Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One:




The coffee shop isn't as relaxing as I needed. It's too crowded and too noisy. James, my fellow Gamma brother, arrives with our drinks. He lowers his sunglasses from his forehead to hide his small eyes, a lesson learned after a dozen broken coffee mugs and a million hot cocoa-stained shirts. I stare intensely at the liquid in my mug, wincing as the screams grow louder and louder.

I can't pretend to ignore them anymore, neither can my teammates. My tight grip on the hot mug trembles as I glare up at the crowd.    

Look at them. Just look at them. They're forming a circle around him, surrounding him with unquestioning adoration, feeding his ego to the max. He just… stands there with a bashful smile and a faint redness on his cheeks, his hand scratching the back of his neck. He's like some down-to-earth, boy-next-door, former-underdog angel. "Everybody roots for the underdog," they say. But once the "underdog" scores first place, gets all the recognition, and turns into the most popular kid on campus, he ceases to be an underdog.

But let's be truly honest, shall we? The "underdog" is just a euphemism for "loser." Everyone's really rooting for Mr. Hotshot, the one who's actually competent and talented, effortlessly cruising to the finish line on his skateboard. Looks like our little freshman has just discovered how the world truly works.

Meanwhile, all I'm getting are side glances of hate and disdain, sometimes even a shove or two. I seem to have lost the respect I once had, and I have to admit, I have it coming. I lost it there at the game—sight and sanity—too obsessed with winning. I didn't even bat an eyelid when I had blasted Tank into the giant logo. It's a miracle he wants anything to do with me after what happened; it seems that shooting me into the blimp was punishment enough.

Two days after that fateful game, I found him standing outside the fraternity house. All was forgiven, and second chances were given. I had to hide my happiness, keeping my mask on because the other members were standing behind me, but Tank was able to see it in my eyes. We'd known each other since high school, and he'd always been more loyal to our friendship than I was. I don't deserve him, but I'm lucky enough that he still wants to hang out.

I watch that cute girl from the store walk over toward the freshman and kiss him on the lips. A faint blush darkens to crimson red, and he ducks his head in that charming, boyish manner—the oldest trick in the book.

My tongue touches the empty spot where my tooth was, and I feel a vein exploding in my forehead. I can't take this anymore. I need to get out of here. I push my chair back, scraping it on the floor, and storm out of the coffee shop.

"Brad," Tank yells after me.  

I freeze in place, that detested name always rubs me the wrong way.  I turn around and raise an eyebrow at Tank's clueless face.  "You know damn well I don't like to be called by that name."

"Gets on your nerves, doesn't it?"  

I flinch and snap my gaze toward Chip, mistaking his comment to be about the name.  But then I notice him adjusting his glasses and eying the members of Team 99 with resentment.  

Max's idiot teammates are also getting babe attention, not as much as their leader, but enough to drive me crazy.   

"Gamma brothers, let's roll."



~*~*~*~



I walk around the pool table, holding my stick behind my neck and watching Tank make another successful shot. I survey the red table before making my shot. It hasn't been my lucky day; usually, I send the balls accurately to their destination. But so far, I seem to be missing every shot.

I'm a little shaky after this afternoon at the coffee shop. I'm not sure when the Max Craze is going to wear off, but I imagine it's going to stick around for a while. It's only been a week since the X-Games, after all—the longest and most hellish week of my life. I don't get out much, and when I do, I regret it instantly. Goof Boy is everywhere I go: sharing my classes, eating at my favorite places, skateboarding throughout campus. It's even worse when his goof of a dad accompanies him; he always makes a scene when he sees me around. I can't wait for that old fuddy-duddy to graduate.

Finals are approaching. I really wish they were my last, but I've got one more year to go. I'm not sure if I can survive it.

As I lean to make my shot, Leonard's sharp shouting makes me lose focus and miss one more time. I glower at my unaware, dark-haired minion who is slapping the textbook on Yowie's empty head. Leonard is putting too much effort into helping monkey-face study, despite the common knowledge among us that he won't make it. He'll repeat his junior year while the rest of us are upgraded to seniors.

I scowl as Tank's pool cue sends the colored balls into hiding, several clicks here and there as the rest follow leisurely into the pockets.

"Hi there, gang." Slouch walks into the room in his usual brown jacket and gray hat.  

I don't remember him being with us at the coffee shop today. He must be tired of the humiliation and hate we receive everywhere, but he's not allowed to bail. If the Gammas leader is taking the dirt, everyone else should.

"Where have you been all day?"

Slouch rubs a finger on his stubbly chin.  "I went to see my aunt.  I told you about it."

"I don't think you did."

"Sure I did.  Yesterday at class when everybody threw that surprise party for Team 99."

Don't remind me, you bastard!  The most humiliating day of my life. I wasn't in on that party, because if I'd known what those jerks were planning to do, I would have skipped class.  

Unaware of my raging thoughts, Slouch goes on, "I told you about Aunt Broom-Hilda visiting town for a week."

Yowie burps in excitement.  "Oh, isn't she the wizard?"

Leonard smacks him with the textbook again.  "You mean witch."

"Tomato tomato."

"Yeah, she put up her tent close to campus," Slouch says.  "She thinks she'll make a few bucks out of the miserable, lonely and depressed.  And after high school, college is the best place to find those."  

Tank scoffs, scratching the end of his stick.  "Witchcraft, who believes in that?"

"She said she wants to meet my friends."  Slouch looks at me, asking for permission.  "What do you say, boss?"

I sigh and miss yet another shot.  "I don't see why not.  It's not like we have anything else going on."  




~*~*~*~




Slouch leads the way as we walk down the street to the gate. I quicken my pace when I hear the faint sound of cheering behind me; it's how I know he's close by. I walk past Slouch and urge the others to hurry up after me. Guys and girls on my way start to run past me to see the X-Games Champion in action. Can I once go out without encountering that...?

The air is knocked out of me by a giant blur crashing against my back and sending me flying across the pavement. I fall flat on my face, bouncing my cheek on the rough ground—damnit, it hurts!

"Oh, Gosh, I'm sorry."

That voice. I scramble to my feet, wincing at the stinging in my palms. I look at the little cuts and drips of blood, having used my hands instinctively to prevent my fall. Over my shoulder, I see him with his fake apologetic face and his hand extended to help me to my feet.

I smack his hand away and get up by myself, letting out a small hiss of pain when I feel the stinging in my knees. The bastard ripped my favorite jeans at the knees. I give him an aggressive shove back. "You did this on purpose!"

He wipes his shoulder where I shoved him and raises an eyebrow at me. "No, I didn't."

"Are you telling me that the great Max made a mistake at his best event?"

He regards me with a look of disgust before he catches sight of someone behind me and smiles. "Oh, hey Tank."

Tank glances at me in hesitation before answering, "Hi, Max, how's it going?"

"Great. Hey, we should hang out sometime."

A pause—"Sure."

"All right. See ya." Max winks at Tank, then grabs his skateboard and rides in the opposite direction, completely dismissing my existence.

I give Tank an offended look. "Hang out?"

"Look, Brad, that kid saved my life…"

"I told you never to use that name!" I snap, fighting the urge to shove him, too—because I won't be able to do it anyway. Besides, I need to keep what's left of my dignity.

"Why not?" he snaps back. "What's wrong with it?"

I lift up my hands in surrender. "You know what, if you want to be Goof's friend, be my guest. But never step a foot in the Gamma House. Are we clear?"



~*~*~*~



Did I just kick Tank out of the Gammas? Ruining the only healthy relationship in my life, the only real friendship? And for what? For some witless freshman I shouldn't be bothering with in the first place. That son of a bitch is ruining my damn life; he's been doing so ever since he came to this damn college. Now, there's no way Tank will forgive me after this. I have no clue why he'd even forgiven me before. This one is obviously the last straw. And now I'm completely alone. Thanks a bunch, Max Goof.

I snap out of my gloomy thoughts and stare past the crowd to a large blue tent made of a thick material. Man, this crowd is almost as big as those at the X-Games, and now my blood is boiling with rage at the memory—I should block that frigging game out. It isn't good for my health to keep remembering that disgrace.

Slouch pushes aside those who are standing in our way with such ease, making an empty line for us to cross.

The tent's interior was actually quite presentable, a far cry from the expected witch's hovel. Brightly colored fabrics draped everywhere, cheerful vases brimmed with flowers, and the orange and yellow striped couches somehow managed to evoke a "homey" vibe. I was just savoring the suspiciously fresh aroma of roses from the scented candles when, naturally, a much more delicious smell drifted in from another room.

Slouch's aunt walks in with a plate filled with fresh-baked cookies. My stomach rumbles quietly; I haven't eaten a thing at the coffee shop this morning due to the disturbance of a certain goof.

"Aunt Broom-Hilda," Slouch managed, a string of drool escaping his unshaven chin as he waved. "It's me again."

"Hello, dear." She placed the cookie plate on the table, wiping her hands on her purple dress. With a huff, she dropped into a chair, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear before resting her hands on her ample stomach. "Oh, are these fine gentlemen your friends?"

Slouch and the others, eyes glazed over by the cookies as if they hadn't eaten in weeks, mumbled, "Yep, we're all members of the Gamma Mu Mu fraternity."

He reached for a cookie, but Aunt Broom-Hilda slapped his hand away. "Introduce them to me first, dear," she said, a stern glint in her eyes.

Slouch rubbed his hand. "Right. Sorry. Uh, this is…"

"Wait." I raised a hand, cutting him off. "If 'Aunty' is such a powerful witch, she'll know our names on her own."

Aunt Broom-Hilda scratched a pimple on her large nose, arching an eyebrow at me. "Who is this ill-mannered young man?"

"Our leader," Slouch announced, "Bradley Uppercrust the Third."

I lifted my chin in pride.

She twisted her lips, one hand rubbing circles on her tummy. "Such an air of arrogance on this one. I fail to see why, considering you lost your status as the X-Games King to some freshman…"

My eyes snapped wide in fury. "How did you know?!"

"Bradley." Leonard poked my shoulder, holding up the college newspaper. A large picture of Max dominated the front page, with "New X-Games Champion" emblazoned in giant letters above it.

I snatched the paper and smacked it onto the table, making the candles wobble. Pointing a shaking finger at the woman, who regarded me with a nonchalant stare, I declared, "You're nothing but a phony. I'm not going to stand here and take any more of your crap." I spun around, barking at my men, "Gammas, follow me!"

I'm startled by a sudden breeze, ruffling the hairs on the back of my neck. Then, unexpectedly, a sharp gust of wind slams into my sides, literally throwing my Gamma brothers out of the tent. The door zips shut after them, leaving the only light to come from behind me.

I whip my head around, gasping for breath as I see that the plate of cookies has been replaced by a glowing magic glass ball, a bright light radiating from its center. Thin, wrinkly fingers hover over the sphere. I look up and flinch at the sight of Aunt Broom-Hilda's transformed face: her skin is now green, eyes coal black, and silky black hair cascades down to her shoulders.

"What the…?"

"You," she rasps, her voice suddenly croaky. "You, my boy, obviously need me."

"I don't need you. I don't need anyone."

"So, you're telling me you don't despise this one?" She moves her hands in circles around the ball, and the white light morphs into an image of Max Goof. "You wish he never stepped foot on this campus. You wish you never met him. He stole away your fame and glory and left you with nothing."

A muscle in my jaw went tight as I watched Max. He was holding court, balanced on his hands on that skateboard, grinding down the railing like he owned the whole damn campus, soaking in the cheers and whistles from his legion of groupies.

"I can put things back on track. Fix the damage."

I look up at her hideous face. "What do you mean?"

She holds up three fingers. "I'll give you three chances to change the degrading events of past, present, and future. All you need is to sign this." She produces a scroll and unrolls it, revealing paragraphs of impossibly tiny letters.

"What's this?" I lean down, narrowing my eyes, trying to decipher the ant-sized words.

She slams a knife onto the scroll, making me jump with a shriek. "You sign the contract with blood."

"What the hell?!" I yelp in a high-pitched voice, already scrambling for the door. "Oh, no. No, no. I'm outta here."

"Then I suggest you better get used to a whole year of being second best." She nods toward the magic glass ball, which now shows Max surrounded by beautiful girls. "This kid will have even more success next year."

"How do you know?"

Her evil smile widens and her black eyes gleam. "I know. I see." Green hands move around the ball in circular motions, and the scenes shift yet again. I see Max skateboarding with Tank, the scene shifts to Max winning next year's trophy, and then it shifts to Max in my robe inside the Gamma House, barking orders at my Gamma brothers.

My chest tightens and my lips tremble.  "I don't believe this."

Now Max is wearing the Gamma's black and red uniform standing shoulder to shoulder with my teammates facing Team 99 and their leader who is me.

"This is a lie!"  

"My ball doesn't lie.  You want me to show you incidents of the past?"  There's an evil glint in her eyes.  "Year 1991?"  

I think back to what happened that year and then flinch, my whole body reacting violently at the memory of that night.  My dad.  His belt.  My body.

I snap out of the painful memories and look down at my bleak future.  "How can I stop this?"

"The only way is to make sure your rival doesn't ride a skateboard ever again."

My heart drops to my butt.  "You mean kill him?"

She gives me a look.  "That's not what I meant.  Obviously.  I'm a witch, not a murderer."

"Then what?"

She smirks.  "Magic."

I stare into her coal black eyes.  "What's in it for you?"

"A hundred dollars."

"That's it?"

"My dear, haven't you noticed the veritable stampede out there? Turns out, keeping my 'spell potions' ridiculously inexpensive is the only way to keep the masses clamoring. Can't have my lucrative business model ruined by sensible pricing, now can we?"

"And what's my role in this?"

"Sign the contract first."

I swallow thickly and look at the ball, biting back a groan when I see myself holding up a towel for Max. I turn my gaze to the knife, its blade glistening under the ball's light. I look between the knife and my pathetic self, staring resentfully at Max as he rubs the towel through his hair. Beads of sweat gather on my forehead and slide down to my cheeks. I bite my lip and grab the knife, the blade shaking against my skin. I take a deep breath and push the knife into my flesh, hissing as pain strikes my finger. I use my thumb to squeeze a drop of blood and let it fall on the empty spot where my signature should be.

"Yes!" she exclaims, her eyes sparkling with joy, making me instantly regret my decision. She snaps her fingers, and the scroll vanishes at once.

I suck on my bleeding finger and watch her pull a large book of spells from the closet, placing it on a stand. Flipping through the pages, she stops at one and hums while tapping her wide chin. She goes back to the closet, brings out a cauldron, and with a finger snap, fire is lit in front of the book stand. She hangs the cauldron on a hook that appears out of nowhere and pours a gallon of water into it. The water starts boiling instantly. She hums, reading the book, and then begins throwing all kinds of things into the cauldron.

I can easily hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears. What in hell did I get myself into?

She walks over to me with a gold necklace. "Now, if anything goes wrong…"

"Goes wrong?" I snap at her.

"I'm not saying it will. But that's why you've got three chances. If at first you don't succeed, try again twice."

She holds up the necklace and slips it over my head. I take the golden moon into my hand and run my thumb over it.

"Wear this necklace and never lose it," she instructs. Grabbing my chin, she directs my gaze toward the magic ball where I see three golden suns dancing in circles around each other. "Where he lives, you'll find the golden sun; attach it to the moon to break out of the first spell and into the second. And later, out of the second and into the third. And if you screw up your third chance, attaching the sun to the moon will undo the third spell."

I blink down at her. "You mean it can all be a bust?"

She shrugs. "It depends on you, my boy."

Walking over toward the cauldron, she stares down at the bubbling green liquid and nods in satisfaction. She holds something long over the cauldron, letting the smoke curl around it. I spot inscribed symbols on the stick and suddenly feel very scared.

Aunt Broom-Hilda starts chanting in a deep, haughty voice:  

"Blood on sheets to seal the deal
Turn back the time for him to heal
Three is the key
A good fortune to thee
One: change is up to him
Two: his past rewrites itself,
And three: when all is dim
The clock turns back
And he'll leave no track."

She plunges the stick into the cauldron and lets out a shrill, cackling laugh that scares the heebie-jeebies out of me. Blinding white light starts shooting out of the cauldron, forcing me to shut my eyes. I block the light with my arm and let out a loud scream as I feel shivers running down my spine. I keep on screaming, shouting at the top of my lungs, too scared to open my eyes.

"Mommy, why is this man screaming?"

I stop shouting at once.

"Don't look at him, honey, or you'll end up like him."

I remove my arm and blink my eyes open. I see the mother dragging her son behind her as she races down the pavement away from me, the boy looking back at me in wonder.

I look around at the simple houses with small fences and basketball hoops on the garages. The frigging witch has zapped me into the suburbs. I look around in fear and confusion, unsure where I am and what I'm supposed to do here.

Someone smacks against my back and knocks me to the ground. Not again! Pain explodes in my chin and I grunt in annoyance. My palms, knees, and cheek are still hurting from the earlier smack down by Max the goof. I hear a whimper next to me and glance at the kid lying on the ground, pushing himself up with his gloved hands.

I rise to my knees and hiss when I feel them stinging. "Watch it, you little rat!"

"Hey, who are you calling rat?" The kid whips his head up to glare at me.

I fall back on my ass, my wide eyes focusing on the face before me. This kid… this kid looks exactly like Max. The hair, the ears, the furious glare, and that upturned skateboard lying next to him. Time turns back... change is up to him.

It's all up to me. She sent me back in time to make sure Max Goof never rides a skateboard ever again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two:




My gaze locks onto the young face before me, a wave of shock washing over me so intensely that my mouth hangs open, throat drying out. I snap it shut, then open it again, an idiotic, fish-like gasp. I can't tear my eyes away from that familiar scowl, a younger version of Max, who has just crashed into me on his skateboard, just like his older, equally annoying self. But the skateboard isn't the problem. The real issue is the glaring, undeniable truth: I've traveled back in time. How bizarre is that? I've been sent back with a mission, like some hero plucked from a sci-fi flick. I'm the freaking Terminator! Or, more accurately, Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future — now that was a great movie. This, however, is neither a movie nor great. All I know is I'm supposed to change the past, but then what? Do I just poof back to the present when my mission's complete? I really wish I'd asked that lunatic witch more questions.

I hear the heavy panting of an overweight kid on a skateboard approaching. "We're sorry, sir. Please don't kill us. Or press charges. Or worse, tell our dads."

It's Max's droopy friend, in a blue jacket and hot pink turtleneck. He's shorter and smaller than I remember, but just as apprehensive. He helps Max to his feet, who, of course, still sports his familiar scowl — always the angry one, that kid.

"Well, I'm not sorry," Max grumbles, his voice the raspiest I've ever heard. "He called me a rat." Wow, he's tiny! So many inches shorter than his little buddy, he's even the same height as me when I'm sitting.

I glance around, looking for the Pauly Shore clown. "Hey, where's the third knucklehead?"

"Hey!" Max snaps, offended.

His friend frowns. "Third?"

They haven't met him yet, apparently. I've always suspected PJ was the true BFF. He certainly seems more level-headed than that other dork, which is exactly what Max desperately needs: someone to put him in his place whenever his "dickitude" takes over.

I slowly rise to my full height, savoring the pathetic pleasure of looking way down at Max, who now has to crane his neck to glare way up at me. My gaze drifts to his skateboard, and I can't help but snicker.

"You beginners," I drawl, "need a few pointers on how to actually stay on one of these things?"

"Beginners?" Max squawks, clearly offended. "I was born on a skateboard!"

I cross my arms, a smug smile plastered across my face. "You don't say."

PJ nudges the pint-sized hothead. "Uh, Max..."

"Not now, Peej, can't you see I'm fuming?"

"Yeah, but the new X-Men comic," PJ presses, "if we don't hurry, the issue will be sold out."

I walk toward the overturned skateboard and flip it back onto its wheels. I place my foot on it, pressing with my toes, feeling its familiar presence beneath me. Flashing scenes from Ursula's magic glass ball fill my mind, displaying Max and his various skateboarding tricks. I'm certain he hasn't learned all of those at this young age. There has to be a way to make him doubt his talent, to nudge him toward another hobby. 

"I bet you can't shred a handstand ollie."

"Sure I can. Watch this."

Max snatches his board from under my foot and, with surprising skill, demonstrates a perfect handstand skateboard ride. I watch him with growing resentment as he crosses the street, circles the mailbox a couple of times, and then cruises back towards us. He flips back onto his feet on the board, throwing his hands up in a triumphant pose.

PJ claps enthusiastically, the loyal lapdog he is.

I bite the inside of my cheek, mentally replaying that scene from the magic ball. "Alright, hotshot, how about a handstand grind down the rail?"

"Child's play," Max scoffs, waving me off.

PJ leans in, whispering, "You've never done it before, Max."

"Shut up, he doesn't know that!" Max clamps a gloved hand over his mouth, noticing my smirk.

PJ grabs his elfin friend by the shoulders, trying to shake some sense into him. "Why do you care what he thinks? It's not like he knows his way around a skateboard."

"Allow me."

With a quick flick of my foot, I snag the board from under Max, sending him sprawling to his backside. I hop on, adjusting to the unfamiliar deck beneath me. I might not be "Goof Boy" pro, but out-skating this junior isn't really my objective.

A mischievous grin stretches across my face as I glance at the crowd on the opposite sidewalk and start rolling toward them. I weave through the mass of people, losing myself in the hustle before accelerating away from the two idiots. I hear Max shouting something in the distance, his voice swallowed by the urban din. He must have figured out my play.

Spotting a woman opening a shop door, I slide inside just before she steps out. I duck behind a rack of dresses, peeking through the glass as Max, now on PJ's skateboard, rockets past the storefront.

I quickly exit the shop and head in the opposite direction, hoping to avoid PJ. Looking back over my shoulder to check for Max, I'm suddenly met with a....

SMACK!

THUD!

... followed by unbearable pain.

"Damn it!"

I'd slammed straight into a hot dog cart.

"Watch it, clumsy pants!" yells a hefty, sweaty man with a fly buzzing around his nose from behind the cart.

"Sorry, sir!" I scramble to my feet, offering an apologetic bow, then tuck the skateboard under my arm and beat a hasty retreat.

Alright, I'm back in time. Now, I need to get my facts straight to figure out my next move. First off, what year is it? Max looks about eight or nine, which would put this in the late eighties, maybe 1988 or 1989. But I can't just go by his appearance; I need to see it with my own eyes.

I stroll past a man on a bench, engrossed in a newspaper. I freeze, backtrack, and snatch the paper from him. He starts to protest, but I ignore him, my eyes glued to the front page: "Spoonerville Times, February 25th, 1992."

The man snatches his paper back as I wander off, scratching my chin. 1992! I would have been thirteen then, making Max around eleven. Hmm, 1992... what's happened and what hasn't? Bill Clinton isn't president yet, Princess Diana is still alive, and Will Smith is still young and hilarious. Boybands and pop princesses haven't dominated the music industry. No RealPlayer, no Yahoo, no smartphones, and Monopoly is still the hot ticket.

Now, how do I get "Goof Boy" to ditch skateboarding? I can't just pop up randomly like some child stalker; I'd get arrested. I need to be a part of his life somehow. Maybe find a job at his school — a teacher or a counselor, wouldn't that be a blast? But without a degree or a résumé, how would I even get a job? I pat my pocket, feeling my wallet with my ID and money. With an ID that says "born in 1979," how the hell am I supposed to get a job in 1992? They'll think I'm a freak, especially since I look nothing like a thirteen-year-old. That witch sent me back here without thinking any of this through. Unless, of course, I apply to be a janitor. They probably don't need an ID or a degree for that.

I frown, watching a man mow his lawn across the street. He seems familiar, but I can't quite place him. Suddenly, the mower lurches, dragging the man wildly as it spins at high speed. With one final rotation, he's flung across the lawn, crashing into a treehouse with a scream I know better than my own name.

I stare at the treehouse for a moment, uncertainty gnawing at me, but all doubts vanish when I hear that ridiculous laugh.

So, this is Max's house, and that's his father. I didn't get a good look at him amidst all the airborne acrobatics.

An evil idea sparks in my head, and I bolt across the street toward Max's house. I catch Goofy climbing down the ladder and toss Max's skateboard over the fence. When he reaches the ground, I clear my throat to get his attention. Here goes nothing.

"Uh, Mr. Goof?"

"That's me." He twirls around, grinning. He looks much younger than I remember him, probably in his late thirties.

I scratch my temple, running over my insane idea. This is going to be tricky; I need to make sure I don't get caught. "Uh, is Mrs. Goof around?"

Goofy's face falls into a gloomy pout. "Oh. No, she passed away years ago."

Perfect! I mean, um, I shouldn't be happy about someone's mother being dead. I, of all people, should know what that feels like. But, for my purposes, it's perfect.

I fake a look of disappointment, a little crushed. "That's... too bad."

Goofy lets out a despairing sigh. "Did you know her?"

"Hardly. She was my mother."

His eyes bulge out of their sockets. "Your what?!"

I try my hardest to hide my anxiety, lowering my gaze to my finger as it traces circles on the white fence – avoiding eye contact makes lying easier. I fold my arms across my chest to appear more pathetic. "She... was married to my dad for three years. When they divorced, Dad got full custody of me."

No response. My anxiety spikes. He's not as stupid as I thought, unfortunately.

Suddenly, he takes my chin, lifting my gaze. He peers closely at my face, and I swallow hard, especially when his finger reaches up like he's about to poke my eye. Instead, he taps my nose.

"You've got the same tiny nose. The same blue eyes. Almost the same hair color." He lets go of my chin, and before I can even sigh in relief, he pulls me into a tight hug over the fence. "Oh my God, you're Penny's son!"

"Penny," I choke out, struggling to breathe. "Right. That's Mom's name."

Goofy releases me, delivering a "pat" on the shoulder that nearly sends me sprawling. "Weird, she never mentioned you before."

I cough, rubbing my aching back, and glare up at him. "She probably just wanted to forget all about... uh, the painful past." I rack my brain for more convincing lies; thankfully, he's as gullible as I'd hoped.

I throw my hands up dramatically, pacing like a lost lamb. "Gosh, my dad died three months ago, and we were drowning in debt. We had to sell the house before he passed. I have no place of my own, and with Mom being gone too, I guess..." I let the sentence hang, then plaster a brave, small smile on my face and wave goodbye. "Good to know you, sir."

"Wait a minute!"

I soften my smirk into a mournful pout and turn to face him. He leaps over the fence, wagging a finger with resolve. "No son of Penny is gonna go around homeless!" He places a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me into his yard. "Welcome home, son."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course! Uh, where's your luggage?"

"I, um, lost them. They're on their way to another city right now."

"Ah-yuck, happens to me all the time."

I offer a polite smile as he escorts me across his yard and into the house. It's small and unassuming, clearly lower-middle class, with mismatched old furniture and a ridiculous moose head mounted on the wall. Yet, something about the place feels cozier than the sprawling mansion I grew up in. Perhaps it's the numerous photos of Max and his dad, or the simple decor; it truly seems like a nice home for a child.

"You've got a lovely home, Mr. Goof."

"Thank you... uh..."

"Oh, we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Bradley Uppercrust."

Goofy shakes my hand with extreme delight, nearly crushing my bones in the process. "Ah-yuck, Goofy Goof, enchanté!"

