The Connection

Avery isn’t aware of much.

After all, his knees are providing wonderful shelter for his agonizing head. And, even if he would lift his head, his vision is shoddy at best without his glasses. So, he doesn’t. Avery just listens to the roaring sound of running water and the deafening creaking of the ancient paper towel dispenser in the boy’s locker room. He hears footsteps too. Heavy ones, made heavier by thick soled boots and their frenzied motion. Every so often, the gravel coated voice of Max Matthews will utter a curse, or breathe heavily through his nose in the classic frustrated nonverbal gesture. Avery knows that he should be on guard. This isn’t Quinn, who would clean the blood from his face with the care and kindness of their mother. Nor is it Kat, who’s righteous fury at his attacker and pitiful medical care would make him feel safe, although somewhat annoyed.

This is Max. Max, who is at least thirty times more confusing than Avery can deal with without a possible concussion. This is Max, who spent the last three years humiliating him, and beating him up. This is Max, who compared to Harris, was gentle with beatings; never making him bleed and only leaving him with tiny bruises and the occasional homophobic slur. This is Max, who he’s been texting for the better part of eight months. Max, who uses smiley faces freely in text conversations and seems genuinely interested in his life. Max, who refuses to speak to him in public, or tell people that they’re Soul Mates. Max, who buys him food, taking into consideration his picky eating habits. Max Matthews, the wiry sixth grade boy that takes beatings for his sister and freaks out at clumsy attempts at kissing.

“Here.”

Avery peeks up from the shelter of his knobby knees. Max is crouched in front of him; Avery’s slightly bent, but clean glasses offered in his huge calloused hand. Avery takes them from him, slipping them onto his bloody face. He blinks a couple times to adjust to his newfound sight. He focuses on Max’s face; freckled and tan from the sun, green eyes dark, narrowed and unreadable. Full lips pulled into a thin line. Avery wonders if this is just Max’s face. Almost always unreadable, yet always looking vaguely pissed. Maybe this is his pissed face. Is he pissed at Avery? Probably, Avery will draw attention to himself and Max together; he’d better leave. He doesn’t want to ruin Max’s reputation. He moves to stand—

“Hey. No, not yet.” Max mummers, his large hand a gentle, yet pressing weight on his shoulder. Avery slumps back, not willing for another fight.

“What’s your name?”

“What?” Avery frowns. Max is still on his knees in front of Avery, the warm pressure of his hand still on Avery’s shoulder.

“Just answer.” Max says tensely, rolling his eyes.

“Avery Reeves.” Avery answers, frowning deeper. Max nods once, and then his other hand comes up to Avery face. And he’s not proud, but he flinches, the sudden motion causing his already jumbled brain to mix further. Max hesitates, his own frown soft and somewhat sad, before reaching out again, and pushing Avery’s sweaty bangs from his eyes with a hand so tender, Avery’s not sure if this is real or he finally passed out and this is a weird dream.

“And what day is it?” Max asks softly, broad thumb smoothing across Avery’s dark bangs.

“Uh…Tuesday?” Avery says dumbly. Why can’t he remember? This must be a dream. Max scowls, so Avery knows that he must be wrong. Wait, no. They didn’t swim today. They swim on Tuesday’s and Thursday’s.

“No, it’s… it’s Wednesday.” Avery corrects quickly, not wanting Max to move the reassuring weight of his hands. Max sighs heavily, and the hand stroking Avery’s bangs away moves, in lieu of digging in the front pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a slightly scratched cell phone, without a case, and fiddles with it for a moment. The next second, a bright light flashes in Avery’s burning eyes. He looks away, only to have Max gently pull his chin back.

“No, here. Look at the light, okay?” Max says with a soft pressure to his voice, like a nurse. Or maybe a doctor. Does Max moonlight as a nurse-doctor? He’d be a really hot nurse-doctor; like the ones on those stupid hospital dramas that Quinn likes. Avery blinks rapidly when the bright light vanishes, replaced by the dim lighting of the locker room. A jagged-edged pain flares right behind Avery’s eyes. Avery hisses his hand flying towards his face in order to pinch the bridge of his nose. Max is faster, catching Avery’s wrist gently.

