#lumax babies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ghosttotheparty · 6 months ago

Text

something to hold onto (14k) ao3 // pinboard // playlist tags: alternate universe - everyone lives/nobody dies; lucas sinclair loves maxine 'max' mayfield; comatose maxine 'max' mayfield; blind maxine 'max' mayfield; coming of age; love confessions; gentle kissing; emotions

March 1986

Lucas’s favourite colour has always been blue.

When he was younger, it was because of the sky. His favourite days were bright and sunny, when the sky was vibrant and clear, when the sun’s light made his skin hot to the touch and tacky with sweat. Days like that were always the best; he was allowed to go outside and play until the sun was tucking itself into the horizon, whispering good night as Lucas’s mother’s voice called his name.

Blue was the colour of the sea, which Lucas has never seen in person. It was the colour of fantasy, of daydreams. Lucas always got stuck in front of the television when whatever show his parents were watching had a beach in it, and whenever he saw a photo of the ocean in a book. His science textbook in fifth grade had a diagram of the ocean, and even after they’d finished that unit, he’d kept flipping back to that page, page 329. The blue of the ocean was a gradient, black at the bottom and pale just beneath the white sky. Lucas’s favourite animal was the jellyfish.

Blue was calm. His parents let him redecorate his room when he was twelve. He got blue curtains, a blue bedspread, a blue rug, all varying shades. They wouldn’t let him paint his walls, though, and they’re a warm shade of brown.

Blue was one of Hawkins Middle’s school colours, always paired with a nauseating shade of orange. On student-made posters hanging in the hallways, advertisements for dances and pep rallies, on basketball uniforms and the vibrant stripes painted in the hallways. And Lucas’s love for blue started to fade.

And then he met Max Mayfield.

And blue was different.

It was a curious colour then. He saw it when he closed his eyes. The sky seemed bluer, even when the sun went down.

But it’s different now.

Lucas hasn’t seen Max’s eyes in weeks. He looks at her eyelids, at the soft blues and purples and reds, traces the delicate veins just beneath her skin with his gaze. She’s so pale now. He supposes she’s always been pale, but the sun can’t see her in this room. She looks like she’s starting to camouflage into the bed she lays on, like she’s melting into the stiff, starchy fabric of the sheets and the blanket that covers her.

Except for her hair. It’s still as vibrant as it’s always been.

It’s longer now, and a little matted even though Lucas and Steve and the nurses all do their best to brush it out, to keep it smooth. Erica taught Lucas how to braid it. Lucas taught Steve.

The only blue Lucas has seen recently are Max’s veins. The plastic gloves the doctors wear, which aren’t even a nice shade of blue, light and powdery. The blue stripes on the hallway floor. The tiny flower-like shapes on Max’s hospital gown. The slivers of the sky between the curtains in her room.

And he wants to be angry, but he can’t even bring himself to feel anything but the small lump of pain in his chest, like there’s a tumor or something there, threatening to stop his heart with every pulse.

Max’s hands are cold.

Her bones have all healed. Lucas likes to trace her forearms, gazing at the subtle lines in her skin, at her freckles, which are lighter than they used to be. Fainter. Sometimes, when he’s particularly tired, it feels like he’s trying to stargaze in the middle of the day, searching desperately, longingly, for something he can’t see.

This is what he was doing when he met Max’s mom for the first time.

They’d both been visiting Max for the past week, but they’d managed to miss each other every day. Until she walked into the room as Lucas was doing this: laying on his forearm, drifting off as he’d traced Max’s arm, connecting her freckles like constellations he was working on memorising, his fingertips light like he was trying not to wake her up.

He looked up when the door opened, expecting Steve, who usually would come and sit next to him with a hand on his back, silent.

And a flash of red hair made him think he was hallucinating for a moment before he processed the woman’s face, the tired circles under her eyes, the soft lines pressed into her skin around her eyes and her mouth. The flowers in her hand. Her blue eyes.

He froze.

She froze.

They stared at each other.

Lucas sat up slowly, pulling his hand away from Max’s arm, and he held his breath, his heart pounding, waiting for her to scold him, to tell him to get away from her daughter, to say something with the voice of an angry young man.

But her voice was soft when she spoke. Tired.

“Lucas.”

She’d said it like it was a revelation, like she’d been looking for him, like she knew him. He blinked in confusion, nodding slowly.

And he watched as she crossed the room, pressed a kiss to Max’s forehead, placed the flowers in the vase alongside some others that were wilting.

“Max told me about you,” Ms Mayfield said as she pulled another chair up, sitting next to Lucas. He was sitting stiffly, still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her eyes to grow cold and angry.

“She did?” he asked, his voice small. Young.

She nodded, smiling, the lines in her skin deepening, and his chest ached as he wondered if Max might look like her when she’s older. If he’ll get the privilege of seeing the years make their way into her skin, mark her face.

“Good things, I hope,” he said quietly. Her smile grew.

She reached for Max’s hand and pulled it toward herself, tenderly tracing her fingers. Lucas’s hands twisted in his lap.

“She said you’re sweet.”

Lucas’s eyebrows jumped, and Ms Mayfield let out a soft laugh, nodding.

“That was my reaction too. Very odd to hear her talk about someone like that.” She looked at Lucas knowingly. “You must be something special, huh?”

His face was hot. This was never how he anticipated meeting the mother of the love of his life. Not that he’d told anyone that she was. (Except Erica, who’s been sworn to secrecy even though she insists it’s so obvious everyone already knows.)

“I’d like to think so.”

Ms Mayfield hummed, nodding, rubbing the back of Max’s hand like she was trying to rub warmth into it.

“She said you’re cute,” she said after a moment, leaning toward him and lowering her voice like Max was going to open her eyes and tell her to shut up.

“…Really?”

She nodded with a smile, and Lucas’s cheeks turned hotter as he looked at the ground bashfully, resisting the urge to scuff his feet on the ground like a fucking Charlie Brown character or something.

“Said you have pretty eyes. That your voice is nice. That you’re a good big brother, and you’re funny, and you’re handsome…” Every word made Lucas more embarrassed, but he was suppressing a smile now, because Max said all of that about him, and holy shit— “But she still refused to acknowledge that she has a crush on you.”

Lucas glanced at her. Wondered if she knew that they did actually date for a while. That they called each other boyfriend and girlfriend.

Somehow hearing that she had a crush on Lucas made his heart beat faster anyway. That she was shy about it but still apparently gushed about him to her mother.

They were quiet for a while. Lucas’s eyes burned, and his hands shook, but somehow it was fine. Like Ms Mayfield wouldn’t have minded if he burst into tears like a baby, if he sobbed into his hands or the side of Max’s bed.

“She’s really amazing,” he finally choked. “She’s so cool.”

He felt like a child, gushing about his crush, and it was stupid. But it made Ms Mayfield smile fondly.

“She’s so funny, and�� and clever, and she’s crazy brave, I mean, it’s ridiculous.”

Ms Mayfield laughed. Lucas wondered when the last time she laughed was. And he wondered if Max could hear it.

“That’s my girl,” she said fondly.

Lucas wiped his tears as quickly as he could, but Ms Mayfield just leaned to reach the box of tissues and she held them out to him. He took one with a muttered thank you, and then they were quiet again.

He wonders sometimes if everything in the world could be fixed by some silence. If everyone on the planet just shut the fuck up for five minutes, everything could be righted.

He used to hate rooms that were too quiet. He hated the library even though that was where Will and Mike liked to stay after school or during lunch when they were allowed. He could hear everything, every breath, every page turning, every gurgle from someone’s stomach. Every scratch of a pencil or pen on paper, every scrape of a book being pulled from a shelf.

At home, he hated the silence too. He got a radio when he started middle school because he convinced his parents that he couldn’t focus in silence, that he needed some noise. Which is still true. He’s more productive when he works in the noisy cafeteria than he is when he’s in study hall.

But since the end of the world, he doesn’t mind it as much.

He likes being able to hear Max breathing. He wishes he could hear her heart beating.

He holds her wrist sometimes. Presses his fingertips into her pulse and closes his eyes to focus on it. Waits for his heart to catch up to it.

Steve noticed one day and he started laughing. It didn’t make any sense, but Lucas laughed too, until Steve sobered enough to tell him he does the same with Eddie. Eddie sleeps more heavily than Steve does, he’d explained, his hand still firm on Lucas’s back, and some nights Steve wakes up for seemingly no reason at all. And in the dark, Eddie looks paler than usual, almost lifeless. And Steve panics for a brief moment before his sleepy mind catches up, and he presses his fingers into the side of Eddie’s neck, or his wrist, or to his chest.

Lucas didn’t say anything about it. That Steve just… casually told him that he and Eddie sleep together often enough for Steve to have a routine when he wakes up. That Eddie’s heartbeat calms him down. But it made Lucas smile.