I wrench my hand from his vice-like grip, whimpering slightly as I see it literally throbbing.

"Dad, I've had the worst day of my life!" Max's loud, whiny voice pierces my ears from outside. "I need my ketchup spaghetti fix!"

Goofy laughs excitedly, smacking my still-sore back one more time. "Oh, that's Maxie. My son." He stands at the entrance, blocking my view. "Hey, Maxie, guess what? You've got a brother!"

"What?!"

"Oops. A half-brother. Sorry."

"What did you do, Pop?"

"Nothing. Ah-yuck. He just dropped in."

"Right, a stork just dropped him off on our doorstep."

Max walks in, hair askew, face bruised, clothes dirty and ragged—he'd probably had a few accidents trying to catch me on PJ's skateboard. He snaps out of his miserable state the second he sees me, and that familiar scowl returns.

"You?!"

I wiggle my fingers. "Hi."

"You scum!"

Goofy claps his hands to his cheeks in shock. "Max!"

The kid grabs his father's arm, pointing at me in fury. "He stole my skateboard, Pop!"

I feign offense. "I didn't steal any skateboard."

"Yes, you did!"

"Maxie, I saw your skateboard in the yard. I told you to take care of your toys, or they'll leave you."

I stifle a laugh, and Max's face boils red. "Daaad, I swear he stole it!"

Goofy shrugs. "It's outside, son. Go see for yourself."

Max vanishes outside in a flash. I wish I could see the look on his face when he finds the skateboard in the yard. He marches back in, pointing the finger of death at me. "You put it there!"

"Now, Maxie, I was there when he came over. His hands were empty."

I wiggle my eyebrows at him, practically daring him to stomp his foot like the little kid he is.

"He did steal it, Dad. Honest!"

"C'mon, Maxie, this isn't the way to speak to your brother."

Max's eyes bulge, more in fear than shock. "He's my brother?"

"From the same mother. Ah-yuck."

"But, Dad, you told me Mom was a year younger than you. How old was she when she gave birth to him?"

Shit, I forgot Max is smarter than his dad! I glance at Goofy, and oh boy, he's got his "thinking face" on—scratching that bump on his head, looking constipated. I need to think of something fast!

I turn to the older man, my shoulders slumped, one hand pathetically rubbing my arm, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "I lied to you, Mr. Goof," I confess, summoning the saddest voice I can.

Max snaps his fingers. "Uh-huh! See?"

"I'm an illegitimate child." I squeeze my eyes shut, clench my fingers into a tight fist, and rest my forehead on it. "Mom had me when she was still in high school. And the man who raised me wasn't really my dad. My real dad was a high school loser who wanted nothing to do with me. I didn't know any of this until the man who raised me, whom I consider my real father, fell ill with cancer. It was then he told me the whole truth."

I press my palms flat against the wall and dramatically thud my forehead against it in a show of pain and despair. I glance at my audience. Unsurprisingly, Max is rolling his eyes and shaking his head. His father, however, has a pool of tears welling in his eyes. He lets out a wail and then smothers me in a crushing hug.

"You poor boy! Don't you worry about a thing! We'll be there for you!"

"But, Dad..."

"No buts about it, Maxie boy! This is your half-brother, and you should treat him with respect."

Even though my bones are screaming for mercy, I can't help the smile forming on my lips. I definitely deserve an Oscar for this outstanding performance.

~*~*~*~



I sip the hot chocolate Goofy made, having already devoured all the marshmallows. I stand by the kitchen window, watching Max and PJ in the treehouse, their faces alight with an appealing mischief that draws me in. PJ hands Max a telescope, and Max begins scanning the neighbors' yard.

"So, Bradley, how old are you?"

Goofy's sudden question startles me, and the mug nearly slips from my grasp. I tighten my hold, walk to the table, set the mug down, and take a seat.

"I'll be twenty-one two months from now."

I look at Goofy's back; he's at the oven, preparing Max's spaghetti. "I suppose you go to college?"

I run a hand through my hair, answering without hesitation, "Oh, no, I dropped out."

Goofy glances back over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. "You did?"

"Yeah, my grades started to slip after my father got sick. Now that he's gone, I don't feel like going back."

"You have to graduate college. There's nothing more important than education."

I offer a heartfelt shrug and take another sip of my hot chocolate. It's unsettling how easily the lies are spilling out, especially since I have no way to back them up. Sooner or later, they're going to catch on, and then I'll be royally screwed.

I return my focus to the window, finding it easier to escape the horrors of reality by observing the innocence of youth. Outside, a pretty little girl is walking toward the treehouse, her hair and clothes completely soaked. She yells something up at the boys and is immediately met with an exploding water balloon. The poor thing runs from Goofy's yard, crying her eyes out. PJ's head pops out of the treehouse window, looking freaked out—she's probably his kid sister, and now she's going to tattle on the "meanies."

A gentle hand on my shoulder pulls me away from the amusing shenanigans outside. I look at the gloved hand squeezing my shoulder, then up at Goofy's tender expression. A weird feeling starts to swarm inside me, forcing me to look away and shrug his hand off my shoulder. I hear him pull out a chair and sit down.

"Bradley, look, I haven't told anyone this, but I've dropped out of college, too."

"Oh?" I feign utter surprise, though even if I hadn't already known, I'd still be flabbergasted this guy finished pre-school.

"I couldn't take the pressure. My life was a wreck in my final year."

I stare at his sad face for a minute, doing the math in my head. "Was it because of Max?"

He looks a tad too surprised at my question, shaking his head vigorously. "Oh, no. I went to college in the mid-seventies. Max was born in 1981."

I nod and take another sip, enjoying the hot liquid cascading down my throat. When he doesn't say anything more, I look at him and instantly regret it. There's something in his gaze that makes me profoundly uncomfortable—like he actually cares about me.

I look away again, and I hear him chuckle softly at my discomfort. "The point is," he continues, "leaving college was the decision I regret the most. I don't want you to make the same mistake I did. You've got to have a college degree."

I purse my lips, lacking the energy to concoct another convincing excuse for my reluctance to go back to college. But energy or not, I need to change the subject, and quickly, to something that will make Goofy forget about college once and for all.

"Mr. Goof, do you have a picture of my mom?" Yes! Painful memories of his late wife are the ultimate distraction.

With a bitter smile, he pats my back and rises to his feet. "Oh, I'm sorry, son. I lost all the pictures when our old house combusted." He goes to check on our dinner, then opens a drawer above the oven. "I do think I hid some of those old pictures here somewhere."

He starts flinging various objects behind him. I try my best to duck and dodge, but a pan appears out of nowhere and smacks me square on the forehead.

"Why, lookie here, ah-yuck, here's one when we were in the city. This is Max and his friends." He walks over, holding two pictures, and shows me the one he mentioned. All I see is a younger Max standing in front of a large poster depicting a natural landscape.

I rub my aching forehead—this is definitely going to be a nice purple bump—and frown at the photo. "Exactly where are his friends?"

He points to three trees on the poster behind Max. "Mike, Jimmy, and Matty."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Well, he didn't really have any real friends until he met PJ."

I wince as a jolt of pain sparks when my finger touches the sore spot on my forehead. "How come?"

Goofy shrugs. "Guess it wasn't 'cool' to befriend the kid who lives in a trailer."

"You two used to live in a trailer?"

"For four beautiful years. We were way closer back then."

Obviously. With Max's inability to make friends due to his financial status, he'd naturally spend more time with his dad. I wonder why that never happened to me, though. I didn't have friends growing up, but Dad and I remained distant. The fact that I was practically imprisoned in my own house for sixteen years should have made me spend more time with my old man. But since he always had a bottle of beer in his hand, needless to say, his company was best avoided.

Goofy shows me the other picture he found in the drawer: him and Max sitting on a ping-pong table inside the trailer, a birthday cake on Goofy's lap. I've never seen happier people in my life; though they were poor and alone, they had each other, and that was enough.



~*~*~*~



Max's bedroom is the quintessential dump. I've never witnessed such an accumulation of clutter in my life: books haphazardly replace pillows on his bunk bed, while the actual pillows are perched precariously on the bookshelves above. His clothes form a mountainous pile next to his desk, save for a single shirt dangling from the ceiling fan. Every drawer is agape, overflowing with miscellaneous junk, including a forgotten teddy bear.

I pluck the dusty, stuffed animal from the drawer, a scornful laugh escaping my lips. "There you go, little bro. Can't sleep without this!"

I toss it to Max, who's standing by his desk. He catches it, his cheeks flushing crimson. "This was mine when I was a kid."

"And you still have it," I reply, crossing my arms and wiggling my eyebrows, knowing how much he despises that particular gesture.

Max opens his mouth to retort, but his father enters, carrying a bundle. "Oh, you're introducing him to Old Stuffed Bear? Max can't sleep without him."

"Figured as much," I say knowingly.

"Dad." Max covers his face with his teddy bear in embarrassment. Realizing his mistake, he shoves it into a drawer and punches it shut. However, on reflex, the drawer bursts open from the sheer volume of junk inside and crashes down on Max's toe.

The kid lets out a painful scream and hops up and down as I roar with laughter.

"Bradley, since you lost your luggage, you can wear my PJs for the night." Goofy hands me a pair of fluffy purple pajamas covered with smiling dolphins.

I blink down at the hideous garment, fighting the urge to hurl them out the window. "Gee, thanks, Mr. Goof. But I think I'll just sleep in my clothes."

"Don't be silly. Take them off and let me wash them for ya."

"Oh, no, not necessary..."

"Pop, I think my big bro needs a little push." Arms crossed, Max leans against his bunk bed ladder, a wicked glint in his eyes. He blows on his fingers, then rubs them on his chest. "He's shy, you know."

Goofy laughs with delight before his happy-go-lucky expression morphs into one of pure evil. Both father and son approach me, looking like they've sprouted devil horns.

I jump backward into the wall, glancing fretfully between them. "What? What is it?"

They pounce, stripping me of my clothes with surprising speed despite my fruitless struggles. In a blink, I'm encased in the new fashion disaster.

Goofy tosses my discarded clothes to his son. "Search his pockets. Don't wanna ruin anything in the wash."

Max plunges a hand into my pocket, his face blooming into a wide grin. "Radical, a fat wallet!"

I pounce on him, yanking my wallet from his grasp, but it slips through my fingers and flies straight into Goofy's. He opens it and peers inside—what in hell? This house clearly has a deficit in the manners department. He pulls out my ID and grins. "Ah-yuck! You're a photojenny fella, aren't you?"

"Give me that!" I snatch my ID, my eyes widening at what I see—holy cow! What?! Born on May 13th, 1971! Some of the facts, like my place of birth, have changed. How in the world did Aunt Broom-Hilda pull this off?

Goofy places a hand on my arm, his expression laced with worry. "You look shocked, Bradley? Is everything all right?"

I blink out of my stupor and manage a smile. "No, everything is pitch-perfect."



~*~*~*~



So, what exactly happened? Am I in another reality where I'm older than I really am? What other sneaky changes did that old witch make? If I call my house, will I even be there? Maybe there was an exchange, and young-me was sent to the future to take my place. Perhaps in this reality, my father is a stand-up guy. Maybe my mother is still alive! Something inside me swells a little as I immediately nix that last thought. Obviously, Aunt Broom-Hilda just made a few tweaks to make my existence in this timeline possible.

I hear the mattress above me creaking; clearly, Max can't sleep with a strange guy in his room. Throughout dinner, the brat kept grilling me about my life for what felt like hours, so much so that the food on his plate went cold. That ketchup spaghetti was surprisingly delicious, though—who knew Goofy could cook?

Max tosses and turns some more, and I, as any good older brother, can't let such a rich opportunity for brotherly bonding pass.

"So, Max, what was Mom like?"

Silence hangs in the air for a moment, making me think my question will go unanswered.

"I don't know," comes a grumbled response from above.

"You don't know?"

"She died right after childbirth, so I never knew her. Dad doesn't like talking about her. Too painful, I guess."

He speaks in a voice so devoid of emotion that I almost feel a twinge of sympathy for him. I can't imagine my life without knowing my mother; her memories were what sustained me throughout my childhood and teen years. The memory of her smile, the scent of her perfume, the softness of her touch—all carved into my brain for years to come. Max never experiencing a mother's love means I've finally scored a win after a string of failures.

Which brings me to the whole point of me being here: crush Max Goof! Make sure he doesn't beat me in the future and ruin everything I've worked for and accomplished. I can't waste time sympathizing with him.

I concoct something truly horrible to say, something to break the kid a little. "So, you killed our mom?"

Max scoffs. "Ha, very funny."

"No, really. If she had avoided that pregnancy, she'd probably still be alive." I spot a framed picture of Goofy on the kid's desk and decide to kick him where it really hurts. "Your dad's face when we talked about her was heartbreaking. Losing her must have destroyed him."

I strain to detect a sound, but hearing no movement, I press on. "The whole thing clearly brought back all those painful memories for him. The poor guy. It was particularly sad how he even had to drop out of college in his final year for you."

Max peeks down at me, his eyebrows furrowed. "That's not true."

"He told me that earlier today," I reply, meeting the disturbed face above me. "Just think of everything he had to give up for you: his wife, his friends, his college degree."

Noting the mix of wounded emotions on Max's face, I deliver the final blow: "If he'd graduated college, he wouldn't have lived in some trailer for four years."

Our eyes lock, intense feelings of mutual hatred passing between us. I hold his pained gaze with a cold stare, silently blaming him for the death of "my mother" and the unfulfilled life of his father. When his lower lip twitches slightly, he disappears from my sight. I strain my hearing, expecting to catch little sniffles and hiccups, but then Max starts climbing down the ladder.

"Where are you going?"

He doesn't answer, just scurries out of the room, leaving the door ajar. I'm a dead man if he tells his daddy on me. Let him do it for all I care; that sad, pathetic look on his face was entirely worth it.



~*~*~*~



I square my shoulders, attempting to get comfortable in the shirt and vest Goofy lent me this morning. I just hope he didn't destroy my own clothes in whatever cheap washing machine he's got in the basement. Grimacing at the still-wet plate in my hand, I resume my struggle to dry it with a damp towel — who knew drying cutlery was so frustratingly difficult?

Now that I'm living here, I actually have to get used to chores and taking care of myself. I've never done anything of the sort before; even at the Gamma House, I had minions cleaning up after me. This morning was the first time I've ever made a bed or, worse, cleaned up Max's disastrous room.

Speaking of the little brat, I haven't seen him all day. I don't remember him coming back to bed last night, as I dozed off while he was gone, completely worn out by time travel and everything else. I would have slept like a log all day if Goofy hadn't started trying to mow the lawn again while squabbling with his neighbor. It's Sunday; who wakes up early to work on a Sunday?

Anyway, Goofy was still his cheerful, carefree self, which means Max didn't tell him a thing about our conversation last night. The only thing keeping me sane during this mind-numbing chore is the thought of Max weeping in the bathroom all night.

A sudden kick to my leg sends the plate in my hand crashing to the floor. I spin around, my furious eyes narrowing at Max's angry face. "See what you did? I spent hours drying that!"

He drags a chair out, hops on it, and then bitch-slaps my cheek. "You liar!"

I wince, touching my stinging cheek. "What?"

"I had to dig up Dad's high school diploma from the attic," he retorts, grabbing my collar and slapping a certificate in my face. "It says he graduated in 1972, which means he dropped out of college in 1976. That's five years before I was born!"

I burst into a gale of laughter, kicking the leg of the chair and sending Max tumbling to the floor. "Well, Maxie, I'm impressed. You can do your math, little brother. You deserve some candy." I crouch next to him and ruffle his hair like he's a puppy.

He smacks my hand away and scrambles to his feet. "Why did you lie to me?"

I straighten up and grab another wet plate to dry. "'Cause you're my kid brother, and I like to mess with you."

"But that was cruel, the work of a devil."

"Oh, c'mon, I've seen what PJ did to his little sister yesterday. That was the work of a devil."

"It's not the same."

"Oh, it is. Siblings love to play pranks on each other. You and I need to catch up."

I place the dry plate in the drawer, then bend down to pinch his nose a little too painfully—serves him right for the kick and slap earlier.

He seems to ponder my words before a mischievous smile spreads across his lips. "Oh, I'll prank you good."

I wink. "We're going to have to see about that."

"Boys!" Goofy calls out, walking into the kitchen laden with over five grocery bags. Items immediately begin to tumble out, but Max, anticipating his father's ineptness, scrambles to catch each one before it hits the floor.

Goofy drops the bags on the table, and some oranges start rolling towards the edge. I drop to my knees, catching each falling orange while Goofy babbles on, oblivious. "I invited Pete and his family for dinner tonight. I want them to meet Bradley."

Placing the oranges back in the bag, I chuckle nervously at Goofy. "Oh, sir, I don't have anything to wear." I'm certainly not meeting strangers in Goofy's clown outfits.

"Then you and Max should hit the mall. I'll be busy making dinner."

I notice a subtle twinkle in Max's eyes and realize he's already plotting a prank for the mall. Well, bring it on, little brother. "King of Pranks" was my most famous nickname among the servants back at the mansion. Let the war begin!

Chapter Text

Chapter Three:



I am sifting through the shirt racks at The Gap. Seriously, this place isn't up to my usual standards, but it's all I can afford since Aunt Broom-Hilda swiped every credit card from my wallet. She's left me with nothing but $6,000 in cash. I'd better spend this wisely until I - gulp - find a job. Goofy has mentioned his neighbor owns a used-car dealership; perhaps I can find something "doable" there. By "doable," I mean easy and requiring minimal effort. After all, if this guy is Goofy's best friend, I assume he's just as dim-witted. I can probably sway him with a "love thy neighbor" spiel and earn my money by slacking off all day.

An ancient Nirvana song is blaring through the shop, which, of course, is the biggest hit in this timeline, and I find myself nodding along before shaking my head in disgust at all the grunge clothes surrounding me. Flannel shirts, acid-wash denim jackets and jeans everywhere. Early nineties fashion is an abomination.

I recoil as a pair of artfully shredded jeans begins to writhe, a disembodied, shrill voice screeching, "Pick me! Pick me!"

My eyes perform a dramatic roll. "So mature, Max. Knock it off, or I'll personally redecorate your face by removing those dangling ears. Both of them."

Max's head, predictably, materializes from the depths of the clothing rack. "Is that the thanks I get for being your personal fashion consultant?"

"You can 'consult' by standing still and zipping it," I retort, carefully pinching the offending jeans by the waistband with two fingers, as if they are a biohazard. "Show me the nutjob who's going to waste his money on this crap," I mutter to myself.

Max, with the grace of a sack of bricks, launches himself from the rack and lands squarely on my foot. A strangled grunt escapes me as I fight the overwhelming urge to administer a public spanking. The resulting court case simply isn't worth it. Then I spot his untied shoelaces and slap my forehead with a theatrical groan. "For the love of all that's holy, tie your shoes! You think you're channeling some rebellious vibe, but you're just upping your odds of a face-plant."

"Aw, I just love how much you care," he simpers.

I retaliate by yanking a single, defiant hair from his head, child protective services be damned. "Your shoelaces could get tangled in an escalator and drag you to a fiery doom for all I care. Just stand still and be quiet while I try to find something that doesn't scream 'impending tetanus shot.'"

"Fine," he grumbles, stuffing his hands into his pockets and assuming the posture of a deeply aggrieved miniature human.

I heave a sigh of relief, then begin flipping through the clothes in exasperation. We've been at the only decent mall in this tiny town for an hour, and I haven't purchased a single item. Younger brothers are truly exhausting! There isn't a single prank this kid hasn't pulled, the Whoopee Cushion incident remains a particularly sore spot.

He sways back and forth, whistling the Ninja Turtles theme song. When he catches my eye, he flashes a not-so-innocent, toothy grin. At least he isn't actively causing trouble. Time to refocus on the mission.

Okay, clothes. Let's see. Dinner with the neighbors tonight, so what kind of outfit am I looking for? Just looking at their place from the outside earlier – not to mention the massive boat and fancy car – I can tell they're doing way better than us. I need something just right for tonight, not too dressy, not too casual. And clearly, The Gap is absolutely the wrong place to be shopping for it.

Some kid careens into me, mid-flight from his chortling little tormentor. Doesn't even grunt an apology, just keeps on scampering. Oh, right. Max. I whip my head to the spot he's supposedly been occupying. And, shocker, he's vanished. Where in the sweet oblivion does he go?

A glint catches my eye: a shiny coin on the floor. I let out an unimpressed scoff. Please. Not falling for that ancient, amateurish trick. I deliberately step over it, making my way to the next shirt rack, more hideous flannel. This store is actively draining my will to live.

Then, in a truly unlooked-for twist, an attractive brunette materializes like a divine intervention. She brushes against me, and just like that, every single thought of escaping this sartorial purgatory evaporates. She bends over – oh, hello there! – and actually picks up the, wait for it, un-glued coin. What? Someone genuinely drops money?

Her luscious curls swirl as she pivots, presenting the coin to my stunned gaze. "Is this yours?"

I completely ignore the coin, my focus solely on her, a potent cocktail of suspicion brewing in my gut. Could this be it? The elaborate prank? Has Max somehow recruited this goddess to make a fool of me? Or, gasp, maybe there's no prank at all. Maybe Max has simply absconded to the toy aisle. Maybe he's lost in this gloriously tiny mall – he's eleven, you dolt, not three. But still, what if this is it? My actual, genuine ticket to heavenly bliss. A chance to extract something positive from this truly hellish retail experience.

A sharp poke to my arm rips me from the angelic contemplation of a potential date. I spin towards the perpetrator, poised to unleash a torrent of righteous fury, only for my tongue to tie itself into a knot at the sight of a security officer's grim countenance.

"Sir, may I search your pockets?"

I shoot a glance at the vanishing brunette, forcing a nervous chuckle, while internally raging at this killjoy who has just obliterated my one shot at true happiness. "Is something wrong, officer?" I ask, my voice miraculously cool and confident.

"I've been informed you've secreted a bra into your pocket."

"A bra?" My voice cracks.

The pretty woman, now well out of earshot, emits a delightful giggle, turns, and sashays away, her hips swinging in a cruel farewell. I try to call after her, but my tongue feels like it has been bitten by a cat when I spot the little monster himself, Max, snickering just outside the store.

The officer's hand dips into my pocket, emerging victorious with a lacy, undeniably orange bra.

"Sir, you'll have to pay for this."

"I did not take it! It was th..." I point frantically at the glass storefront, but, predictably, Max has already vanished. That conniving little weasel!

After begrudgingly paying for a bra I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies, I begin my hunt for the pint-sized delinquent. How on earth has he managed to slip that thing into my pocket without me feeling it? And for the love of all that's holy, can we please call a truce on the practical jokes? I get it. Lying to him last night was probably a tad cruel. And the two 'pranks' on the way to the mall were arguably uncalled for. And perhaps shoving him into the old lady who then swatted him with her purse was pushing it too far. But none of that compares to this latest atrocity. I have vowed to spend my money wisely, and now $130 has simply evaporated.

Ah, there he is, giggling maniacally behind the ATM. I stomp over, seizing his ear to command his attention.

He yelps in surprise, but the yelp quickly morphs into full-blown laughter once he gets a good look at my furious face.

"You dweeb!" I seethe. "I should've known you'd sink this low, pulling a Dodger on me. Only, you know, in reverse."

"Who?"

"Of course," I scoff, rolling my eyes heavenward. "How could someone of your refined intellectual caliber possibly know anything about a famous Charles Dickens novel?" I crouch, bringing my face level with his, fixing him with my hardest stare. "If you pull another prank, I will personally mail you to China, where they still have child labor, do you understand?"

I'm not sure if it is the sheer fury radiating from my eyes, my unwavering firm tone, or perhaps even the sheer lameness of my threat, but his eyes balloon with genuine fear, and he gives a swift, terrified nod. Pleased with this minor victory, I straighten, frowning down at him. "Right. I've got some actual shopping to do. And you are carrying my bags."

~*~*~*~



"Wow!"

Max just stands there, staring, completely mesmerized by his spotless bedroom. No thanks for my hard work, of course. It had taken me hours to turn this disaster zone into something halfway decent, which, for Max, probably looked like a five-star hotel. My reward? The kid tosses the bags with my new clothes straight into his trashcan, then bolts for his desk.

I fish them out, shooting him a glare as he pulls a sharpened pencil from his "Number One Son" cup. He tests the sharp tip with his gloved finger, nods, and puts it back. Then, he runs a finger over the shiny desk surface, holds it up to his eyes, and gives another approving nod. I roll my eyes at the Miss Minchin act, I bet he doesn't even know who that is. What are they teaching these kids in these public schools? A kid who's never heard of Oliver Twist? Is this what our generation has come to?

I open the empty closet, sit cross-legged on the floor in front of it, and pull my few new clothes from the bags. Since Max isn't using his closet, I figure it's mine now. I hear the brat's impressed whistle and look over to see him sitting on his bed, admiring the neatly arranged books on the shelf.

He hops down from the ladder and ambles towards his wooden chest. As he reaches for a drawer, he reels back as its contents erupt like an unwanted confetti blast at a surprise birthday party.

"Hey!" he protests.

"I crammed your junk in there," I explain casually, holding his gaze. "You didn't expect me to fold them and artfully arrange them inside the drawers, did you?"

Max plants his fists on his hips, an eyebrow arched in accusation. "You could've at least not let them suffocate in there."

I hold up one of my new shirts for his inspection. "Watch closely as I meticulously fold my new clothes and place them ever so neatly in the closet. The trick, you see, is to stack the folded shirts perfectly on top of each other. Just like this." I demonstrate with the couple of shirts I'd acquired, pointed proudly at them, and offer him my most charming smile.

"Haha, I'm sure I'll pass out from laughter any minute now," his voice drips with icicles, yet he begins gathering his scattered clothes from the floor. I really should be awarded a medal for being such a stellar influence.

I pull out my new boxers and tank tops, caressing them with undying affection, mentally bidding a fond farewell to Goofy's fluffy pajamas. I hadn't bought much, and in a way, I felt a genuine sense of pride for spending less than a thousand dollars today. These clothes might not be top-tier quality, but they'll definitely get me by for now.

"Check this out." Max pulls a shiny object from the depths of his rumpled clothes. "How much do you think it's worth?"

My heart nearly gives out. Staring at the small, strangely engraved golden circle in his hand, I slowly draw out the necklace hidden beneath my shirt. Max is holding the gold sun, my only ticket out of this timeline.

"Give me that!" I lunge at him like a lion on its prey, but my wily target dances back, clutching the key to my freedom.

"It's mine. I found it in my room."

"Our room," I correct, tackling him again.

Max slips effortlessly between my legs and scrambles onto his bed. "Hey, finders keepers!"

"It's mine, but I lost it," I plead, craning my neck to look up at him, desperation thick in my voice.

"It wasn't in your clothes."

"I lost it when I was cleaning your crap!"

"So, you really want this, huh?" That glint in his eye, the son of a bitch thinks he has me cornered. Unfortunately, he does. The jerk holds the gold sun between his fingers, blows on it, and casually wipes it with his thumb. "How much would you pay for it?"

Nothing, you scum! I have only five thousand dollars left, and I'm not wasting it on this elf. Besides, who knows where I'd end up next? That is, if I ever get my hands on the gold sun.

"Max, quit playing around and give it to me."