“Don’t touch your face until I can clean it, your nose might be broke, and that would hurt worse, okay?” Max says with that same soft, firm voice. Avery nods dumbly, his thoughts racing too fast and too many in order to catch. “The light hurt?”

“Like a bitch.” Avery answers glumly, “What the hell is going on? Why’re you here?”

“I was getting sneakers out of my football locker. And then I saw you and…” Max trails off, a slight blush in his speckled cheeks. He shakes his head slightly, as if to rid himself of the pink dusting on his face, and continues in a business like tone.

“I’m pretty sure you have a little concussion. And your nose might be broken.” Max lists, and then…

“What the fuck happened, Av?” Max asks, a frantic edge to his normally cold tone. Avery doesn’t know why, but he feels tears spring to his eyes again.

“I just want to go home.” He whines, trying to tuck his head back between his knees, frustrated and confused and in so much pain.

“Hey. Hey, it’s cool. Everything’s cool.” Max soothes, fingers catching under Avery’s chin, pulling his bloody face upwards, Avery melts into the feeling of his rough fingertips to the tender underside of his jaw. “I’ll take you home, okay? You know where you live?”

Avery whimpers, feeling even more shame at the tears flowing down his face.

“No. I’ll drive. I’ll get blood in your car—“

“You can’t drive, Av.” Max chides, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Avery shakes his head, his brain protesting the sudden movement.

“I have to! I’ve got to take Quinn and Kat home.” Avery protests, moving to stand on shaky legs to prove his point, he’s a bloody pulp, not a freaking damsel. Max again is thankfully quick. He wraps a thick arm around the smaller boy’s waist, just as Avery’s legs give out. Avery falls heavily against Max’s side, his head falling against Max’s shoulder. He leans into the warmth of the older boy, seeking heat after the frigid locker room floor.

“Don’t! You’ll puke.” Max scolds, and Avery isn’t sure if he’s imagining Max pulling him closer. Avery opens his mouth to protest, but his stomach churns suddenly and painfully, and he realizes it’s too late, anyway. He quickly shoves away from Max, his fear of throwing up all over his crush greater than the pull of his warmth.

Avery stumbles as fast as he can to the toilet, and he makes it in the nick of time; spilling his breakfast of coffee and peanut butter and Nutella toast into the ceramic bowl. When the retching stops, he yanks a wad of toilet paper out of the disperser and wipes at his mouth, feeling shame and embarrassment lie thick and heavy upon his quaking frame.
He’s only distantly aware of a warm hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades.
________

Avery ends up being half carried to Max’s car.

And he complains. Heartily. He whines that he isn’t a damsel in distress, he’s a grown man and therefore can take care of himself… or at least walk a hundred feet over smooth asphalt. Max rolls his eyes and scowls.

“You whine like a girl. Just be glad I didn’t throw you over my shoulder.” Max quips, pulling Avery flush against his side as Avery’s feet tangle haplessly with themselves. They approach a car so clean and shiny that Avery would swear that it just came off the showroom floor, and he mumbles this to Max, pushing his face into the older boy’s shoulder. Max beams proudly, like a father showing off their son’s report card.

“Thanks.” Max says, happily. He opens the passenger side door for Avery and sits him gingerly into the seat, all the while chattering about his car. Max swears that it’s the best car ever. A classic Chevy Chevelle, bought by his real dad’s own father in 1972, and passed on to Max’s real dad, and then kept in a garage until Max was old enough to drive it.

“It’s the only thing he ever did for me.” Max says bitterly, as he runs his palm lovingly over the steering wheel. All Avery knows is its black with twin racing stripes, its meticulously clean and he worries that he’s going to get blood and vomit all over the black leather seats and gray flooring. Max turns the key in the ignition, smiling a wide, impossibly happy smile as the engine roars to life with the loudest sound Avery’s ever heard. He rubs at his tender forehead, as Max carelessly back out of his parking space and speeds through the school parking lot.

“Where am I going?" Max asks, turning down the blaring rock coming from the radio, after a glance at Avery’s wince. Avery directs him to the ‘historical’ district of Franklin, named only so, because of the older than dirt houses with their regal visages and high as hell maintenance bills. Avery’s house is one of the ‘newer ones’ (meaning that it was built in the late forties rather than the other built in the twenties and early thirties), and Avery thinks it looks like a normal house, nothing special. Especially since it’s freezing in the winter and hotter than hell in the summer. His father, whom inherited the house from his father and so on, disagrees with Avery and tells him to get used to it, as this will be his house later on.