That was one of the first conversations he’s had with Steve since everything. Usually they just sit together quietly, watching the other do Max’s hair gently.

The quiet feels soothing. Like a blanket. Steve seems to feel it. Lucas wonders if Max does too.

May 1986

It’s seven and a half weeks that Max sleeps.

Lucas knows she isn’t really asleep. But it’s nicer to think that she is.

Just dozing peacefully. Resting.

Lucas whispers to her sometimes, even though he doesn’t know if she can hear him. He greets her with soft Good mornings and murmured How are you?s like she’s going to respond. She never does. It’s fine.

He calls her sleeping beauty, which would make her kick his shin if she could respond. (Maybe that’s why he does it. Tries to annoy her into waking up.)

He hates that her eyes don’t flutter open when he kisses her forehead. It’s bullshit that his whole life he’s heard fairy tales about princesses being kissed awake, but Max just sleeps.

It’s a Tuesday when she wakes up.

It’s bright and warm in the hospital room, the curtains open to let the sun in. Lucas is sitting next to the bed like he always is, holding Max’s hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles, looking down at their linked fingers. Listening to Max breathed , to the quiet noises from the hallway. Hushed voices, squeaky wheels on pushed carts, footsteps clicking on the ground.

Max’s knuckles are red. Lucas can see her veins under her skin, and he traces them lightly. They make him think of the Northern Lights.

And then her finger moves.

Lucas freezes, looking at her finger. The sounds from the hallway are muffled suddenly, muted, like his head is underwater, and then it looks like he’s underwater too as his eyes fill with tears when her finger moves again.

He looks up at her, at her face, his breath catching in his chest as her eyes squeeze shut for a moment.

“Max?” he says quietly.

Her eyes flutter open before they close again, and Lucas moves to the bed, sitting on the edge, holding her hand tightly.

His heart is beating too fast. He can’t see clearly until he blinks tears out of his eyes, and the tears are hot on his skin as they fall down his cheeks, but it doesn’t matter, because Max’s eyes are opening, and her eyebrows furrow for a moment, and her lips part, and her fingers tighten on Lucas’s.

Her eyes aren’t blue.

They’re milky white, blank, even as she blinks repeatedly, squeezing Lucas’s hand so tightly it hurts, and it’s fine. It’s all fine. It’s fine that her eyes aren’t blue and it’s fine that she’s hurting Lucas, it’s all fucking fine.

“Max?” he chokes, running his other hand up her forearm gently, firmly, squeezing, and she’s sitting up now, pushing herself up weakly, turning her head in Lucas’s direction, but she doesn’t see him. She blinks, and tears fall down her cheeks.

“Lucas?”

Her voice is rough. She doesn’t sound like herself. The sound sends a shard of glass though Lucas’s chest, but he barely notices.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, shifting closer, squeezing her hand. “I’m right here, I got you.”

“I can’t see,” she says breathlessly, panicking. Lucas’s whole body hurts.

“I know,” he says weakly, rubbing her arm. “I know, but I— I’m right here, it’s okay.”

“Lucas—”

She pulls at his hand, tugging him closer as she leans toward him, and her throat was already rough when she spoke, but he can hear every breath scraping its way through her throat, ragged and sharp, and his eyes burn with tears.

“I’m here,” he chokes. His voice is too high, almost cracking. “I’m right here, Max, it’s okay.”

“I can’t see,” she sobs in a panic as he touches her head, his fingers instinctively pushing into her hair. He brushed it yesterday, and it’s still smooth. “I can’t see.”

“I know,” he whispers.

She’s grappling for his shirt, her grip weak, hands trembling, and he touches one of her hands, holding it to himself as he lets his head fall to hers, their foreheads touching.

“You feel me?” he asks, his voice breaking, squeezing her hand, rubbing her knuckles. She nods, pressing closer, knocking their noses together clumsily. “You hear me?”

“I hear you,” she chokes, nodding again.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, sliding his hand up her arm, squeezing gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She says his name.

Maybe it’s stupid to say, but nobody says his name like she does.

He stifles a sob, nodding, squeezing his eyes shut.

“It hurts,” Max says roughly, her hands tightening on his shirt, but her grip is still weak.

“What hurts?”

“Everything,” she chokes. “Everything hurts, Lucas, I— I can’t see—”

He nods again, squeezing her arm before he slides his hand to the back of her head, cradling her gently, tenderly, and he knows she can probably feel the way his hands are shaking, but they’re both trembling now, quivering together like leaves in wind.

“I’m gonna call a nurse,” he says, letting go to reach for the button, but she pulls at his shirt, letting out a gasping sob.

“Don’t go,” she pleads roughly. “Don’t go, don’t leave me, Lucas, I—”

He falls apart. His chest splits open and his heart spills out, tumbling to the space between them and staining the stiff sheets deep red.

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her against himself, burying his face in her hair, and he sobs.

“I’m not,” he says weakly, holding her as her shoulders shake, as she gets his chest wet with her tears. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

As he holds her, he leans to press the button.

The nurse that comes puts a paper up in the window when she sees them holding each other, and she waits by the door, holding a clipboard to her chest, watching them carefully. Lucas can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed of his tears as she watches. He holds Max’s hand to his chest, whispers her name, tells her to breathe. Exaggerates his own breaths so she can feel his chest move up and down, so she can follow along. The nurse waits the whole time, quiet.

Until they both stop crying. Until Max just sits there, holding Lucas’s shirt, her face pressed to his shoulder, hidden from view. Until Lucas sits up straight, his back cracking, his vision still blurred from his tears, at which point the nurse comes closer and picks up the tissue box, holding it out to him with a soft smile.

“Thank you,” he says, almost whispering, as he takes one and wipes his face.

He takes another, tilting his head and whispering Max’s name. She shakes her head.

“Max,” he whispers again. “There’s a nurse here.”

She shakes her head again, but she lets him push her back a little bit, enough to see her face, red and tear-streaked and fucking beautiful.

Her eyes flutter open when he touches her cheek, gently wiping her skin dry with the tissue. They aren’t focussed, flickering across his face and around them, and her breath catches in her throat, her hand tightening on his shirt.

“‘S okay,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

“Let the nurse check on you?” he asks softly after a little while, caressing her cheek, and she nods, her eyes still looking at him like she’s searching for him.

She clings to Lucas’s arm as the nurse checks her over, asking her questions quietly, gently. Tells her how long it’s been. Max hides her face in Lucas’s shoulder when she starts to cry again, and Lucas’s throat is tight as he kisses the top of her head.

“Can you tell me what you see, Maxine?” the nurse asks after a while, sitting next to Max on the bed, watching her carefully. Max lifts her head and looks around, her eyes jumping too quickly.

“It’s…” Her hands tighten on Lucas’s arm, squeezing, pulling him closer. He sets a hand on top of hers. Her fingers are cold. “It’s all blurry. Really blurry, I— I can’t see anything.” She pauses, turning toward the window, blinking, her eyelashes fluttering. “I can see… light. It’s bright over there,” she adds, gesturing toward the window with a nod, like she refuses to let go of Lucas even with one hand to point. “I can see, like…”

She stops, her voice cutting off, and Lucas squeezes her hands when she sniffles, squeezing her eyes shut before she looks around the room again.

“Color,” she says. “It just…” She looks down at herself, then at where she’s holding onto Lucas, at their hands, at his skin against hers. “It’s so blurry, I…”

“‘S okay,” Lucas whispers, squeezing again.

“Can you fix it?” Max asks, turning toward the nurse. Her voice is tight, tense.

The nurse pauses, looking down at her clipboard, and Lucas feels irrationally angry at her for her silence as Max waits. He presses his lips together and rubs his thumb over Max’s knuckles.

“It doesn’t look like it,” the nurse says gently. “I’m sorry, Maxine.”

Max is quiet.

She’s looking across the room blankly, her face void of any expression. Her grip on Lucas’s arm is loose. Her eyelashes flutter as she blinks, her gaze falling a little bit, and then she’s nodding so minutely she’s barely nodding at all.

“Okay,” she says softly, her voice barely even a whisper.

Lucas’s eyes meet the nurse’s, and she gives him a look that he can’t really read.

“You should get some rest,” she says to Max after a moment, lifting a hand like she wants to reach out and touch her arm before she thinks better of it, dropping her hand to the edge of the bed. “Somebody will come by with food in a little bit, alright?”

Max nods again.

“When will my mom come?” she asks as the nurse is standing, turning to face her, grip tightening anxiously.

“They’re contacting her right now,” the nurse says. “She should be here any minute.”

Another nod. And then she turns to Lucas, leaning toward him, and he takes her back into his arms. He closes his eyes and presses his cheek to the top of her head, and he hears the door open and then close a moment later.

They’re both quiet. Max clings to Lucas’s arm, trembling. He wonders if her eyes are closed.