"But it's mine."

"Yeah, right! See this?" I pull my moon necklace into view. "They go together."

Max looks between the sun and the moon, noting the similar engravings. Feeling the knot of frustration in my chest loosen, I take a couple of careful steps forward. "It fell off my necklace into your drawer while I was cleaning," I say slowly, as if addressing a wild animal that might bite if approached too quickly.

"I saw your necklace yesterday when we changed your clothes, and there was no sun in it."

He smirks. I fume, resisting the overwhelming urge to stomp my foot. "Obviously it's mine. It goes with the necklace."

"How would I know you didn't steal the necklace, like you stole my skateboard yesterday?"

We narrow our eyes at each other before I let out an exasperated growl and launch myself onto my bed, boosting myself up to his. We wrestle on his bed for a minute, then tumble onto mine. Pinning him down, I try to pry the sun from his death grip, realizing I'm fighting a losing battle.

"Give it to me, Max!"

"No!"

"I'm telling your dad!"

"Go ahead."

"Mr. Goof!"

Goofy whistles his way into our room, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees the catfight. A cartoonish question mark practically pops above his head.

I point at Max, poking his nose hard. "He took my sun!"

Another question mark appears above Goofy's head. "Your sun?"

"Yeah, it goes with the necklace. See? Every moon needs a sun."

Goofy crosses his arms, giving his son a stern look. "Maxie, give him back his sun."

"Sun?" Max blinks with fake innocence. "What are you talking about?"

I punch his head. "The gold sun, you dolt! Give it to me now!"

"Bradley, violence isn't the right way to get what you want. And there's no need for that sort of language."

"But he took it!"

"I didn't take anything, Dad. That's not how you raised me."

I grab him by the collar, blowing hot, dragon-like breath into his face. "You hid it, right? Where is it?"

I frantically pat his pockets, under his shirt, even in his hair. "Is it here? Or there?"

Strong hands clamp onto my shoulders, dragging me back from Max. "Bradley, calm down. I saw your moon necklace yesterday, and it had no sun."

I point at Max, struggling to free myself from Goofy's grip. "That's because he took it!"

Max blinks his puppy-dog eyes at Goofy. "I don't know what he's talking about."

I fight hard not to explode, counting slowly to ten, feeling myself gradually relax. I pry Goofy's hands off me and slap my forehead. "I just remembered I packed it in my luggage. God knows where it is now."

"Oh, that's unfortunate, Bradley. C'mon, maybe helping me step on tomatoes would lift your spirits."

I follow him out of the room, then peek back inside to see if Max will reveal the gold sun. Still sitting on my bed, he's whistling innocently.

"This isn't over," I grit my teeth.

~*~*~*~



I strut down the stairs, channeling some dashing supermodel, sporting a crisp white polo shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. To truly embrace the nineties aesthetic, I'd tied a blue sweater around my neck. I have no earthly clue if my ensemble is actually appropriate for our neighbors, but at least it is the closest I can get to "normal." Max, naturally, found the look "boring" and suggested chain wallets and mood rings. My apologies, Maxo, but looking at what you were wearing, I wouldn't be caught dead taking fashion advice from you.

My majestic peacock walk is abruptly interrupted by the sudden appearance of a sleeping Waffles. I step squarely on the oblivious cat, and my walk of pride instantly transforms into a most undignified fall of shame.

"Are you all right, Bradley?" Goofy is at my side in an instant, his hands slapping my cheeks until they are numb.

I gently push him away, doing my best to conjure a polite smile. "I'm fine, really. You don't need to cluck over me like a mother hen."

He offers that warm smile again, so I clear my throat and glance around. "Uh, where's the kid?"

"At PJ's." Goofy springs to his feet, extending a hand to help me.

I accept his assistance. "At our guests' house?"

"Oh, Bradley, they're family!" The doorbell chimes, and Goofy twirls around in unadulterated happiness. "Oh, they're here! Let them in, would you, Bradley?"

I nod, wincing internally at the sight of a grown man skipping as he dances his way towards the kitchen. I head for the door, and before I can even grasp the knob, Max and PJ burst inside, bowling me over and sending me sprawling to the floor. They, of course, completely miss my intensely murderous glare as they race up the stairs.

"Hi."

I turn to face the little girl I'd seen yesterday outside the kitchen window. Her big blue eyes flicker over me with clear dissatisfaction. "I'm Pistol. I was so excited when I heard Maxie has a brother, but I see now that you're too big to be fun. I wanted a little brother to play 'Dolly, Dolly, who's got the Dolly?' with me, 'cause PJ is getting too big for everything in my room. So, excuse my dis-point-mint."

I blink through her rapid-fire babble. "Your what?"

"Pistol-kens, why don't you go and help Goofy in the kitchen?" I shift my gaze towards the woman speaking, but it promptly freezes on the stunning sight of the curviest hips I'd ever encountered. "Hi, Bradley, is it?"

I try desperately to unglue my gaze from her hips and guide it upwards to her face. "Um-uh, the, uh, whoa…" I blink rapidly, managing to break the spell, only for my eyes to immediately freeze again on her ample chest.

A helpless groan escapes me. I squeeze my eyes shut, then spring to my feet in the exact same spring-loaded fashion Goofy had earlier. Opening my eyes, I cast a bashful smile at the gorgeous woman before me. "Hi… this is the sound I was going for."

She rolls her eyes, she clearly encountered a fair number of perverts like me, and extends a glass platter laden with pastries. "Nice to meet you. I'm Peg, Goofy's neighbor."

"The pleasure is all mine." I play the gentleman, extending a hand to carry the platter toward the kitchen, but out of nowhere, Goofy's arms flail, knocking it clean out of my hands. It spins through the air, showering delicious pastries across the living room. The platter then lands perfectly on Goofy's head, where he wears it like a ridiculous hat, letting out a cheerful laugh.

"Ah-yuck! Hi-ya, Peg."

Peg simply giggles with delight, as if her hard work hadn't just been strewn across the living room floor.

Goofy looks around, scratching his head. "Where's Pete?"

She sighs. "It's one of those days, Goofy."

"Oh, how low did he stoop this time?"

"Not as low as the time before last time."

"Your husband won't be joining us?" Now it is my turn to feel a pang of dis-point-mint. I'd been looking forward to discussing business with the only businessman I knew in this timeline.

She smiles at me, a patronizing look that suggests I am nothing but a naive little boy completely clueless about the world. "It's a bliss. Trust me."

Goofy drapes his arm around Peg's shoulders, leading her to the kitchen, and grins at me. "Why don't you call the boys, Bradley? Dinner is ready."

I hang my head in boredom and drag my legs upstairs, hearing the idiots' prattle inside the bedroom. I kick the door open and clap my hands like a kindergarten teacher collecting children after recess. "Move it, you bozos…"

I eat my words when I see Max flipping the gold sun sloppily to PJ, who flips it back just as carelessly. My face boiling with anger, I rush toward the smaller goofball and grab him by his thick hair. "What the hell are you doing with my gold sun?"

He kicks me in the nads. "My gold sun, until you pay for it."

My face twists as excruciating pain explodes in my manhood; the idiots' scornful laughter doesn't help at all. I kneel on the floor and try to breathe, feeling the pain gradually wear off. Suddenly, tiny feet jump on my head and knock it down, and the most irritating voice exclaims, "Gold sun! This is the mostest beautiful thing ever! Can I play with it? Can I? Can I? Can I?"

"Pistol, this is not a toy," PJ yells at his annoying sister.

"You don't let me play with anything!"

"'Cause my things are not toys either!"

"But you promised to let me play with your new video game!"

"You don't know how to play with it!"

"Then teach me!"

"I taught you a gazillion times and you still stink!"

"Oh, I hear ya," I interrupt their quarrel with a knowing look, now leaning against the closet with my arms crossed over my chest. "Today I had to show Max how to fold his clothes." I kick the chest, and a drawer bursts out with crumbled clothes. "He's a hopeless case."

"Shut up or I'll smack that smirk off your face!"

"Ah, the burden of being a big brother, ain't that right, PJ?"

He massages his temples wearily. "You betcha."

"Peej!"

"Sorry, man."

"What are you kids doing?" Goofy's voice drifts from downstairs. "Dinner will get cold."

"We're coming, Mr. G," PJ yells and drags his sister out of the room.

Max and I stare at each other for a second before he stuffs the gold sun in his pocket and walks out of the room.

We make our way downstairs and into the kitchen where everybody is helping set the table: Peg slapping PJ's hand when he reaches for a chicken wing, Pistol steadying a clumsy Goofy as he makes his way toward the table with a hot pot. It's such a strange atmosphere, loud and messy, yet enthralling.

My face breaks into a bright smile. "Should I get a booster seat for Max?"

Max is about to flip me the finger, but he catches his father looking at him and decides to stick out his tongue instead.

~*~*~*~

It's a school night, so Peg and her kids left right after dinner. I was going to hit the bed once they took off, so exhausted I could sleep for months, but Max the menace has tricked his dad into making me wash the dishes. Apparently, since last night was Goofy's turn, going by age, tonight is supposed to be mine. All that scrubbing and washing has slapped the sleep out of my eyes.

Now I'm lying in bed, my bloodshot eyes glaring up at the ceiling. I know Max isn't asleep because he's doing the whole tossing and turning thing. Time for revenge.

"Yo, Max, you never shredded that rail on your hands for me!"

The mattress above me stops squeaking. I can easily imagine how flustered he is right now. "You mean a street plant?"

"No, I meant it exactly how I said it. You know, with your hands. On the rail. Sliding."

"Right. Um, I didn't?"

"No, you most certainly did not."

"I thought I did."

A sly smile plays on my lips. "Why? You scared? Is the big, bad rail too much for your delicate palms?"

"Me? No. Told you it's nothing. Just a walk in the park."

A pause.

"Then what's the hold-up, daredevil?"

"What?"

"When's the grand performance? When do I get to witness this legendary hand-shredding?"

"I wanna say tomorrow morning, but I've got school."

"Uh-huh. Because a little thing like school has ever stopped you before."

"I will do it! You'll see!"

"Okay. I'll be holding my breath."

I turn to my side, stifling my evil snicker. Now he's going to spend the whole night obsessing over this, and he won't get much sleep for school tomorrow. The sound of him tossing and turning returns as I doze off into a satisfied slumber.

A low whispering voice stirs me from my sleep. I'm greeted by a blurred vision of our bedroom, clearing to reveal Goofy's face in the photo on Max's desk. I glance back over my shoulder, watching Goofy picking up a drowsy Max and lowering him to the floor.

With a yawn escaping my mouth, I feel extremely glad I don't have to wake up, and hug my pillow tightly. A sudden weight drops on me, and soft snoring blares into my ears. I elbow Max out of my bed, smiling at the loud thud.

"Ouch! You jerk!"

"You're welcome. Consider it a public service."

"I should smother you with your own pillow."

"Just go to school, buster. The world awaits your brilliance."



~*~*~*~



Mouth hanging open, eyes wide and unblinking, I stare at Goofy working his magic on the torn button on Max's shirt. With incredible speed, he manages to fix the shirt in no time. "As easy as stealing candy from a baby, though I wouldn't discourage that."

"Uh, you mean encourage."

"No, discourage. It's not immoral, Bradley."

I bite my lower lip, finally seeing where Max's frustration with his father comes from, then focus my gaze on the fine job Goofy has done with the shirt. "Very interesting, sir," I say with a newfound respect for the man, holding the needle as if it's Aladdin's magic lamp. "So you're saying all I need to fix my clothes is putting that thin thread into this tiny opening?"

"That's what they call sewing."

"I'm learning so much from you, Mr. Goof."

"Ah-yuck, what did your dad teach you at your house?"

My lips lose the smile and set into a tight, thin line. "Nothing much."

As he starts clearing the kitchen table, I slip out of the kitchen and into the backyard. I cross the grass toward the treehouse and climb up the ladder, leaning my back against the closed door. I lose myself in thoughts as I look at Goofy clowning around through the kitchen window.

Resting my head back, I let the gentle breeze pinch my cheeks, breathing in the fresh spring air. My eyelids grow heavy, drooping halfway when I hear the sound of kids bickering nearby. I blink my eyes open and spot Max and PJ at a distance getting the living daylights beaten out of them by larger boys.

Poor suckers. Should I just sit here and enjoy the show? Hmmm, it's not fun when someone else is giving Goof Boy a hard time. Better get my big brother cape.

I jump down from the treehouse in a heroic, show-off manner, but the second my feet hit the ground, it hurts like damn hell! I've jarred my freaking bones, and my whole body is frozen into numbness. I try to shake my stinging feet into working, but I give up instantly when Max's scream blares into my ears. I start hopping like a loser out of the yard and into the street.

Once they're in sight, I put on my resolve face and do my best to march toward them, all threatening and dangerous. A redheaded bully is giving PJ the wedgie of his life while his Billy Idol wannabe friend is pinning Max to the ground.

"Get the heck off of me!" Max struggles to free himself, but his small form is no match for the bulky kid on top of him.

"Give us your allowance or we'll beat you to a pulp just like we did yesterday at the comic book store."

I stop in my tracks, my mind flashing back to Max's horrible state yesterday. I thought he had an accident with PJ's skateboard. I didn't know he was bullied at the shop, which makes you wonder, who allows kids to beat other kids in their own stores?

I cross my arms and knit my eyebrows together. "Get away from them."

The kid who's just about to punch Max's face scowls at me. "Who are you, their stylist?"

I nod at Max. "I'm his brother."

"Goofball has a brother?"

My glare intensifies. "I'll start counting from three, and if you phonies don't skedaddle out of here, I'll jam your heads together so hard you'll be seeing constellations."

Both bullies eye me with suspicion and send me into a furious rampage. I move toward them and grab them by the collars, smacking their heads together and smirking at the flying birds in their pupils.

I toss them to the ground like a pair of torn, old socks. "Listen, punk-wannabes, next time you come close to these douchebags, I'll pop your eyes out of your head and make you eat them. Got it? Consider it a gourmet experience."

They give a terrified whimper and flee out of my sight. I plant my hands on my hips and grin widely; that look of fear in their faces brings me back to simpler times. I miss being Mr. Big Shot, though usually I have my own lackeys doing the scaring for me. The moan behind me reminds me of the damsels I just saved. They got a good beating, their faces beautiful shades of rainbow colors.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just…" Max drags his friend toward me. "PJ, a boost."

PJ does as he's told, as usual, and Max jumps up to my height level and slaps me on the cheek.

"Shit!" I pat the poor spot, still sore from yesterday's bitch slap, and loom over Max.

"You called us douchebags!"

"I saved your sorry butt, you scumbag!"

"Dirt bag!"

PJ jumps between us, playing peacemaker. "That's enough bags for today, folks. Chill out."

We shove PJ away and get in each other's faces.

"Chicken can lay eggs on your eyebrows," Max sneers.

"My neck hurts from talking to you, Grumpy! Are you trying to give me a crick?"

"Would you stop it with the short jokes? See my dad? That's how tall I'm gonna get when I'm your age!"

Knowing that things can get ugly, PJ does the wise thing and flings Max over his shoulder, carrying him away toward the house. He spins around and thanks me, ever the good kid he is.



~*~*~*~



PJ's house is as nice on the inside as the outside: classy furniture, good quality wallpapers, and their pet dog is cuter than Waffles. I spot an overweight man sitting on a couch, spitting potato chips at the TV screen. He screams a bunch of foul words at the football players and shoves a load of chips into his mouth.

This is Mr. Pete, the businessman. I feel a bit let down; this guy looks like a real scumbag.

Peg walks out of the kitchen in tight white pants and a pink sweater, throwing her arms up in delight. "Oooh, I'm so glad you came." She turns her sweet face toward her husband. "Sweetie Petey, look who's here."

"Who else is here? It's always them Goofs ruining my… c'mon, you bums! Don't just stand there! Chase that ball for Pete's sake!" He shakes his fists over his head in excitement, unaware how stupid he appears to his guests. Or probably just doesn't care.

Peg giggles then says to us, "Excuse me." She strides toward her husband, turns off the TV, points at us, and then, "PETE! You better play host or so help me God the next time you watch a football match will be in your grave!"

To my shame, I admit that I hide behind Goofy when that tornado started. Man, who would have thought this would come out of a sweet woman like Peg?

"But, Cupcake…"

"Don't sweet talk your way out of this. There's a new addition to Goofy's family and you haven't met him yet."

"That's what we need. Another Goof," Pete mutters but obeys his wife, dragging his feet toward us. He looks me up and down with complete lack of interest and shakes my hand in haste.

"Petey, this is Bradley. He's Penny's son…"

Pete waves off Goofy, interrupting him with a, "Yeah, yeah, when is dinner?"

"Dinner isn't ready yet," Peg says. "In the meantime, you should entertain the guests."

"I'll entertain them with some football. Goofy is a big fan of football, aren't ya, Goof?"

"Well…"

Pete puts Goofy in a headlock and squashes the oxygen out of him. "Of course, he is. Why he's a huge fan of the Giants," he says with a nervous laugh.

Goofy breaks out of the hook. "Not really. Back when I was little, I was so afraid to play with the other kids, 'cause whenever I hear the 'eenie, feeny, finey, foe', my legs tangle on each other." He winks at me and Max. "But one day I heard them say it wrong, and everything was solved. Ah-yuck."

I scratch my temple. "Uh, you mean, Fee-fi-fo-fum?"

Goofy's legs tangle around each other, just as he said, and he releases his well-known yell, dropping on the floor and slamming into everything on his way. Pete's loud laugh of ridicule comes to an unfortunate end when Goofy hits his TV and it comes crashing onto the floor.

We watch Pete crumble and lose himself into wails without a trace of sympathy. Then, suddenly, the man's eyes flash red and focus on Goofy. He leaps at the man and grabs him by the collar, his mouth running with insults.

What the hell? That fat jerk needs to be put in his place. I stare at him in shock, watching him shove Goofy around and verbally attack him. My mind tells me that it's none of my business, but then I catch the look of naked hatred on Max's face. The kid watches his father being humiliated in helpless frustration, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

It's that look of pure abhorrence that makes me decide, stepping between the two grown men and holding up a hand to Pete's face.

"Enough," I say with a hard voice.

He looks at me like I've opened the doors to hell, and I think I did, seeing how his eyes turn bloodshot. "Who do you think you are?!" he barks fire at me, throwing me back against Goofy.

"Is this how you treat your guests? No wonder you're a grumpy old jerk."

Goofy gasps behind me, holding my shoulders. "Bradley."

I shake his hands off and step into Pete's personal space. "We're your guests. You should treat us with respect, especially this man who always speaks highly of you." I turn my gaze to a shocked Peg. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Pete, but until Mr. Goof gets an apology, we're heading back home."

She nods in understanding. "Pete, apologize."

"But, Peanut-Butter, did you see how…"

"NOW!"

Pete grumbles incoherent words under his breath and mumbles a lame apology to Goofy.

I wouldn't have accepted that sad excuse for an apology, but one look at Max's satisfied grin makes me settle for it. Whoa, wait, wait a freaking second… did I just… feel pleased that Max is happy? My terrified, wide eyes lock with Max's grateful ones, and suddenly I lose my ability to breathe.

"Uh, Mrs. Pete, where's the bathroom?"

"I'll show you," Max exclaims eagerly, taking my hand and leading me to the bathroom.

When we're out of sight, he stops walking and turns around with a bright smile on his face. "That was really cool what you did there."

I arch an eyebrow, even though I already figured out what he's talking about.

"It pisses me off when he mocks my dad," he explains, running a hand through his hair and giving a helpless shrug. "But I never had the courage to stand up to him."

He looks down, and a mortified whisper escapes his mouth, "Pete scares me."

I stare at his downcast face, speechless and unsure how to react to that confession. Not sure how to react to him confessing his weakness to me. His disgraced admission and pathetic posture send awkward tingles down my belly, and those disturbing and recent bubbly feelings come soaring through me with a force. I fight a creepy urge to fall on my knees and hug him, so I just ruffle his hair instead and dash into the bathroom.

I stand in front of the sink, looking at my terrified face in the mirror. Both of my hands clutch the basin in a white-knuckled grip, feeling the awful truth wrapping its cords around my neck. I'm developing protective brotherly feelings for the guy I despise more than Satan himself.

How the hell did this happen? Two days ago all I wanted was to rub the sole of my shoe on his face, had resorted to magic to be rid of him, and toyed with a child's feelings to satisfy my bruised ego.

Soft knocks sound at the door. "Bradley, are you okay?"

His little boy voice, filled with worry and uncertainty, pushes away my brutal thoughts with a snap.

"I'm fine, Max. I'll be out in a minute."

His little boy voice is the first clue to explain the rush of these unwanted emotions, but it isn't until tomorrow night that I realize what the problem is. Goofy suggests a movie night, so the three of us snuggle onto the couch and watch a Jim Carrey movie. Having spent the day doing chores I've never done before in my life, I fall into a deep sleep before the first half of the movie is over.

I wake up to a gentle shake on my shoulder, feeling some stiffness in my neck from propping my head against the arm of the couch. Goofy smiles and then nods down at the weight on my legs. Max is using my thighs as skinny pillows, hugging my legs tightly to his chest, a poor replacement for his fluffy teddy bear. Goofy looks at him like an angel lazily lounging on a bed of clouds. The kid does look so young and innocent: snuggling against me, his hair a mess on my jeans, his soft breath brushing my upper thigh.

It's here when I figure it out instantly... Max is just a kid. He may have the short temper and stubbornness of the eighteen-year-old jackass I remember, but overall, he's nothing more than a kid. His priorities are centered on pranks and having fun. He also seems to be really fond of his father.

That deep shame I used to sense in his older self isn't present here at all; this little boy takes his father's clumsiness in stride.

I blink out of my musings when Goofy bends to scoop his son into his arms and carry him upstairs. My legs feel a bit cold without my little blanket, so I drop them to the floor and follow the older man up the stairs with a yawn.

There's so much affection and love in the way he tucks Max in bed and then kisses his forehead. It's so overwhelming to watch; I'm just not used to a man showing that much affection. I take off my shirt and pants and throw them in the basket, then slip into my bed and snuggle my pillow.

I close my eyes and let sleep take over me, but the sudden, unexpected kiss on my forehead steals sleep away.

I bolt up in shock and fear, making Goofy jump back with a startle.

He touches his chest where his heart is and chuckles in amusement. "Gee, sensitive feller?"

"I'm not a kid," I protest, feeling the place where his goofy lips touched me burning.

He chuckles again and heads for the door. "Well, you're my kid from now on."

"That's not what I mea... what did you say?"

He smiles back at me, "Good night, Bradley," and then walks out, closing the door behind him.

I stay sitting there for almost two minutes and then start scrubbing my forehead with my fingers, hoping I can wipe the feeling of that kiss away. And I thought watching him kissing Max was overwhelming!

~*~*~*~

The Saturday afternoon sun blazes over my face, forcing me to squint. Today is unusually hot for spring, making me envy Goofy who seizes the day to take a swim in Pete's pool. He climbs up the ladder and waves to me, wearing a swimsuit he probably stole from Peg's wardrobe. I wave back and whimper when I hear the splash of cold water.

"Bradley, focus!"

"Right."

I stretch my back; a strap of my denim overalls slips off my naked shoulder. I put it back on, pretending to smile and nod while I try to process what PJ is saying. He keeps explaining how to mow a lawn with the patience of a saint. Turns out he gets most of the house chores dumped on him by his old man, which makes him a young expert on everything. I've assigned him to be my go-to guy after Goofy had almost set our house on fire trying to teach me how to use the washing machine, how are these two events related? Don't ask. It just shows you that nothing is impossible when you have Goofy around.

Max comes over to us with his skateboard tucked under his arm. He tries to find a mischievous way to mow the lawn faster so he and his buddy can go out and play.

"No, no, no, last time I let you help me, we declared war on Mom's roses. I can't do that to Mr. G's daisies." PJ is having none of it, pushing Max away. "Go skate on the ramp until I'm done."

Max rolls his eyes, about to do as his friend said, but then stops in his tracks and starts whistling. "Bradley, look, that girl is checking you out."

I look around. "What? Where?" Oh, I see her. Silky blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail with a scrunchie, sky-blue eyes twinkling under the bright sun, a simple white tank top and denim shorts, too casual, yet at that moment, she's the sexiest angel to exist.

Max pulls me down and then pushes one of my straps to hang loose down my back.

"What the…"

He winks and lets go of me. "Chicks dig that, trust me."

She seems to be digging it all right. I honestly don't see what the appeal is: denim overalls on a shirtless body and and a cap turned backwards, in other words, I look ridiculous!

"Hey, big brother," Max says in the most innocent tone he can muster, which sounds so unconvincing, especially when you know this kid. "Can you teach me how to fifty-fifty Axelgrind?"

I blink down at him, Max as my wingman?

"I'd like to see that, too." The girl leans against the fence and winks at me.

My eyes are captivated by her full cleavage, so I pat PJ on the back, unable to take my eyes off her. "PJ, be a pal and mow the lawn for me, okay?"

"What? No! I'm not doing someone else's chores. I've got more than I can take. Besides, Max knows how to…"

Max slaps his palm on PJ's mouth. "Oh, come on, Peej, do it for your best bud."

PJ starts complaining, but none of us pay attention to him. Max opens the door for the girl and leads both of us to the small, old ramp. I show off most of the skateboarding tricks I know with Max playing the fanboy role, proving to be a perfect wingman.

And now I have a date for tonight.

~*~*~*~*~

Everybody is fussing over this date: Peg insists on ironing my suit, not trusting Goofy to do it. Pistol is showing me hairstyling trends from her mother's magazines. Max is giving me tips on how to woo the lady. And Goofy can't stop taking pictures of me in the suit, as if I'm going to my high school prom.

I check myself in the mirror, perfecting my trademark smile, but unable to focus with the camera's flash blinding my eyes.

Peg walks into my room with Pistol in tow. She giggles and claps her hands together. "Oh, you look fabulous!"

"Thanks, Mrs. P. Where's PJ?"

"Oh, he says he's having a backache from doing too much mowing. He seems pretty upset."

Max and I share a wink. "I'll talk to him, Mrs. P," he says.

Pistol pinches my thigh and squeals, "Caliente!"

I give her a side grin, feeling flattered, when a fatal pinch rips at my side. I scream at the same time Goofy squeals, "Tabitobi!"

"What does that mean, Pop?" Max asks in sincere confusion.

"I thought we were yelling made-up words. What does 'carinii' mean anyway?"

~*~*~*~

My date tonight was almost a complete bust. We went to this nice Italian restaurant, and everything was going okay, until I caught a glimpse of Goofy and his ever-present camera. It wasn't just Goofy; the whole gang was seated at a nearby table, disguised as the Simpsons. Earlier, when I was leaving for my date, I thought it was cute how they all stood at the doorway waving goodbye, eyes bright with tears of happiness and pride. It made me feel loved and special, but following me to the restaurant is bordering on crazy. One thing led to another, and the whole restaurant burst into flames. Strangely enough, it wasn't Goofy's fault, but Peg's.

I have to admit, the whole thing made me a hero without actually working for it. I was so scared I'd raced out of the restaurant before everyone else. It just so happened that I was holding Kate's hand when the alarm started. She thinks I saved her life.

