Inkling

3.3 A Lack of Yelling

7:25 A.M.

Max looked up at the tall, slanted building that looked about ready to topple over any second.

"Though I would rather not go into that death trap, I would also prefer to not to stand around outside staring at that death trap." He was trying for lightness, but the look on Lincoln's face took the air right out of his lungs. He was terrified.

"Hey," Max started, not quite sure how to address him. "I know I hated you not twelve hours ago, and then accidentally turned you into a frog and put you in my pocket as I frantically ran around the city; but at this very moment, bound to you by black magic or not, I am rather concerned." Lincoln did not look at Max and when he spoke his voice was soft and hoarse.

"I am late and still... I do not think I can go up there."

Max caught Lincoln's arm at the elbow so lightly that Lincoln could barely feel the warmth of his hand through his coat. But still, it was the most blindly reassuring thing he could have done.

"I am not one for doing things I do not wish to do." Max let his hand fall limply to his side. "Perhaps come back later?"

Lincoln laughed, a bitter laugh that made Max feel as though he had completely misinterpreted the situation. Lincoln turned away from him, his hands finding the brim of his hat and yanking it down further over his eyes.

"I cannot just run away from this Wayde, that is not how real life works. I understand from those such as Miss Valera that running is your chosen means of dealing with life, but that is not a bloody option." His voice crescendoed sharply and Max took a step back, gulping down his surprise.

"I have not meant to offend..." Max truly did not know what to say, what to do. When Lincoln spoke his voice was nearly at a shout and Max was beginning to get very uneasy. Shouting people always made him uneasy.

"Not meant to offend?" he nearly roared, Max shrunk back against the building behind him. "Yes well I assure you I do not care enough to be offended. You have only made me late to that which I cannot bring myself to attend."

He was bitter beyond words, it spread into his face and his hands were fists at his sides. It was like watching an earthquake, which is to say: he was crumbling and Max had the strong urge to run out of self preservation. It would be a lie to say the fear of the ice pick in his chest was what kept him rooted in place. Fear of pain motivates those who wish to run and those who wish to remain in place forever. It seemed Lincoln was the latter.

"And what would that be, Lincoln," the informal caught him off guard enough to render him motionless and blinking. Not exactly what Max had in mind, but it worked well enough. "The thing you do not wish to attend."

Lincoln had never been spoken to in such a kind and gentle manner, never in his life.