She shivers after a few moments.

“Cold?” Lucas whispers. She nods.

Lucas pulls away carefully, slowly detaching them, and he keeps a hand on her back as he leans to reach for the hoodie he draped over the back of his chair earlier today. It’s a red zip-up hoodie.

“Here,” he says softly, lifting to drape around her shoulders. She lets him, her eyes closed as she lifts her arms to put it on. She pulls it around herself tightly, letting the sleeves cover her hands.

Lucas waits for her.

He looks at her. Her hair is down, covering her face because her head is downcast, like she’s hiding from him. She’s sitting cross-legged, the blanket tenting over her knees, and her shoulders look tense, tight like she’s anticipating something.

“Lucas?” she says softly.

“Yeah?”

“…Can I hold your hand?”

“‘Course,” he says, lifting a hand and holding it out to her. She looks for it, scanning her line of vision until she finds it, the contrast of his skin against the white sheets, and she reaches for it slowly, hesitantly. “‘S okay,” Lucas murmurs, waiting for her.

She takes it gently at first, her touch soft and scared, and then her grip tightens, squeezing. She shuts her eyes tightly.

“Is— Is everyone okay?” she asks after a moment, as Lucas is brushing his thumb back and forth over her fingers.

“Everyone’s okay,” he says. “They’re worried about you.”

She nods.

“The Byers are back in town,” Lucas says. “With Mike. And… some guy called Argyle.”

“Who’s Argyle?”

“A stoner dude. I think you’ll like him.”

She hums, nodding, taking a deep breath, and it doesn’t seem like she’s really listening to him. Just holding his hand. Keeping him there.

“You think Eddie will let me have some weed?” she asks after a moment, and a laugh bursts out of Lucas’s chest. She cracks a smile.

“Maybe,” Lucas says, rubbing her fingers. “Dunno if Steve would let him give it to you.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

He laughs again.

She’s smiling, head tilting, eyes moving quickly, almost quivering. Lucas gazes at her. At the lines in her cheeks that appear when she smiles, at the warm wisps of hair hanging around her face.

“I missed you so much,” he says softly.

Her smile softens. She turns toward him a little more, her hand tightening on his.

“Did you come over often?”

“They could barely keep me away.”

Her eyebrows jump.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, tracing her knuckles lightly. “Lady at the front desk knows me by name.”

She laughs lightly, tugging his hand a little bit, absently. She looks at him.

She’s scanning his face, like she’s searching for him. Her smile fades.

“What is it?” Lucas whispers.

She’s quiet for a moment.

“…Wish I could see you.”

Lucas exhales.

His whole body hurts. His hand tightens on hers and he watches as she blinks, as she searches for him right in front of her.

“Wanna try something?” he asks softly.

“Sure.”

He hesitates before he lifts her hand to his face slowly, watching her carefully, nervously. Her fingertips are cold when they touch his cheek. Her eyes flutter and she shifts toward him, sliding her hand so her palm presses to his cheek.

Her head falls forward like she’s looking down, but her eyes are still unfocused, a little wide, and her hand moves. She’s gentle, her fingertips travelling lightly over his skin to feel the shape of his nose, the space between his eyebrows. He closes his eyes when her fingers run down his face, and his eyelashes catch on her fingertips briefly.

She turns toward him more, wincing, reaching up for his face with her other hand, touching him. Her expression changes, her eyebrows furrowing, and she’s blinking rapidly like she’s trying not to cry.

“Okay?” Lucas whispers. She nods.

He waits for her as she feels his face, gazing at her, at her freckles and the way her irises are trembling just the slightest bit. She’s smiling now, and it’s a tiny smile, almost absent, almost invisible.

She presses her fingers to his cheeks and squeezes, squishing his face up, and he lets out a scoff. She grins. It’s beautiful.

Her thumb brushes over his lips, and it seems accidental at first, but then she does it again, her grin faltering. And she’s just holding his face. Cradling it. And he wants to fucking sob, to fall into her arms and wail until his throat is raw.

He holds himself together. Looks at her and waits patiently.

The door opens behind Max as she holds him, and he looks up, past her, to see Ms Mayfield entering the room. Her hair is tied into a messy bun, and her eyes are rimmed with red, which makes the blue of her irises look even brighter than usual.

Her gaze meets Lucas’s, and he can see her fall apart. There are tears cascading down her cheeks in an instant even as she’s smiling at him. Lucas smiles again, and then Max is smiling as she feels his cheeks rise.

“Max,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Your mom is here.”

She turns quickly, looking around the room helplessly as she lets out a weak, “Mommy?” that sounds like it’s from the mouth of a little girl, a girl much smaller than Max is.

Ms Mayfield sobs quietly, her hand covering her mouth for a moment as she takes Max in, and then she falls to the edge of the bed, reaching for Max, taking her into her arms.

“Hi, baby.”

Max cries.

Lucas watches Ms Mayfield’s hand run over the top of Max’s head, smoothing her hair gently, tenderly, and Max sobs, her voice muffled and weak. And Lucas’s eyes are burning again, his vision blurring as he watches them hold each other, reunited in a tearful, messy embrace.

Somehow it hits him all over again. That Max is alive. That her heart is beating. Her blood is flowing. He covers his mouth to muffle a weak sob, but Ms Mayfield hears it anyway, and she opens her eyes, looking at him over Max’s shoulder. Her eyes are bright, vibrant and shining, and then she’s reaching a hand out to Lucas, trembling.

Lucas takes it. Their fingers slide together, and she pulls, tugging him closer to herself and Max. Lucas moves closer, putting his other hand on Max’s back, rubbing gently, and Ms Mayfield touches his face, caressing his cheek and looking at him tearfully, her voice barely above a whisper as she says, “Thank you.”

He closes his eyes as tears spill down his cheeks, wrapping his arm around Max and exhaling shakily as her hand pulls away from her mother to hold his forearm. She’s trembling.

She cries until she falls asleep, trapped between her mother and Lucas, holding onto them both like she’s scared they’ll leave, even in sleep. And they stay, like they’re scared she’ll leave too.

July 1986

Max stays home usually.

Despite not really being able to see, she complains that her eyes are too sensitive now. Sunlight hurts more than anything, especially when the sky is clear. She keeps her windows at least partially drawn, her lights off. She plays music usually, her radio or walkman by her side, and she fidgets with whatever trinket Dustin left behind last time he visited.

Lucas always taps on her door lightly before he opens it. She always looks over at him blankly, curiously before he says, “Hi.”

The first time he visited her in her room, it was filled with boxes and shopping bags. Ms Mayfield had had to move after the ‘earthquakes,’ and Wayne Munson had apparently dropped everything to help her the second he saw her struggling to kick the door open while carrying a box.

They’re neighbors again, living side by side in a small duplex, and Lucas likes that they’re practically best friends now. Wayne brings Ms Mayfield coffee and tea and her favorite chewing gum, and Ms Mayfield makes the coffee and pours it into two mugs. They kind of make Lucas think of Steve and Robin: bickering and teasing and poking fun at each other, but always smiling, always gazing.

When Lucas had come over the first time, navigated through the hall to find Max’s room, found her sitting in bed fiddling with the dials of her radio, surrounded by bags and boxes and boxes and bags, he wanted to help her, and she didn't want to let him. They’d had to reach a compromise: Lucas would unbox five boxes, he would talk to her the whole time, and then he would sit with her.

That was the only expectation. To sit with her. They’d talked the whole time he unpacked for her, as he sorted clothes and set aside books and tapes and shoes and her skateboard. Max told him about when Will had come over earlier that day. He’d brought her a few tapes he thought she’d like. Lucas complained about Erica and Dustin, and how they’ve apparently become almost as inseparable as Steve and Robin, always ganging up on Lucas together to make fun of him for anything. And he heard Max laugh.

It’s a beautiful sound. Especially when she’s like this: tired and drained and sad-looking, sitting in a pile of blankets with her eyes closed because the room is so dim there’s kind of no point in having them open.

They didn’t talk when Lucas sat with her. He told her that he had finished five boxes. She nodded. And then paused before holding her hand out, and he took it tentatively. She pulled him closer in silence, and she played with his hand, feeling his fingers, the roughness of the calluses on his palm, the dips between his knuckles. He moved closer after a little bit, shifting to sit against the wall, and she let go of him to fluff out her blanket so it was over him as well. He lifted an arm to wrap around her carefully, and she exhaled, leaning against him.

She likes touching more than she used to. Even when they were dating she was never too touchy, occasionally smacking a kiss on his cheek when saying goodbye, hooking their fingers together while walking, letting their knees knock together while sitting next to each other. But now…

She tucked herself into his side, curling into a ball, as small as possible, her hand sliding across his chest and then gripping the fabric of his hoodie loosely. When he touched her hand, she spread her fingers so they could link together, and she sighed heavily. Lucas hesitantly pushed a hand into her hair, dragging his fingers through the tangles gently, and he whispered to her.