Over my shoulder, I saw my wacky family winking and giving me thumbs-up. I almost smiled back, but I restrained myself and gave them a well-deserved scowl.

Now, here we are, in our formal wear, eating at a very crowded McDonald's.

"So, Bradley, what do you do?" Kate asks, taking a bite out of a chicken nugget.

A woman shoves my chair out of her way as she squeezes her large body between our table and the one next to us. She knocks my head down with her elbow, and my face smacks onto the ketchup.

"Nothing yet," I answer with a muffled voice.

Kate's giggle makes me smile. I grab a handful of tissues and wipe my face clean. "Still trying to stand up on my feet after my dad died." I wipe the smudge of ketchup from my nose using the hem of my fancy suit jacket.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Her plucked eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I thought the man in the bikini…"

"That's Max's father," I correct promptly. "We're half-brothers. Clearly, the 'half' pertains to our collective sanity."

"So, you're living with your mom?"

"She's dead, too."

"I'm sorry again. Gosh, I'm probably bringing you down."

"Not at all. It's alright. My life story tends to have that effect on people." I dip a French fry into the new puddle of ketchup and chew on it. "It's just, it feels like I've been zapped into this town with no idea what to do. I just need time to focus."

She nods in understanding. "You need to have a goal."

The fry dangling out of my mouth falls to my lap, staining my pants. "Yeah, a goal. Like, avoiding public humiliations involving condiments."

She leans closer, resting her chin on her fist. "Can't go forward without having one."

I lower my gaze to my uneaten burger, losing my appetite and desire to stay. "I… yeah…"

~*~*~*~

Sunday morning, I'm perched on top of the treehouse, watching Max teaching PJ how to do frontside nosegrinds. The goal Kate was talking about is right in front of me, skillfully skateboarding on that ramp. I just… a whole week in this place, I've been so engrossed in the simplicity of Max's childhood. So attractive and addictive, I even forgot completely about the gold sun. I can't spend my whole life here, though; this is supposed to be a temporary stay. Besides, my whole life here is built on a lie that I'm pretty sure Max and Goofy will figure out eventually.

I need to find a way to achieve my goal without causing harm to Max and return to my timeline to live my life the way it's supposed to be.

But…

A bitter smile forms on my lips as I watch them all: Max and PJ on the ramp, Goofy watering his garden, Pistol having a tea party with her dolls, Pete on his boat reading the newspaper, and Peg inside the kitchen making us sandwiches. Letting go of this life is going to be the hardest chore.

At night, lying awake in my bed, I don't hear a sound on the mattress above me. It's a school night, so Max is probably in a deep sleep. Still, I can't stop the questions nagging in my head.

"Max, is there something else you're good at besides skateboarding?"

The mattress moves slightly, good, he's still awake. "I can dance," he says in a drowsy voice.

A hopeful smile breaks onto my lips. "Really? Like, professionally? Because if you can bring in some cash, that'd be swell."

He lets out a small laugh. "Not to that extent. Fast-dancing, though. Slow-dancing gives me the creeps. Too much awkward swaying, not enough flailing."

"Did you ever get into a school contest? Or did your talent remain tragically undiscovered?"

"No. I almost won the spelling bee, though."

"Oh, you're good at academic competitions? Shocking, given your usual academic interests."

"Not really. It was Dad making a point. Again." He peers down at me, his little ears dangling as his eyes blink in confusion. "Why are you asking me all that? Plotting my future, are we?"

I lever myself up on one elbow and rest my head on one hand. "Just think a person should expand his horizons. You know, beyond the pavement."

A frown clouds his face. "Hey, are you saying that because you think I can't do what you said?"

"What?"

"The sliding down the railing on my hands thing."

"It's okay if you can't do everything now. You're still a kid, after all. Your bones are still, you know, developing."

"I can do it," he insists. "I'll show you tomorrow after school. Prepare to be amazed."

I jump up in bed, fixing my resolved eyes on him. "Don't. Max, you have to promise me you'll never do anything dangerous like that, okay? I'm not looking to inherit a hospital bill."

"But I can do it. I'm practically a superhero."

"No. My insurance policy doesn't cover 'stupid stunts performed by minors.'"

"But..."

"Max," I say in a serious tone, "Don't do it. I meant it."

I hold his childish, stubborn gaze with mine, watching him relent and nod. I nod back in satisfaction, not going to sleep until I'm perfectly sure he won't be doing something stupid.



~*~*~*~




I hate hospitals. I hate the wandering white coats and blue scrubs, the sight of charts and the injured, the sound of beeping machines and crying children, and the smell of antiseptics. But what I mostly hate is the reminder of human mortality lurking in every corner. The little boy standing close to his father with a touch of hopelessness in his face takes me back to an old, depressing memory.

I turn my attention to the miserable faces around me, unhappy over the recent tragedy. PJ and Pistol have skipped school, cuddled by the side of a mother who's too depressed to offer comfort to her children. Even Pete has a grim face, standing next to his family with his eyes focused on the broken man next to me. I glance at the wreck of a father who hasn't lifted his face from his clasped fists since we arrived at the hospital.

Max had disobeyed me and gone through with it. He'd woken up early this morning and dragged PJ with him to the highest flight of stairs in the park. According to PJ, the skateboard had slid down too fast, forcing Max to slip and fall hard on his back. Everything that came after that was pretty scary: a crying Pistol waking me up, the noise of the ambulance siren, Pete driving us to the hospital… buried emotions of loss and sorrow come rushing back, reinforced with a new sense of guilt.

I put a hand on Goofy's shoulder. "Want some beverage, Mr. G?"

He doesn't answer me. I can't help but think that he's ignoring me on purpose, blaming me for what happened. My chest tightens and my throat locks; suddenly there's no air around me to breathe. I rise to my feet and walk away toward the vending machine, placing my palms on it and hanging my head.

Fingers brush my lower back, making me spin around with a flinch. PJ's reassuring smile confuses me more than comforts me. "It's gonna be all right."

I run a hand through my uncombed hair and look away. "It's my fault, and you know it."

"It's not your fault."

"I challenged him to do it," I spit out, picturing how the accident happened in my head.

"Max told me that you warned him not to do it. But you know him; nothing can stop him from going after what he wants. He's got that stubborn streak, takes after someone I know."

I'm about to protest when I see the doctor coming out of the examining room at the end of the hall, now surrounded by our fretting families. PJ and I race back toward the others only to hear Peg's choked cry and Pistol's wailing.

PJ turns to his father frantically. "What-wha… what's wrong with Max?"

Pete rubs his forehead despairingly. "Uh, it appears that he's got a spinal injury. He… the injury seems to have caused paralysis from the hips down."

The sympathy and sorrow in Pete's voice and expression would have stunned me if we were in different circumstances; right now my shock is reserved for Max's severe condition.

"No," PJ says in a dazed shock. "He can't be crippled forever." He grabs the doctor by his white coat and shakes him. "You've got to do something, Doc! There must be a way to fix his spine. Some heck of a surgery."

"Yes," Peg says through her sniffles. "Whatever that surgery costs, we'll pay."

The doctor eyes her sadly, and then places a gentle hand on PJ's shoulder. "I'm sorry, son, the chances of a surgery like that to succeed is forty percent out of a hundred. I'm so sorry."

My heart gives at the sight of Goofy's expressionless face, standing like a frozen statue before me, paralyzed by sadness. There you have it, Bradley, Max Goof can never use a skateboard again.

Does it make you happy?

  
~*~*~*~



What used to be a happy home has turned into a cold, dark place, occupied by the shells of ourselves. Goofy has transformed into a cynical, depressed man whose only purpose in life is to prepare his crippled son's three meals a day and take him on trips to the bathroom. He's stopped taking care of himself, his garden, and his pet cat, poor Waffles has started to rely on me to feed and cuddle him.

Visits to the neighbors have become rare, if ever; we don't see much of them anymore, except for PJ and Pistol coming over to cheer up Max from time to time. Goofy's new attitude has isolated us from everyone in the neighborhood. It seems that all these years of suppressed anger combusted the day Max lost the ability to use his legs.

Peg tried talking to Goofy; even Pete tried slapping some sense into him, telling him with a string of insults that his new hatred for the world isn't doing Max any good.

It seems it's up to me to keep the poor kid sane in the dull prison his father has locked him in. I find him seated on my old bed, now Max's, with me occupying the top mattress, an upturned comic book in his hands. The kid's eyes are hollow, looking past the colored panels and into nothing.

"If you're here to cheer me up, it won't work," he says dryly. "All these comic books from PJ didn't, and neither did Pistol's 'glad game.'"

I lift the corners of my lips into a tiny smile, sitting next to him on the bed and resting on his pillow. "Funny you should mention it. Pollyanna became temporarily disabled, but then she was able to walk again. A true inspiration for us all, wouldn't you say?"

Max's sigh seems to have come from the depths of his soul. "It's just a children's book, Bradley."

I take hold of his bare hand, so small without the glove, and rub gentle circles on his palm. "Wanna thumb wrestle? Or are you too afraid of my legendary thumb-power?"

He leans his head on my shoulder and sighs again. "Sure."

After a few days of gloom, I've realized that the best medicine right now is to keep things normal. PJ and Pistol try so hard to make him happy that as a result, he ends up feeling guilty when he can't return their efforts with a sincere smile. There are days where he can't stand the sight of them and uses eye contact when they're not looking, begging me to send them back home.

PJ and Pistol mean well, but all they do is make Max more aware of his condition, which depresses him even more.

"Darn," he grits out.

"What? You're winning. Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now."

He looks away. "I need to go to the bathroom."

I've never taken him to the bathroom, and I sure as hell don't intend to now, but that means interacting with Goofy, and that in itself is as unpleasant as feeding Waffles too much sardine. I watch him press the call button in dismay and wait for his father to come.

When I signed up for this, I knew that what I was getting into would probably have dire consequences for Max. And for myself. I'm just… I never wanted it to be this dark. I never wanted Goofy to change into Frankenstein or for Max to be crippled, especially at this young age. Pranks and a little bit of humiliation are all I wanted out of this, not to mention securing my future as the X-Games king. But not like this, not by paralyzing an eleven-year-old kid.

"Max, I know a way to fix this," I say decidedly. "But you have to give me that gold sun."

He looks up at me with a hopeless stare. "You haven't forgotten about that thing yet? I figured it was relegated to the dustbin of bad ideas."

"It's the only way out of this. For both of us."

The confusion is apparent on his face, yet he nods guardedly. "My school bag. Front pocket."

Hopping off the bed, I remember Max's bag being abandoned in the corner behind the door. As I reach with my hand to shut the door, Goofy appears in the doorway with his pale, vampire face.

I freeze in my place despite myself, still not used to the monster that replaced the happiest man I ever knew.

"One trip to the bathroom coming up," his attempt to joke falls flat due to his hollow tone and passive features.

I hold up my hands to stop him. "It's fine, Mr. G. I got it."

Goofy scoffs. "Don't tell me you're taking him."

I unzip Max's bag and bring out the gold sun. "He'll be able to do it himself. Trust me."

Goofy scoffs again and crosses the room to his son as I pull out the necklace from under my shirt. I look up at the father and son, their ungloved hands clasping in a tight grip.

"Don't worry, everything will be fine," I whisper, holding the sun to the necklace. It fits into the moon with a click.

A bright, bright light shines from the joined pieces, painting everything white for a mere second. It happens in an instant, like a blur; my surroundings change in a flash, and Max's room is replaced with another room... my room.

I stare, wide-eyed, at the face looking back at me in the mirror, that's me, except I look different. My hair is longer, shaggy, and somewhat curly; my face is much thinner, and… and I look younger. I notice that my shirt has changed, too. I'm wearing an old Ralph Lauren vest over a striped shirt; these clothes… I remember them. I look around me in complete shock. I'm back in the mansion.

Could… could it be?

I race toward my nightstand and look at the fancy, boring calendar I remember so well. 1995! The timeline is three years in the future, and yet I've got a few years knocked out of my age. I'm sixteen.

But, if I'm sixteen, then…

A knock on the door makes me yelp, at least I already outgrew my puberty voice. I gaze at the door in suspicion, my heart raging in my chest in spite of me. I don't think I'm ready to see him yet.

"Master Bradley, are you in there?"

Yoli! It's just Yoli. I heave a sigh of relief and walk over to the door, opening it for my favorite servant. She looks the same, except for the clothes and the hair, but generally she makes me feel a bit nostalgic. Just a little bit.

I force a carefree smile on my face. "Hey, what do you want? Don't tell me you've brought more of those questionable kale smoothies."

"I came for the dirty clothes," she says in her Puerto Rican accent. She doesn't buy my act, as usual. "Are you all right, mi hijo? You look pale. Well, more than usual."

I shrug. "I'm fine."

She narrows her eyes at me, trying to guess what is going on but already knows she'll never be able to drag the truth out of me. "Why don't you go and ride Andrea? She's been looking forward to seeing you."

My eyes bulge out in complete horror. "What?! Ride what now?"

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Andrea, your horse. The one with four legs and a tail?"

I never had a horse. "My horse?"

She places her palm on my forehead. "Are you sick? Or just unusually forgetful today?"

I shake her hand away. "Right. My horse. At the stable, I assume."

"Where else would she be? The moon?"

My balcony overlooks an abandoned stable we didn't use since my mother passed away. Mom used to be so fond of horses; her favorite was an Arabian horse called Gloria. They used to make the most beautiful picture together, carved in my mind forever, whether she was feeding her, washing her, or riding her. Always laughing, always happy, always attractive, my best times when I was little were when I was looking at her and Gloria together.

Mom was a gifted equestrienne and had often taken me horseback riding as a child. She'd promised to get me my own steed when I was old enough to take care of it and ride it, but after her death, I lost my love and interest in everything related to horses. Dad sending Gloria away was the second hardest thing I had to witness in my childhood.

There it is, the old stable. Doesn't look so old anymore. It's been repainted and cleaned; I wonder if it looks exactly like I remember it on the inside. I walk around the stable, glancing up at my balcony. It used to be a torture having the stable right in my view; for all his eagerness to get rid of every reminder of Mom, Dad had never gotten around to tearing this place down.

The loud neighing of a horse makes me pick up my pace, and I see her just exiting the stable. Gloria. Looks exactly like Gloria, a reddish-brown body color and a black mane and tail with a cross-shaped white mark on her forehead. I'd believe she's Gloria, but my mother's mare was a chestnut horse; this one looks like a bay horse.

I'm broken out of my enchantment by a boy in a white T-shirt and denim overalls walking out of the stable with a pail of hay. He places it in front of Andrea and watches her dig into it, lowering the brim of his denim hat.

Moving forward, I step on a tree branch on the ground, the cracking sound startling the stable boy and making him spin around.

No way.

Max is my stable boy?!

What? How? But… he's supposed to be in Spoonerville, what brings him to…? Aunt Broom-Hilda's words vaguely cross my mind, something about the past rewriting itself. Which means that now I have a horse, the stable isn't abandoned, Max works for me, and… and… if we're using the stable, that means that…

Mom is still alive.

Chapter Text

Drawn by Izzy-Chan13

Chapter Four:

Mom is still alive.

Heart raging in my chest, helplessly panting while running back toward the mansion, my hopes and longing building up with each step. "Mom is still alive," is the only thought rushing through my head. I thump and bump into most of the servants on my way, using my long limbs to hop up two steps of the stairs at a time.

"Master Bradley," I hear the disbelief and worry in Yoli's voice, but I keep racing up the stairs as fast as I can. My father doesn't like anyone running inside the house, but at this moment, frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

I've never hated the long hallways in my house like I do now; it seems like they're stretching on forever, creating a never-ending maze of dull, naked walls.

I slow down, spotting the door I know so well, now approaching it with tentative steps. I rest my hand on the doorknob, thinking of nothing but her beautiful red hair and emerald green eyes. Now that I'm here, I feel paralyzed by fear and hesitation. What will I say to her? Is she still the same angel I remember? Does she look the same? Ten years ought to have aged and changed her. All these thoughts and questions invading my head are pushing me to flee and hide in my room.

Mixed emotions fight a messy battle inside, my grip shaking on the doorknob. I close my eyes briefly, reconsider what I'm about to do, what it may change, if I should sacrifice all my beautiful memories of her for a made-up reality. Missing her so much and longing for her touch and hold urge me to make a rash decision, and I hear the definite click as I turn the doorknob.

Dim light illuminating from the lonely lamp on the nightstand greets me in the dark bedroom. The familiar chic black wallpaper, the empty bottle of beer on top of a closed book resting on a table next to a singular couch, all crush my hopes into a pulp.

"Bradley."

My skin crawls with anxiety.

He steps out of the bathroom in a black robe, fixing a very familiar glare my way. "Why didn't you knock?"

I look at him with bare disappointment and loss, biting down a quivering lip. "Black wallpaper?"

His scowl melts into a matching look of pain. "Dreamed about her again?"

The hard knot in my throat is burning now, making it almost impossible for me to talk. I gaze around the room, searching for any reminder of her, but he'd changed everything just like he'd done in the old, not-altered reality. That witch could have given me that happiness, but apparently she just inserted Max into my past, changing little to nothing about my childhood.

My father is still the same bitter alcoholic, and my mother… she's…

Mom is dead!

My father takes a step closer, but I flinch back. My reaction disturbs him into stillness, painting a sad, frustrated look in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asks with an unfamiliar tenderness, as if speaking to some spooked animal.

And I am spooked, so spooked I want to cry like a newborn baby or explode out of existence. That small thread of hope ripped out of my heart and left me with nothing. I have nothing to look forward to in this timeline. The sight of my father's bedroom is so suffocating that I need to breathe. I need to get out.

I storm out of his room and run down the halls, my steps thumping hard on the carpeted floor. Slamming my door open, I pace aimlessly around my room, feeling it spin around me. "I need to get out. I need to get out. I need to get out."

I can't do it all over again. I can't relive the nightmare of my childhood and teen years. I can't sleep under the same roof with him again.

I grab hold of my expensive vest, pulling on it so hard I hear it rip. Loud screams of frustration tear through my dry throat and shatter the silence of my room. My legs give out, and I drop to my knees, having already ripped most of my vest. My hand clenches into a tight fist and bangs on the floor, harsh, repeated bangs, leaving small drops of blood on the wood.

Gold slips out of my shirt and dances in uneven circles, dangling from my neck. The gold-plated moon glistens through the fog of my tears, no sun attached to it anymore. Where he lives, you'll find the golden sun.

Max!

Rising to my feet so suddenly, I feel a head rush and collapse to the floor again. Taking a couple of ragged breaths, I grab the chair and pull myself up, steadying myself with a hand on the desk. My reflection in the mirror is the most hideous I've ever seen myself—I mustn't let Max see me in this condition. Teenage servants foster a strong sense of rebellion, so in order to have their undying respect, a top-notch appearance is high on the must-have list.

I need to get a grip.

Taking a quick shower, slipping into a sharp outfit, I gaze through the window at the beautiful sunset relaxing over the hillside. The day has ended so soon; I'd better hurry before Max leaves the stable.

I make my way through the sandy ground, puffs of dust rising and falling with each step. The scoffing and neighing of a horse drift to my ears, so I quicken my steps, the sooner I get to Max, the sooner I'm out of this hell.

Instead of a brown mare, I see a strongly built, compact yet elegant Andalusian horse drinking from a pail. Its golden, long mane dips into the water while its thick tail flags high in the air. Over the white horse's back, a carrot bounces up and disappears down, the sound of a man whistling a cheery tune mingling with the fluttering of the water.

I feel a warm chuckle escaping my mouth in spite of myself. "Mr. Goof?"

The carrot smacks the man's head and bounces off to the ground, rolling until it stops at my feet.

"Ah-yuck, hi-ya, Bradley."

Denim overalls just like his son's over a white T-shirt, both Goofs work for us, taking care of our horses. I turn my attention to the majestic white horse. If Andrea is my horse, then this is my father's for sure.

Goofy walks over and picks up the carrot, wiping the dirt on his overalls.

"You're not going to eat that, are you?"

He chuckles. "Don't be silly. This is Alexander's."

"My father's horse?" I ask, mostly for confirmation.

"Yep. Best stallion for the boss." I watch him make his way toward Alexander, brushing a gloved hand gently on the golden mane to draw the horse's attention to the carrot.

I peek into the stable from my place; it's too dark, I can't see a thing. "Where's Max?"

"Already tucked Andrea in," Goofy answers. "He's back at the dorm."

My hand locks on the gold moon, feeling its sharp edges digging at my palm. No point in hiding it under my shirt like I used to do, especially when I'm close to leaving this reality for good.

"Okay, thanks, Mr. G!"

Goofy recoils and looks back at me with wide eyes. "What did you just call me?"

"Uh, um, what?" I fluster, having gotten used to calling him by the name PJ and Pistol use during my stay in Spoonerville.

His eyes turn misty and he shakes his head with a small, bitter smile. "It's all right. Just nostalgia."

I walk away before curiosity takes over me. There's no point in learning why Goofy and Max ended up here.

The servants' dorm. I've snuck in there quite a lot during my childhood, mostly to piss off my old man. He doesn't like me mixing with the help; other than Yoli, I'm not supposed to socialize with them.

I asked around for Max's room, and was told he shares the room next to Yoli's with his dad. Supposedly it's the biggest room in the dorm, with a closet room, a kitchenette, and a bathroom. Tom, the gardener, told me they thought it was best to give the man and his son the best room, considering the circumstances. Again, I stifled my curiosity and simply thanked the man; no need to learn about the details of Goofy and Max's situation.

Urgent knocks on their door. I fight the urge to slam it open like a dramatic villain, opting instead for a charming smile at Mary, who's passing in the hallway. No need to raise anyone's suspicion by acting rude to the youngest servant in the dorm, after all, a reputation for civility is crucial, even when you're seething.

"I'm coming," yells the detested voice I remember, having grown out of the little boy voice.

It seems like ages ago that I was part of the Goof family; those old feelings of belonging and adoration promptly vanished from my system after the last encounter with my father. Nothing matters now but to get back to my rightful time and swear off magic completely.

"Bradley?" Fourteen-year-old Max opens the door, looking a bit older than the kid I left behind in Spoonerville. His hair, tousled and greasy after a hard day's work, with a few locks plastered to his forehead, he looks up at me with the same big eyes he inherited from his father. Though taller than he used to be, he's still many inches shorter than I am, when will that growth spurt kick in? He's wearing a white tank top and wrinkled overalls with the straps hanging down over his hips, having slipped into them in the rush to open the door.

Making sure no one is in the hallway, I shove him aside and walk into their room. It's large and simple, with one bed placed in the corner.

"You sleep in the closet?"

"What?" He's already dumbfounded over my past dismissive shove, not expecting such a thing from me. Makes me wonder about the Bradley of this reality, the one who never knew Max Goof beforehand, is it possible that in this timeline the two of us became some sort of friends?

"I said, you sleep in the closet?" I say a bit crudely. "Are you deaf?"

Dark eyebrows creasing in a peeved frown, Max folds his arms over his chest. "What is it that you want?" he asks in a deep voice, too mature for his age. He's supposed to be fresh out of puberty.

"Listen, kiddo, in this estate, I call the shots. So, you better do what I say, stable boy," I demand, putting extra inflection on the name.

Lips a tight line, the boy struggles to keep his short temper under control. His expressive face shows a mixture of negative emotions, but he knows full well that once he opens his mouth, the wrong words will slip out and put him in trouble. He reluctantly leads me to the door on the right and into a very small, windowless room.

Books are scattered over the room, some hidden under crumpled clothes, underwear lying on an unmade bed. Tsking at the dump before me, I smile when a rosy color rises to Max's cheeks. "Still the messy pig, aren't you?"

He blinks up at me. "Still?"

I don't fluster over my Freudian slip, remaining calm and nonchalant. "Looking at this room makes me exhausted. Just tell me where you're hiding it."

"Hiding what?"

"The gold sun."

"The gold what?"

"See this?" I hold up the necklace to his face, an expected déjà vu arising. "A sun should be attached to this moon."

Max regards me with a hard stare. "And you think I took it?"

"Who else would do that?"

Finding it really hard to keep his anger buried inside anymore, Max grits his teeth, his tight fists shaking by his sides. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the invisible pixies who dust your trophy shelf, or could be the maid who actually cleans your room?"

I'm not impressed.

"Maybe you misplaced it?" Max says in a calmer tone. He nods his chin at my necklace. "I never saw anything like this before."

"Maybe not this, but you obviously saw my gold sun."

His face flames in the disgrace of being accused of thievery. "I swear I didn't take it."

Stepping closer until we're face to face, I smirk down at his livid gaze. "Come on, Max, let's be honest. It's in your room. Probably under that pile of existential angst and dirty socks."

"No, it's not. Go ahead and search the place."

"I'm not going to search this dump." Walking around the small room, I try to detect a shiny object among the mess of clothes and books. "I'll tell you what," I begin, turning around to face him. "I'll give you three days, and if you don't come clean with it, I'll come over with a group of maids to search through this room. We'll make it a treasure hunt."

Before he can say a thing, I go on, "I'll also know if you're going to sneak it out. The hallways are filled with security cameras. Consider them your personal paparazzi."

He looks like he wants to spit on my face. "There's no need for any of that. I'm telling you now, it's not here."

"Once you find it," I continue as if I haven't heard him, "I'll have your old man kicked out of this estate and make sure he never finds a job. And believe me, my father can do that. He's quite adept at making people disappear from the job market."

He stares at me with eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

"The only way to save your father is to beg me on your knees, kissing my feet and agreeing to become my personal slave... oops, I meant servant."

Okay, I know I've gone way too far, got carried away by power and status, but the look on his face is pure win. He can't even muster a single word after everything I said. I make my way out of the room, bumping his shoulder with mine.

"By the way, I'll definitely be in the mood for a good horseback ride tomorrow, so get Andrea ready for me."

My trip back home will be delayed, but at least I'll get to have fun tormenting my stable boy.



~*~*~*~



Silent dinners, how I haven't missed you. Thankfully, it's just Dad and I tonight, without one of his bimbos. Sitting at the end of the very long table with Dad taking the other end, my eyes focus on his face, watching him chew on small pieces of his roast venison. He hasn't started wearing his glasses yet, and his hair is a dark brown that hasn't been touched by gray. Becoming aware of my intense stare, our eyes meet for a brief second, but I jerk my gaze away to the old dining room.

I let it wander over the elegant wallpaper, past the sparkling golden chandeliers to the long antique table, and ending at my plate. The chandelier's light glistens on the juniper sauce covering my venison, which rests on a bed of sweet potato mash. Looking at my fancy meal, all I can think about is Goofy's ketchup spaghetti: that wooden round table in the middle of the small kitchen, using ping-pong paddles to eat the flying meatballs, laughing at Goofy getting tangled by the spaghetti.

A sudden chuckle slips out of my mouth, and I bite my lips into silence. My father looks at me questioningly, but I shake my head with a tight smile.

"You haven't touched your food?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You're not leaving this table until you finish your dinner, young man."

I feel a muscle in my jaw working and reluctantly reach for my sparkly silver knife, feeling the sharp blade against my finger.

"I had been looking forward to our equestrian outing tomorrow afternoon," he says, taking a sip of his wine. "Unfortunately, something came up at work. It appears we'll have to reschedule it for a later date."