Avery’s already told Quinn that she can have it.

“Left.” Avery croaks, as his empty driveway comes into view. Max turns, without using a signal and far too fast for Avery’s taste. Max shuts off the car, before staring at Avery’s house with trepidation.
“You live here?” He asks, with his ever-present unreadable expression. Avery nods, feeling a little awkward. Is he supposed to get out? He doesn’t even know the proper social etiquette for this situation. He unbuckles his seat belt, having trespassed on Max’s hospitality long enough.

“I… Um… Thanks. For everything. I-I guess I’ll text you tonight?” Avery stutters, opening his door and leaning out, feeling his body protesting already. Max seems to jump to attention, pocketing his keys and striding over to Avery’s door.

“You don’t have to come in, or anything. I’m fine… really, I’m okay!” Avery protests weakly, as Max wraps an arm around his waist and all but lifts Avery out of his seat. Max looks down at him, his green eyes narrowed and his mouth a hard line.

“You have a concussion and maybe a broken nose. You’re parents aren’t home, so there’s no one to make sure you don’t get worse. Unless you call the cops, I’m not going anywhere.” Max says coolly. Avery opens his mouth to objection, only to have Max roll his eyes, and hold out his free hand.

“Keys.”

“I don’t have them,” Avery remembers, not even bothering to feel for the purple lanyard that usually hangs from his hip pocket. “They’re in my locker.”

“Do you have a spare?” Max questions, tensely. He seems to sag in relief when Avery nods. Avery and Max stumble (Avery because he’s still dizzy and Max because he’s practically carrying the former) across Avery’s small green lawn to his front door. When the finally traverse the steps, Avery opens the metal letterbox emblazed with their house number. He gropes for the dull bronze key, and finally his fingertips graze its toothy edge. He glances at Max as he fits the key into the lock.

“Please don’t break into my house.”

“You’d invite me in, anyway.” Max counters acidly, rolling his eyes. And it must be a sign as to how much pain Avery’s in, because he doesn’t correct the quarterback. When they enter the small foyer though, all of Max’s bravado seems to evaporate into awkward consideration.

“Um. Shoes?” He questions hesitantly, releasing his grip on Avery’s waist just slightly, his muscles tense with what? Nervousness? Avery shakes his head lightly.

“Nah. No big deal. Don’t be nervous, Jesus.” Avery mutters, swaying slightly on his feet. Max seems to remember himself as the Knight in Shining Armor to Avery’s Swoony Princess; his eyes snapping back and his mouth resuming its determined line.

“Okay. First aid kit anywhere?” Max asks business like.

“Mhm. Bathroom. Under the sink. Just take the second left.” Avery says, motioning towards the doors lining the foyer. Max nods once.

“Okay, cool. Where’s your living room?” He asks. Avery tilts his head to the doorway directly to their right. Max gives another curt nod.

“Alright. Can you walk there?” Avery nods, frowning again (of course he can walk there).

“Okay. Do that, and sit down. I’ll be right back, okay?” Max says, unwrapping his arm from Avery’s waist. And although he’s released him, Max still holds his hand near Avery’s spine, ready to catch him. Avery ignores the summersault his heart does and walks carefully to the couch.

Avery falls onto the couch, sinking into the plush fabric. He only wonders briefly if Max is the type to riffle through medicine cabinets before the taller boy returns; his arms full of the First Aid kit, a towel and a damp washcloth. Max sets his supplies down on the coffee table before he kneels in the space between Avery’s splayed legs. Avery pointedly ignores the twitch he feels at Max’s position. Max grabs the damp cloth, and with his other hand he pushes Avery’s bangs out of the way with that same tenderness he used back in the locker room. Max glances at Avery once, before he tentatively beings to run the warm cloth over Avery’s cheeks, wiping away the dried blood.

Avery sighs, leaning into Max’s uncharacteristically gentle touch. Max seems encourage by Avery’s embarrassing reaction, and his touch becomes less hesitant, yet still achingly tender. Avery losses himself briefly, warmed by the kind caresses of the cloth in Max’s hand, as it cleans his bloodstained face. He’s almost fallen asleep when Max murmurs quietly, almost as lost in the contact as Avery is:

“Who was it?”

