Monday morning was plagued with a worse hangover than Friday. Reece seemed to be ignoring me, not speaking a word to me for the whole weekend, which was fine by me. It made me wonder why I hadn't gone off at him before.

Max was wearing the M sweater at lunch, and a smug smile he reserved for big victories.

I placed my lunch tray by him, cautious. "Do I want to ask?"

Max grinned, checking over his shoulder. "I fucking won, dude. Trout took me off the bench for next Saturday. I told McCaffrey to put in a word or I was going to marry his sister. Or his mother. I introduced myself to her after the game. She really liked me."

I scoffed. "He's probably just biding his time."

"That's what Aaron said," Max frowned. "He's gone to sit in the library."

I didn't miss that Caleb was sitting at Aidan's table again. I filed it away in my reasons to get over my crush and tried not to stare at him too long. His school cap hung off the side of his bag, lopped through one of the straps.

Aidan glared at Max for a good portion of lunch, but he never approached. Ultimatums worked wonders. The one between Caleb and I was a little less crass than Max's, but I was glad he was back on the field. Being the most decent person on the soccer team shouldn't have been held against him.

"Tell me if Aidan gives you trouble again," Max advised me before we split for class. "I've got Georgia on speed dial if he tries anything."

I reeled him into an overly masculine half-hug-back-pat. English was torturous, mathematics was brutal. Aaron sat beside me in both classes, jabbing me whenever he thought I was losing focus.

"Are you on Valium?" he hissed after shaking me out of a half-conscious state as Mr. Bloomsbury was calculating the compound interest of a proposed trust fund. "It's only Monday. Look alive."

I rubbed my eye vigorously. "He could try some upward inflection in his voice. Who does he think is paying attention to this?"

"Unless your conversation is something you'd be comfortable involving everyone in, Mr. Stewart," Mr. Bloomsbury called, ears like a hawk despite his age. "I'd recommend shutting up for an hour or two. Who knows, you might learn something."

I gave him a lazy thumbs-up, and once his back was to us, I dropped back into the hushed conversation, "Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

"I've got a dentist appointment and then I'm going to write scholarship applications late into the night," he told me. "Don't think I've forgotten about your tutoring session."

"Only until four," I hissed. "I'll just sit quietly while you write. You won't even know I'm there."

"Oh no. I am not getting pulled into that trap," Aaron rolled his eyes automatically. Immediately afterward, he hesitated, and his eyes softened. "I guess I could get them done on Wednesday. They're not due until June. We could have a movie night?"

As much as I wanted to take him up of the offer, I knew it would be selfish. Not everyone was so disillusioned by the idea of university. I refused to disrupt Aaron's future prospects, even if it meant spending the anniversary of my mother's death sealed up in my room.

"Nah. I'll be fine," I dropped my eyes back to my textbook. "Should probably study for this test, right?"

Aaron rubbed his knuckles against my wrist. "You can drop by if you need it. Maya's complaining that she hasn't seen you. She thinks you'll waste away without her cooking."

"She's not wrong," I mused.

"She definitely not wrong. You know drinking isn't an appropriate substitute for actual food, right?"

"Mr. Sanchez," Mr. Bloomsbury called. "Be the example you wish to set."

Aaron bit his lip and nodded passively. When Mr. Bloomsbury turned his back, he breathed, "What does that even mean?"

Max managed to sibling-guilt his way to a ride home, so Aaron and I were holed up in the library long after the school ground had cleared. My maths textbook slowly turned from pages of equations to black squiggles and red lines. My calculator seemed to be holding my inattention of it against me. All of my sums came out wrong.

The second four o'clock came, I slapped my book shut. Aaron took his sweet time packing up, and by the time we headed to the car park, it was already packed with members of the soccer team. Max was parked by Aaron's SUV, duffle bag sitting on the hood. His hair was wet from a hurried shower, but there was still a streak of mud up his neck. He looked a little less smug than he had that morning.

"How's our road to the finals going?" I asked as Max dumped his belongings into the back. There was a crowd of team members standing around a blue pickup truck, but Caleb and Aidan weren't among them so I paid them no mind.

"Dude, Trout's going to be an accessory to my murder," he grunted. "Aidan's got him eating out of his fucking hand. If he can't keep me on the bench, he's determined to make me miss it. He'd got me running laps for breathing in the wrong direction."

I squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. "You can always go back to the debating society. I'm sure they'd take you back in a heartbeat."

He grinned. "And get them penalised for 'distracting the panel' again? They're better off without my dazzling good looks."

"Excuse me, can this conversation take place in the heated car?" Aaron grumbled, cheeks pink, and hands stuffed under his armpits.

Just as we were rounding the car, a single voice rang out from the boys near the pickup.

"Twincest is wincest, right Sanchez?"

Both Aaron and Max froze. The comment was followed by a few laughs and a few Jesus, dude's from the crowd, but every eye in the car park was subsequently drawn to us. Aaron's ears turned red as he dropped his gaze, visibly humiliated, while Max's fist clenched until they turned white. He broke out of his daze first, stepping forwards with his shoulders squared.

"Who the fuck said that?" he yelled. "What fucking freak said that?"

The crowd around the pickup split a little, parting a human curtain around an unfamiliar brunette boy. He was smaller than most of his teammates, but that wasn't saying much. He still stood at a menacing five-foot-ten. He looked like the kind of guy to round it up to six on his Bumble profile.

"Hit a nerve, Sanchez?" he had a vicious smirk. He had the kind of face that begged to be punched. Or maybe it was just the shit pouring from his mouth that made my practically non-existent offensive reflex rear to the surface.

Max took another step forward, body tense as a chord. "You're fucking disgusting, Greenaway."

"Takes one to know one, and all that," Greenaway poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek in a lewd gesture.

One of his friends, a dark-haired guy with his face turned away from me, piped up. "Jesus, dude. Stop it."

Greenaway paused for a second, before spitting a glob of saliva into the gutter. "Where're you from again, Sanchez? Brazil? I know they're freaky over there, but we have laws, man."

Max looked like he was reaching his breaking point, so I stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. I could recall what Caleb had told me in the car, about Aidan's fucked up idea of putting Max in line. Max's taunting had likely exacerbated the need to trash his name and reputation. "It's Aidan. Don't bite. Get in the car."

"I get it, Sanchez," Greenaway seemed determined to earn a black eye. "Ultimate wish fulfilment, being able to suck your own dick. You know, most guys just jerk it in the mirror."

Before I could stop myself, a retort was leaving my lips. "You need a hobby outside PornHub."

Greenaway looked surprised to see me speak at all, but immediately doubled down. "I guess you like getting in on the action, Stewart? Speak your truth, man. No judgment here."

"I'm surprised you can speak at all, with your head so far up McCaffrey's ass," I replied.

Greenaway's jaw clenched. The entire car park watched the confrontation in morbid fascination.

Max took two deep breaths. "Miles, tell me he's worth losing a spot on the team for."

"He's not. Come on, you just got back on the field," I gripped his shoulder. "Walk away."

Max thought for a moment and turned his back. I kept my hand on his shoulder and guided him to the car. Aaron stood statue-still, arms wrapped defensively around himself. I nodded my head at him, and he started towards the driver's seat with his face burning red.

Just as I thought we were in the clear, Greenaway went and opened his mouth to belch out. "Just stop bringing your homo brother to the games, he makes everyone uncomfortable."

Max tore out of my grip and ran. Before I could blink, he was upon the other boy, slugging a fist across his face with a resonating crack. The parking lot divulged into chaos. Boys were yelling, footsteps were pounding, and I was fixed in place, watching Max throw Greenaway against the pickup and hit him twice more. The pickup began to scream, an alarm triggered, which only added to the pandemonium.

I ran to Max with not half the drive I would have if he'd been beating up anyone else, and found myself jostling back and forth between the growing crowd. Someone grabbed Max's arm to wrench him away, but that only gave Greenaway the opportunity to hit back, throwing a punch into Max's midsection. I surged forwards, shoved off the guy pining Max's arms, and Max went immediately back to swinging blindly, wearing a scarily calm expression as he set off Greenaway's nose like a bloody sprinkler.

"Max. Max!" I was yelling, but he'd fallen deaf to reason.

A hand clapped down on my shoulder, and a voice yelled urgently in my ear. "I'll get Greenaway if you can handle Sanchez. Got it?"