If anyone heard him, they'd think he was postponing a multimillion-dollar merger or defusing an international crisis, not simply rescheduling a token gesture of paternal bonding. I rip a tiny piece of the venison with my knife, finding a strange solace in the clean cut.

"Something came up, you mean Elaine?" I ask pointedly.

Cool hazel eyes stare back at me. "Yes."

I give a shaky nod and force the meat into my mouth, and despite the delicious flavor, I feel my chest heaving.

I don't feel better until I'm back in my room, seizing a certain canvas from its hiding place. My old studio is all set up with my old paintings, I haven't seen them for years, especially this one. My favorite portrait of my mother, still uncompleted, looking bare without the red, and blue, and white…

I touch my mother's unpainted hair, wondering if I can bring it to the perfection I once did, but feeling paralyzed by uncertainty and lack of confidence.

A sense of relief washes over me when I realize I'm out of red.



~*~*~*~



Forced out of bed at seven o'clock should be a crime against childhood, another reason why I cherish my college life. Eyes half-closed, backpack barely hanging on my shoulders, I drag my feet toward the black Porsche waiting for me outside the house. Good thing I don't have to walk to the gates; my feet can hardly hold me up. Let's just hope the nap I'm going to take in the car will be satisfying.

I rest my head against the window glass just as we're passing the stable. Goofy is already up in his overalls, pushing a wheelbarrow and dumping its contents into the manure pile.

"Stop for a sec," I order Mike, the driver, and roll down the window. "Hey, Mr. Goof!"

He stretches his back and gives me a bright smile. "Hi-ya, Bradley, off to school?"

Nodding, I search around for the younger Goof. "Where's Max?"

"Off to school at the crack of dawn, as usual."

I frown. "That early?"

Goofy raises an eyebrow at my confusion. "You know the nearest public school is a one-hour walk. He leaves for school at five-thirty every day."

Servants aren't allowed to use one of our many cars? I bet my father thinks he's generous enough letting the stableman's kid go to school. Goofy's easygoing tone doesn't surprise me, seeing how he tended to overlook Pete's rude and cunning behavior.

The engine starts running, and we're out of the gates, my mind racing with different thoughts.

"Mike?"

"Yes, sir?"

"What do you know about Goof and his son?"

"Not much, sir. I haven't interacted with them yet."

"So, they haven't been here for long?"

I can see his expression through the rearview mirror dissolving into a frown, probably wondering why I'm asking such a question. "They've been here for a month, sir," he says in a tone that suggests I should already know this. I must have spent most of my time at the stable hanging out with the Goofs.

"How did my father hire them?"

"Hire them?"

"Yes, Mike, how else are they working here?" I shift in my seat, feeling a bit frustrated in my school uniform. I can't believe I'm going to see everyone from high school again. My stomach is already lurching.

"Sir, I thought…" a forced cough interrupts what he's going to say, apparently catching himself in time before he says something he'll regret, "I'm sorry. I misspoke."

"No, you didn't. What were you going to say?"

Beads of sweat glint on his forehead. "It's not my place, sir."

"Mike, I order you to speak."

"I… I've heard that Goof is… uh, burdened with debt. Nothing he owned could pay off what he owed your father."

That doesn't make the slightest bit of sense. "Explanation please?"

Mike wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Maybe you'd better ask your father, Master Bradley."

Could it be that big of a deal? Or does Mike think my dad is hiding these facts from me? From the looks of it, before the transition, the former me seems to have developed a friendship with the Goofs, not surprising at all, seeing how much of a loner I used to be. Having another kid around could have made my childhood a bit more bearable.

From Mike's reaction, I'm supposed to already know everything about Max and his dad, so it came as a shock that I know jack. I can't blame him for keeping his mouth shut. Nobody wants to get on Dad's bad side.





~*~*~*~




Never in a million years did I want to go back to high school, especially mine, but the sheer enjoyment I had today made this whole time-travel hoopla worthwhile. Seeing my old teachers and classmates was a little weird at first, until I got a glimpse of the bullies who made my high school experience a living hell. So far, getting back at them was the highlight of my day, though I'm sure that's going to change now that I've spotted Max at the stable.

There he is, brushing Andrea's back and girth area, looking like the poster child for a nineties fashion disaster. His cap is turned backward, a flannel shirt tied over his hips, but the detail that really put a smile on my face is the overalls with the one strap undone. It makes me wonder what Kate is doing at the moment, she won't look at me twice now that I'm a skinny, nerdy teenager.

I smooth my hands over my equestrian clothing in excitement, recalling how surprised I was when I found the professionally tailored jacket and beige breeches hanging in my closet. Mom has always admired the elegance of English riding clothing, buying all of her equestrian apparel from a store in Cambridge. The smile on my lips fades at the sound of Max's laugh of delight.

While I still don't have much affection for my mare, beyond her strong resemblance to Gloria, a spark of jealousy sweeps over me to see her brushing her muzzle against the boy's cheek. He laughs again, letting her massage the base of his neck with her upper lip. Both of them appear so in sync with each other, like she actually belongs to him. 

"Max," I grunt his name, approaching the two of them with uneven steps on the muddy ground.

He spins around, startled, then a grim look clouds his face at the sight of me. "Bradley." A small smile softens the hard expression when Andrea licks his face.

My eyebrows knit together. "What did you just call me?"

"You told me that…" he trails off, noticing my frown intensify, and he quickly amends, "Master Bradley."

Nodding in approval, I smile at my horse, reaching with a hand to pet her muzzle. She jerks her head away from my touch, causing Max to stifle a scornful laugh. I try to keep my cool and casually tap my helmet. "You haven't saddled her yet? I told you I was going for a ride."

"Ah-yuck! There you are, kids."

I notice Max's instant grimace at the sound of his father's gleeful exclamation. He hurries into the stable just as Goofy arrives with Alexander.

"Hi, Mr. Goof," I say politely. Somehow, it's easier to revert to my old hostility toward Max, despite what happened between us in Spoonerville, but with Goofy I find it hard not to repay his kindness with respect.

Noticing how Alexander nuzzles Goofy's cheek with affection, I try to touch Andrea again, but this time her reaction is a bit violent.

Goofy jumps to calm her down. "Easy, easy there, girl." He smiles at me, stroking my horse gently on the neck. "Gotta watch it with them horsies. They say never approach a fool from the back, a bull from the side, and a goof from the back. No, wait a minute, this ain't right."

"Great, Mr. Goof, but what does that have to do with horses?"

"Everything has to do with horses, Bradley. Didn't you hear what I just said?"

I let out a humorous chuckle.

"Say, is your father going to practice riding as well?"

"No. He said he'll be busy today."

"Oh." His face falls at my answer, only to brighten at the sight of his precious son walking out of the stable. "Hey, Maxie, what was that quote about horses and goofs?"

Max ignores him, placing the saddle pad on Andrea's back, positioning it forward over the withers and sliding it back into place.

Goofy's face droops again, pulling on Alexander's rein and leading him away. I look between father and son in confusion; this isn't the usual Max seeking independence from his father. Something bigger must have happened to make them drift apart, or more accurately, to make Max treat Goofy like crap. Well, more than usual.

Minutes later, I'm on my horse, walking slowly and steadily around the mansion. This is the first time I've ridden a horse alone, having forgotten the feeling of sitting on a saddle since I was only five or six, sharing it with Mom back then. Speaking of Mom, I've never felt closer to her than right now, riding my own Gloria in my English equestrian clothing. I straighten my back, imitating her perfect posture with a bit of difficulty. The way Max holds the reins to lead Andrea makes me hunch my back a little. I don't think I ever saw Mom need an instructor or a stable boy to lead Gloria around, considering she had been experienced in this field since before I was born.

Taking several rounds around the big mansion, I'm amazed that Max's legs can still carry him, especially after the one-hour run to and from school.

The whole ride becomes very dull due to our silence. It's time to shake things up a little.

"Did you find the gold sun?"

"Not yet," he grumbles.

"Did you even look for it?"

"I… I didn't." His already slumped shoulders sag even further. "I had homework and…"

"Excuses won't cut it." I nudge his shoulder with my black boot. "You openly ignored my request."

"Bra… Master Bradley…"

"Shut up!" I look helplessly at the back of Andrea's head before glaring down at him. "Make her stop walking."

He lifts an eyebrow at me. "You know how to do it."

"Don't talk back to me. Just do it."

"Do the pre-signal."

"What the hell is a pre-signal?"

Max heaves a suffering sigh. "Take a breath, feet forward, and suck in your stomach."

I do as he tells me and watch him nod like some professional instructor. "Now say the signal."

"Max," I snap in frustration.

He rolls his eyes. "Whoa."

"Whoa," I yell and give a slight pull on the rein, like I see in Western movies. She stops. She actually stops! I bite back a happy laugh when I notice Max rolling his eyes again.

One month doesn't make him an expert! I most likely taught him all he needed to know about horsemanship. I can see how confusing it is for the teacher to forget his own teachings. That still doesn't give him the right to disrespect me.

I look down at him from my high place, savoring the power of my position. "Obviously, you're having some difficulty remembering your place." I ignore his look of disbelief, unclasping my necklace and holding it up over a puddle of mud. "You need a reminder."

I let go of the necklace and watch it drop into the mud, making a splash that stains Max's boots even further.

"My necklace, Max."

After a swift look of confusion directed at me, he bends down and reaches with a gloved hand for the filthy necklace.

"No," I say dryly. "Use your teeth."

Eyes widen with incredulous shock. "What?"

"Pick it up with your teeth."

He stares at me closely, mouth slightly hanging open, and then gives a small shake of his head in sorrow. "Why…? I don't understand."

"It's to be expected when you have Goofy for a father."

Sad eyes flash red with anger. "Hey!"

I can sense a sarcastic remark dying in his throat as he realizes who he is talking to. His fists shake by his sides, opening only to clench again. The hurt and confusion in his face interest me; I should search in my room for any evidence of a friendship between us. The way he looks at me is that of a boy betrayed by his closest friend.

I think for a moment that he's going to protest some more, but then he drops to his knees, rubbing the denim against the dirt. Eying the necklace in the mud, the boy looks like he's going to be sick. He hesitates a bit before planting his hands on either side of the puddle, lowering his head until his ears sink into the mud. Strange feelings rush inside me at the sight of the new X-Games champion rubbing his face in the dirt to fetch an item of mine.

Eighteen-year-old Max would kill me over this, forcing his four-years-younger self on his hands and knees to obey my malicious orders. I hold my breath when Max looks up at me, face tainted with filth that drips from his chin and ears, my necklace dangling between his stained teeth.

I try to save this image of him in my mind for a sketch later. Damn it, my fingers itch to draw his pathetic pose.

"Clean it with your shirt," I demand when he hands me the dirty necklace.

The look he throws at me makes me snicker. He wants to tell me to go screw myself so badly. With jerky movements, he starts cleaning the necklace with his white T-shirt, looking as if he wants to grumble one curse after another, but knowing better than to do so.

This time I accept the necklace from him and let him lead the horse toward the stable. I could have been evil and let him parade me around the servants just to enjoy him ducking his head to hide the dirt on his face, but I think the poor kid has suffered enough.

Back at the stable, he helps me hop off the horse's back before starting to walk toward the dorms.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he snaps.

I let his snippy retort slide because I can see how upset he is. "And you're going to leave Andrea unattended?"

He looks back at the horse in exhaustion and shakes his head. "No."

"When you're done, check in with me. I'll be sitting over there."

Max gives a dull nod, leading Andrea into the stable.

Sitting on a rock bench, I pat the pockets of my jacket, feeling something inside. The empty color tube from last night, I completely forgot about it. An evil idea sparks in my head, shutting down the rational conscience that tries to tell me I've already gone too far tormenting the kid.

As Max walks out of the stable, I throw the color tube at him. He catches it easily and looks between the object and myself.

"I need this color. Go to the store and get me a new tube."

He looks like he's about to thrash me. "Why don't you let Mike do it?"

"I want you," I say pointedly, a smirk playing on my lips.

"But it's way too far."

"You run to school every day; you must be used to this by now." I toss a wad of cash at him derisively, watching it scatter over him and the ground. "This is what the paint costs. Now, even if you come back late, I want you to bring the paint to my room."

"I can't," he says wryly. "I'm not allowed to go into the mansion. Us who serve outside should remain outside." He's obviously quoting my father.

"I'm your master. You do what I say, understood?" I seal the deal with this argument. "Run now."

A beat. He bites the inside of his cheek, pleading for some mercy with his big, sad eyes. My face remains as hard as stone. He stoops and gathers up the strewn money before running toward the gates.




~*~*~*~




After another long, successful day at school, who knew I'd actually enjoy going back to high school so much? Armed with an unfair advantage, the knowledge of everyone's weaknesses and impending blunders, I could easily crush them and step on their messy, metaphorical corpses. It was like being a puppet master, pulling strings they didn't even know were attached. Chad's inevitable humiliation in chemistry class was a highlight, rivaled only by Tiffany's disastrous fashion faux pas during lunch. Oh, the sweet, sweet schadenfreude.

It was a truly glorious day, elevated to sheer perfection by the recurring mental snapshots of Max's magnificently muddled face and those priceless, defeated puppy-dog eyes.

My riding boots dig deep into the mud as I make my way toward the stable. Late at night, I heard faint, hesitant knocks on the door. Max looked extremely nervous as he delivered the package, desperately wanting to get out of the mansion. The mud had dried on his face, his clothes reeked of sweat, and he couldn't stop panting.

At that moment, I wished I had a camera to immortalize the sight. Or better yet, a spiked collar for his neck, its chain fastened to my bedpost, keeping him trapped in my room for a quick sketch.

Goofy appears in sight, but there's no sign of Max. "Mr. Goof," I say a tad too cheerfully. "Max back from school yet?"

He mimics his son's rude behavior yesterday, ignoring me while prying dirt from Alexander's hoof with a hoof pick. "He didn't go today," he answers in a matter-of-fact tone that doesn't suit him at all.

"Oh. Why not?"

Still keeping his back to me and resuming his work, he mutters, "He's not feeling all right."

I look at my lonely horse inside the stable, still in the stall. "Oh, well, someone needs to take care of Andrea…"

"I'll do it," he cuts me off, a bit too crossly.

His harsh answer takes me by surprise. Did Max tell him about what I did to him yesterday? That would explain why Goofy is treating me like the biggest scum on earth, which I suppose I am.

"He's that sick?"

I receive nothing but the cold shoulder; clearly, he's upset with me. Suddenly, I'm reminded of Frankenstein Goof from the previous timeline. I really hope my actions with Max didn't push Goofy into that hopeless, bitter state.

I turn around, disappointed that I won't have my anticipated fun today, only to be stopped by Goofy's rigid voice, "Master Bradley."

Taken aback, I turn around, almost recoiling at the strict look on his usually silly features.

"I would really prefer that you do not order Max to go into the mansion again."

~*~*~*~

I barge into Max's closet of a room without knocking, finding him huddled into a tight ball on the bed. He stirs awake with a startled gasp, his frightened expression fading into disgust when he sees me.

I make my way through the mess lying on his floor and smack a hand on his forehead. "No fever." Crossing my arms over my chest, I tap a foot on the floor and fix him a hard stare. "Slacking off, I see?"

His hollow eyes shift their gaze from my face to the empty wall, his lips sealed and unmoving.

"Get up. Get up and go to work."

"I can't," he answers in a muffled, small voice.

"Yes, you can." I reach for the blanket covering his body and fling it off, exposing his naked torso. My heart drops at the sight of long, red scars covering his slender back. Those very familiar scars.

"It's my dad, isn't it?" I whisper, dark thoughts clouding my mind.

He tries to pull up the covers to hide the red lines of shame, but the pain in his back intensifies as he shifts. So, instead, he looks away and says, "I told you I'm not allowed into the mansion."

"That doesn't… he shouldn't…"

I've been whipped like this when I was younger myself, but something about him whipping someone else's kid makes me want to vomit. At that moment, I realized the true nature of our ownership over the Goofs; Goofy had obviously messed up so badly that he couldn't say a thing about my father taking a belt to his only son's flesh.

My eyes burning with rage as I look at the tangled scars on Max's bare back. "I'm going to talk to him."

Finally, he turns around to look at me. "No, don't do it!"

"But what he did…"

Thick tears slide down Max's cheeks now, his voice so broken and desperate that it scares me. "Please. Don't. Just don't."

He looks away again and buries his face into the pillow, falling apart as sobs of anguish wrack his body. Resisting a strong urge to sit next to him and rub soothing circles on his arm, he was, briefly, my little brother, I simply stand there, watching him soak his pillow with tears of humiliation.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five:

My second time riding Andrea is going quite well. Though I still need someone to hold the reins and lead the horse, I feel more comfortable and secure in the saddle now. Perhaps her starting to like me has helped boost my confidence. Since Max has been stuck in bed for the past couple of days, I've decided to help Goofy take care of Andrea. It seems that in order to befriend a horse, one must learn how to groom it.

I didn't expect it to be a fun experience, but currying her, brushing her coat, and feeding her was the most exciting thing I've done since forever. Cleaning her hooves was quite tricky; Goofy had to stick close by because it was too dangerous for a beginner.

My favorite part was combing her mane, a process that brought me close to her face, but not too close. As I sang and talked to her, she'd affectionately press her muzzle gently against my cheek. I always try to restrain myself from giving her a full-blown hug, knowing that any radical reaction on my part would drive her away, according to Goofy.

The tension in our relationship due to the Max tragedy seemed to have dissipated. Goofy has always been the type not to hold a grudge; why else is he still friends with Fat, Cruel, and Ugly? What really surprised me was how much I wanted him to forgive me. It must be those seeds of affection planted in the earlier timeline. In a way, I seem to be seeing this simple man as the father I never had.

The cool breeze sweeps against my face, ruffling the hairs sticking out of my helmet. As day turns into night and the sun sinks into the mountains, the weather becomes a bit chilly, despite spring usually being pleasant. Glancing down at Max leading Andrea around the estate, I notice a slight shiver underneath the sweater he's wearing over his overalls. I have to admire his determination to put on a strong face despite all the crap he has to deal with every day. How does he keep it all together? Does he have time to study? Does he even have the will to do it after a long day's work?

It was a shocking surprise to find Max in the stable today, not a pleasant one, though, I was really looking forward to continuing to take care of Andrea. Max seems to have recovered just fine, but I'm sure the touch of the fabric on his scarred back still itches. He didn't appear too pleased by my observations as my critical eyes followed every move he made grooming my horse, as if those two days had made me more of an expert than his month's worth of experience.

Nothing was said about what had happened that night or my intrusive visit to his closet the day that followed. Max had continued working in silence, ignoring my comments on missing a spot or tearing Andrea's mane with his rough combing. His dad wasn't even around to shake things up, and neither was Alexander.

Walking close to the gates, I decide to break the ice between us by starting a casual conversation.

"How was school today?"

He looks up at me in surprise. Can't blame him, when had I ever shown an interest in his life? "Um, not bad. I guess."

"Did you make friends?"

He narrows his eyes at me suspiciously. "I told you about Jack."

"Must have slipped my mind," I say swiftly. "Good guy?"

Max shrugs. "He's cool." Another suspicious stare, before a small smile forms on his lips. "Hey, whatever happened to that jerk you told me about?"

My eyes regain their cool detachment. "I ask the questions, Max."

Like a knife cutting into his stomach, the smile on his lips dissolves, thinning into a tight line, as he realizes he'd fallen right into my unintended trap. I don't think he'll let his guard down again. The short-lived friendly atmosphere thickens, and we carry on in silence.

Passing the locked gates, I'm mesmerized by the wide field on the other side, stretching out toward the horizon. How wonderful it would feel to ride Andrea and race down that vast, open expanse! I brush those impossible thoughts away with a bitter sigh, turning my attention to the yellow and orange hues vanishing into the mountains.

Walking into a small forest, the sky, looking like glittering rubies, disappears between the darkening leaves. I slip my eyes shut and breathe in the fresh scent of spring, feeling the gentle breeze tickling my cheeks. The impossible thoughts rush back with a force: Mom and I riding our brown horses across that wide field. Going fast, feeling free and powerful, watching her red hair flowing behind her, blending with the redness of the sky…

Suddenly, I lurch against Andrea's neck as she stops walking with a wild squeal.

Whirling to lash out insults at Max, my tongue freezes in my mouth at the look of sheer horror in his eyes. That's when I hear a neigh, but it's not coming from Andrea. Turning my gaze from Max's bowed head and trembling body, I spot Alexander's distinctive golden mane appearing through the darkness. My father, clad in black, emphasizing the pure white of his horse's coat, is approaching us looking like a skilled equestrian.

My gaze locks with his cold hazel eyes, like looking into the eye of an impending storm. What passes for a tiny smile curls at the corner of his lips, ruining the passive expression he usually wears.

"Bradley."

A small nod. "Dad."

He lowers his gaze to the petrified boy standing beside my horse and snickers. "You're falling behind, son. Still need someone to lead your horse for you?"

Max flinches under his gaze, his shaking grip on the reins making Andrea somewhat tetchy.

I look up at my father, his eyes now on me, and a smug smile forming on his lips. "Watch how far I've progressed," he says.

I watch him demonstrate by trotting around us, competently and gracefully, throwing me a few smiles each time our eyes meet. I return them with a bit of force. It's just like him, shoving it in my face whenever he succeeds at something I struggle with. I'm certainly not looking forward to the lecture that's going to follow.

He stops in front of me, a bushy eyebrow going up in expectation.

"Impressive, Dad."

The smug smile is back, almost causing me to vomit. Squaring his shoulders, he pulls on the reins and starts walking away. Just when I think I'm safe, his horse's hooves halt on the grass.

"By the way, I invited the Richardson boys over."

I look at him over my shoulder, maintaining a passive expression. "Did you?"

"They're stand-up young men. Tough and adamant, they know what they want. The kind of boys I want you to socialize with."

The smile vanishes, leaving behind the face of a father utterly dissatisfied with the son he has. I look away, a muscle in my jaw working as I feel something tight and painful swell in my chest.

"Let's go, Max," I mumble the command faintly, hearing my father depart.

The boy is still frozen in his place.

"Max!"

Snapping out of his terrified state, he starts leading us away. We take a few more rounds around the estate, not going back to the stable until I'm perfectly sure my father has returned the horse and gone back into the mansion.

~*~*~*~

Riley and Owen are the infamous Richardson boys my father is so fond of. Sixteen-year-old cousins who have been living in the same house for years after Owen's mom divorced his father and moved in with her brother. Beyond sharing the same bedroom, they also go to the same school, take the same classes, and play on the same football team. Athletic and well-built, not to mention destined to take over Mr. Richardson's business after his retirement. That their future is entirely planned out by the senior Richardson doesn't bother them at all; no wonder my father is so fascinated by them.

We haven't really gotten along despite our parents being close friends. Though we're all into sports, albeit in different fields, there's not much in common between us. They're jocks in every sense of the word: machos, womanizers, and they use ridiculous phrases like "Let's go to the party and scope some b's." But unlike stereotypical jocks, they are quite academic achievers. And a bit uptight. A little too much of the "do-gooder" type. Reputation matters the most, a tune my father never tires of singing.

Speaking of the old man, I can't believe he found time in his busy schedule to come and greet my unwanted guests. He'd even complimented their matching outfits, aren't we being a little desperate there, Father? This whole charade looks so much like an arranged marriage. What really got under my skin was that little squeeze of warning on my arm as I led the guys into the game room; the unspoken "don't screw this one up." Fine, Dad, if that's what you want, then so be it.

"Dude, I got you!" Owen hollers, winning another round of pool against me.

I run a finger over my thick eyebrow, grimacing when Owen whistles in my ear. He can't tell I'm letting him win, even though I've deliberately aimed at the wrong colored balls in every round. After another piercing whistle, I shove him out of my way with my cue stick. His wild laughter is more deafening than his whistling.

I walk over to Riley, sitting on the ping-pong table with a bowl of chips in his lap. Snatching a chip from the bowl, I pop it into my mouth and hop on the table next to him.

Riley digs his hand into the bowl and scoops up a fistful of chips, jamming them into his mouth. "Wanna lose against me this time?" I grimace as he spits chips all over me.

"Not really," I grunt, wiping my face. "Turns out pool isn't really my thing."

He pats the table he's sitting on. "What about table tennis?"

Something in my chest twitches slightly. "Only if we're swapping the balls for meatballs."

"What?"

I shake my head, even though I can't quite shake the nostalgic grin off my face. "Nothing."

Owen hops onto the pool table with a bottle of soda. "Dude's not into indoor sports anymore, bro. Heard he's got a pony."

"She's not a pony," I protest, watching him down half the bottle in one long swallow.

"She?" Riley barks a laugh. "You're riding a chick horse?"

I throw him a meaningful look. "Would you like it better if I were riding a guy instead?"

Owen chokes on the soda and starts coughing. Oh, yeah, they're also homophobes. Some stereotypes, it seems, ought to stick.

A mighty smack on my back sends me flying off the table and onto the floor. Tasting the blood from biting my tongue, I glower up at Riley roaring with laughter. He wipes a tear, then looks down at me with his small, twinkling eyes. "Hey, can we see the pony?"

"She's not a freaking pony… and no, it's too late now."

"It's seven-thirty, man. Night is young."

"Not too young for the horse."

The cousins stare at each other briefly before making their way out of the room, bowls of chips and dip accompanying them.

"Where are you going?" I snap in exhaustion.

"To see the pony," Riley says simply, disappearing from the room.

"Again, she's not a pony!"

~*~*~*~

As expected, Andrea is already asleep in her stall, lying on the soft ground with a red, silky blanket draped on her back. Arms lazily resting on the wooden fence, I gaze down at her peaceful form with a soft smile on my lips. I remember those couple of days when she was completely my responsibility; putting her to sleep made me feel important and useful, something I had never experienced growing up here.

"I'm bored," Riley grumbles like a ten-year-old boy, disappointment causing him to shove more chips into his mouth. It makes me wonder about this bowl, still filled with chips. Sort of like that magic porridge pot story Mom used to read for me in the good old days.

"Can we ride that one?" Owen points at Alexander, whom Goofy is leading into his stall.

I shake my head. "That's Dad's horse. He certainly won't allow it." I roll my eyes at their childish groans. "Horses need to sleep all night to get their rest, guys. They're just like humans."

Goofy pops his head out of Alexander's stall, sticking his nose into business that isn't his own. "Actually…"

My look of warning zips his lips shut, which is a miracle in itself, considering he isn't usually the sharpest tool in the shed.

"Dude, can we, like, touch it?" Riley says, extending a hand through the fence and reaching for Andrea's mane.

I shove him back and watch him fall on his butt with satisfaction. "A world of no."

"Yo, man, can you get her out?" Owen motions for Goofy to come over and then points at Andrea.

I shove him as well. "Hey!"

Seeing how irritated I am, Goofy places his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "Oh, I believe my work here is done. Them horsies have been out galloping around all day; they need their rest." He throws me an exaggerated wink, which I return with a very fierce glare.

"Hey, you do as we say." Owen looks at me. "Right, Bradley?"

I scoff at the bullying tone in the douchebag's voice. "Look, he's not even the one responsible for her."

"Then get the other stable guy."

