Maximus "Maxxie" Oliver

The Bristol sun is hanging over the college like a dead fly on a windowsill. It's shining, but it's taking the piss—there's light but no warmth, like it was off its tits on pills last night and forgot to turn the bulb off. Friday. Everyone's got the right hump because there's two days of weekend ahead and absolutely no money to do anything with. Classic.

The crew have bagged the spot on the parapet by the main entrance. Strategic position: you can see everyone who goes in, and everyone who tries to bunk off.

Sid's sat cross-legged, aggressively poking at a broken headphone. The jack's still in his iPod, but instead of music, all that's coming out of the speakers is a thin, doomed hiss, like a flat tyre.

"This is fucked."

Sid announces, philosophical.

"This is properly fucked, guys. My life sounds exactly like this. Just... static."

Chris is munching on a sad-looking sandwich from the vending machine. It looks like a fossilised kitchen sponge that's been smeared with mayo, but Chris doesn't give a shit. He's at that stage of a hangover where your body demands salt and fat, no matter the cost. He's eating it loud, mouth open, crumbs showering down his stupid My Chemical Romance t-shirt.

"You just don't get it, mate."

Chris mumbles through a mouthful.

"That sound is, like, Zen. It's the sound of the emptiness inside the heart of the consumerist society."

"Shut up and chew quieter."

Sid winces.

"Can't, my jaw's killing me. I was trying so hard to please this bird from the sociology course last night, I nearly dislocated it on her..."

"Oh my God, Chris, we literally do not care."

Sid cuts him off, but without any real malice. They've been mates forever; you can't shut Chris up, you can only wait for him to run out of steam.

Maxxie is standing a little way off, as usual. Leaning back against the wall, hands shoved in the pockets of his skinny jeans, staring into space. He's not joining in. Maxxie rarely does. He watches. He's got that look, like he's playing everyone else's life back in his head faster than they're actually living it.

And then you show up.

Everyone clocks it. Well, not everyone, just the ones paying attention. You're walking up from the shop, out of breath, a bit ruffled. A hoodie with a hood—Adidas, original, but last year's collection, because no one can afford the new one. Jeans, worn through at the knees. In your hands, two sweaty cans of Lipton Ice Tea.

You walk straight up to Maxxie. Hold one out.

"You asked for a cold one. Here."

Your voice cracks a bit—you were actually running. The last half-mile, a full-on sprint. And you don't even know why. He just asked.

Maxxie takes the can. Your fingers touch. Just for a second. Time sort of... glitches.

"Did you run?"

Maxxie asks. There's no taking the piss in his voice, just something like surprise.

"From the shop? That's, like, half a mile."

"Yeah, well."

*You shrug, trying to look casual, but your cheeks are already burning.

"Anwar said you were rough yesterday. On your dad's site. Thought... you needed it more than my lungs did."

Pause. Maxxie looks at you. Right in the eyes. And that look lasts half a second longer than the 'lad code' allows. In that look is a whole conversation neither of you will ever have the guts to have out loud.

Chris, of course, is all over it. He's still chewing his sad sandwich, grinning.

"Oi, don't start, you two."

Chris pulls a face.

"My stomach's already killing me, like I ate a cat. You two getting all soppy will actually make me puke. Seriously, find a cupboard and cuddle it out."

Sid doesn't even look up from his headphone massacre:

"What soppy? He just brought tea. You feel rough, you drink tea. Maxxie, gis a sip."

Maxxie, not looking, chucks the can at Sid. Sid, too busy with his headphone, tries to catch it with his body, the can bounces off his chest and hits the floor. A hiss, some foam, Lipton Ice Tea trickling into a crack in the pavement. Everyone cracks up. Even Anwar, who's just wandered over, lets out a laugh.

"Dickhead."

Chris states.

"You're the dickhead."

Sid fires back.

"It was all sweaty."

While they're having their little moment, you move closer to Maxxie. Right up close. Whisper, so no one else hears:

"You alright, though? Actually?"

Maxxie just shrugs. He's smiling, but his eyes... they're sad. So sad you just want to put your arms around him, right here, in front of everyone. But you can't.

"What do you think?"

He says quietly.