“You okay?”

She nodded with another sigh, and her voice was hushed when she spoke.

“I can hear your heartbeat.”

Which, of course, made Lucas overly aware of his heartbeat, and it promptly sped up, which made Max giggle again. And she fell asleep there, leaning against him, holding his hand, as he ran his fingers through her hair.

And this is their system now. Lucas offers to help tidy up, sort something out for her, cook something for her. Max argues half-heartedly before letting him. They sit together.

September 1986

Lucas isn’t supposed to be sitting on the counter, but his dad doesn’t mind as much as his mom, and she’s at brunch.

He’s kicking his feet in time with the music playing on the radio. He doesn’t recognize the band, but his dad is humming along, swaying as he flips pancakes at the stove. It’s a dreary day outside, grey and just rainy enough to be a little humid, but Lucas’s dad has never been one to let the weather dampen his mood. He would have a picnic in a hurricane if he had good sandwich bread. Isn’t this fun?

He’s even wearing an apron, one with ruffles and embroidered flowers over the pocket, and the apron is really Lucas’s mom’s, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her wear it. But she always smiles fondly when she sees her husband wearing it.

“Hey, Dad?” Lucas asks around the pancake he’s nibbling. He’d stolen it earlier and his dad pretended not to see.

“Mhmm?”

“…How did you know that Mom was the one?”

Charles lets out a dramatic sigh, flipping a pancake.

“Ah, Susan…”

Lucas raises his eyebrow, suppressing a smile. His mom hates going by Susan.

“Well, we met in college,” Charles says, glancing up at Lucas, who nods, listening. “We had English Lit together, and she wasn’t in class one day so I took extra notes and gave them to her the next week. Turns out I didn’t have to, because she actually had a friend in that class that also took notes for her, but she said it was sweet.”

Lucas scoffs, taking another bite of the pancake.

“I asked her to get coffee. We started going out,” Charles continues, setting the pancake aside and pouring more batter in the pan. “All my friends loved her. Started pressuring me to propose before we even hit six months.

“I thought about it,” he continues. “But I wasn’t sure for a while. My folks hadn’t had the best marriage, you know, and it messed with my idea of what marriage really was, right? And love, I guess. I saw my parents always arguing and bickering and fighting, and that was what I thought love was supposed to be, and it just….”

He shrugs, and Lucas nods. He doesn’t spend a lot of time with his grandparents; they live in Nevada, but he thinks even if they lived closer he still wouldn’t even want to see them. They aren’t very nice to be around.

“But your mother was a darling,” Charles says fondly, looking down at the pan and flipping the pancake. “Always patient with me when I was having a hard time. When I was unsure about anything.”

“Yeah, she’s really nice,” Lucas says. Charles hums in agreement, nodding. “…Most of the time.”

“I’m gonna ignore that. Then one day we went to church together,” Charles says, ignoring the way Lucas chokes out a laugh. “We were sitting side by side in the pew. And I was having a time, wondering if she was the one and all that stuff. I asked God to send me a sign and everything. Some knocked over books, a thunderstorm. A literal sign would have been helpful.

And then— Our hands were on the pew in front of us, like this—” He sets the spatula down and holds his hands up, miming a platform in front of himself. “And she reached over and hooked her little finger with mine.”

There’s a shine in his eye, a fond gleam, and Lucas’s chest feels warm.

“And I decided maybe I didn’t need a sign from God,” Charles says. “All I needed was a sign from her.”

He shrugs lightly, and he looks back at the pan, flipping over the pancake. It’s a little overcooked, but Charles is undeterred, still smiling absently.

“So I knew I wanted to marry her,” he says. “Knew she was the woman for me.”

Lucas hums quietly, looking down at the remaining piece of pancake in his hand, ripped into a smaller piece. The heels of his socked feet bump into the cabinet he’s sitting above, knocking it shut rhythmically because it keeps swinging back open. (Erica likes to joke it’s haunted. Not the house, but this cabinet specifically.)

“Why do you ask?” Charles says when Lucas doesn’t say anything. “You in love?”

Lucas’s face flushes with heat.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Maybe.”

“Oh, with that white girl,” Charles says brightly. Lucas rolls his eyes. suppressing a smile.

“She has a name.”

“…Martha—”

”Max.”

“Max,” Charles repeats lightly, nodding, flipping another pancake as he mutters her name under his breath like he’s committing it to memory. “So you’re in love with her.”

“I don’t know,” Lucas says again, swaying. “I like her.”

“You like her.”

Lucas bites his lip to suppress his smile, looking at the tiled ground.

“I think if she said she was cold I’d set myself on fire so she could warm her hands.”

A laugh bursts out of Charles, and Lucas giggles, looking up at him.

“I think giving her your jacket is a little more traditional.”

Lucas shrugs, shoving the rest of the pancake into his mouth.

“She’s not very traditional,” he mumbles around it. Charles shakes his head at him, his moustache curved around his smile. Lucas has always thought he would be a good cartoon character.

“So you love her.”

Lucas looks at the ground again, kicking the cabinet shut again.

“Isn’t it kinda stupid?” he says quietly. His dad is quiet.

”What makes you say that?”

Lucas glances up at him.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “Just… We’re kids, I guess. In shows and movies and stuff whenever teenagers fall in love, everyone says it’ll never last, y’know? You never hear anyone talking about their, like, spouse or whatever and saying they were childhood sweethearts.” He fidgets with the end of his sleeve, kicking the cabinet. “Mike’s parents met after his dad finished college. Will’s parents got married after high school, had two kids and then they got divorced.”

“Lonnie Byers is a jackass, son,” Charles interrupts, startling a laugh out of Lucas. “Don’t ever compare yourself to someone like him.”

Lucas nods at the ground.

“It’s also just…” He pauses, his voice softening. “She’s white. You should see the way people look at us when we go out together, like we’re both crazy, like we’re contagious, it’s so fucking stupid—”

He cuts himself off, glancing up at his dad. He’s looking at the pan, and he doesn’t react to Lucas’s language.

Charles is quiet for another moment, and Lucas waits. There’s still some batter left in the mixing bowl, but he’s just looking at the pan, staring at the tiny pieces of burnt batter. and Lucas doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so… contemplative.

He takes a breath before he speaks, looking back at Lucas.

”You know your uncle Jack?”

”…I do,” Lucas says slowly.

“He and his wife met when they were in third grade. Nine years old, I think? Our families lived close by, but we didn’t go to the same school or anything. Obviously.”

Lucas blinks. He hasn’t seen his uncle Jack in a long time, and he hasn’t seen his wife or children in even longer, but he knows them. There are photos of them in the house, pictures from when Lucas was little. His aunt Lindsey is white.

“Right,” he says hesitantly, looking at his dad.

“You know I don’t believe in coincidences,” Charles says abruptly, standing up straight from where he’s leaning against the counter. “Or luck, or soulmates.”

”I know.”

”Jack and Lindsey didn’t get lucky because they fell in love young,” Charles says. “And their love wasn’t easy. Still isn’t.”

Lucas blinks. His eyes sting a little, but he doesn’t know why.

“They had to fight for their love,” Charles says softly. “Their love wasn’t something life just gave them, you know? I feel like thinking of them as soulmates and all that meant to be nonsense takes away everything they gave. They lost friends and family members, they had to move to a different state to get married.”

”This isn’t making me feel better,” Lucas says.

“And it was all worth it,” Charles says pointedly, leaning to meet Lucas’s eyes. “Because they love each other, and they’re happy together. Doesn’t matter what anyone else says or thinks.”

Lucas’s throat tightens.

“You love this white girl?”

He scoffs, nodding.

“Yeah.”

”And she loves you too?”

Lucas suppresses a smile, looking at the ground bashfully, rubbing his cheeks.

“I think so,” he says softly. “I hope so.”

He thinks so. He remembers how Max used to look at him, how her eyes used to shine. And he sees how she looks now. How, even though she can’t see him, she still smiles absently, turned in his direction while he talks. He notices how she reaches for him. She listens to his heartbeat the same way he used to feel her pulse.

“That’s the kind of love you fight for,” Charles says, his voice soft, but firmer than it usually is. He pauses for a moment before he turns toward Lucas again, meeting his eyes. “Lucas.”

“Dad.”

“My parents weren’t happy when Jack fell in love with Lindsey.” He’s looking at Lucas seriously, like he’s about to grab him by the shoulders and shake him to get his message through. “And Lindey’s parents stopped talking to her.”

Lucas nods, his fingers tightening in a knot, his throat tight again.

“You don’t have to worry about that with us,” Charles says firmly. “You understand me?”

Lucas nods again, blinking tears back.