"Oh, my son is probably doing his homework right now," Goofy says with an unnecessary chuckle. He takes a chip from the abandoned bowl resting on the giant bale of hay and dips it into the dip before popping it into his mouth.

The guys' jaws drop to the ground. For a minute, I think they are offended that the stableman is helping himself to their chips, but then Riley exclaims, "Your son? Homework?" He turns to me with wide eyes. "You've got a stable guy who's our age?"

"He's in ninth grade." Pursing my lips, I wish Goofy and I had kept our mouths shut. I really don't like where this is going.

"A high school freshman!" Owen exclaims. "Too bad, we could have had our fun with him."

Goofy's face lights up. "Oh, what a great idea! I'll go get him."

"Mr. Goof," I try to talk him out of it, but the man turns around, shaking his head and hands while walking backward.

"No, no! I'm a-goin' right this minute to get him." He steps on a bale of hay as he goes, then starts hopping and shaking his leg to free his foot. "I'm sure he's gonna love having fun with you boys. Just waaaaaait!" With his usual holler, he trips into a cart that rushes right into an empty stall. Thuds and cries of pain flare up from inside the stall, and then Goofy flies out of the stall and falls into a barrel. It tips onto its side and then starts rolling out of the stable, with Goofy's legs sticking out.

The three of us stare speechlessly for a moment.

"He's a few clowns short of a circus," Riley comments with a nod.



~*~*~*~




Seeing as my thinner form is no match for their giant, athletic bodies, I had to whip the two idiots out of the stable before they freaked out the sleeping horses. Now we're sitting on the rock bench, waiting for Max to show up. Each glance directed at the stable is met with a fierce glare and a threatening smack on the dusty ground. This useless black whip has been hanging on the wall for as long as I remember, I've never considered using it on Andrea and never will. It's only for the douchebags.

Max is taking his time, all right, making me feel somewhat relieved, because I know hanging out with us will bring nothing but disaster.

"He's not coming." I hop off the rock bench and nod my chin at the house. "Let's go back inside."

"Not so fast," Owen says, sitting up straight.

I turn around, my heart sinking as I watch Yoli drag a silent Max behind her. His head is bowed, his frame swallowed by a red, short-sleeved hoodie and baggy blue pants with his hands stuffed deep in their pockets. The gloomy expression on his face tells me he was talked into this. He, like me, knows how much of a bad idea this whole thing is going to be.

Yoli flashes a bright smile, pulling Max to stand next to her with force. "Hello, young masters. So, what are you up to?"

Riley stands up in excitement. "When can we ride…"

I bump him with my elbow. "Nothing. We were just going back to the game room."

"Cool. You four have fun."

"Wait a minute," Max says, yanking his hand out of Yoli's grip. "The game room is inside the house."

The memory of Max crying in bed, his bare back covered with scars, rushes into my head. I can easily see the traces of fear underneath the false façade of bravery.

Yoli's expression softens and she brushes a gentle hand on his arm. "There's nothing to be afraid of, quequito. Go on with them."

He shakes his head. "Look, this isn't a good idea…"

"Max, everything will be fine," she interrupts him, and then looks at me with a stern face. "Right?"

She knows me so well, and as much as I don't like this idea, I have no choice but to relent. "Yeah."

She extends her hand with a raised eyebrow, and I hand her the black whip. As she walks toward the stable to return it to its place, the four of us start making our way toward the house. We, eleventh graders, take the lead with Max trailing after us silently, looking like he wants to disappear behind a bush and escape into the safety of his tiny closet.

Throwing swift glances at him over my shoulder, I can see how nervous he is about entering the forbidden house. Something inside me urges me to reassure him that my father isn't inside and will possibly not return until tomorrow. But I can't risk having the two musclebrains knowing a thing about Dad's dictatorial rules, especially when they already look so suspicious.

A nudge on my arm is followed with a whisper, "What was all that about?"

Casting a tight grin at Owen, I shake my head. "Nothing."

Riley smacks my back, causing me to stumble a couple of steps ahead. "So, Bradley, introduce us."

I'm really not in the mood for formalities, particularly knowing what Riley wants from this. Nodding my head in the jocks' direction, I say, "Riley and Owen Richardson." Then another nod in Max's direction, "Max Goof."

That did not please Riley's ego. He forms a small, petulant pout that seems out of place on his broad, chiseled features.. "Hey, at least tell him what my father owns."

Owen clasps his shoulder with a laugh. "That'll take the whole evening."

Both collide in indulgent laughter while I roll my eyes.

"You guys go to the same school?" Max finally speaks, a bored tone dominating his voice.

"No," Riley exclaims in offense. "Dad thinks King's Academy isn't prep enough…"

I attempt to mentally wallpaper over Riley's riveting dissertation on the indispensable qualities of a truly distinguished private educational institution, you know, the kind with tuition rates that could fund a small nation and facilities so "top-notch" they probably have gold-plated toilet paper. Once that boy starts extolling the virtues of anything even remotely connected to his privileged existence, a gag order from the Pope himself wouldn't silence him. A quick glance at Max over my shoulder confirms he's as enthralled as I am, which is to say, ready to chew off a limb to escape.

"What high school do you go to, Max?" Owen asks, after his cousin pauses to take a breather.

Max shrugs. "Just a regular public school."

"You mean you don't have uniforms?" Owen asks in horror.

Max gives an amused headshake.

Riley slaps Owen on the head. "You moron, they can't afford uniforms."

"But most school districts offer financial help for less fortunate families," Owen reasons.

I slow my steps until I'm walking next to Max. "One can only hope that sustained, vigorous self-reflection might eventually lead to the relocation of their brains from their respective gluteal regions."

Max tries to stifle a laugh, looking up at me with a matching smile.

~*~*~*~*~

The game room stinks with the stench of chips and dip that has been lingering in the air since we left the room. Max and I rush toward the windows and push them open to get rid of the stuffy smell. Searching around for an air freshener, I feel myself close to vomiting.

Just as I'm about to ask Max to fetch one from Yoli, Riley smacks his wide forehead and groans, "We forgot the chips in the stable."

I feel something coming up my throat, and my stomach cringes. I press my palm to my mouth as I start dry heaving, having only eaten a couple of chips. Max eyes me with worry.

Owen nods along with his cousin. "Max, go get us more chips. Maybe two bowls of those crunchy, spicy ones."

Max gives Owen a look, not moving an inch.

Riley gives him a shove. "Didn't you hear him? Go get the chips."

Max crosses his arms over his chest. "Why me?"

Both older boys gasp and look at me in offense. All I can see at the moment is my father's furious face and the belt in his hands, so I turn to Max with a hard stare. "Go get the chips."

His look of disbelief annoys me, so I bark, "Now!"

I can feel the palpable anger beginning to emanate from him and expect him to blow up in my face, but instead he huffs a "Fine!" and walks out of the room.

What's gotten up his ass? Just because we shared a smile earlier doesn't mean we're equals now. Darn it, I forgot to tell him to get an air freshener.

Riley pats me on the back. "Gotta hand it to ya, Bradley. Having your own servant?"

"And a kid, too," Owen puts in. "You know, there comes a time when you feel a little awkward giving orders to older people."

I hold in a burp, feeling nausea building up in my chest again. Moving to the opened window, I stick my head out and inhale the fresh scent of the trees. Even though I start to feel better, I can't block the nauseating sounds of the jocks' conversation behind me.

"Kids are more fun to order around. How about we see how much we can tease him before he cracks?"

In horror, I whirl around and watch them snicker between themselves. "Guys, look, we came here to play, right? Maybe you should leave him alone."

Riley walks over to me and pats me again. God, I wish I could break his beefy hand. "Don't worry, dude. We're not gonna drain him for ya."

"Shh, there he comes," Owen whispers with an evil glint in his eye.

Max walks in with a bowl of chips in one hand and a tray filled with different types of dip in the other. Owen extends his leg to trip the boy, but Max walks around it effortlessly.

The immaturity of it all is driving me crazy, so I grab a pool cue and walk to the pool table. "Okay, so I was thinking since we're all an even number, how about…"

"Oops, sorry."

I turn around and see that Riley has dropped a bunch of chips on the floor. He motions for Max with his finger to pick them up. Max blinks at him in confusion.

"Aren't you going to clean it up?" Owen asks, purposely spitting giant crumbs of chips on the floor.

Max looks like he's about to commit murder. "Excuse me, but who gave you the impression that I'm the houseboy here?"

I better put a stop to this before it gets ugly, especially when giant Riley is approaching tiny Max while rolling up his sleeves. I jump between the two, my hand pressing against Riley's chest, barely keeping him in place.

I look down at Max with a scowl. "Do what he says. Now."

Our eyes meet with an intense flair of unspoken resentment. Silence takes over; even the Richardson boys seem to sense that tension is thickening in the room. Max's face, a blank page bare of emotions, scares me to the core. He has always been a good kid, always plays by the rules, and despite his bad temper, he never really attempted to do something nasty. However, it seems like I keep stabbing him in the back, so it's only a matter of time before he cracks.

A muscle in his jaw works. "Fine, Master Bradley."

I flinch at the way he says it, watching him grab a handful of tissues and then bend to collect the crumbs on the floor. As someone who had enjoyed watching this kid rub his face in the mud to fetch a necklace for me, I suddenly feel a splash of disgust over what's going on here. The whole thing looks like a setup to humiliate him; I won't be surprised if he thinks this is the deal.

As he rises, our eyes meet again, and a flicker of emotion taints his passive expression. I'm not sure if it's my slumped shoulders or my unhappy face, but something in me breaks the ice surrounding him.

"You missed a spot…"

Riley is pointing at a new patch of crumbs on the floor next to him. As Max walks over to the mess Riley made, I notice Owen digging his hand into the bowl and then spraying chips around the room.

"Over here…"

When he starts dropping chips on Max's head, I can't take it anymore. "Max, go get a broom."

He leaves the room without a word, throwing the chips in his hands into the trash can on his way.

After he leaves the room, I spin around and glower at the giant bullies. "You were way out of line!"

Owen scoffs. "What?"

"Let's just say my internal cringe-meter is currently off the charts. You've officially entered the 'too far' zone."

Riley holds up his hands. "Relax, dude. Don't get your pants in a twist."

Owen shrugs. "He's just a servant."

"He's not," I snap, fighting the urge to karate kick each one in the stomach. "He works at the stable, taking care of my horse. That's his job."

Hearing someone walking into the room, I turn around, about to tell Max to go back to his dorm. My words die in my throat when I see Yoli standing at the door with one of the maids. Her stern look fills me with dread. Max appears from behind Yoli, not meeting my eyes. If he feels any guilt for telling on me, he doesn't show it at all. In fact, he looks rather content with the turn of events.

Yoli points at the mess scattered around the room in disgust. "Get into it, Dorothy."

The pretty young maid starts working at once, her brisk movements the only sound in the room.

Yoli folds her arms over her chest and lifts an eyebrow at us. "So, boys, how are we doing tonight?"

The Richardson boys purse their lips in displeasure while I give an uneasy sideways grin. "Great."

Her cold eyes are on me now. "Bradley, sidebar?"

Heaving a sigh, I follow her out of the game room, bumping shoulders with Max on the way, that little tattle tale.

Reaching the kitchen, Yoli turns around to glare at me, her foot tapping on the floor in a deliberate rhythm. "I thought you wanted Max to join you so that the four of you could have fun together."

With my hands in my pockets, I return her glare with a level stare. "I did not want Max to join us."

"Then why send his father to get him?"

"Look, Goofy heard what he wanted to hear."

"Listen, young man, I did not force that kid out of his room for him to be ordered around like a dog." Her hard stare softens into a look of confusion. "Remember when Max first came here? How happy and excited you were to have another kid around? What happened to that?"

Nothing. It just never happened, is on the tip of my tongue, but I force it down with a struggle. Sighing again, I brush a hand over my shaggy hair and give her a reluctant shrug. "I'll tell the guys to back off. Don't worry."

She points a finger at me. "You better."

I drag my feet back to the game room, wishing I could just call it a night and send everyone back home. My father won't like that, though.

I spot Max helping Dorothy tidy up the game room, but there's no sign of Riley and Owen. "Where are they?"

Max gives me a cool stare while cleaning underneath the pool table. "They went up to your room."

A wave of absolute horror sweeps over me. "What?! Who let them… shit!"

I let out a small, aghast croak and leap out of the room. No, no, no, no! Racing up the stairs, my heart skipping a beat with each step, I trip and hit my nose against the rung. Horrible pain shoots all over my face, but it doesn't stop me from jumping to my feet and running toward my room.

My bedroom door is open, and bright light is emanating from inside. I feel my stomach lurch, my knees momentarily weakening as I stare at my sports magazines strewn around the room, my desk a mess, my closet wide open. But what horrifies me is Riley holding up my stash of cigarettes and giving a judgmental headshake.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I snap, going inside and snatching my cigarettes from him.

He arches an eyebrow. "Does your father know you smoke?"

Owen lifts up the unfinished painting of my mother over his head. "Bradley, who's this hottie?"

"Get out! Get the fuck out of here!!"

A newfound boost of strength takes over me as I single-handedly kick both larger boys out of my room. With the help of my skateboard, I also manage to smack them out of my house. Eyes burning with fury, I watch them go into their fancy car and drive away. They're gone. They're gone. I can't stop shaking, though. I still can't breathe!

In my private studio, going through my things, touching my stuff! How in hell did it occur to them to go snooping in my stuff? How did they even know where my room is?

My face still expressionless, I can feel my eyes darkening to almost black.

Max!

I storm back to the game room, but it's dark, empty. No one's there. Furious, I burst out of the house again, my vision red-hot with rage, and there he is, striding away in triumph, the little bastard. I'm still shaking, consumed by a blinding fury, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms. So enraged I can barely see straight, I start marching toward him at full speed. Who the hell does he think he is?!

I pounce at him from behind, both of us crashing to the ground and sending clouds of dust into the air. I pin him with my weight, straddling his legs and knocking all the air out of him. He bucks in an attempt to writhe away from me, but I grab his flailing arms and push them onto the ground, holding him still.

"Think you're going to get away with this?" I bark at the back of his head. "I know you sent them there! Your stinking little revenge, right?"

Face pressed against the rough ground, he mutters a muffled admission, "I did send them there."

I flip him around until we're face to face, his dirty features pale under the half-moon's faint light. "Jerk! Do you have any idea what you did?"

His eyes are the color of steel and twice as cold. "Who gave you the impression that I care?"

Too angry to think straight, I drive a couple of punches to his face. He flashes bloody teeth as he grins up at me. "Is that the best you've got?"

I punch him again, not feeling the slightest bit better about it.

He lets out an aggravating chuckle. "Oh, boy, violence runs in the family."

The anger begins to burn again. "Shut up, asshole!"

His eyes dance with a ridiculing glint. "Like father, like son."

"You're the one to talk."

"At least my dad doesn't beat the crap out of people."

What he says throws me; my grip on his arms softens as his observation sinks in. Taking advantage of my shocked state, he kicks me off of him and rises to his feet. With a gloved hand wiping the blood from his mouth, he throws me a cold stare and then heads back to the dorm.




~*~*~*~




I didn't go to the stable today, didn't want to be in the same room with Max until I'm over the disaster that was last night. The thing is, I don't want to be locked up in my room either. I can still see them here, going through my things, invading my privacy, passing judgment and mocking me. Their fingerprints cover my paintings, and my cigarettes smell of them. This room, my safety net, doesn't feel so safe anymore.

I can't help it. I just can't let a day go by without seeing Andrea, without brushing my hand over her brown coat and feeling her muzzle against my cheek. It's already sunset, so Max has probably gone home by now.

Outside the stable, Goofy walks with a bale of hay in his arms. His wide grin upon seeing me fills me with the warmth I desperately need. "We missed you today, Bradley. How come you didn't drop by?"

I return his smile, stuffing my hands in my pockets. "Lots of homework, Mr. Goof."

"Oh, Maxie has got a math test tomorrow. All luck to you, boys."

Speaking of Maxie, there he is, exiting the stable, slumped shoulders and all. When he catches sight of me, he stops walking and looks at me with a blank face. I can easily see the faint purple color spreading on his jaw and cheek where I punched him yesterday.

"You're done for the day?"

"Yeah," he mutters.

I head into the stable, the smile on my lips wavers when my gaze lands on Andrea.

"Wait a minute, Max," I call after the retreating boy. "Where's her blanket?"

Max paces inside and looks at an uncovered, sleeping Andrea. He lets out a light laugh that grates on me. "Gosh, I forgot."

"If I didn't swing by, you would've left her uncovered."

He gives an easy shrug. "It's no big deal. Horses don't actually need them."

"You don't decide what a big deal is, all right?" I tower over him with my taller frame. "My horse could have frozen to death because of your recklessness."

He lets out a scoff. "Dude, she's a horse. She can handle it."

I can feel my eyes flashing red, and they must have, judging by his little wince. "I can't just ignore that slip. Tonight, you're sleeping on that pile of hay without a cover."

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. "I'm not."

"You will. I'm your master." I grab him by the collar and pull him up until my nose is pressed against his. "Besides, I can go to my father and make up whatever lie I want to get you and your pop in trouble."

I feel his hot breath on my cheeks, looking right into his eyes filled with hatred and contempt. "Do you even try to be this much of a bastard, or were you just born this way?"

I push him out of my way and head for the door, the voice inside me nagging me about going way too far. I know I am, but I'm just so angry with him. I want him to suffer. I want him to taste the hurt and anger I felt yesterday. What he did, sending those jerks to my room, is way worse than this.

"Can I ask you something?" his question stops me. "What have I done wrong?"

I bark a laugh and turn around to face him with an amused grin. "Did you just miss the conversation we just had?"

"No, I mean… when I first came here you were different. You were the one who made it so bearable around here, and then suddenly you became the male equivalent of Cinderella's stepmother."

The emotions in his face and voice disturb me. He sounds so sincerely hurt and confused that I find myself unable to say a word. Taking off his cap, he brushes his hair back with a trembling hand and takes a deep breath, "You taught me everything I needed to know about, well, all of this, and now you're pretending you know nothing just to humiliate me?"

His eyes are fixed on me intently. "What did I do to make you hate me so much?"

Still stunned about the emotions reflected before me, so used to his expressionless face and flat voice, I just stare back at his dark eyes. Shaking, but determined, his jaw looks like it has been cast in iron as he waits for an answer.

"I'll be watching you from my room," I say dryly. Not exactly what he wants to hear, not exactly the ideal answer to his emotional speech. I just have nothing to say about all of this. It wasn't me who welcomed Max into this house, wasn't me who taught him everything about horsemanship, and it certainly wasn't me who wanted to befriend him.

Just as I walk out of the stable, long arms wrap around my legs, almost causing me to fall flat on my face. Goofy clutches my legs with a death grip, looking up at me with eyes brimming with tears. "I couldn't help but overhear. Please, Bradley, let me sleep there instead. He's got that math test I told you about, and he hasn't studied yet."

As gently as possible, I wrench my legs out of his tight hold. "Bring him his books. He can study here."

"Please, Bradley, it's a cold night. Let him use a blanket."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Goof, but he needs to be taught a lesson."

"But, he's right. Them horsies don't need a blankie. In fact, it sometimes brings more harm than good."

"Dad!" Max is glaring down at his father. "The last thing I want is your help."

He turns his cold eyes to me and puts on his cap. "I'll go get my books."

Watching him take jaded steps toward the dorms, I call after him, "Don't bother changing your clothes either."

He flinches, but then carries on walking.

"But then, he'll have to get up early to take a shower…"

"Dad," Max snaps, looking over his shoulder with a face filled with hate and resentment. A face no one should wear while talking to Goofy. "Stop butting in!"

"Careful," I say pointedly. "At this rate, your face might spontaneously combust from all that righteous fury. Wouldn't want you to pop a vein, would we?" No one is as shocked as Goofy over my spiteful defense, poor guy not used to having someone sticking up for him. I'm instantly reminded of when I had stood up to Pete, defending Goofy in the previous timeline.

My eyes, cold and hard, stare Max's shocked face down, shaming him for his outbursts. Eventually, a gentle brush on Goofy's arm followed by a small, apologetic smile on behalf of an ungrateful son, and I make my way back toward the mansion, leaving the two in a complete state of stunned silence.



~*~*~*~  



The air is filled with the toxic smell of cigarettes; transparent smoke floating on the ceiling like the room is set on fire. The room is pitch black, except for the faint moonlight falling on the painting of my mother before me. Perched on the closed window ledge, I stare at the painting through the dancing smoke, still incomplete, and will probably never be in this timeline. Not when I can clearly see the ugly fingerprints on the margins.

Idly playing with the cigarette butts that are gathered on the floor around my foot, I rest my head against the window glass and glance outside at the stable. I notice the light coming from inside flickering for a moment. Max is still studying for the math test.

I try to picture him sitting cross-legged on the hay, the textbook on his lap and tapping his forehead with the pencil. Feeling a pang of guilt swelling in my chest, I crush it down into nothingness immediately. He deserves it. One more glance at my ruined painting. He definitely deserves it.

My drowsy eyes snap to attention at the sight of Goofy sneaking into the stable with a blanket and a pair of pajamas. I sit up straight, feelings of guilt transmuting into anger. My orders were loud and clear, this isn't acceptable!

Still considering whether I should march down there and throw a fit, I feel my eyes widening even more when the blanket and the PJs are tossed out of the stable. Max is pushing his father outside in apparent fury; one more aggressive push and Goofy falls down on the floor. The kid is yelling something at his father before going inside and snapping the stable's door shut behind him.

My heart breaks slightly at that look of pain on Goofy's face. Helplessly and silently, I watch him pick up the blanket and pajamas and head back to the dorms.

Suddenly, my door swings open with a squeak, and I bite on the cigarette in my mouth, feeling cold all over, my heart in my mouth. My father is nothing more than a shadow bordered by the faint light from outside, his white-knuckled hand clutching my doorknob in fury. For a moment, everything is quiet and still, his eyes looking right at me, cold and firm.

"So, it's true," he says in a flat voice, gaze focused on the cigarette in my mouth. "Did you really kick the Richardson boys out of the house?"

My heartbeat bangs loud and clear in my ears, and in a moment of panic, I find myself blowing puffs of smoke into the air.

His eyes harden even more. "Put that down."

I'm frozen in place, unable to think, unable to move, just waiting for the pain. He strides toward me and I wince in advance, but then he just takes the cigarette out of my mouth and tosses it on the floor. "Why the hell did you do that?"

My gaze is locked with the way he stamps the cigarette out with his black shoe, making sure he extinguishes it completely.

"Damn it, Bradley! Do you have any idea how humiliated I was… to hear about my son smoking weed…"

I hold up the pack of cigarettes to his line of sight. "They're just cigarettes, Dad."

He smacks the pack out of my hand. "You have a lot of nerve!"

All of a sudden, I feel myself flaring up with anger. "And why do you care? You drink."

"That's different."

"That's hypocrisy."

"You're talking back to me?"

"You're going to hit me again?"

Feeling the anger and tension coil up another notch, I watch how his features smooth into a look of horror. His lips flutter and his brows furrow in shock. "I'm not… Bradley, I'm just…"

"A bunch of lame-ass excuses," I cut him off spitefully.

"Now look here, young man," he says, his voice rigid with the effort of remaining under control. "You're going to apologize to Riley and Owen."

A shocked laugh escapes my mouth. "I will not."

"Yes, you will if you know what's best for you."

I feel a sick feeling right in the pit of my stomach, and my voice comes out oddly strained as I ask, "Is that a threat?"

Awful, ripping hurt tears through me and something stings in my eyes, watching him look around my room in apparent disappointment and disgust. He stares at the painting of my mother, and no, this I can't just stand still and take. I flee out of my room, barely watching where I'm going, running instead on instinct, letting my reflexes carry me anywhere. Any place where he isn't there.

I'll never be good enough. I'll never be good enough. I run faster, harder, trying not to listen to the wailing voice inside. Each step feels like a piece of my heart falling, each step pounding through my bones, hurts so much.

Feeling numbness spreading all over me, I stumble and collapse on the ground right in front of the stable. Hot, thick tears sliding down my cheeks, my eyes burn holes into the walls, despising the person inside.

Slow, heavy steps, I push the stable's door with a loud squeak. There he is, spread on the hay, lost in a deep sleep. His textbook and notebook are open, and he's still holding his pencil in his hand.

Looming over him, I look down at him, breathing evenly against the strands of hay.

I hate him! I despise him with great passion. Little piece of shit doesn't know how lucky he is, going around and playing victim, ruining my life every chance he gets.

Fetching the black whip, I can feel the ruthless, merciless burn in my eyes. I hate him!

I hold the whip up high, teeth clenching tightly, angry eyes focused on the unaware, peaceful face.

Going for a strike, Goofy jumps out of nowhere in front of me and catches the whip. I try to jerk it out of his grip, but his hand has a death grip on it. "Let it go," I hiss in anger.

"Please, don't do it. Hit me instead."

"Damn it!" I yank the whip out of his hand and toss it away in frustration. "Why do you care so much? He treats you like crap and you're here willing to take a bullet for him?"

His face becomes somber with guilt. "I deserve his anger," he admits softly, glancing down at his son. "I'm the reason he's away from his home, his school, and his friends. I'm the reason he's forced to work for nothing to pay my debts."

Swallowing down some painful lump in my throat, I stare into his tearful eyes in silence. "Besides," he continues, "no matter what he says or does, I'll always love him. He's my son."

I bite on my quivering lip, feeling myself beginning to rock back and forth, my vision blurred with unshed tears. A gasp escapes my mouth when I feel his gentle hands on my shoulders, pulling me into a tight embrace. I can't hold it in anymore; I just… I explode.

I'm crying, shaking violently in his arms. Still rocking, wanting to strike out and break something. I hear myself ask it out loud, to which Goofy tightens his hug even more.

"Why can't he lov...?" I manage to say, unable to complete the question.

Goofy is silent, just embracing me, keeping me from flying apart. Feelings of hate, anger, pain, come crashing down on me as I press my face even further into the man's shoulder. Gripping him and never letting go. He lets me, never stops holding me.

Even as my sobs wane into soft hiccups, he never lets go. Standing there and holding the boy who was about to beat his son with a whip, all while Max is sleeping on the hay, unaware of what's going on around him.

Chapter Text

"Bradley…"

I stop dead in my tracks, almost stumbling over the fold in the carpet. I'm so eager to get to the stable I can hardly think straight. After two days of mastering the walk, now without Max needing to hold the reins for me, I'm ready for the next step. Sooner or later, I'll be a pro, galloping down hills and riding bridleless. Maybe I'll even hire a professional photographer to capture me jumping over a fence. I can picture it now: Andrea's legs stretched out in mid-air, me rocking my new equestrian clothing bought specifically for the occasion, wearing a decisive, sexy scowl on my face.

"Yes, Dad?"

He appears a little skittish in his formal wear, looking for all the world like a geek about to proposition the homecoming queen. Just to be clear: he's not the geek, and I'm definitely not the queen, especially with these calves. Dad adjusts his glasses and tucks the morning newspaper under his arm. "Could you wait a minute?" he says with an apprehensive smile. "I was wondering if you'd like to go riding with me this afternoon."

