on two wheels (maxley fic)

CHAPTER 08

BRADLEY UPPERCRUST III

October 08, 2002.
"Whether I'm gonna flip you off or pull you into the closet, I haven't decided yet."
—imgonnagetyouback
Taylor Swift

I don't know why Tank has decided to interrupt my sleep this early, but for some reason he's in my bedroom. As president of Gamma Mu Mu, the undisputed top dog of this fraternity scene, I have the privilege – well, not exactly a privilege for someone who'd always had his space – of the most luxurious room on campus. Solitude, you see, is paramount for a man of my... stature.

"Tank," I mumble, sleep still thick in my voice, "get lost. Beauty sleep is a must." I hope I don't sound whiny – but judging annoyance at this ungodly hour is a skill.

Even with my eyes shut, Tank's presence is clear. My top-floor room rarely sees foot traffic, but when it does, I notice. Especially when those feet belong to Tank, who sounds like a clumsy elephant.

"Uh, dude," Tank stammers, "there's a visitor."

"Not interested," I declare, grabbing a silk pillow (Egyptian cotton, naturally) to smother the world. "Whoever it is can wait."

"I'm not getting out, Bradley," a voice says, laced with a hint of the same arrogance I probably exude. It's not Tank.

"Great," I muttered, burrowing deeper. Tank, bless his simple mind, seems to enjoy this whole thing. But he's a nice man and I hear his steps, leaving me with the unwanted visitor.

"Hear me out, Bradley," the voice began, a hint of desperation creeping in, "I need your help."

Here's the thing. If they hadn't barged in like a bull in a china shop, I would have continued slumbering through my usual six AM wake-up call. With a sigh, I reach out a hand, fumbling for the clock on my nightstand. The cool surface feels almost hostile against my warm cocoon.

Squinting at the luminous numbers through a sliver of open eye, I can't help but mutter, "Seriously, Max? Couldn't this existential crisis have waited another hour to wake me up?"

The bed dips under Max Goof's weight, thankfully missing my feet. A jolt of warmth, almost imperceptible but undeniably there, radiates from Max's presence. Confessing such a thing, of course, is utterly absurd.

"Do you wake up at 6 in the morning?" Max asks, a tremor of something in his voice – curiosity? It is difficult to tell.

"Usually," I confirm, finally deigning to remove the pillow from my face.

My gaze swept over Max – a baggy red t-shirt straining at the seams, a black long-sleeved undershirt peeking out rebelliously. His entire look makes it seems like it belongs to someone at least one size bigger than him. His jeans don't look dirty, which I appreciate since he's sitting on my covers.

Max seems to think about my answer, and it diverts his mind from his first focus.

"I thought rich people woke up late," he mumbles, attempting a flippant tone that fell flat.

"Currently," I drawl, pushing away the covers, "academia outshines inherited wealth. Besides," I continue, a smirk tugging at my lips, "the truly affluent can afford to rise early for leisure, darling. It's the unwashed masses who scramble out of bed at the crack of dawn to, well, toil for their next crust."

Max, bless his proletarian heart, seems momentarily derailed by my impeccable logic. His initial curiosity about my sleep schedule – frankly, a pedestrian detail – is dissolved, replaced by a deeper furrow in his brow. Intriguing.