I turned and found myself stared down by familiar blue irises. But the face around them was all wrong – shorter, fluffier hair, a longer face, and heavier-set eyebrows, light acne dusting his forehead and chin. It was the same dark-haired guy from Greenaway's group earlier, who'd implored him to stop somewhat half-heartedly. But it wasn't Caleb and I'd never been so relieved about something in my life.

"I can handle him," I lied. Max could throw me across a car park if he chose to do so. I hope he had enough self-awareness left not to do if I pulled him away from the fight.

The boy nodded at me and shoved his way across the circle, getting Greenaway in an effective headlock. Max landed one more hit before I wrenched his arm backward, spinning him around and shaking his as hard as I could. "Stop! He's had enough."

Greenaway groaned in pain, a more satisfying noise than I liked to admit. Max was bright red, chest heaving with adrenaline. His eyes had started to swell from a halfway decent hit from Greenaway. But he wasn't fighting me, and I counted that as successful de-escalation.

The car alarm continued to whine, making it difficult to hear when more footsteps approached. It didn't, however, drown out Mr. Troutman's booming voice. I doubted there was a sound in the world that could do that. The man could stand next to a jet engine and still be heard in the back seat of a stadium.

"What the hell is going on here?" he yelled, as he lumbered to a stop. The car alarm stopped in perfect time for an unsettling silence to settle over the parking lot.

Mr. Troutman's eyes widened at the sight of Greenaway, blood staining his front teeth and still trapped in the crook of the blue-eyed boy's elbow. Then they narrowed in on Max and his mostly unblemished face, and his top blew.

"What the hell are you playing at, Sanchez?" he roared. "Don't you get enough attention at home?"

Max dropped his head, submitting to the lecture. Jogging up behind him was Aidan, wearing an even more punchable expression than Greenaway's.

The blue-eyed boy released Greenaway, who sat down very quickly, nursing his face, "Coach, Greenaway started it."

"What are you, five years old?" Mr. Troutman's fury was still directed singularly at Max. "He started it, she started it, no one cares. Sticks and goddamn stones, Sanchez."

"No," the boy persisted. "Greenaway threw the first punch. Sanchez was just defending himself. Coach," he threw in as an afterthought.

Mr. Troutman shrunk somewhat, expression morphing from blind fury to confusion. He took a look around the ring of boys, all with their eyes cast down. "Is that right, Proust?"

I startled for a moment, thinking that Caleb had appeared somewhere and I hadn't clocked him, but the blue-eyed boy responded again, eyes hard, "That's right, Coach. Sanchez was just defending himself. Effectively."

I remembered that Max had told me, what seemed like an age ago, that Caleb's brother had played for the junior team. Jack? Jay? Jake. I couldn't go one week without running into a Proust, it seemed.

"Fucking bullshit," Greenaway blubbered from the road.

"No goddamn swearing on school grounds, Greenaway," Mr. Troutman shouted, and then turned to the others. "Greenaway hit first, boys?"

There was a half-hearted murmur of agreement. My eyebrows lifted in surprise. Every single one of them had seen Max attack Greenway. Then again, they'd also heard every word that had prompted the assault. Maybe Max wasn't as much an outcast as he thought. Maybe the soccer team wasn't all McCaffrey's lackeys, as I'd suspected.

"Yes Coach," one of them was even so bold to say. Mr. Troutman pinched his lips together and turned to Aidan.

"I'm benching Greenaway for the next two games," he instructed him. "Write him out of your game plan."

Aidan's face screwed up in frustration. "But..."

Mr. Troutman had already begun marching back to the soccer field. Aidan caught my eye, fixing me with a steely glare, before jogging after the coach with his hands out and pleading. The crowd quickly dispersed, Greenaway, muttering something along the lines of you're dead Sanchez through his bloody nose and swollen lip, before staggering away with his bag hanging off his shoulder.

Jake Proust approached us, hand shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. "Y'right?"

Max flexed his hand a couple of times, mouth pressed into a thin, frustrated line. "Think I jarred my thumb."

Jake hissed sympathetically through his teeth, and then turned to me. "And you?"

I shrugged, not wanting to meet his eyes. They reminded me of Caleb. "Too early in the week for this shit."

"Am I right?" he scoffed. His smile came easier than Caleb's, slightly crooked from a divot in his lip. "Thanks for your help."

Aaron jogged up from behind, dark eyes characteristically concerned as he stood opposite to his brother. "You shouldn't have done that."