"Anwar, my so-called best mate, reckons I'm going to burn in hell. Told me straight up yesterday: 'You know it's a sin, you'll burn.' My dad wants me lugging bricks for the rest of my life because, and I quote, 'you can't make a silk purse out of the shit you're doing at college.' And the one guy I actually want to dance with..."

He looks straight at you. Right in the eye. And you feel your insides just drop.

"...is standing right in front of me now, pretending we're talking about the weather."

You go red. Actually, properly red. You can feel the flush creep up your cheeks, your ears, your neck.

"I'm not pretending."

You manage.

"It's just... ears. Everywhere."

"Let 'em listen," Maxxie shrugs. "Do 'em good. Might learn people aren't just cardboard cut-outs."

He pushes off from the wall. As he walks past, he deliberately brushes your shoulder with his. You catch the scent of his aftershave—cheap, but so familiar. Maxxie disappears through the college doors.

You're left there, empty-handed, watching him go, and you feel this weird ache in your chest.

"Oi, Romeo."

Chris calls over.

"Get over here, have half this sarnie, you look like a wet dog."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're not hungry, I'm full."

Chris observes, philosophical.

"The world's gone mad."

---

Inside college, it's the usual morning chaos. People shouting, someone crashed out on the sofa in the corner, using their rucksack as a pillow. There's an ancient telly with a games console hooked up, and two first-years are hammering away at Guitar Hero, fingers doing moves like their future depends on it. The sound's off, but you can see the crazy riffs in their finger-work.

Maxxie's at his locker at the far end of the corridor. He's drawing in his sketchbook. Back straight, shoulders hunched—he's shutting the world out, hiding behind a pencil line.

You appear, silent. Check left, check right. No Anwar, no Michelle, Chris has found some crisps and is happy. Perfect.

"Maxxie."

He doesn't turn around.

"Maxxie, listen. About what you said... outside..."

Maxxie keeps drawing. Just his mouth twitches.

"I say a lot of stuff. Anwar does my head in—I say stuff. Tony tries it on with everyone—I comment. Sometimes talking's all I've got."

"Tony tries it on with everyone. That doesn't even count as trying it on. It's just... Tony."

You move a step closer.

"Are you trying it on with me?"

Maxxie spins round, slamming the sketchbook shut.

You freeze. Mouth dry.

"Me? No! I just... God, Maxxie. You know what it's like. You see this town? You know what happens here if anyone finds out? My old man—he's, like, some sort of religious nut, he'd kill me. Literally kill me. And your old man, he wouldn't exactly be throwing a party either."

"My old man already knows."

Maxxie says, calm.

You stare at him. Don't believe it.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I told him. A month ago."

"And... what did he do?"

"He didn't kill me."

Maxxie gives a half-smile, but it's twisted.

"He was just... disappointed. You get that? That's worse than death. It's when you go home, and it's just... quiet. Not angry quiet, not aggressive. Just... empty. Like you don't exist."

The silence hangs between you, heavy as a wet blanket. Maxxie holds out the sketchbook.

"Here."

You open it. It's you. A portrait. Spot on. Not just a face, but the way you were standing on the steps last Friday. Hunched over, hands in pockets, like you're trying to be invisible, melt into the wall. But in the eyes of the drawing—there's light. Real, proper light. That's how he sees you.

"I see you."

Maxxie says quietly.

"Even when you're hiding, shrinking, pretending you're not there. I still see you. The question is, do you see me?"

You run your finger over the pencil lines. Over your face, that he drew.

"I do."

"You whisper.*

"That's why I'm scared. 'Cause I do see you."

Michelle comes flying round the corner. Torpedo mode, sees nothing. Eyes red, mascara smudged—classic 'Tony dumped me' look.

"Maxxie! Have you seen that tosser?" she yells, out of breath.

Maxxie grabs the sketchbook, shoves it in his bag instantly.

"Tony? No. If he's alive—and he will be, cockroaches always are—he's probably shagging anything that moves in the stock cupboard."

"He's already shagged my head up."

Michelle sniffles.

"Told me I'm 'toxic'. Me? Toxic? He's a one-man. Anyway, whatever... Got a fag?"

Maxxie silently hands over his pack of Marlboro Lights. Michelle grabs one, lights it with shaky hands, and storms off, leaving a trail of smoke and drama.