I stare at him, fully expecting him to start spouting Latin. "Unexpected" doesn't quite cover it; "pigs flying in formation" comes closer. We haven't exchanged a civil word since he stormed into my room, practically frothing at the mouth about those precious Richardson boys. I was bracing myself for military school, maybe even a forced adoption of my horse, but apparently, Dad's memory is as selective as his hearing when I talk about my grades.

"So, what do you say? I see you're already on your way," he says, nodding at my riding clothes. "I won't take long."

He looks so nervous, and it's completely throwing me off. I can't believe it. My father, wanting to do something with me? Sure, I remember that so-called promise about riding together the first night I arrived, but that was a week ago. I was fairly certain he was just bluffing to save face.

A genuinely delighted smile spreads across my lips. The sheer awkwardness radiating from him, so afraid of my rejection, shows he truly wants this. Though I can't shake the doubt knotting in my stomach, this is so sudden after all, happiness is already sweeping over me. My dad wants to go riding with me!

Seeing my smile, he visibly relaxes, his usual confidence returning. "I think we're ready for our first gallop off into the sunset. I'm sure you've already mastered trotting, haven't you?"

The smile on my lips wanes, my happy expression suddenly going numb. So, that's what this is about: hours of enduring his bragging and lectures, just another opportunity to put me down and "teach me how to be a man."

All my fears are confirmed by the overflowing excitement shining through his glasses. "I can teach you a few tricks. What do you say?"

I can't believe he can't sense my disappointment, especially with my face practically drooping. "As tempting as that sounds, I'd rather learn on my own."

He gets that annoying look on his face. "Alone?"

Squaring my shoulders, I'm already heading for the door. "I'm not really alone. I've got Max to help me."

"The stable boy?"

My hand on the doorknob, I look at him over my shoulder. If I've missed the disgust in his voice, his expression absolutely drips with it, along with something else that jolts me to my core.

"Yep. I'm all set," I say, a bit disturbed by what I just sensed in his tone. "Maybe we can do this some other time."

Perhaps walking out of the mansion and leaving him standing there like an idiot isn't the best move, but I'm not exactly thinking straight. My dad is jealous of Max over me! Of Max! Over me! How ridiculous is that? The richest man in New England harboring pitiful jealousy feelings for some fourteen-year-old, well, nobody.

But then, maybe I'm overthinking this, because it's just too ridiculous, doesn't even have any basis in reality. Dad's probably just upset that I chose to learn my riding lessons with a stable boy instead of him, and that's it. It doesn't have to have a deeper meaning.

Now there he is, my stable boy, waiting for me in front of the stable with Andrea already prepared and ready. I'm totally psyched, Andrea looks psyched, Max... I'm not sure. He's practically hiding behind Andrea, completely out of my sight.

Hopping onto her strong back, I bite my lower lip eagerly. This is it! New step, here I come. I look down at Max, expecting to see the same enthusiasm on his face, but the brim of his cap hides his expression. For the first time since I got here, his cap is worn forward, not backward.

"Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," I say, my voice sharper than intended.

He hesitates but eventually obeys.

"What's that?" I narrow my eyes at the wide, blue mark covering his half-opened left eye.

He looks away in apparent shame. "It's, uh, fine. I fell."

"Cut the act. I want to know who did this."

He shrugs and mumbles something hard to hear.

"Come again?"

"A bully at school."

"Oh."

Max gets bullied at school? That's a new one. He was always so popular in college that the mere thought of him being a target for bullies never crossed my mind. I was the only jock who ever bullied him, but he always fought back. I just can't see him as a victim. Maybe it's this new reality; Max's current financial state probably makes him the school's prime target.

"Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck in embarrassment. "So, are you gonna do this or what?"

I save him what's left of his dignity and let the matter slide. I'm already brimming with excitement; I can feel myself flying, which will be the case as trotting is all about the bouncing.

~*~*~*~  

That wasn't as easy as it looks; most of the time I felt like falling off Andrea. I don't know why my father didn't get an experienced riding instructor for both of us. Relying on the Goofs' superficial knowledge – Max's main source was me and a few of my books. Goofy mentioned something about a "How-To" book, but I don't think this is adequate for teaching proper English riding. We seem to be unintentionally blending it with Western techniques, creating a hybrid style rather than a focused approach.

This is so frustrating! It's been two hours, and I still can't get my posture right, my back just won't straighten. I'm pretty sure I look like a complete novice out here; I even saw Max trying to hold back a chuckle more than once. Dodging Dad's offer to ride along was definitely the right call. Dealing with Max's amusement is one thing, but I really wasn't in the mood for Dad's superior attitude."

Speaking of the devil, shit! I can see him riding between the trees in the small forest. What the hell is he doing here? I made it perfectly clear I wanted to do this with Max. Must be his petty jealousy fuses blowing up like atom bombs.

I feel a sudden, invisible light bulb snap on over my head, and then I glance down at my stable boy. What I'd do just to hear that jealousy in my dad's voice again, like a Christmas song in the middle of summer.

"Max, want to go for a ride?"

His dark eyebrows shoot up in shock. "Me?"

"Why not? You work hard to take care of her. You deserve to ride her."

"That sounds disturbingly gross," he says with a nervous laugh. Now it's my turn to raise an eyebrow.

Still looking shell-shocked, Max shakes his head, unable to vocalize his refusal. "I don't think…"

"You're always too cautious."

"'Cause it worked so well for me not being cautious before." A small frown knits his eyebrows together.

"I promise everything will be all right this time."

"There's no shred of truth in that sentence, is there?"

I roll my eyes. "Just hop on."

"I don't know…" he begins, his gaze drifting uncertainly.

I feel my patience thinning. My dad is about to emerge from the woods any second, and I need to move this along. Time to pull rank. "This is an order!"

"Oh, get off your high horse!" he scoffs, crossing his arms.

"I'd rather you get on it," I shoot back, a smirk playing on my lips.

He lets out an exasperated huff. "I've never ridden a horse in my life."

"You won't have to do anything. I'm the one in charge."

"Now I'm so relieved."

"Hop. On," I insist, holding out my hand.

He sighs, but takes my extended hand and climbs up. "This is a bad idea. I know it."

The clumsy idiot nearly tumbles to the ground from the far side, but I catch him just in time, and he ends up draped over Andrea's back. His cap, however, slips from his head and lands on the muddy ground. When he wordlessly asks my permission to fetch it, I shake my head no.

With some difficulty, I help him settle onto the saddle right in front of me. He takes up so much space that I scoot back and, not surprisingly, still have room left for myself. While Max is considered a stick by all health standards, he's actually Fat Albert compared to me, shows you that an unpaid stable boy like him can still be happier than a rich boy who owns everything. He has always looked healthier than me, even though I filled out a bit in college. At sixteen, I am sickly thin with pale skin and somewhat hollow cheeks. I could easily pass for a vampire; perhaps I should start calling myself Lestat De Lioncourt.

Max fidgets, obviously feeling awkward and tense, his hands clutching Andrea's mane in a death grip. He's afraid of falling off, but with my arms going around him to hold the reins, he should feel secure enough.

"How does it feel?" I press myself against his back, smiling when he flinches. My chin is practically buried in his hair; some of those black strands are tickling my nose.

"The ground is way too far down," he mumbles.

Laughing lightly, I poke the back of his head. "Must be a new experience for you."

"It is a new experience, I told you I never... hey!" He uses his back to smack my chest. "Don't make a funny of my height."

"Don't make a funny? What grammar do they teach you in that public school? Besides, you're so short your hair smells like feet." Actually, his hair smells like cheap shampoo. Good to know the kid has time to take a shower after school.

"For your information," he retorts, "I'm the tallest ninth grader in class. Most of those kids haven't even hit puberty."

The retort dies in my throat as I spot Dad's white horse heading our way. Showtime, I mentally exclaim, leaning forward against Max until my nose is buried in his hair. I squeeze both legs against Andrea's sides, applying a little harder pressure on the outside leg. I have no clue what I did wrong; that's exactly what I've been doing all day to trot her, but all of a sudden, Andrea releases a loud neigh and takes off like lightning.

"What the hell, Bradley?" Max screams, clutching Andrea's mane like his lifeline.

Whatever reply I have for Max, I can't say it, not with my teeth chattering like crazy and my butt constantly sliding from side to side. Blood pounding in my ears, I try to glance behind me, dreading the sight of Dad racing after us like a knight in shining armor. But I can't even glance sideways, not with Andrea taking off in a fast, jerky trot that will definitely throw me off her back.

"Whoa, horsy, whoa," Max scolds her, keeping his voice low and soothing despite the fear, attempting to calm her down.

It doesn't work. Nothing is working. Not that I'm doing anything to save the situation; I can't do anything useful but boss people around. I look at Max's attempts to calm Andrea down with resentment, ever the hero, always ready to save the day. Unconsciously, I give her a lame kick on the sides with my boots, and while weak, they drive her bonkers.

Teeth chattering even more, I bite my tongue more than once, feeling my backbone about to slice me in half. This is bad. This is so damn bad!

Andrea abruptly halts and throws back her head, sending us flying into the air. I grab Max in a tight hug as we fall, landing first on my shoulder. The pain explodes in my shoulder, then my back, especially with Max's weight on top of me.

The air is knocked out of me as my back hits the ground. I can't breathe! I can't breathe!

"Man," I hear Max grunt, feeling his weight being lifted. A pause. "Bradley?"

My vision has already gone blurry, and my mind is a big cloud of nothing. I can feel Max frantically shaking my body, but I can't see a thing; everything is going black.

The last thing I hear is Max screaming into my ears, "Bradley! Talk to me, man! Bradley!"

~*~*~*~  

An instant headache. I still can't breathe. A strong urge to throw up. Desperate to draw air into my lungs, I force my eyes open. All I see are swaying, blurred images that make no sense before darkness consumes me again.

I hear voices: Yoli's, hushed, panicked, and shocked, though I don't understand her words. Then, Dad's angry voice, a mix of rage and concern. Their incomprehensible argument bangs in my head like a sledgehammer.

Then the voices fade, and I hear nothing.

~*~*~*~

I wake up to an unbearable headache and a strong sense of nausea, consciousness fading in and out. I open my eyes with difficulty, desperately wanting to cling to one of the realities flickering in my mind. One moment I am on my wild horse, holding on for dear life; the next, I am lying on a bed, hearing different voices. I'm not sure which reality is the safest, which one I want, but I just want the constant shifting to stop.

I let out a strangled moan that alerts the slumped figure sitting next to my bed.

"Oh, you're up?" Yoli's voice comes in a fretful whisper, her tender hand brushing through my damp hair. "How do you feel?"

"Loopy." Blinking away the fog, I try to make out the blurry images around me and fight down the strong urge to vomit. The dim light isn't helping, but I can tell I'm in my bedroom. Looking at Yoli's worried face, I say with a hoarse voice, "Gosh, what happened?"

"You've been passed out for a whole day. The doctor says you've dislocated your shoulder. But you'll be able to go back to school after three days of rest."

I give a weak nod and close my eyes again, letting her gentle strokes on my hair lull me back to sleep.

~*~*~*~



By the third day, I feel much better, sitting in bed with a tray filled with food on my lap. After three days of barely eating, my appetite is high. I've already finished the salad Yoli forced on me.

Yoli sits beside my bed, engrossed in a magazine and apparently giving me one of those highly scientific "Are You Boyfriend Material?" quizzes. Spoiler alert: I'm not. Oh, well. Despite these deep insights, moments like this genuinely make me grateful for Yoli. She's always been there for me, literally parked by my side since the accident.

I haven't seen my dad once, even though I swear I heard him arguing with Yoli when I came out of my coma for a second three days ago. I've talked to Yoli about it, and noted how her features darkened, but she never answered me. For now, I've stopped asking about it, to her relief, but once I'm out of this bed, I'll be on this case.

"Are we ready to go back to school tomorrow?" she asks lightly, putting the magazine aside.

"Anything just to get out of bed."

I'm about to take my first sip of chicken soup when a knock sounds at my door. "Come in," I say, putting my spoon down on the tray, staring at the door expectantly.

The person who walks in isn't my father, but Goofy. The relief that fills me upon seeing him instead of Dad doesn't quite make me happy; it just doesn't feel right.

"Hey, Mr. Goof." The man looks like he's just returned from a funeral, and I'd believe it if not for the stable overalls he's wearing. "Where's Max? Yoli tells me his injury wasn't as serious as mine."

He takes off his cap and holds it to his chest somewhat solemnly. "How do you feel, Bradley?"

"I'm fine," I say with an unsure tone. He hasn't answered my question, and he looks far too serious.

"I'm glad to know…" he trails off, casting a nervous glance at Yoli, who glares back with a stern scowl.

What the hell is going on? Then it hits me: what if Yoli was lying? What if Max's condition is worse than mine?

"Is Max all right?" I ask, feeling the same pangs of fear and guilt I felt back at that doomed hospital when Max hurt his spine because of me.

"Goofy, you're not supposed to be here," Yoli says harshly. "Get out before Mr. Uppercrust returns."

My gaze drops from Goofy's troubled face to his hands, clutching the cap tightly. "I have to tell him."

"No, you don't. Don't you see he's having lunch?"

"What's going on?" Now I'm really freaked out. Please, tell me Max didn't die. Please, tell me I didn't cause someone to be killed.

"Bradley…"

"Goofy!"

"Yoli, let him speak," I snap at her, more out of fear than frustration. She sees how terrified I am and relents, nodding for Goofy to speak before joining her fists and resting her forehead on them in apparent exhaustion.

I look back at Goofy, my heart about to burst, hoping with all my might that whatever he's going to say doesn't warrant all this drama.

"Bradley, Mr. Uppercrust has locked Max in the basement for the past three days. I haven't seen him since then. And I heard he's not allowed to eat or even use the bathroom…" A broken sob interrupts the rest of his sentence, and Goofy sags onto his knees, resting his head on my bedroom floor.

I'm not sure if that's better or worse, but for the moment, I'm so repulsed I think I'm going to puke. "What? Why?"

He lifts his head, thick tears on his cheeks. "I know it's Max's fault, but my boy is starving down there…"

I whip my head to Yoli, my eyes wide with disgusted shock. "Yoli, is this true?"

She nods gravely. "I tried to talk your father out of it, but when he puts his mind to something, no one can persuade him otherwise."

At the betrayed look on my face, she directs her gaze downward in shame. She lied to me. She told me Max was all right, working at the stable with his father and that he only sustained minor bruises from the fall. She lied to me.

I look down at my fancy tray, filled with all sorts of food, and the urge to vomit intensifies. "Take this to Max."

Yoli sighs. "Bradley…"

"Take this to Max," I insist with a hard stare. A part of me hates her for lying to me, and I can see from her expression that my feelings are reflected on my face. "I lost my appetite."

"The key is with your father. We don't have it."

Our hard gazes meet, and then hers gradually softens into an apologetic one, and she breaks eye contact.

"I'd like to be informed of my father's return," I tell her with a dry tone. My expression softens into sympathy when I look at Goofy. "Mr. Goof, don't you worry. Max will return to you tonight."

He gives me a hopeless little smile through his tears, followed by a shaking nod.

~*~*~*~

My father's bedroom door. I knock, determined. When I hear his voice telling me to come in, I open the door without hesitation. He's already in his black robe, sitting on the couch with a book in his hands. He startles the second he sees me and rises to his feet at once.

"Bradley, you shouldn't leave your bed."

Still in my pajamas, unchanged all day, I probably look a little pale and sick. I don't give him the satisfaction of playing the concerned parent card, taking a definite step forward.

"Why did you lock Max in the basement?"

He lowers his glasses, revealing those bulging eyes that have always left me weak-kneed. Yet, I stand before him with a strange sense of power, something I've rarely felt in his presence.

"Who told you?"

"It doesn't matter," I answer coldly. "This is a new low, even for you, Dad. How could you do that? You want to starve that kid to death?!"

He throws the book onto the couch. "He needed to be punished."

My lips twist in disgust. "For what?"

"For almost killing you!"

"That wasn't his fault. It was entirely mine."

"Don't protect him. He confessed to it."

I stare at him with wide eyes, wondering if I heard him wrong. "Confessed?"

He takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead in exhaustion. Having just returned from numerous meetings, he doesn't appear to be in the mood to deal with me. "He told me everything. He told me how he rode the mare without permission and how he fell on you due to his incompetence."

The shocked stare hasn't left my face, my mind trying to process what I just heard. "Max said that?"

"Yes." He puts on his glasses again and sits on the couch, taking the book in his hands.

I approach him until I'm standing right next to him. "Dad, that wasn't what happened. I forced him to ride with me. He told me it was a bad idea, but I insisted. Andrea went wild because of me. We fell off her together."

He gives me a look, obviously not believing a word I've said. "Why the hell would he lie about it?"

"I don't know," I say pensively. So many thoughts begin to cram into my mind, but I shake them off. "But he shouldn't be locked down there. He did nothing wrong."

He meets my determined gaze for a second, then returns to his book.

"Dad." I snatch the book out of his hands and extend my palm to him. "The key."

~*~*~*~

This is much worse than I thought. I've never been to the basement before, always preferring the outside of the mansion where I feel closer to the freedom beyond the gates, rather than delving deeper inside. The basement has so many rooms it's like looking at Dracula's crypt.

I snap out of my thoughts, following Yoli into one of the doors. Inside, I see a row of metal doors with small slots, like we've just walked into a Russian prison. With her hands busy holding a tray containing a sandwich and a glass of water, Yoli stands next to one of the doors and nods her head at it, Max's cell. My fist squeezes the key for a second before I unlock the door. I'm greeted by nothing but blackness before the light storms in from outside. There's no window, no furniture, just four dark walls like the inside of an empty cube, disturbed only by the figure lying on the floor.

My stomach begins to lurch from the stench of urine filling the place. I cover my nose with my hand, the assaulting smell threatening to make me vomit. Yoli pushes me out of the way and rushes toward Max's still form on the floor.

She puts down the tray and begins shaking the boy gently. "Max, Max."

I'm still standing by the door, afraid to take a step inside, afraid to look at the repercussions of what my father did. For the first time in my life, I am ashamed of my old man. I've always been scared of him, angry, hurt, but never ashamed. How could he do this? How could he be such a heartless monster?

The same heartless monster I was when I'd ordered my Gamma men to set traps for the other teams in the last College X-Games. Like father, like son. The sight of the injured never bothered me before, just as I'm sure the sight of Max right now won't bother my father. But it bothers me. I feel as guilty and angry as I was back at the hospital when Max injured his spine.

There's no doubt about it. I'm starting to... care. I care about him. I've been caring about him for a while. I care so much I can't move an inch forward, in fear that the sight of him will send me into another coma.

So, I just stand by the door, watching Yoli hold Max in her arms and take the glass of water to his lips. "There, have some water..."

Small sips, not too much; she makes sure he doesn't swallow it all at once. "We brought you a sandwich," she says. "Thought it was best you eat a light meal at first."

Such a mess. I turn around and give them my back, my shoulders shaking violently. All I want at the moment is to drag him into the bathroom, shove him into the shower, and wash the sweat and stale urine off his body. All I want to do is help.

Yoli's soft, encouraging voice instructing Max as he eats the sandwich soothes my raging emotions a little. I close my eyes and drown in her motherly voice, letting it take me away to a happier and safer place. Somewhere where I'm a good man from a good family who does good things for others.

"Yoli," I say after I hear her applaud Max for finishing his food, "help him to my room."

"Are you sure about this?" her voice comes, somewhat hesitant and worried.

"I don't care one bit."

"What about Max?"

With a boost of courage, I look back at them, Max staring around him with lost, hollow eyes. "Dad won't touch a hair on him. Don't worry."

~*~*~*~

Staring down at my open textbook, not exactly reading a word, I let the sound of the shower in the bathroom calm my disturbed emotions. I still can't get over what Dad has done to Max. The inhumanity of it bothers me so much. The whole thing takes me back to the secret meetings in Dad's office, the yelling, Dad driving a punch to the wall in frustration… what other inhuman things has he done? Am I reading too much into this?

I start idly straightening my things, tipping my pencils back into place and realigning papers so no corners stick out. Anything to take my mind off the ugly thoughts, since reading history isn't doing it for me.

Quick knocks on my door before Yoli emerges with a pair of my old pajamas. "This should fit him."

I watch her place them on my bed along with my old underwear. Can't wait to see the look on Max's face wearing designer boxer briefs.

I smile up gratefully at Yoli and close my book. "Would you tell Mr. Goof he's in my room for now and that he'll be back to the dorm as soon as possible?"

"All right." She brushes her hand through my hair. "Still mad at me?"

"I tried, but it's a hard task, being mad at you."

"I didn't want to upset you while you were still recovering."

"I understand."

Her hand leaves my hair, and she starts making her way toward the door. "Good night, Master Bradley."

"Good night."

She pauses at the door, then casts a proud smile my way. "You're a good person, mi'jito."

I watch her close the door behind her in silence, wondering if she'll lose her love and respect for me by knowing the truth. All those bad deeds I've committed over the years rush into my mind, reminding me over and over how much of a good person I'm not. Shifting my gaze to the old clothes resting on my bed, I feel my heart twist when I hear the shower switch off. Max is a good person. He's the one who didn't use cheating as his winning card, he's the one who saved Tank instead of rushing to the finishing line, and he's the one who took the blame for my injury. Max was and will always be better than me.

I shove down the growing feelings of resentment and jealousy, trying my hardest to put on a smile when Max timidly makes his way out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel tied to his waist. My eyes catch the faint blue color on his left eye, which has faded over the past three days.

He takes a step back into the bathroom when he realizes he's dripping on my wooden floor, his bare foot awkwardly rubbing against his other leg. I look up at his face, a blush on his cheeks; he obviously looks like someone who wishes the earth would open up and swallow him.

I stand up and push my chair back into the desk, then point at the clothes on the bed. "Hey, these are my old PJs. I hope they're not tight."

Max glances at them, pursing his lips into a tiny smile. "Yeah, well, you're practically a wisp of smoke."

"That I am," I reply lightly with a lopsided smile.

He hesitates before padding toward the bed, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. He brushes a hand over the expensive boxers and throws me an awkward, fleeting look. "Thanks."

"Why did you take the fall for this?"

He looks surprised by my question, and my features soften a bit.

"I don't know," he answers with a shrug. "I just… your old man kept whining about how much of an inept fool you were, which you were, by the way. Still are." I scoff. He grins. "I just didn't like the way he said it."

Looking at his honest expression, I'm completely at a loss for words. I don't get it. Max and I don't get along. Why would he care what my father thinks of me?

These questions are probably written on my face because Max smiles and answers, "You saved my life. It could have been my shoulder, but you… you saved me. I owed you."

What the hell is he talking about? I don't remember doing anything when… oh, oh! I held onto him. I grabbed him in a protective hug. Maybe I do have hero genes in my blood, or maybe it was just a survival instinct. I was just clinging to the last shred of safety. Man, he looks so grateful it makes me feel a bit embarrassed of my cowardice. And Yoli called me a good person. Pfft!

"I'll give you some privacy." I turn and walk toward my chair of shame. Max took a bullet for me because he thought I saved his life. He doesn't know I was just a coward trying to save my own life by holding on to him.

"I see you haven't used the red paint yet."

Just as I expected, my old pajamas are a little snug on him. He's not complaining, though, too busy admiring the painting of my mother.

My gaze halts at the red paint. I had made him run to buy it, then forced him into the mansion to deliver it, actions that resulted in my father whipping him mercilessly. I bolt upright, shoving the wrenching memory aside. I stand next to him, finding my favorite painting ugly and heartless after the whole episode with the Richardson boys. "No, I was busy learning how to ride."

"Who is she?"

"That's my mother. She passed away when I was six."

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, his eyes still on the painting. "She's beautiful."

There's a wistful look on his face, a somber sadness that clouds his features. I brush back my hair, feeling a tad awkward knowing what's going on in his head. "You, uh, you've never seen your mother, right?"

He blinks misty eyes at me, his eyebrows going up in shock. "How did you know?"

"Your dad told me." I resist and despise the urge to lay a hand on his shoulder; my hatred and disgust over what my father had done are turning me into a softie. "So, you really don't know what she looks like?"

"I saw a very old picture once. It wasn't very clear. Dad gets weird whenever I ask him about her. His friends talked about her sometimes when he wasn't around."

It seems a bit selfish of Goofy to hide any reminder of Max's mother from him. It takes me back to Dad destroying everything that belonged to my mother, the stable and Gloria being the obvious ones. My father, however, never destroyed her pictures. I still have a whole album of the three of us in the happy old days.

I glance between Max and the painting, realizing, as an idea pops into my head, how much of a softie I'm turning into. I walk over to my desk, open an empty page in my notebook, and grab a pencil. "Close your eyes, Max."

"Huh?"

"Just close your eyes." I look at him over my shoulder. "This is an order."

He rolls his eyes and lets out a scoff, but closes them eventually.

"Describe your mother."

"I told you, I..."

"Everything your dad's friends told you. Try to picture her in your head."

An irritated sigh. "Well, uh, she was a redhead."

"Fiery red or carrot color?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Use your imagination, Max. Picture your mother and go!"

Taking another irritated breath, Max pauses for a second, eyes still closed. "I guess, she had a reddish auburn hair color, shoulder-length and very soft. She had also got bangs covering her forehead. Uh, her eyes were blue and her nose was small, a pointy small nose… eh, she was thin."

"You go really poetic with your description, stable boy."

"Get lost. Can I open my eyes now, Master?"

I put down the pencil and close my notebook, turning around and leaning against my desk. "Open them, you dork. I was trying to do you a favor."

Max scoffs a laugh. "Dude, don't even bother." He does that thing with his hand on the back of his neck, the sign of an embarrassed, awkward Max. "So, um, I should probably leave."

He searches around the room for something, probably his clothes, but then decides to pad his way toward the door.

"Oh, you want shoes?" I fetch him my slippers and hand them to him.

An embarrassed smile. "Again, uh, thanks for, you know."

I shake my head. "Take them. I don't want them back."

"That wasn't… uh, well, okay." A grim expression takes over his face as he walks out of my room.

Man, I must have sounded like an arrogant fool! He was thanking me for getting him out of the basement, not the shoes. He's one of the proudest people I know, and I just hit him where it hurts. This whole nice-guy stuff is so lost on me. Yoli was out of her wits. I can never be a good guy.

Walking over to my desk, I open my notebook and read the description of Max's mother again, trying to picture her in my head. I faintly remember Goofy saying I have the same small nose as his late wife. Maybe that can…

"What are you doing here?" My father's angry voice booms from outside.

"Shit!" Without thinking, I rush toward the door, only to stumble over my chair and crash to the floor.

"Turn around!"

"Sir, please…" Max's scared voice gives me the will to jump to my feet despite the pain in my chest and knees, and I limp toward the door.

"I said turn around!"

My heart thumps like thunder as I hop down the hall, skipping steps when I hear the sound of Dad's leather belt tearing at Max's flesh. I find them standing near the stairs, my father littering Max's exposed back with marks. The kid recoils with each blow, eyes squeezed shut, teeth biting his lower lip, hands barely lifting his silk pajamas. I watch my father not holding back, driving one blow after another, and suddenly my stomach does flips like an Olympian.

"Dad, stop!" My soreness forgotten, I run toward them and push Max out of harm's way.

