smile, and it takes Max a minute to realise Kyle is blushing.

"Who's texting you?" He asks, and it sounds clingy. He sounds like the fucking pansy he's pretending not to be.

"Brenda," Kyle says. That bright smile only gets flicked up to Max for a moment then he's back to his phone. Transfixed. With Brenda. "I'm thinking about asking her out."

What? Max's heart drops down, down, down to his stomach, heavy as lead, and anger bubbles under the sickness. Why does Kyle always have to fucking ruin it? They were having a nice time. Kyle was happy with Max. Why does he have to run off to some girl?

"No."

It's out before he's thought about it, but it finally has Kyle looking at him. He's not saying anything, just waiting for Max. Listening to him. Obeying. Power creeps up Max's throat like bile. "You can't date her."

Kyle frowns back down at his phone. He's given in. It's written there in his eyes. Max's head is swimming again - there's a question in this. One he's too fucking thick to figure out. Max usually has to look to Kyle when things aren't adding up, but Max is in charge now. He thinks he might throw up. "Delete her number."

A few taps, and Kyle flings his phone across the bed, away from himself. He looks like he might cry. Max puts his hand on his knee, like a comfort, like a come-on, like it isn't all his fault. "It's for the best," he lies.

Kyle smiles, tearful and hideous.