“And if Max’s family has a problem with it, you tell her that she always has a home here, got it?”

Lucas smiles weakly, his lip quivering a little bit, and he nods, rubbing his cheek again.

“Her mom likes me,” he says quietly.

“Does she?”

Lucas nods once more.

“Well, we’ll have to have them over for dinner sometime.”

Lucas smiles at the ground as his dad pours the rest of the pancake batter in the pan, filling the kitchen with a quiet sizzling.

Lucas’s parents like Max. She’s sweet, and she’s clever, and she’s always got quick one-liners to effectively tease Lucas into making him hide his face and duck his head, pretending he isn’t filled with joy at the sound of his family’s laughter and Max’s giggling.

Dinner at the Sinclairs’ isn’t normally a quiet affair, and it’s no different when Max and her mother join. Susan and Sue bond over the shared names, laughing together about their preferred nicknames, Erica trips Lucas as he’s passing in the kitchen so he stumbles into Max, Charles calls Max the wrong name four times until she’s giggling in anticipation the next time he hums Mmm….

“I swear he’s doing it on purpose,” Lucas says as they’re finding their seats at the table after Charles calls her Maria. Max laughs lightly as she’s sliding into her seat, a hand extended to feel the edge of the table.

“It’s funny,” she says quietly, turning toward him, and he sits next to her, his body turned toward her absently.

“He likes you,” he whispers. He can hear his father laughing in the kitchen, saying something about how he’s more the wife than Sue, and Max’s mom’s laugh sounds a lot like Max’s. Light and joyful and a little childish.

“Do you think?” Max says, matching his volume, leaning toward her. Lucas nods, humming affirmatively, lifting a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. She smiles softly, her eyes flickering.

“Said you’re a real firecracker.”

“That’s a ginger joke.”

“I don’t think it was intended to be,” Lucas says seriously, and Max snorts, her eyes closing as she smiles broadly.

”I like your family,” she says after a moment, her voice soft.

“Yeah?”

”Mhmm. And my mom does too,” she adds, leaning toward him pointedly, nodding almost to herself.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I can tell,” she says, turning her head and searching for Lucas’s hands, her eyes flickering until she reaches tentatively for one, her fingers inching toward Lucas’s. He smiles, watching, turning his hand over so their fingers can lace together.

“I forgot you have heightened senses now,” he says, pretending they’re not holding hands. (It still throws him for a fucking loop, that Max Mayfield wants to hold hands with him.)

“I don’t think I do,” she says, smiling absently as she shakes her head, and Lucas gazes at her.

“I’m telling you, Max, you have spider senses.”

Max rolls her eyes, shaking her head, her fingers tightening on his.

“…She’s been lonely,” she says quietly. Lucas leans closer, listening to her voice that’s hiding under the gentle clamor in the kitchen. “Wayne helps, I mean, obviously, and— and Eddie and Steve come over a lot when Wayne’s working, but she… She had a lot of friends in California before she married Neil, and I think she just…”

She trails off, and Lucas nods even though she can’t see it, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

“…It’s nice to hear her laughing,” Max says, and her mother laughs in the kitchen as if on cue. Max grins.

“I love how much you love your mom,” Lucas says.

“Lame.”

Lucas rolls his eyes.

Max eats more slowly than she used to. Feeling around her plate with her fork, kicking her feet at the ground, her socks scuffing the hardwood, fidgeting absently with Lucas’s fingers under the table. Lucas knows everyone can tell that they’re holding hands, but he can’t even be embarrassed about it, despite the way Erica kicks him teasingly, nudging him closer to Max.

She moves closer to Lucas during dessert, a pie that Susan made with Wayne’s “help.”

“The man can’t bake for the life of him,” she says intently as they sit around the table again. Erica is sitting cross-legged in her seat now, tucked into a comfortable ball, and she looks precious.

Sometimes Lucas is randomly hit with the realization that Erica is his little sister. She’s the same girl that Lucas met in a hospital room, so tiny and squishy and laying perfectly still in Lucas’s arms. The same girl that cried when she scraped her knees and refused to ride a bike unless Lucas was walking alongside her, holding the bike steady. The same girl that slept in Lucas’s room on Christmas Eve, trying to stay awake to catch Santa but falling asleep sprawled on top of Lucas’s comic books.

Erica sees him looking and lifts her middle finger to him. He returns the gesture.

Susan tells the Sinclairs about how she met Lucas. Lucas keeps his eyes down, pretending he doesn’t notice all their teasing stares, shifting away from Max’s elbow poking into his ribs until Susan shifts the teasing to focus on Max.

“Oh, she kept telling me how handsome Lucas is—”

”I told you that in confidence—”

“Nothing you ever tell me is in confidence.”

Lucas elbows Max. She punches his arm.

“Hi there, Madeline!”

”Max.”

“Max, dang it. Next time I’ll remember.”

Lucas rolls his eyes from where he’s standing in the kitchen, shaking his head and suppressing a smile. He said that last time.

“Erica is at her friend Beverly’s house tonight,” Charles is saying as he leads Max into the kitchen, his arm out for her to hold gently as she uses her white cane to tap across the ground, finding the console table and the shoes left by the doorway. The hallway overhead light is too dim for her to find her way, but nobody minds leading her through it. It had taken her some time to finally start asking people for help, but Lucas thinks that she’s found a big enough comfort in the Sinclairs’ house to accept help from any of them. “Sue and I are headed out in just a moment for the fancy dinner Lucas didn’t want to go to.”

“Can you blame me?” Lucas says, glancing over his shoulder at them and setting a plate on the drying rack.

“Honestly, no,” Charles says, leading Max over to the dining table. She’s smiling absently as she feels for a chair and sits, more comfortable in the brightness of the kitchen. “But Sue wants to go, so. Happy wife, happy life.”

Lucas finishes the dishes as his father goes to finish getting ready, and Max waits at the table, tapping her cane on the ground rhythmically, in time with the most recent song she’s begun learning on guitar. Eddie is teaching her. And Mike, sometimes at the same time at the Munsons’ new place, which has become the new hang out spot because Wayne doesn’t complain half as much as Ted. And Eddie can complain about Max’s and Mike’s bickering as much as he likes, but he doesn’t even bother trying to hide his grins when they’re particularly catty toward each other. And everyone, probably all of Hawkins, heard how loud he laughed when Mike told Max, “I’m making a face at you,” and Max responded, “Thank God I can’t see it.”

“Hi, pretty,” Lucas says as he dries his hands, and Max lifts her head, giving him an unimpressed look. “How’re you?”

”Fine,” she says, her voice light, her vacant gaze following him as he crosses the room and leans against the table next to her. “How hard was it to talk your parents into letting me spend the night?”

“Shockingly easy, actually,” Lucas says, gazing at her. Her hair is shorter than it used to be, cropped to just above her shoulders, wavy and feathery, and it looks so nice Lucas kind of wants to shake her by the shoulders. “They love you.”

Max beams, her cheeks flushing a pretty rosy pink, and Lucas tilts his head fondly, his arms crossing over his chest.

“I can feel you staring at me,” Max says after a moment.

“I’m gazing,” he says pointedly, and she sticks her tongue out at him. “Told you you have heightened senses.”

”How’s guitar going?” he asks after a moment, watching her cane tap back and forth steadily.

“I’m better than Mike.”

“Believable.”

”He has no hand-eye coordination,” she says, lips quirking into a smug grin. “I don’t even need it.”

“You’re so cool.”

Max grins.

”Alright, kiddies,” Sue calls as she meanders down the hallway, stumbling and holding Charles’s arm tightly as she adjusts the strap of her high-heel. “We’re headed out for the night.”

Lucas looks up at them as they linger in the kitchen on the way out, grabbing their jackets, and Max turns in their direction.

“We’ll be home late,” Charles calls, waving with his whole arm so Max can see the movement, and Max smiles, tilting her head. “Don’t do anything we wouldn't do!”

“Goodbye,” Lucas calls pointedly just as Max says, “I’ll keep him in line,” and Lucas grins at the sound of his parents’ harmonized laughter.

The door shuts behind them, and Lucas and Max are quiet for a few moments before Lucas looks at her, gazing again.

“…Ice cream?”

”Yup.”

They sit on the dining table together, cross-legged with their knees pressed. Max rocks back and forth as she tells Lucas about guitar lessons with Eddie and Mike, about how Eddie shifts her fingers into place gently, telling her which chords are which. She can play some songs by ear now, listening to Eddie or Mike play before repeating it herself, and Lucas thinks she’s the most amazing person he’s ever met in his life.

She has calluses on her fingertips. Lucas can feel them on his wrist when she tries to find his hand.

”So you like playing guitar,” Lucas says, watching her scrape the last bits of the ice cream out of her bowl.

“I do,” she says, nodding. “It’s nice to have something to do that I don’t need to see for. I’m getting better at tuning my guitar by myself.”

