max | riverbend

The arcade was a cathedral of noise and neon, all pulsing bass and the clatter of plastic guns. Max had been camped at the racing cabinet for the better part of an hour, leaning hard into the wheel like his life depended on crossing the finish line. His combat boots were planted wide, rainbow-tipped hair falling into his eyes as he jerked the seat with the turns. He'd just nailed a drift that sent his car fishtailing across the screen in a spray of pixelated sparks when the machine erupted in victory lights and a shrill electronic chorus.

"Fuck yeah!"

He popped up from the seat, still high on the win, and spun around with too much momentum, arms windmilling. He'd been aiming for the aisle, already digging into his pocket for quarters, when his elbow connected with something solid. The impact spun him halfway around. A thud sounded behind him, sharp and sudden against the sticky floor.

The world snapped back into focus. Max stumbled, combat boots squeaking against the grimy tile as he looked down.

Shit.

Someone was on the ground. He hadn't even seen anyone there—hadn't seen anything past the glow of his own high score. His elbow had apparently introduced itself with the force of a freight train.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Max dropped to a crouch instantly, knees cracking, his entire lanky frame folding down. He reached out, hands hovering useless in the air because he didn't know if he should help or if he'd just make it worse. His heart was hammering against his ribs, the taste of the Monster he'd been sipping suddenly sour in his mouth. "Oh my god, I am so sorry, I didn't even see—are you—shit."

The arcade lights flickered overhead, casting shifting shadows. Around them, a few heads turned, curious and unconcerned. Someone laughed at a skee-ball machine in the distance.

Max's hands finally settled gentle and unsure, not pulling or grabbing, just hovering there in a useless gesture of support while guilt short-circuited his brain. He was already constructing the worst-case scenario where he'd just concussed an innocent bystander and would have to sell his Mustang to pay medical bills. Or worse, explain this to Cole, who would never let him live it down.

"I was doing the victory spin," Max explained rapidly, his low voice pitching higher with actual panic. "It's this thing I did just know where my arms like did that thing, and it's actually a cool move but - anyways, I shouldn't do things. Fuck. Are you bleeding? Please don't be bleeding. I have like, zero first aid skills unless you count watching Grey's Anatomy —"

He cut himself off, forcing his eyes up. The guilt was a live wire in his chest. He'd barrelled into someone, and his hands were still hovering there, thumbs twitching with anxious energy. He finally let his gaze settle on her face and -

Holy shit.

She was so god damn beautiful, he felt immediately clammy, like he was going to be sick. But he'd already made an ass of himself, it's not like he could make it any worse.

"Oh shit, is your face okay? Well, I mean your face is fucking tits, but - wait, that came out so wrong. Are you okay, actually?"

The arcade was a cathedral of noise and neon, all pulsing bass and the clatter of plastic guns. Max had been camped at the racing cabinet for the better part of an hour, leaning hard into the wheel like his life depended on crossing the finish line. His combat boots were planted wide, rainbow-tipped hair falling into his eyes as he jerked the seat with the turns. He'd just nailed a drift that sent his car fishtailing across the screen in a spray of pixelated sparks when the machine erupted in victory lights and a shrill electronic chorus.

"Fuck yeah!"

He popped up from the seat, still high on the win, and spun around with too much momentum, arms windmilling. He'd been aiming for the aisle, already digging into his pocket for quarters, when his elbow connected with something solid. The impact spun him halfway around. A thud sounded behind him, sharp and sudden against the sticky floor.

The world snapped back into focus. Max stumbled, combat boots squeaking against the grimy tile as he looked down.

Shit.

Someone was on the ground. He hadn't even seen anyone there—hadn't seen anything past the glow of his own high score. His elbow had apparently introduced itself with the force of a freight train.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Max dropped to a crouch instantly, knees cracking, his entire lanky frame folding down. He reached out, hands hovering useless in the air because he didn't know if he should help or if he'd just make it worse. His heart was hammering against his ribs, the taste of the Monster he'd been sipping suddenly sour in his mouth. "Oh my god, I am so sorry, I didn't even see—are you—shit."

The arcade lights flickered overhead, casting shifting shadows. Around them, a few heads turned, curious and unconcerned. Someone laughed at a skee-ball machine in the distance.

Max's hands finally settled gentle and unsure, not pulling or grabbing, just hovering there in a useless gesture of support while guilt short-circuited his brain. He was already constructing the worst-case scenario where he'd just concussed an innocent bystander and would have to sell his Mustang to pay medical bills. Or worse, explain this to Cole, who would never let him live it down.

"I was doing the victory spin," Max explained rapidly, his low voice pitching higher with actual panic. "It's this thing I did just know where my arms like did that thing, and it's actually a cool move but - anyways, I shouldn't do things. Fuck. Are you bleeding? Please don't be bleeding. I have like, zero first aid skills unless you count watching Grey's Anatomy —"

He cut himself off, forcing his eyes up. The guilt was a live wire in his chest. He'd barrelled into someone, and his hands were still hovering there, thumbs twitching with anxious energy. He finally let his gaze settle on her face and -

Holy shit.

She was so god damn beautiful, he felt immediately clammy, like he was going to be sick. But he'd already made an ass of himself, it's not like he could make it any worse.

"Oh shit, is your face okay? Well, I mean your face is fucking tits, but - wait, that came out so wrong. Are you okay, actually?"

