Inconvenience

Chapter 12: Confrontation

Chapter 12

The art you see below is by my friend psycotic-deer-lover on Tumblr. She's a great artist and is very good with getting commissions done quickly.  

On Friday, Max was very quiet during his lesson with Walter. He only read out the sentences as he felt them and gave one-worded answers to any question. He was so quiet and unresponsive that it prompted Walter to ask; "Is anything the matter, Max?" as they ended the second lesson.

"I'm fine. Why?" He snapped, wanting to say something along the lines of: "Your Irish ass husband runs the mafia and because of him I'm blind and I want nothing more than to stab him in the face!" but he restrained himself.

"It's just, you've been a bit peeved today, and I'm just wondering if you're well?" He sounded genuine. Too genuine. It made Max wonder if he knew about Damien at all. Surely even a blind man wasn't that, well, blind. If he didn't, and Damien wanted to keep it a secret, then Walter learning the truth would be payback. On the other hand, if he did know, then he clearly didn't feel all that bad about it seeing as he was so goddamn chummy all the time!

"It's nothing, I'm fine." He knew he was being cold, and he liked it.

"Hmmm! If you say so." He didn't sound remotely convinced, and that this definitely wasn't forgotten. "Anyway, Dame'll be picking us up at 16:45, so we best pack up."

They were waiting at the front gates when a car pulled up, and Damien's voice shouted; "Cab for those with optical difficulties!" Walter laughed, but Max silently seethed. He wanted to yell: "It's your fucking fault you motherfucker!" but knew this was neither the time or place.

The car seats weren't as comfortable as he remembered, but that was probably due to the fact that he refused to unclench his body while around those 2.

"How do you feel about beef stew, my boy?" Damien said. Max's nails dug into his jeans. His voice, his stupid, Liam Neeson sounding voice made him want to tear his own hair out. No, it made him want to scratch out the man's eyes with a rusty fork!

"It's fine." He grumbled, not caring what he was going to be served.

The drive went on for over a half-hour, during which the happy couple bickered half-heartedly about the superior type of potatoes to have with the stew. Walter was on the side of roasted, while Damien was vehemently in support of mashed. The argument ended with Damien shouting;

"Fine! Have your roasted potatoes you barmy, protestant bastard!"

"Oh you're one to talk, you ginger, catholic midget! Have your mashed 'spuds' if they're so damn important to you!" Walter retorted. Despite himself, despite this whole morbid situation and everything Max knew, he smiled to himself, repressing a small laugh at the men's loud accents and colloquial insults.

"You don't even know what ginger looks like!" Damien yelled. "And I am not a midget!"

Neither of them said anything for a while, and the car was silent bar the radio. It was finally broken when Walter began giggling, similar to how the girls in Max's class did. Then Damien joined in with his more baritone chuckle, and before long they were both laughing whole-heartedly.

Again, Max found himself needing to stop from joining in. He couldn't afford to forget what had happened, what they, or at least Damien, are responsible for.

A little later, they slowed, and Max heard the tires track over stony gravel. They stopped, and Max heard his door open next to him.

"Hop on out, my boy." Damien said, placing a hand lightly on Max's shoulder. He bristled, tempted to lean his head over and chomp on his fingers. It'd hurt, but no, he would wait. He got out of the car and let himself be led indoors. The place smelled...nice. There was a meaty, broth-like smell wafting through, making him salivate. Beyond that, there was just a homey smell to the place, as if it were one of those big family homes you saw on TV, with the big idiot dad, the hot mom and their 3 kids. But this wasn't that kind of a home. It was the home of a drug-lord asshole and his blind side-kick!