You and Maxxie are alone again. But the moment's gone.

"See you."

Maxxie says, and walks off without looking back.

---

The party's at Chris'. Well, not at Chris's, in his older brother's lock-up. He traded the use of it for a crate of beer and a promise nothing would get set on fire. It smells of petrol, old tyres, and sweat. The speakers, salvaged from a skip and working by some miracle, are blasting The Fratellis – 'Chelsea Dagger'. The beat gets into your brain, makes you twitch.

Everyone's dancing like lunatics. Someone's sniffing something white off car keys in the corner, someone else is snogging against the wall, not even caring who it is. Chaos, youth, hopelessness, all mixed with cheap energy drinks.

Maxxie's in the middle of it. He's dancing. And you literally can't look away. The moves are sharp, angular, but so beautiful it hurts. He moves like the music's running through his veins. He's not drinking, not smoking—just dancing, eyes shut.

You're by the wall. Holding a can of cheap, bitter lager. Just watching him. The whole world shrinks to one point—Maxxie in the strobe light.

Some girl goes up to him. Tries to dance close, rub up against him, get on his wavelength. Maxxie opens his eyes. Politely but firmly, he pushes her away, shakes his head. The girl slopes off, giving him a dirty look.

Maxxie pushes through the crowd. Straight to you. He's out of breath, sweating a bit, eyes bright.

"Outside!"

He shouts over 'Chelsea Dagger'.

You slip out. It's cold out here. A brutal contrast to the heat inside. The autumn air bites your skin. Can't see any stars—Bristol's got that orange, dirty light pollution. In the distance, a car alarm.

Maxxie leans against a rusty gate. You stand opposite. A metre between you. An ocean.

"Good dancer."

You say, just to break the silence. Lame, but you mean it.

"I could teach you."

Maxxie looks at you. In the dark, his eyes look black.

"If you stopped being scared."

"I'm not scared. I just..."

"Just what?" he doesn't let up. "Scared it'll end? Or scared it won't, and you'll have to live with it forever?"

You look at him. Think: 'Fuck it'. Something clicks inside, the last wall comes down. You step forward. Grab Maxxie by the collar of his stupid polo shirt (navy, stretched collar) and you kiss him. Hard. Rough. Taste of tobacco and mint. Proper.

Maxxie freezes for a split second, then he's kissing you back. His hands cup your face, fingers in your hair. He pulls you closer, like he's scared you'll vanish. You kiss like it's the last time. In a dirty alley, with the music thumping from the shed, a siren wailing in the distance.

Anwar peers round the corner. He came looking for Maxxie, to do a runner before anyone noticed. He freezes. His face is a mess—disgust, shock, panic. He watches for a second, two. Then he turns and walks back into the dark without a word. Gone, like a ghost.

You break apart. Breathing hard. The air between you is crackling.

"Wow..."

Maxxie breathes. He's looking away, can't quite meet your eyes yet.

"Sorry.."

You breathe.

"I didn't... I'm just tired. Tired of pretending I like watching you dance with someone else."

"I wasn't dancing with her."

Maxxie finally looks at you. In his eyes, that light—the one from the drawing.

"I was dancing for you, you idiot. The whole time. Just for you."

You both kiss again. Slower. This isn't lust, isn't adrenaline. It's something else. Something warm. The kind of thing that makes you want to cry.

A police siren blares, right nearby. Gets louder, right in your ears.

"Shit."

You pull back.

"I've got to go. My dad's called a hundred times. If I'm not back, he'll take the door off."

"I know."

"Maxxie..."

"Go. I get it."

You walk away. Look back once. Maxxie's watching you go. He's standing by the rusty gate, skinny, beautiful, a stranger in this town.

He's alone now. Gets out the Marlboro Lights, taps one out, lights it. Takes a long drag, staring up at the orange, starless sky.

He's smiling. But in that smile—there's a bad feeling. Not some vague bad feeling. A specific one. And its name is Anwar. Who was standing right there, round the corner, and saw everything.

Maxxie stubs the fag out on his shoe, flicks the butt into the dark, and whispers to no one:

"Alright then, shitstorm. We were expecting you."