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But Max understood why now, better than he had in the beginning, even more than he had a few months back. Why Scott still struggled like he did. And the reason Max understood was because a few weeks ago they’d both found themselves “sharing” their stories. Max hadn’t planned to. It’d never been his intention. Hell, he never wanted to think about his past ever again, let alone talk about it. Jesus. That shit would fuck him up. And he sensed Scott was in a similar boat.
But when Max had woken up from another of his nightmares—sending Scott tearing into his room in alarm—the stuff just came out in great heaving hitches as Scott awkwardly tried to console him. Maybe Max broke down and told him all because Scott had looked so worried and confused. Like in his mental mayhem, Max had felt obligated to explain. Mostly, Max suspected that he spilled his guts because he’d really fucking needed to. Like the shit had been building and building and building.
Clearly, his regular domming had helped prolong the inevitable, but in truth, that was more to curb Max’s anger. To sate his need to control things. Allowing him to release tension in a controlled, consensual setting. What domming didn’t do for Max was help him purge his demons. Help him forget the memories that still fucking haunted him. Which, Max supposed, is where his nightmares came into play, forcing him to walk through hell repeatedly. Through the worst time of his life, through his own personal tar pits, refusing to let him bury them too deep. Sure, a part of him had gone down in Kevin’s coffin, laid to rest six feet under forever. But another very real part of him lingered just below that grave’s surface, keeping Max in a low-key state of agitation pretty much all of the time. Evidently, while conscious, he did a good job of ignoring shit, but his head wasn’t so efficient when sleeping. An unfortunate fact that raised its ugly head that night with Scott in the apartment. It’d been a bad one. One of Max’s worst nightmares as of late. With Scott this time, though. As if their closeness had triggered something, stirring up some deeply buried fear. No pun intended, since in this particular dream, Scott was chest-deep in a freshly churned grave. Fighting to stay topside, he’d shouted to Max frantically, begging him to help him, to pull him out. And God, Max had tried. Had held Scott’s wrists so tight. But the earth, it’d been stronger. So much stronger…
When Max had come to, throat sore from his howling, God, the look on Scott’s face. The kid had been pale as a ghost. But not just from fear or worry and shit. More like from unbidden memories of his own. Things that maybe Max had shouted, that brought back some of Scott’s demons, too. Although, Max hadn’t really thought much about that at the time, was in too strong a state of distress. He’d done the math later, though, days after he’d confessed all things Kevin to Scott. The first person Max had confided in about it all. He’d also be the last. Because after that little share session, Max hadn’t been right for days. Just couldn’t climb out of the newest ditch he’d fallen into. A cold dark place that he wanted no part of. Yet a place so hard to escape.
At any rate, after Max had spilled his morbid past, Scott had shared how he’d lost a loved one as well. Specifically, his mom. Which had slammed Max in the gut. If any death could have compared to the magnitude of Kevin’s, it most definitely would’ve been Max’s mom’s. And to know that Scott blamed himself, tying it to the fact that he was gay, just wrenched Max’s empathy that much deeper. They’d both been victims of bigoted travesty. Of tragedies that hadn’t needed to happen.
Of course, in Scott’s case, he’d stayed true to what he was, even in the face of his dad’s wrath. Kevin hadn’t. Not for himself or for Max. Kevin had fucking run from who he was. Had flat out fucking folded. Unfortunately, Scott felt he’d done the same thing when he moved out of his house at eighteen.
In Max’s eyes, however, Scott hadn’t bailed or given up. He’d simply removed himself from an asshole. Decided he didn’t deserve to be subjected to his dad’s barbarism. That he had the right to live in fucking peace. But the way Scott saw it, in doing so, he’d abandoned his mom to deal alone. He was a kid, though, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. But all he’d done was take himself out of a hostile environment, one he’d believed his presence was triggering. Because his dad hated fags with a venomous passion. Which, by default, meant his dad hated him. Vehemently, from what Scott had said.