“Heightened senses,” Lucas whispers, and Max makes a face at him, shaking her head.

“I miss skating,” she says after a moment, falling still, and she pauses for a moment before she holds the bowl up toward Lucas. “Any more in here?”

”Nope.”

”So you’ve been watching me search an empty bowl?”

”…I thought you were having fun.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she says, her expression softening with amusement, and she sets the bowl aside, feeling the table before putting it down.

“So you miss skating,” Lucas says, watching Max’s hands fall to her lap, her fingers twisting together. His eyes linger on the faint lines in her skin, the quiet scars that have lingered in spite of the ointment the nurses gave her. Max can’t see them, but Lucas occasionally sees her running her fingertips across them, just slightly raised above her skin.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. Her shoulders hunch uncomfortably, her head tilting, and she looks forlorn, her expression falling. “It was… I don’t know. Free, I guess.”

Lucas hums, listening to her intently, and he draws his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and setting his chin on his knee. Her eyes flicker with the movement, and his silence prompts her to continue.

“I’d just go skating whenever I felt like shit, y’know?” she says, her voice soft. “Just… take off down the road and not look back.”

“Yeah,” Lucas murmurs, looking at her hands. Her fingers are tangled, tightening and loosening, fidgeting like she’s anxious, but Lucas knows she’s not. She fidgets absently, the same way she rocks back and forth, taps her cane, shifts her fingers into guitar chords.

“I miss the wind,” she says, leaning toward Lucas with a smile. “In my hair and stuff. Blew all my worries away.”

She tilts her head, smiling brightly, and Lucas loves how her smile makes her eyes squint at him, loves how her shoulders raise to her ears, loves how she sways to the side. He suppresses the urge to reach out and cradle her face in his hands.

“…You wanna do something?” he asks softly. Her eyes flicker across him.

“Is it something your parents wouldn’t do?”

“Yeah.”

She grins.

Max’s hands are steady on Lucas’s shoulders, fingers holding tightly as they speed down the empty road. She’d laughed as they struggled their way onto the bike, clutching at Lucas’s shoulders and standing on the pegs behind the seat, her head ducked as he started pedalling.

The sun is setting, and it’s like the entire world is glowing golden. Lucas knows Max can’t see everything he can, but his skin feels warm in spite of the tender bite of the wind on the tips of his ears and nose, and he hopes she feels it too. Hopes she knows the sun is beaming down at her.

He hears her over the wind after a little while, when they’ve ridden out of Lucas’s neighborhood, and she’s laughing.

It’s his favorite fucking sound in the world.

She sounds breathless, gasping between giggles, and Lucas thinks she might be crying. He can see her in his head, glowing in the sun, cheeks shimmering with tears, her pale eyes fluttering. And when her hands disappear from his shoulders, he risks a glance back at her, just far enough to see her arm stretched out against the blue sky and silver lined clouds. Her hand is relaxed, fingers extended like she’s trying to catch the wind, and her scars stand out in the sunlight.

Lucas faces forward again, turning down a road he knows will be empty, a road that’s lined with wildflowers and overgrown grass and thistles. He bikes faster, and when Max sings to the sky, Lucas’s eyes sting. He blames the wind.

“How was that?” he asks as he helps her get down from the bike. They’re both still breathless, and the sky is darker now, a rich shade of blue that Lucas adores but only ever sees at this hour when the clouds have drifted apart. Max clings to his arm as she stumbles on the pavement, her eyes wide as she searches fruitlessly for shapes in the dark.

“How was that?” Max repeats, holding Lucas’s arm, her fingertips slipping under the hem of his sleeve. She’s smiling, her head tilted up to face him even though she can’t see him, and something about her remembering how tall he is makes his stomach flutter.

Lucas lets the bike fall to the ground, setting his hand over Max’s, and in the dim porch light, he can see that her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold of the evening air.

“That was amazing,” Max says as they start toward the front door. Lucas looks down to make sure she doesn’t stumble over his feet, smiling absently. “I love you.”

Lucas blinks, and his smile fades as he slows to a stop. He looks back up at her, and she’s looking away now, her cheeks darker, her eyes fluttering as her gaze searches the ground like she can sense Lucas looking at her.

Lucas’s throat tightens. Max looks at the ground some more before she finally lifts her head and quirks her eyebrows expectantly. Lucas scoffs, smiling weakly.

“I love you too,” he says softly.

The corner of Max’s mouth curves into a smile.

”…Lame.”

A laugh bursts from his chest, and Max grins.

“Asshole.”

He leads her inside.

She sits on the counter while he prepares dinner, the radio on and crackling. She’s kicking her feet in time with the music, swaying back and forth, and Lucas is humming, and it feels so insanely domestic, so fucking normal, that Lucas feels like he’s breaking some kind of rule. Like this isn’t allowed. Making dinner and listening to the radio.

He looks back at Max as he scoops the chopped broccoli into a bowl to clear the cutting board. She’s got her hands on the edge of the counter, fingers curled around it, her ankles crossed and swinging, the fabric of her sweatpants folding over her thighs. She’d changed before Lucas started cooking, and when she’d emerged from the bathroom wearing a t-shirt of his that went missing a few weeks ago, he thought he might die.

It’s a worn shirt from when he was on the basketball team. Faded dark green with yellow lettering reading HAWKINS HIGH BASKETBALL around a tiger’s face, a bold 08 on the back, oversized and hanging off of her body loosely. She fidgets with the end of it occasionally, twisting the fabric around her fingers.

Lucas kind of wants to ask how much of her wardrobe consists of stolen goods. He’s pretty sure the sweatpants she’s wearing were Steve’s, given the rolled cuffs around her ankles.

He doesn’t say anything.

Max is still quiet when Lucas slides the pan into the oven and twists the timer. The ticking is quiet under the music from the radio, almost inaudible. Lucas leans against the counter across from Max, gazing at her again. Her eyelashes are pale, fluttering as she blinks, and her irises are quivering like she’s searching the tile floor for something. She’s swaying back and forth with the music, and Lucas loves her.

She’s quiet for a few more moments before she tilts her head, sticking her tongue out at him, and Lucas scoffs.

“Spider senses.”

“Whatever.”

She kicks her feet in the air. She’s wearing striped socks that look hand-made, knit carefully from soft yarn, tucked under the fabric of her sweatpants clumsily.

“I like this song,” Max says softly.

“I don’t know it,” Lucas says, and Max clicks her tongue at him, shaking her head.

“Uncultured.”

Lucas snorts, laughing softly, and then he steps closer, touching Max’s knee so she knows he’s closer before he reaches for one of her hands. She lifts her head, turning her hand over to hold his fingers.

“Come here,” Lucas says softly.

“Where?”

“Right here.”

He pulls at her hand gently, tugging her so she slides off the counter, and she lets him, head tilted curiously as she stands in front of him, holding his hand. Lucas leads her hand to rest on his shoulder slowly, gazing at her face, at her absent smile, before he slides his hand over her arm gently. Her head tilts the other way, and Lucas smiles fondly, swaying with her as he slips his hand to her waist, holding her carefully.

Her other hand hovers in the air hesitantly, and Lucas gazes at the freckle on her wrist before he takes her hand gently. Their fingers twist naturally, turning to hold each other lightly, and Max’s fingertips are cold like they always are, but Lucas doesn’t mind. They sway together slowly, stepping to the side, and Lucas’s hand slides around her waist to press against the small of her back gently. Max’s smile widens, and she scoffs.

”What?” Lucas whispers, smiling. She shakes her head, and then lets it fall forward, her forehead pressing to Lucas’s chin. Lucas smiles, leaning to press a kiss just under her hairline, listening to her sigh.

“Nothing,” she whispers back, and her breath is warm where it finds itself on Lucas’s neck, and Lucas’s eyes sting again as they sway together. His breath shudders as he exhales, and Max’s hand slides over the top of his back to wrap around his neck, holding him close as she steps to the side, following his lead. They’re in a small space, trapped between the two counters, but when Lucas closes his eyes, their shared space feels limitless.

Max starts to hum along with the music before she’s murmuring the words under her breath, and Lucas thinks her voice could make any song sound beautiful, could make any song his favorite.

And the songbirds are singing Like they know the score And I love you, I love you, I love you Like never before

Lucas opens his eyes and steps back, gently pushing Max and lifting her hand to prompt her into a twirl, and she smiles brightly, her eyes squeezing shut as she spins, her hair flying around her head before she falls back into his arms with another sigh.

She giggles as he dances with her, spinning her in place and holding her by her waist as he dips her, her hands holding his shoulders.

“You’ve been working out,” she says when he lifts her up again, hugging her waist as they sway. His stomach flutters, and he grins.

“You can tell?”

”Yeah, don’t let it go to your head.”