Avery cracks open a drowsy eyelid, peering at Max. Who seems lost in his careful cleaning of Avery’s face and neck; not bothering to look at Avery, but instead titling his head in concentration, as he rubs softly at a gash on Avery’s chin. Avery sighs again, melting at Max’s touch; so like his mother’s own careful touch; yet sweeter, more hesitant. Like Avery really is a soft skinned maiden, easily breakable and easily scared.

“Harris.” Avery mumbles. Max’s tedious work stops, and Avery opens his sleepy eyes. Max is staring hard at him, his mouth again a hard tight line.

“Logan Harris.” Max says. It’s not a question, maybe a rhetorical one at best; but made stupid and pliant by the attention Avery nods and hums an affirmative, anyway. Avery hears Max’s harsh exhale; he can feel the anger rolling off of Max like heady cologne, but his touch remains feather light.

“And this has been happening for a while.” Max says, again with no room for wriggling away from the subject in his tone. Avery nods, twitching slightly as Max starts to clean the blood around his swollen nose. It should hurt, really badly, but with Max it feels like a faint caress, tickling slightly.

“He’s a lot meaner than you.” Avery says stupidly, only realizing his mistake when Max’s hand stills. Max is staring at him with a blank expression, but his eyes are impossibly heavy and the emotions swirling in the green depths makes Avery feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that… I meant—that you, you know—“Avery stutters his foggy brain stumbling over words like rocky roads under bare feet. But Max shrugs, his face smooth as ever, his hand resuming its slow cleansing with the same softness as before.

“You’re right.” Max says, cutting off Avery’s bumbling explanation, “He is. Did you sass him like you did me?” Max asks dully, not looking at Avery, instead digging through the kit for antiseptic wipes and antibiotic cream for the slew of cuts and gashes littering Avery’s face.

“Not at first. But today I did.” Avery says softly, he hopes Max won’t ask him why today? Thankfully, Max doesn’t. He just dabs the cuts around Avery’s cheeks and chin, ignoring Avery’s hiss at the alcoholic sting.

“You know that’s stupid.” Max mumbles, blotting antibiotic cream on the deep gash on Avery’s cheek, seemingly lost in the meticulous care of another human being.
“How are you so good at this?” Avery wonders. Only Max’s snort makes him realize he said it out loud.

“My mom’s a nurse,” He says with a rare soft smile. But then it fades to be replaced by something harder, bitterer.

“And I’ve had a lot of practical experience. Cleaning cuts and checking for concussions and stuff. ” When my step dad gets mad, remains unsaid, yet heavy on both their tongues.

“Okay. What else? You winced whenever I touched your sides.” Max asks, capping the cream and shoving it haphazardly into the open kit.

“Yeah. Harris, kind of… kicked me. A little.” Avery admits sheepishly.

“In the ribs?”

Avery nods. Max sighs heavily, and scrubs a hand across his stubble coated cheek. He looks like he’s stealing himself for something. He stares at Avery for a heartbeat, the tips of his ears tinged pink.

“Okay.” Max mumbles more to himself, than to Avery. Max seems to hold his breath, and his fingers tug at the hem of Avery’s shirt, lifting it inch by inch carefully. When cold air finally drifts across the thin trail of dark hair on his belly and his belly button, something clicks in Avery’s brain. He sits up straighter, his body complaining, but effectively stilling Max’s hands.

“W-wait. Stop. What are—“He babbles, as his stupid treacherous body screams Yes, this is good! Don’t stop him! Max’s muscles go rigid, his index finger twitches against the worn fabric of Avery’s shirt.

“I’m checking for broken fucking ribs, okay?” Max says harshly. His voice is hard and slightly haggard, but when Avery looks at his face, he sees a look of pain marring the freckled visage. Max is looking at him helplessly, willing Avery to understand. Max takes a deep breath, and starts again.