Max's hand was still hovering in the empty space between them when Jensen's voice pitched high above the arcade chaos.

"Oh my god, did you just body-check a random person?"

His head snapped up. Jensen was barreling toward them from the claw machine, her patchy purple-and-pink bangs bouncing with the urgency of her stride. Behind her, Cole meandered over with his hands buried in his skinny jeans pockets, dark green strands falling into his pale face as he shook his head in slow, placid amusement. Jalen peeled away from the basketball toss, light eyes catching the neon, and Nico trailed last, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else on earth.

"Maxwell," Cole said, flat and entertained.

"Don't call me that," Max groaned, pushing to his feet. He immediately felt too tall, too gangly, his combat boots sticking to the soda-splattered tile as he shifted his weight. His heart was doing a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "I didn't mean to—it's the victory spin, okay? I've told you guys about the spin—"

"The spin is a public hazard," Jensen cut in, dropping into a crouch. He heard the sugary worry in her voice, the kind she got whenever anyone scraped a knee or looked sad in a movie. "Are you okay? He didn't break anything, did he? He's basically built of elbows."

"She's fine," Max said, the words tumbling out desperate and too fast. His mouth tasted like flat Monster, metallic and wrong. "Right? You're fine. I'm so sorry, I'll buy you an arcade machine or something. Or food. They have those stale nachos that are probably a biohazard but I'll risk it. Or I'll win you something from the claw machine -"

"You said her face is tits," Cole observed.

Max's neck went hot, blood rushing to his ears in a painful throb. "It came out wrong!"

"How does that come out wrong?" Jalen's gruff voice cut in, arms crossing over his chest, one eyebrow raised. "You either say her face is pretty, or you say it's tits. Two different words, bro. Two different concepts."

"I was concussed with guilt!"

He turned back to her with pleading, apologetic eyes. "See," he said gesturing to his entire face, "Look how guilty I am, please let me make it up to you."

The Tomagotchi clipped to Max’s belt loop let out a shrill, electronic chirp just as Jensen started in about the crochet disaster currently unraveling on her couch. He held up a finger, pausing her mid-sentence, and mashed the buttons to feed his pixelated son. The mall air tasted like recycled AC and cinnamon pretzels, thick enough to clog a lung. Down below, the fountain gurgled in the center of the atrium, surrounded by the usual Saturday crowd of teenagers and exhausted parents.

When he looked up, his gaze caught on someone standing near the fountain.

He went still. A slow, stupid grin spread across his face, snake bites shifting with the stretch of his mouth.

Jensen followed his stare, then gasped, clutching her shopping bag with both hands. “Oh my god. Max. Is that - are you looking at a girl?”

“I’m appreciating art, Jensen. There’s a difference.” He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, rainbow-tipped strands falling back into his eyes immediately. “Look at that fine honey. Just sitting there. Existing. So punk.”

“You don’t even know if she’s punk.”

“She’s at the mall on a Saturday. Everyone’s punk at the mall on a Saturday.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Jensen.” He turned to her, lowering his voice to that smooth, teasing register. “I need you to wingwoman me. Right now. This is an emergency.”

Jensen squealed, bouncing on her heels. “Okay, okay, but you have to actually listen to my playlist on the way home. The whole thing. No pretending to sleep.”

“Thirty percent of that playlist is anime openings.”

“And seventy percent is love! Come on, this is serious. What are you gonna say? Please don’t tell her you have a prosthetic—”

“First of all, you know I can not control what comes out of my mouth when I am nervous. Second, I’m gonna be smooth. Romantic.” He exhaled into his palm and sniffed. “Ew, I need a tic-tac. Wait, be gay with me for a minute, Jensen. Do, I look emotionally available?"

Jensen snorted. “Oh my god. Max, you are emotioanlly available to everyone."

“Yeah, bu I’m ready to branch out and be monogamously emotionally available with her.” He nudged her shoulder, combat boots scuffing the tile. “Just go over there, talk me up. Say I’m tall. Say I’m funny. Say I make mixtapes.”

“Do you make mixtapes?”

“I would for her. I’d make the punkest mixtape she’s ever cried to.”

Jensen grabbed his sleeve, already dragging him away from the railing. “Fine. But if she breaks your heart, I’m crocheting you a sad little worm and you’re gonna keep it forever.”

“Deal,” Max said. He let her pull him toward the escalator, his pulse doing something annoying and hopeful in his chest. “Let’s go before I remember I’m terrified.”

Jensen crossed the remaining distance with a bounce in her step, pleated skirt swishing around her fishnets. Max hung back by a pillar, thumbs hooked in his belt loops.

“Hi! Okay, so, this is gonna sound so random, but my friend Max - he’s the tall one over there trying really hard to look like he’s not watching us, and he totally is, but don’t look at him - he saw you and he literally stopped feeding his Tamagotchi, which never happens, like, that thing is his actual son, and he asked me to come over here and tell you that you’re a goddess.”

Max thunked his head back against the pillar and let out a long low groan. Why the fuck did he ask Jensen for help?

"Anyways, he asked me to wingwoman you. I don't really know how to do that, to be honest." She let out a soft breathy huff, "but this is me, wingwomaning you, for him!" She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at Max's silhouette. "You wanna meet him?"

.