Lucas laughs softly, lifting her into the air and spinning with her as she hugs his neck tightly.

They go to the living room after eating, and Max holds his arm to herself as they walk through the hall, her cane left leaning against the dining table. He puts on a baseball game.

Max likes baseball more than she used to. She listens to the commentary silently, tilting her head like she’s following the players in her mind, and Lucas loves baseball, but he loves her more. He’s mesmerized by her, gazing at how the glow of the television screen makes her eyes shine. Her fingers are pressing into his upper arm gently, squeezing absently, replacing her constant fidgeting with the end of her shirt.

“You’re supposed to be watching the game,” she says after a while, smiling and turning her head toward him. His face burns.

“You know you’re unsettling sometimes?”

”You’re the one staring, stalker.”

“I feel like you holding onto me at all times is the equivalent of me staring at you all the time.”

She blinks, her hands pausing on his bicep, and her mouth spreads into a begrudging smile.

”Shut up.”

He giggles, pulling his arm out of her grasp and reaching to put it around her shoulders. She lets him, hands hovering in the air before she leans into him, wrapping her arms around herself and tucking her hands away. Lucas lets his head fall to rest on hers, pressing a kiss to her temple. She exhales, and when Lucas glances at her face, her eyes are closed.

Her hand finds his after a while, fingers twisting to hold two of his in her hand, and he sighs, brushing his thumb over her skin gently. He feels Max’s breath steady during the sixth inning, and he smiles, letting his cheek squish against the top of her head. Her hand falls lax in his, and he holds it in place, lacing their fingers gently. The game turns to static in his ears, muffled and indistinct as his breath slows.

When he wakes up, the television has been turned off. The living room is lit up by the dim light in the stairwell, and Lucas squints around the room. The television remote is on the coffee table, out of his reach, and there’s a blanket over him and Max, gently placed so it’s not in their faces. Lucas sighs, letting his head fall to the back of the sofa and closing his eyes. The ceiling creaks where his parents’ bedroom is.

Max shifts closer. They’re tangled now, facing each other with their legs entwined, and Max’s hand is resting on Lucas’s chest, fingers spread like she’s trying to feel his heartbeat. Her face is tucked against his shoulder, and she nuzzles against him as she exhales slowly.

Lucas has butterflies. He suppresses a smile and lifts a hand to Max’s, setting it over hers as gently as possible.

November 1986

It’s been raining for the past few days. The streets are practically flooded, streams of rainwater cascading alongside the curbs and drenching lawns and gardens. The constant shower of it turns to white noise in the back of every conversation, and Lucas finds that he doesn’t mind it.

It’s a steady sound, comforting and warm even though it’s freezing out, especially in the wind and blocked out sunlight. It’s nearly dark out even though it’s barely even four PM, the clouds grey and angry. There might be lightning later, and as much as Lucas loves the rain, he doesn’t love thunder. Nobody in the Party does. Sometimes during thunderstorms they have slumber parties at Steve’s, all gathered into the excessively large living room just so they don’t have to flinch and shiver on their own.

He holds his jacket over his head as he runs across the parking lot after swinging the door shut, his feet splashing in the rain gathered on the pavement. His jeans are spotted with rain when he makes it to the front doors of the hospital, and he wipes his hands on his legs, shaking his jacket out. The receptionist looks up at him as he wipes his face clean of the rain that managed to get under his jacket, and he gives her a friendly smile as he passes by.

It’s warm in the lobby. He exhales, shivering as he adjusts to it, and he looks around. There aren’t many people here, and it’s quiet. Lucas can hear the distant beeping of machines, clicking of shoes on the vinyl flooring, the scratching of the receptionist’s pen. A woman whispering to her child, reading aloud a picture book from one of the tables in the waiting room. Lucas drapes his jacket over his arm as he searches the room until he spots a flash of red hair.

Her head is down, her headphones around her neck, and she’s holding her cane in her hands, fidgeting with the bandana that’s been tied around the handle, twisting the purple fabric around her fingers. Her knee is bouncing up and down, and even though her vacant gaze is downcast, Lucas can see that her eyebrows are drawn together anxiously.

Her head lifts when Lucas gets closer, her eyebrows furrowing confusedly, and she tilts her head, eyes narrowing.

“Hey, Spider-Girl,” Lucas says lightly, sitting in the chair next to her. She blinks, her expression softening with amusement.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her knee slowing to a stop as she turns toward him.

“Seeing you,” he says, setting his jacket over the armrest of his chair and crossing a leg over his lap. “Knew you had an appointment today, so.”

“‘S just a check-up,” she says, mumbling a little bit, and she faces forward again, twisting the bandana around her finger.

“You hate check-ups.”

She’s quiet, tugging on a stray thread on the corner of the bandana, and Lucas waits.

“…I don’t need a babysitter.”

He looks at her, setting his elbow on the armrest between them, and their upper arms press against each other.

“I’m not babysitting you,” he says softly. “I care about you.” She doesn’t say anything, and he exhales, stifling a sigh. “Eddie goes with Robin and Steve to their appointments.”

“That’s different,” she mutters.

”Not really.” He watches as she twists the thread around her finger until her skin flushes red and then releases it, watches as the color fades. “I can go if you don’t want me here,” he says after a few quiet moments. “But I was thinking I could drive you home so you don’t have to wait for the bus in the rain.”

And it’ll be dark out by the time Max’s appointment is finished. He doesn’t say that.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

She’s quiet again, and then she shakes his head.

He smiles, leaning to let his head fall against her shoulder, and Max sighs, finally releasing the thread to reach up to Lucas’s arm, holding him tightly. Her fingertips are cold even through the fabric of Lucas’s shirt.

“Miss Mayfield?”

They both lift their heads at the sound of the nurse’s voice. Max’s hand tightens on Lucas’s arm, and she inhales slowly, calmly.

“We’re ready for you now.”

Max stands unsteadily as she exhales, and Lucas hesitates.

“Do you want me to wait here?”

She pauses, and the nurse waits patiently, hovering in the entrance to the waiting room, and the rain keeps falling. And then Max shakes her head and holds her hand out to Lucas, her fingers trembling a little bit. Lucas takes it, lacing their fingers and then standing as he pulls her hand to rest on his arm as they follow the nurse.

The rain lessens a little bit after Max’s appointment, drizzling as they cross the parking lot to Lucas’s car. It’s an old thing, the pain scuffed and uneven, bought from one of Charles’s friends, but Lucas loves it. It has character.

Max shivers as Lucas starts the car, and he takes off his jacket, passing it to her silently, draping it over her lap. She exhales shakily, setting her cane down at her feet before he holds Lucas’s jacket to herself, drawing it to her chest.

“You okay?” Lucas asks as he pulls out of the parking lot, the street lit up by his headlights. She sighs.

”I hate hospitals.”

“I know,” he says softly.

“I’m always tired after appointments,” she says, pulling the jacket to her chin and lowering her face to it even though the fabric is damp. “Like… exhausted.”

“You can rest when I get you home,” Lucas says, glancing at her and ignoring the urge to reach over and set his hand on her leg. “Dinner and a game.”

“Can I ask you a question?” she asks abruptly, turning in his direction, and he blinks.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

She’s quiet, and Lucas glances at her again. She’s looking up, out the window, watching the streetlights go by, flashing blurring in her vision.

“Why do you wait for me?” she asks finally.

He blinks, pausing before he glances at her.

“What do you mean?” he asks softly.

“Just…” She sniffles, and he glances at her again, his eyebrows drawing together in concern as he sees that her cheeks are shining.

“Wait, woah—”

He pulls over, turning on the hazards, and Max lets out a wet laugh, wiping her face.

”What’s going on?” Lucas asks as he stops the car, unbuckling his seatbelt to turn to face her, leaning over the center console. “What’s wrong?”

She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to stop crying, rubbing her face harshly, and Lucas wants to touch her, to hold her hand and wipe her cheeks.

“Just…” she tries again, exhaling sharply, and she turns toward him too, holding Lucas’s jacket to herself. “I’ve taken so long.”

“Taken so long,” Lucas repeats, trying to piece it together, looking at her face. Her cheeks shimmer in the light of the passing cars. “For what? What do you mean?”

She exhales sharply, letting out a frustrated huff, and she pauses, rubbing her cheeks again like she’s trying to ground herself. Her knees turn toward Lucas, and she’s quiet for another moment before she speaks.

“I did everything I could to push you out of my life,” she says softly, almost whispering. “And you— you bought me a ticket to your basketball game.”

”Max,” Lucas says quietly, leaning a little bit closer and gazing as she tilts her head.

“I ignored you, and I was rude to you, and I tried to pretend you didn’t fucking exist, Lucas,” she says shakily, her eyes glistening more than usual as tears flood them. “I tried to— to pretend we never even happened, and I—”

“Max,” Lucas interrupts, finally touching her.