“I’m just going to feel your ribs for anything weird. Lumps or bumps. I’ve done this for Mom a few times, and I’ve done it to myself about a thousand.” He says tensely, a bitter edge to his voice. And then he looks up into Avery’s scared blue eyes. His own are deep and dark, a layer of emotion shimmering at the surface of the forest colored irises.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I won’t hurt you. Not… Not anymore, okay?” Max’s normally closed off expression is bleeding with emotions; bitterness, shame, sadness, desperation, anger, and the faintest hint of hope. They all blur across the subtle lines of Max’s mouth and eyebrows, jump across the muscles in his jaw, flow from his eyes like tears.

“Okay.” Avery says softly, after a minute of staring at Max. Careful of his aching limbs, he shrugs off his over-shirt, struggling with the sleeves a little bit. Once he frees himself of the thin flannel, he lays back against the couch.

“Okay.” He repeats, giving Max a small nod. Max returns it after a moment’s hesitation, his fingers closing around the hem of Avery’s shirt again, and the fabric bunching up in his shaking grasp. With helpful wriggling from Avery, Max manages to ruck up the blood spattered shirt to around Avery’s armpits, the air freezing on his bruised littered skin.

“Ready?” Max asks, but doesn’t have to. Avery nods his muscle tense and rigid with fear and cold. Max flexes his fingers once, twice, before the broad calloused tips make contact with Avery’s tender sides. He starts, not because Max’s fingers are cold—no because their too warm. They’re hot and not too soft, and they feel so perfect on Avery’s frigid skin. His chest tightens at the contact; a pleasant contraction filled with heat and pressure.

“Did I—“

“No! No… I just… cold.” Avery lies, his cheeks burning bright red under all the scrapes and scratches. Max nods distantly, the pink flush at the tips of his ears migrating rapidly into the ridge of his cheekbones; his lovely freckles popping darkly underneath the heated skin. He glances at Avery one last time, before the delicate pressure of Max’s fingertips return, running tantalizingly slow over the pronounced ridges of Avery’s ribcage.

“Hurt at all?” Max asks, his voice soft, a little huskier. Avery hearts hammers in his chest with such ferociousness that he fears for cardiac arrest. He shakes his head slightly, eye locked on Max’s pink face. Max continues, his fingertips tracing wondering patterns over Avery’s sides, and stomach and chest. Avery’s sure his erection is showing, especially given Max’s angle towards him; but he finds that he doesn’t care in the slightest. Avery shivers his skin pebbly with goose bumps.

“Cold?” Max says, a shadow of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, his fingertips stilling; his index finger almost touching Avery’s nipple. Avery huffs, pulling his shirt down roughly.

“Yes. Now stop.” His voice annoyingly breathy, instead of pissed off like he was aiming for. He plucks his over-shirt from the other side of the couch and wrestles it over his arms, willing himself to calm down and not daring to look at Max.

“So, what’s the prognosis, doc?” Avery asks drily, grappling with a return to normal. To a ground where Max and him talk and flirt, but do not touch; do not blur the carefully drawn lines in their not relationship. Max sighs heavily through his nose, and rocks on his knees until he’s standing, looking down at Avery and The Great Plaid Shirt Square-Off.

“Your nose is fine, and you don’t have any broken ribs. A little concussion and a lot of bruises and cuts. But they’re only minor. You might have tons of bruised ribs, and that’ll hurt like a bitch, but still, it’s not broken.” He lists off, picking at his fingernail, avoiding Avery’s gaze as much as Avery’s avoiding his.

“So, I’m not dead. But from the pain, I’ll wish I was.” Avery chuckles, causing Max to smile a tiny bit.

“Yeah. Basically.” He grins. Avery looks away.

“So, are you going to leave or…” Avery asks, the don’t leave, stay is palatable; hanging profoundly in the air. Max snorts.

“No. I’m not leaving until your people get here. By the way you were dozing off, you’re going fall asleep; and you can’t do that for a while. By the way, you should text Kat. Let her know to drive Quinn here.” Max says, cockily and in charge. Avery rolls his eyes, but pulls out his thankfully scratch-less phone out his pocket, anyway.

“And what are you going to do, then?” Avery questions drily.

“There were some painkillers in your medicine cabinet; which you need to take. So, I’m going to get you some. And then I’m going to hog your TV and make sure you don’t fall asleep on me.” He says, waltzing out of the room. Avery feels a soft sweetness wrap around his whole body, despite the ache it’s still in.

But he was right. Max did go through his medicine cabinet.