Max pulled up his shirt an inch, grimacing at the swelling skin beneath. "Why not? Got him to shut up. Got him benched for two games, too. Win-win."

"Maya will kill you if she finds out," Aaron reminded him, but smiled despite himself. "At least people will be able to tell us apart for the next week or so."

Max touched his black eye subconsciously. "Aw, shit. I'm taking Georgia out on Friday."

"Since when?" I asked, baffled.

"Since two minutes ago," Max flipped the bird in the direction of the soccer field, where Aidan had run back to. "Prick."

"Jake?"

Caleb's voice, laced with bewilderment, nearly had me jumping out of my skin. He had appeared from between two cars, carrying a sports bag with a set of car keys dangling from his fingers. His eyes travelled between Aaron and Max, before settling on me. His car keys dropped from his fingers, and he scrambled to pick them up, suddenly skittish.

"Hey," Jake looked surprised. "I thought you were heading off."

Caleb clenched his keys to his chest. His gaze was fixed on me. I kept my attention on Aaron, determined not to get caught up in his gemstone eyes.

"I heard an alarm," he said, waveringly, "What happened to you, Max?"

"Ask Aidan," Max spat, atypically venomous. Caleb's shoulders tensed, and he lowered his head in pseudo-shame. Max gave Jake a curt nod and stormed back to the car, Aaron hot on his heels.

Jake frowned, visibly perplexed. "It wasn't Aidan, Cay. It was Greenaway. He was saying some fucked up shit, got what he deserved."

I met Caleb's eyes for a split second, allowing myself the luxury. His eyes spoke volumes, understanding immediately what had happened. I saw a number of emotions flicker across his face, shame, anger, apprehension. The guilt was the most telling of all.

Damn right.

"I was going to get a lift with him," Jake added. "Got room in your car?... Cay? Y'right?"

"Yup," Caleb muttered, raising his head. "Sorry. Just... surprised to see you here, Miles."

It didn't sound like a threat. I was legitimately throwing him off. Just by standing there. I was sick of feeling special for something as insubstantial as that.

"Where Aaron goes, I go," I said, struggling to keep my tone measured. "See you around, Proust."

"Jake," Caleb's brother said, automatically assuming I was speaking to him. Because why on god's green earth would I be speaking to Caleb? Why would I even know Caleb? "See you around...?"

"Miles," I said shortly and turned my back on them both. I didn't really mind that it seemed rude. We weren't friends, after all.

The drive home was relatively quiet, the car thick with seething from Max and something else entirely from Aaron. He seemed unfairly humiliated. He got by day-to-day under the radar, so I imagined Greenaway's comments had come out of the blue for him. Aaron was painfully non-confrontational. His logic was that if you didn't exude hostile energies, you wouldn't attract them.

"Hey," I finally spoke up. "Are you alright?"

Aaron nodded tightly.

"You don't have to..."

"I don't want to talk about it," he said curtly, and immediately looked guilty. "I don't want to... think about it. How many people he said... how many people think... I just don't want to."

"No one thinks it," I argued. "And it says more about McCaffrey that he thought it up."

Aaron pressed his lips together, eyes jerking all over the road. "They wouldn't have thought of it if I wasn't gay. Jesus. How is gay still synonymous with perverse?"

"It's not," I insisted.

"I know that Miles, it's just..." Aaron cut himself off, kicking up the heat a few notches. "Never mind."

You wouldn't understand. The implication was there, and it broke my heart. But it was not the time to come out. Aaron already looked at risk of running the car off the road, his mind visibly overwhelmed. In the interest of safety, I just rubbed his shoulder and let him drive.

My phone buzzed on my way through the front door. My heart didn't leap in the way it usually did when I saw a message from C.P. I opened it none-the-less.

Do you have Max's mobile? Want to apologise.

I considered blocking his number. I considered telling him that Max didn't want to talk to him. I considered saying that while he was friends with Aidan, nothing he said to Max mattered – and demand how he'd gone from sleeping in his car to avoid him to friends again in all of three days.

I texted him Max's number.

knock yourself out.

might do you some good.

a/n: thank you so much for 200 reads, and over 50 votes! another small milestone, but i'm giddy that people are actually reading my story and enjoying it :) i love interacting with you guys and chatting, so please don't be afraid to comment!

here's a prompt: who's your favourite character? who do you want to see more of?