He sets his hand on her forearm gently, and she doesn’t startle. Doesn’t pull away or jump. She leans into the touch, lifting her hand to catch his and hold it in place on her arm.

And Lucas’s chest aches. He holds her tenderly, tracing her knuckles with his other hand, gazing at her as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Why would you wait for me?” she cries.

Lucas’s eyes burn. He blinks his tears away, leaning down to bring her hand to his face, pressing her knuckles against his forehead as he exhales.

“Why wouldn’t I wait for you?”

She shakes her head, sniffling, shifting her fingers so she’s holding onto his, and he reaches across the center console to touch her head, brushing her hair back and cradling her skull.

“I’m just…”

“You are not just anything, Max Mayfield.”

She lets out a laugh, her hand tightening on his, and she falls toward him, still giggling like she’s delirious.

“Lucas, I…”

”Listen to me,” he whispers, leaning forward, nudging his nose against her temple before he kisses it gently. She leans into it, pulling at his hand, and they’re both hovering over the center console, their faces close enough that Lucas can feel her breath on his neck. “You listening?”

She nods, turning her face into his neck. He feels her eyelashes flutter against his skin.

He squeezes his eyes shut when they sting again, and his voice shakes as he speaks, and he speaks anyway.

“Everything about you is worth waiting for.”

She presses her face into his neck with a soft soft. Her tears are wet on his skin, and he aches, and he aches, and he aches.

“Max.”

“Why me?”

“Why not you?” he asks frustratedly, pulling away to look at her, reaching to wipe her cheeks as gently as he can even as she clings to his hand. “Hm?”

”You’re you,” she says adamantly, her eyes shut as she lets Lucas touch her face. “You’re so cool.”

He lets out a sound that’s so confused that Max giggles again, shaking her head and leaning into Lucas’s hand.

“You’re cool,” she says again, adamant. “You’re— You’re a jock, and you’re smart and funny and you could have fucking anyone you want, Lucas, you deserve so much more than me—”

”Stop,” Lucas breathes, holding her face, caressing her. “Stop.”

She exhales shakily, shuddering, her eyes closed. The raindrops on the windows sparkle in the passing car lights, and they’re shining on her face. Her tears reflect the lights on her skin, and it makes him think of the stars in the sky, beautiful in a way nothing made by humans can ever replicate.

“I want you,” Lucas whispers. “You’re fucking cool, Max, and you’re funny and smart and beautiful and brave and kinda scary sometimes—”

She interrupts with a little laugh, ducking her head. Lucas smiles fondly, touching her chin and making her look up again.

“You’re so amazing,” he says softly. “And I would wait for you for the rest of my fucking life I had to.”

She exhales, her eyebrows furrowing like she wants to argue, and she lifts a hand to hold Lucas’s wrist.

“I love you,” Lucas murmurs, pressing his forehead to Max’s. “I’ll wait for you as long as you need, okay? I never got— I never got tired of waiting for you.” His voice wavers as his throat tightens, and his eyes burn. “I— I care about you, okay? And you deserve to be cared for, Max, okay?”

His voice breaks, cracking in a way that usually would embarrass him, but Max just nods, her fingers tightening around his wrist.

“Okay?” he says again, looking at her.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, okay.”

“Okay,” he whispers back.

He brushes his thumb over her cheek gently, wiping away another tear, and he was never raised to believe in things like luck, but he somehow feels that the stars aligned for this. For him holding Max Mayfield so close while the world passes them by, while the rain falls around them even as they keep each other warm.

“Luc.”

Lucas smiles. Max is the only one that calls him that.

“Max.”

“Where’s your face?”

Lucas scoffs, letting go of her to take her hand and lead it to his face. Her fingertips are colder than her palms, and Lucas suppresses a shiver as she holds him, lifting her other hand to cradle his face between them. She stays there for a moment, breathing his air, and he lets her.

And then she’s feeling him, her fingertips dancing over his skin, tracing lines so light they tickle a little bit. Her head is tilted curiously even though her eyes are almost closed, just slivers of her pale irises visible under her lashes.

She traces his cheeks, his jaw, caresses his chin like it’s something beautiful, something marvellous. She runs a fingertip down the bridge of his nose, her lips twitching into the smallest smile Lucas has ever seen, and then she’s smoothing her thumbs over his eyebrows, her eyes fluttering, her irises quivering.

She tilts her head the other way, her fingers brushing over his forehead and temples before she traces the bridge of his nose again, her smile widening. Her fingertips round the end of his nose, dragging the gentle line down over his lips, and he gazes at her.

She blinks a few times, biting her lip like she’s shy as she traces Lucas’s mouth, and then she’s drawing him in, pressing her fingertips under his chin to make him lift it, and Lucas has butterflies. They’re fucking swarming, fluttering so much he feels a little dizzy.

Max’s lips don’t land square on Lucas’s, but he doesn’t care. He can feel her smile against his mouth, and he thinks it feels the way the stars look. Fucking cosmic.

It’s a tentative kiss. Hesitant and chaste, barely even there, but Lucas can die happy now. The earth could open up and swallow him whole and he would go smiling.

Max exhales softly, and Lucas forces his eyes open to look at her. Her eyelashes are fluttering, and her cheeks are flushed with color, and her hands are shaking where they’re holding Lucas’s face.

She smiles hesitantly.

“…I’m gonna need you to react out loud.”

Lucas lets out a wet laugh, his face lighting up with a smile, and he reaches up to hold her hands in place, leaning forward to nudge their noses together.

“Sorry,” he laughs weakly. “Woah.”

She laughs lightly, closing squeezing her eyes shut and nudging their noses again, her palms pressing to his cheeks.

She falls quiet, brushing the ends of their noses together, and Lucas closes his eyes as he exhales, brushing his thumb over the side of her hand.

“I don’t wanna make you wait anymore,” she whispers. Lucas shakes his head, his nose bumping into hers.

“You’re not making me do anything,” he murmurs, lifting his other hand to touch her face. Her cheek is warm. “Just… Max.”

”Luc.”

”…Take your time,” he whispers softly, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Okay?”

She laughs quietly, nodding again, and Lucas only knows she’s crying when he feels her tears on his fingers again. He murmurs to her, shifting to set his elbows on the center console as he holds her face. The sides of his hands rest on the sides of her neck, and he can feel her pulse.

And it’s just as miraculous as it is every time Lucas feels it. This tiny, beating proof that Max is alive. The steady drumming against his skin that feels like solid fucking proof that there’s something above the sky, that there’s good in the world that’s worth fighting for.

Max nods again, moving closer, pushing herself up in her seat as she draws him into another kiss. It’s clumsy, and it’s graceless, and Lucas’s chest feels tight. He cradles the back of Max’s head, squeezing his eyes shut and furrowing his eyebrows, and he kind of feels like he’s going to fucking explode, like he’s going to burst into a mess of guts and butterflies flying free. Max’s hand grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him in harder, and then she’s suddenly smiling against his mouth again, grinning brightly, and her teeth are smooth against Lucas’s lips. He laughs lightly, tilting his head. Their noses press into each other’s cheeks, and Max reaches down to fumble with her seatbelt before she throws it aside with Lucas’s jacket and leans toward Lucas, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He laughs, pulling her closer, and they’re both giggling childishly as she struggles over the center console, as he gathers her into his lap and hugs her waist tightly. She holds his face in her hands as she settles, melting against him, and he’s fucking breathless, like he’s drowning in it.

“God,” he exhales when they part, gasping. She smooths her fingers over his cheeks and lets her head fall forward, her forehead pressing to the bridge of his nose. Her breath shudders in her chest. She’s shaking. ”Okay?”

She nods, nudging their noses together, her fingers brushing over the shell of Lucas’s ear lightly.

“Will you take me home?” she whispers.

“Of course.”

“Will you stay tonight?”

Lucas runs his hands over her waist, nodding.

“Of course.”

She exhales.

“Will you kiss me goodnight?”

He smiles, his eyes stinging again, and he brushes his nose against hers, shivering as she trails her fingertips over the sides of his neck.

“As many times as you want.”

She’s smiling when she kisses him again, and he can feel her breath on the skin of his face. Their heartbeats synchronize, and her fingertips press into his pulse like she’s looking for it, for the proof that they’re here, hidden from the sky and still glowing like the sun. The proof that they’re more than everything they’ve been through, more than the scars on their skin and the whites of their eyes and their bad dreams. The proof that they’re worth fighting for.

♡ permanent taglist: @estrellami-1 @theplantscientist @spectrum-spectre @carlprocastinator1000 @starman-jpg @romantiklen @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme (comment to added or removed!!)

♡ buy me a coffee

#babies #lumax #lumax fic #lumax endgame #max mayfield #max mayfield fanfic #lucas sinclair #lucas sinclair fanfic

38 notes · View notes