My breath catches in my throat as I stare at the frozen leather belt in the air, fear ripping into my heart. Had Max not been here, my father probably wouldn't hesitate to pound that belt into me. I loosen my arms around Max when I hear his soft hiss of pain and lower the pajama shirt to cover the angry red marks on his back.

"Gosh," I whisper in apparent disgust as I sling an arm over Max's trembling shoulders and pull him into a protective side hug. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I bark at my father, my eyes not leaving Max, his hair falling over his face, hiding it in disgrace.

Dad folds the belt in his hand, then unfolds it again. "Watch that tone, young man."

"This whole shit has to stop! He's not your son." Dad's eyes flash in anger just as I feel Max flinch in my arms. I mutter under my breath, looking my father in the eye without a trace of fear. "You can't go around beating other people's kids."

He stares back at me with a face like stone for what seems like hours. The child in me sees him as a mixture of Mr. Bumble and Bill Sikes, the two characters that terrorized me in my childhood. I've always seen myself in Charles Dickens' orphan characters, with my father taking the role of every cruel antagonist with a whip or a belt, even kind-hearted Mr. Sowerberry, who took a belt to Oliver Twist's flesh after being pressured by his nasty wife.

With a clenching jaw, Dad walks away from us toward his room. Oh, no, he thinks it's over. The discussion is so not over. I pull Max's hand and drag him along, pushing Dad's door open before he snaps it shut behind him. Max yanks his hand out of my grip and stays outside, can't blame him. If my father threw a fit over Max walking down the halls of the mansion, he'd probably kill him where he's standing if he even thought about stepping into the sacredness of his bedroom.

I take a couple of confident steps ahead, watching my father toss the belt onto the lonely couch in the dark bedroom. "Dad, lay off Max, okay? He works for me, not you."

"What do you see in that kid?" he asks in a controlled tone, taking off his glasses and reaching for the handkerchief on the desk.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you consider him a... friend?"

I'm about to laugh my ass off when Dad slams a fist on his desk. "You spend all your time with him, you invited him to the game room with the Richardson boys, and you kicked them out because of him."

"Did Riley and Owen tell you that? 'Cause that's the furthest thing from the truth!"

Dad turns around, his bare eyes boring holes into me. I can't help dropping my gaze to his hands, which have resumed cleaning his glasses. "He's a stable boy, Bradley. He's the son of a poverty-stricken man whose house and property I own. He's worth nothing." He puts his glasses on and adjusts them on his nose. "How is it that you prefer befriending some dirtbag over boys like Riley and Owen?"

He really hates the mere idea of someone of Max's stature being a friend of mine. I'm really glad I didn't immediately demur the term when he mentioned it earlier. "That dirtbag is my best friend," I surprise myself by how seriously and sincerely I sound.

Dad's nostrils flare upon hearing that.

"And I will never allow anyone to hurt him ever again."

With that last punch to my father's gut, I turn around and walk away, for the first time in a long time feeling myself with the power. I bite my lip when I notice Max standing outside the door. I completely forgot about him. From the grim expression on his face, it's pretty obvious he had heard every word.

I reach with a comforting hand to touch his arm. "Let's go to my room."

He jerks his arm away and starts heading for the stairs. "No, I'll just go back to the dorm."

"Are you crazy?" I grab his arm and spin him around until we're face to face. "I'm not sending you there with those scars. Your dad has suffered enough."

He twists his lips in displeasure, making me heave a sigh. "Look, I'll just take care of them for you and then you can head back home."

He scoffs. "You?"

"Yeah, why not?" I glance quickly at the open door to my father's bedroom. "We're best friends after all."

~*~*~*~

It's been a long time since I needed to use my old first aid kit. Three years away, yet not really away, in college should have made me forget where I even put this thing. Searching through the drawers in the bathroom, I throw a few quick glances in Max's direction. He's leaning against the door frame with his hands stuffed in his pockets, not a trace of humiliation or sadness on his passive face.

"I know you were just saying that to spite your dad."

I slam the drawer shut and look up at the shelves. "Max, as you can see, I don't have friends. You're probably the closest thing to a friend I'll ever have in this house."

He shrugs, wincing when he leans his back against the door frame. Lucky me, I find the first aid kit inside the drawers under the sink. "Take off your shirt and lie on the bed."

He raises an eyebrow. I raise an eyebrow. Low chuckles escape our mouths at how that sounded. I start filling a glass of water when I see him just standing there at the door, not moving.

"Look, I don't think…"

"My father already knows you're here, so there's nothing to worry about."

He still looks skeptical, but with a firm push from me, he starts heading for the bed. I stifle an amused laugh when he wipes his hands on his pajama pants before climbing onto my expensive silk sheets. The idiot pushes my pillows out of the way and lies down on his stomach on the mattress.

Rolling my eyes, I hold up his head and stuff a pillow under him. He squirms in bed awkwardly as I examine the scars on his back, his muscles so tense underneath my light touch. "Relax, Max," I say softly, starting to soothe and clean the wounds with cool water.

I start rifling through the first aid kit and pull out an ointment tube. "This will probably hurt a bit…" I squeeze the paste onto my fingers and start rubbing it along the lines of the scars. Max's muscles tense, and he lets out a pained grunt.

"You okay?"

"Yeah…"

Dipping my fingers into a jar of bio-oil, I begin spreading the oil along the scars.

"Bradley…"

"Hmm?"

"I didn't get you in trouble with your dad, did I?"

I smile a little at the hushed words, not used to being on the receiving end of his concern. "Don't worry about me, Max."

"He… he did beat you up before, right?"

I don't answer him, though I suspect my silence did it for me. Sweet, innocent Max, raised in a simple, loving environment, will never understand what it's like to grow up in this house. I was a lonely kid living with the servants while my father was too busy either with work or drowning his sorrows in a drink. No one knew about the beatings, not even Yoli, so I had to take care of the bruises and scars myself. My scarred back usually went untreated because I couldn't reach the middle.

I seize the bandages and start to wind them around Max's torso, my mind taking me back to old memories I've worked so hard to forget. That old song Yoli used to sing to me during bedtime, petting my scarred back gently, unaware that each touch ignited the pain. I used to bite my lips despite the agony, so hungry for any show of affection I didn't mind that she was showering me with burning stings, just as long as she stayed by my side and sang to me.

As I grew up, I started resenting every reminder of the past, including the song. I remember when she had sung it the day I came back from college after freshman year. I yelled at her to stop, that wounded look on her face, I could never forget it. But I just can't listen to that song anymore. Not when I've made something of myself in college, not after I finally stood up to my father and rebelled against his dictatorial upbringing.

And look at me now, reliving the torture of my past. Everything here is so painful it aches. Maybe it's time to start packing and just… leave.

But, I look down at Max, lost in a deep sleep. Something inside me isn't ready to let go yet. Draping a blanket over him, I slip out of bed and reach for my phone.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Goof?"

"Bradley, where's Maxie? He hasn't shown up."

"Don't worry. We're having a sleepover."

"I'm not so sure…"

"I talked to my dad, and he said it's okay. He's already asleep. You'll see him tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Bradley. You're a prince."

Man, I can't juggle all these false compliments. If only they knew I'm doing this solely to piss off my father. I quietly crawl in beside Max, roll on my side, and prop myself up on one elbow. I stare at Max's worn-out face, feeling whatever last tinges of anger and hatred drain out of me. He looks like death; the trauma he'd gone through has taken a toll on him.

I let out a sigh and lie down, pulling the covers over me. Glancing at Max again, I hold in a laugh of amusement. What are the odds? I'm supposed to hate him, and now we're sharing a bed together, my bed. Never in a million years did I think this could ever be possible.

~*~*~*~

Walking out of the bathroom while drying my wet hair with a towel, I grin when I find Max tossing and turning in bed. "Rise and shine, princess, get ready for school."

Max jolts up and looks around him in confusion and shock until his gaze lands on me. "What the…" Feeling the bandages covering his body, he seems to have realized where he is and what has happened. "My dad…"

"Not to worry." I shake my head and resume rubbing the towel on my head. "I called him last night. He knows you're here."

He jumps out of bed like he's been struck by lightning and lets out a loud scream of pain, probably feeling more painful strikes on his back from the sudden jump.

"Easy there. You haven't recovered yet."

He touches his back with a confused look on his face. "Funny. The last time this happened to me, I couldn't move from bed."

I throw out my hands and grin. "You're welcome."

He's about to say something when he catches the clock on the wall. "Shit, look at the time! I'm running late!"

"It's six o'clock," I say with a frown.

"Exactly. Walking to school, remember?" He starts pacing in the room, looking for his clothes, then remembers they're not in the room, and eventually drops to the floor in surrender. "Man, I haven't been there for three days; might as well make it four."

I grab his arm and pull him up to his feet.  "Hey, I can drop you off on my way."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"What's the big deal?"  

"Your dad is the big deal."

"My dad has been put in his place." I throw the wet towel on my bed and bring my school uniform out of the closet. "Go wash your face, then pick something to wear and let's go have us some breakfast."

His mouth drops to the floor.  

I close it for him and push him toward the bathroom.

~*~*~*~

I toss my backpack down at my feet and relax in my seat in the car, enjoying the cool air rushing in from the opened window. I can't believe I actually miss going to school; it must be because I was able to turn my high school experience around and become the most popular kid, with everyone begging to be my friend.

I turn my head to the nervous wreck sitting next to me, so tense and uncomfortable he's about to pop. I'm about to tell him to chill when I notice his gaze darting away as he catches the nasty look Mike is giving him through the rearview mirror. The intense glare I throw at Mike makes him focus on the road immediately.

Having the stable boy grace young Mr. Uppercrust's ride with his presence is, naturally, causing quite the delightful stir among the staff. I'm practically counting the minutes until my dear father catches wind of it; I expect the ensuing fireworks display will be absolutely spectacular. That's probably what Goofy thought about when he begged me not to take Max to school by car earlier. He knows as well as I do that my father won't let the matter slide smoothly. But what Goofy doesn't know is that I won't let that freaking belt anywhere near his son. I made a promise yesterday, and I'm keeping it.

I glance at Max, still squirming in his seat with his gaze glued to whatever is fleeting through the window. It was awful watching the lifeless way he'd welcomed his father's relieved and happy hugs and kisses. Goofy's genuine love for Max is so overwhelming that I just can't understand why Max won't let old grudges go. So, Goofy made a mistake, and they both ended up here; the kid needs to pull that stick out of his ass and forgive his father already.

I throw my head back and stare ahead at the road. A giant building where lots of kids walk into rears its ugly head, and Mike starts pulling over.

I scrunch my nose when I literally catch the whiff of what appears to be some kid's unclean butt. Rolling up the window, I turn my disgusted gaze to Max. "This is your school?"

"Yeah…" he says in embarrassment, opening the car door.

This place certainly isn't worth waking up as early as five o'clock for, not to mention running an hour-long mile to get to it before first period. Maybe I'll ask my father to enroll Max in my school. Now that will be fun to see.

"Shit!" Max slams the door shut and ducks.

I duck with him. "What?"

"It's him."

"The bully?"

"Yeah."

I peer from his window and, quelle surprise, there he is: a textbook bad-boy type, complete with the obligatory leather jacket, suspiciously cheap sunglasses, and the entire "rebel without a cause" starter kit. He doesn't look buff, but then again, "buff" to me means a Tank-sized guy. This one is well-muscled but very thin, and he doesn't look an inch taller than me. Max shouldn't be scared of him.

I tug on Max's shirt. "Let's go."

"What?" he yelps in a very high-pitched voice.

"I'd like to meet Jack. Your friend is Jack, right?"

"You're walking me into school?" Max's high-pitched voice gets even higher.

I lift an eyebrow. "Why not?"

His gaze darts between me and the kids outside. "He… they…"

"See, that's your problem: you care too much what people think of you. The heck with them."

He grabs me by the collar and tries to shake some sense into me. "He's gonna beat us both."

I get out of his death grip with a struggle and scoff in offense. "I'm not gonna get beat up by a ninth grader."

"He's a senior."

I look at the bully again, noting how he suddenly got bigger and tougher than at first glance. "So what?" I say with false bravery.

Max narrows his eyes at me, but I don't crack under his intense stare. Instead, I push the door open and drag him outside. "Let's take our chances."

"We're so gonna get beat up."

~*~*~*~

"Gawrsh, Bradley, you look worse than Max."

I stand before Mr. Goof in the stable, a warrior of King's Academy, proudly sporting a black eye, a swollen cheek, and a torn lip. Yoli nearly collapsed at the sight of me, instantly demanding to call my school and berate someone for leaving me unattended. The school nurse was quite insistent on "fixing" the magnificent damage to my face, but I vehemently refused. I walked into King's Academy a hero, everybody awed by these fresh war scars. No one was going to take that glory away from me.

I give Goofy a croaked-tooth smile.  "By that, I assume Max is already back from school?"

"He's in his room.  Don't know what's keeping him late.  He told me he missed Andrea."

"I missed Andrea."  I'm already walking toward my lovely brown horse and pulling her into a tight hug.  "Come here, girl!"

"She's missed you both very much.  I can tell," Goofy said, smiling down at me.  

I rub my cheek against hers, returning Goofy's smile with a happier one.  The man's eyes get a bit misty and he lays a hand on my shoulder.  "Bradley…" he trails off, his hand leaving my shoulder and scratching the back of his neck in an imitation of his son.  

I let go of Andrea and look up at him with an encouraging nod.  

"I really appreciate you looking after Max.  It means a lot to me."

I swallow at his look of gratitude and at that moment there's nothing I wish for but for Max to make up with his father.  

Speaking of the devil, he's standing at the door with a sorrowful expression on his face. Did he hear what his father had said? Will they finally reconcile?

"Oh, hey," I say with a wave.

"We need to talk," he says gravely and walks away. I share a confused look with Goofy before following him outside.

I grimace in irritation at the hot weather; summer is already here. Maybe Max and I can take a dip in the pool. That'll be fun. I find him standing awkwardly behind the stable, his feet shuffling in the dirt.

"What is it?"

He throws me a sad, fleeting look before bringing something out of his pocket.

I stare at the shiny gold in shock. "The gold sun?"

"I found it in my room a while ago. I didn't say anything 'cause you stopped bringing it up. But then…" He shrugs. "I have no idea how it ended up in my room. I still think you put it there on purpose to humiliate me."

I take it from his hand and stare at it in a mixture of confusion and disappointment. I hadn't thought about it for a while, and now that it's in my hand, I just… I don't…

Max's sigh brings me back to the present. "I'm still at odds with my dad, but that doesn't mean I'd let anyone hurt him."

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. He gives me a look. What? Me? I'd never… oh. I remember my first conversation with Max in this reality, threatening him in his own bedroom. I was such a jerk.

Max looks up at me with a brave, resolved face. "You want a slave, you got one." He falls to his knees and kneels at my feet, bringing his lips to my leather boots.

I jump back, electrified with shame and embarrassment. "Stop!"

He stares up at me.

"The bet is off, Max!" I'm suddenly hit by an unwanted déjà vu of Champaign Max saying the exact same words to me after he won the College X-Games. "Right now, I'm much more interested in learning the right way to groom Andrea."

"You serious?"

"Sadly, it'll take me a few more days before I can ride again. So, a man's gotta take his chances."

Max points at his bruised face, then at mine. "I think you've done enough chance-taking for one day."

I let out a soft laugh and extend my hand to him. He smiles back and takes it, letting me pull him up to his feet. As he leads the way toward the stable, I glance down at the gold sun in my hand and then shove it into my pocket.

I'm not ready to leave yet.

Chapter Text

The last day of school is over, and summer vacation has officially begun! Unzipping my backpack and holding it upside down, I watch a year's worth of insufferable books and notebooks tumble out onto the floor. I don't really see why Yoli can't wait a day or two to wash my school bag and uniform; those charity people aren't going to disappear overnight.

A shiny object slips out of the backpack and lands on the pile of books, and my smile wavers. I've had the gold sun in my backpack for the past week, ever since Max gave it to me. I'm supposed to leave this timeline for whatever awaits me in the third, but everything is going so well here that I haven't had the heart to depart.

I finally made peace with Max. We're becoming friends of some sort, which has turned out to be much more… peaceful. I guess I'm sick and tired of playing the villain and trying to outshine him at his own game when I know, deep down, that he'll always be the more skilled one. That was a hard truth, even harder to accept, but letting go of those old grudges was a definite relief. I'm just glad I was able to get it right with Max.

But is that enough of a reason to prolong my stay? How long am I planning to remain in this timeline? Surely not forever. Of course not.

I pad on bare feet to my dresser and take the gold necklace from inside the drawer. I put it on and look at myself in the mirror: the pale, thin face of an anorexic kid. I look awful; no wonder girls didn't look at me twice in high school. But high school was over long ago. I'm a different person now. I'm not meant to be here. My real place is at college, getting ready for finals and enduring ridicule from everyone on campus while watching Max receive all the love and respect.

Hearing solid knocks on the door, I sling the empty backpack onto one shoulder and gather the old school uniform from the floor. I swing the door open, but stop myself immediately when I'm about to throw my things at…

"Dad?"

Unfortunately, I've yet to make things right with my old man. If only our issues were as simple as a skateboarding rivalry.

I can see the change of emotions on his face when he notices the denim overalls I'm wearing. He's probably wondering how they even made it into my closet. His eyes narrow at the moon-shaped necklace, and I clutch it nervously without thinking. Shit, I should have taken it off before opening the door.

"Figured since I can't ride Andrea yet," I explain why I'm wearing the overalls, stumbling backward into my room to unload what I'm carrying onto the desk. I take off the necklace and rush to the dresser, tossing it inside and pushing the drawer shut.

Turning around, I notice he's wearing his riding clothes and frown up at him. "You're heading to the stable, too?"

"It's a beautiful summer day. I thought we should spend it together." He puts on his black helmet and flashes a smile my way.

"What part of 'can't ride Andrea yet' didn't you understand?"

"We can walk the horses around the estate."

I brush a hand through my hair, feeling uncomfortable with that hopeful glint in his eyes. "Actually, Dad, I thought I'd spend the day learning more about grooming and saddling my horse."

"Why would you want to do that when your horse already has someone taking care of it?" He casts a disapproving stare at the books and papers scattered on the floor.

I rush to clear up the mess, but the books I'm carrying keep dropping as I bend to pick up more. "Taking care of the horse makes the two of you closer, Dad." I almost step on the gold sun, but catch myself in time and pick it up as quickly as possible, putting it in my pocket. "I'm going to have…"

"Max is going to teach you," he says casually, no trace of jealousy or disdain in his voice.

I give a simple nod, feeling a bit uneasy.

"All right then," he says in a quiet tone and leaves.

I drop the books I'm carrying on the floor and hurry out to follow him. I stop in my tracks when I catch him walking past the stairs and straight back to his bedroom.

~*~*~*~

After a long thirty minutes spent petting Andrea and laughing at Goofy's antics in the stable, waiting patiently for Max to show his face, I finally decide to go to the servant dorms and drag him out myself. Goofy had mentioned a phone call from PJ, I didn't realize Max could be such a "girl" with the phone.

I bang on the door, resisting my old habit of barging in unannounced. "What took you so long? I've been waiting for you forever," I call, ignoring the curious glances of passing servants.

The door swings open, and before me stands a tousle-haired, droopy-eyed Max wearing nothing but a crumpled white shirt and blue boxers. "Sorry about that. I'm on my way," he says in a hollow voice, dragging his feet toward his room.

Still caught off-guard by his skinny chicken legs, those baggy pants had indeed given me the wrong impression, I enter the apartment and gently close the door behind me. "You don't look like you want to leave the apartment."

"Like I have a choice," he mutters, kicking his bedroom door shut.

Those lifeless words feel like a spiny fist punching my face. I hate it when he talks to me like I own him. I'm aware I used to treat him that way, but I thought we were past that now.

I hear an aggravated cry coming from the closet and hurry inside, witnessing Max on the floor, tangled in his own clothes. I help him up and watch silently as he pulls on his overalls in a jerky manner, cursing under his breath while doing the straps.

I stuff my hands in my pockets as he searches for his cap in the dump that is his room. "Wanna, uh, talk about it?"

He scoffs. "Like you're actually interested."

"If I wasn't interested, I wouldn't have asked," I say dryly.

He looks back at me, about to fire a retort, but upon noticing my annoyed expression, his grimace gradually fades. He drops onto his bed with a heavy sigh and runs his fingers through his messy hair. "There's this…" He looks up at me with an unsure glance. I sit next to him on the bed and give an encouraging nod.

Another heavy sigh escapes his mouth, his hands clutching his knees tightly. "There's this party everyone at my old school is going to attend…" he trails off, casting a new, hesitant glance in my direction.

"Oh." No wonder he's so pissed off, throwing half-assed remarks about the social differences between us. "And you want to go?"

"What do you think?"

I lower my head at his snappy response, feeling embarrassed by my silly question.

Max's tone is a bit softer as he continues, "That's not exactly what bothers me."

I look up at him and witness the unbearable sadness in his eyes. "There's this girl… I was supposed to impress her today, ask her out right afterward. Turns out she's going to the party with the most popular jock in school." He lets out a humorless laugh. "And I stupidly thought that life over there would be on hold until I somehow find a way to return, but the clock keeps ticking, and everybody is moving on, and I'm still stuck here! With no chance of leaving ever!"

A moment of awkward silence passes between us before Max scoffs and gets up, fetching his blue cap from under a pile of school books. He stands in front of the mirror and combs his messy hair with his fingers before putting on his cap.

"I'm sorry, Max," I murmur as sincerely as I can, not truly feeling it on the inside. Having Max around has made my life in this house more bearable and interesting, and I'm actually glad he's "still stuck here."

"It's not your fault," he says, slipping on his white gloves.

"How… how were you going to impress her?"

"Better left unsaid." He turns around to look at me, the faint blush on his cheeks easing the tight knot in my chest.

I smile despite myself, enjoying the change in atmosphere. "No, really, how?"

He lowers the brim of his cap to hide his face. "It's embarrassing."

I jump to my feet and turn his cap backward, the way he always wears it. "Now I'm intrigued. What were you going to do?"

He pushes me away, and I end up sitting on his bed again. "Well, if you must know," he starts, a deep red coloring his cheeks. "I was going to perform a Powerline song, dressed up like him, on the auditorium stage in front of the whole school."

I blink up at him. I did not expect that. "Wow?"

He points a threatening finger. "Don't laugh."

Now that he said it, I burst into laughter despite myself, a laugh of admiration rather than mockery. "Hijacking a school assembly? I didn't know you had it in you. I thought of you as a straight-up goody-two-shoes."

He gives a mild shrug and drops next to me on the bed, eyes staring at his joined fists in silence.

I feel a slight pang of guilt, thinking about all the chances and opportunities Max is missing by laboring all day in an estate far away from home. "You really like that girl, huh?"

He hides his face in his hands and whispers, "Yeah."

There was a time when I took joy in watching him in this depressed state, but now it's making me wish for a smoke. I haven't smoked in a while, and to think turning into a softie was my only curse.

I give my miserable stable boy a nudge on the shoulder. "So, you like Powerline?"

"Everyone at school does." He collapses on the bed with his arms stretched out and stares up at the ceiling. "The party is next Saturday. They're going to watch the Powerline concert live on pay-per-view."

I cock my head and look at him as I sit on the edge of his bed, inwardly smiling at a fun idea that's starting to form in my head.

~*~*~*~




"If this is a prank, Bradley…"

"It isn't a prank."

"Ouch! My toe! Damn it!"

"Don't be such a baby."

"Easy for you to say. You're not blindfolded and bumping your body parts against whatever's out there."

"We're almost there."

I shove the resistant boy into the living room before rushing to turn on the lights and grab the remote control. I hurry back to a fledgling Max and take off the blindfold just as I unmute the TV. Stand Out blares loudly, making Max jump back in surprise. His eyes grow wide watching Powerline busting a move on our large TV screen.

"Dude," he exclaims in shock, "This is… this is…"

My subtle nudge toward the waiting pizza boxes proves ineffective. Apparently, the culinary delights laid out before him are no match for Powerline's captivating presence. He remains rooted to the spot, a true connoisseur of animated dance moves, while I resort to the direct approach: a firm grab of the hand and a gentle yank. And down he goes, a graceful tumble onto his derrière, proving that even in a state of complete mesmerization, gravity still has its way.

I kick myself for not bringing a camera. Who knew Max harbors such a deep, abiding affection for Powerline, or possesses the capacity for such unadulterated geekdom? As I crack open my Pepsi, I can't help but chuckle at his enthusiastic, if not entirely tuneful, singing along. I remember being a fan of this song, but I can hardly recall the lyrics except for the chorus.

A gulp of the cold, gassy soda goes down the wrong pipe; I'm laughing too hard at his excited head-bobbing and singing. Usually, I'd be belting it out with him, but an unsettling sensation crawls up my spine, like someone is staring right at me from behind.

My head snaps toward the door, and my blood runs cold. There, framed in the doorway, is my father. His face is stone, his eyes chips of ice, and I feel an uncontrollable urge to squirm. Still, I desperately try to remain still, knowing Max, blissfully unaware, is too engrossed in the music to notice anything. We are locked in a silent standoff that feels like an eternity. He offers no words, only a chilling scrutiny that moves from my face to Max's, then to the pizza boxes on the floor, before he vanishes as quietly as he appears into the darkness.

Something swells inside me, something about the way Dad stared at me that I can't quite place. Why do I feel like shit? Why do I feel like the biggest scum in the world? Leave it to my dad to turn an innocent little party between two friends into the biggest taboo since cannibalism.

"Pass me the Pepsi, will ya, Bradley?"

I snap out of my thoughts and hand Max the cold can, watching him crack it open and take long swallows from it. He looks so happy, so free and at ease. I smile to myself and then jump to my feet.

"Get up!"

He blinks up at me. "What?"

"Bring out your inner Powerline and show me your dance moves."

"Dude…"

"C'mon!"

He brushes his hair back in embarrassment but rises to his feet. We share a smile, his bashful and mine encouraging, and then he starts dancing. I try to imitate him, but he's moving way too fast, copying the same moves as Powerline on TV. He must have spent nights practicing the moves until he perfected them.

I give up trying to catch up with him eventually and just watch him with amusement. He wasn't kidding when he told me he knew how to fast dance. He's really good. Makes me wonder why he never danced like this in college. It would have driven me even madder with jealousy.

When the song is over, Max drops to the floor, panting heavily, while the audience on screen cheers and applauds. I sit next to him and open a pizza box, both of us reaching for a slice at the same time.

"I know this isn't as good as being in a school party with the girl of your dreams sitting by your side, but at least you got to watch the concert with a friend."

Max barks a laugh and shoves a slice of pizza into his mouth. "Good one, Bradley."

I feel like someone who's been punched in the gut; I must have looked like it, too, because Max frowns at me and asks, "What? You were serious?"

I put down the slice of pizza into the box. "I don't see what's so funny."

Max chuckles and punches my shoulder playfully. "Man, you and I could never be buddies."

I feel my eyebrows crease together. "Why not?"

He stuffs the rest of the pizza into his mouth and shrugs. "Not under these circumstances."

There he goes again about the social differences! Suddenly, I lose my appetite, and Powerline starts sounding like a cat screeching. I rise to my feet and start heading for the door. "Enjoy your concert, Max."

"Where are you going?"

I turn around and snap, "To bed!"

His features mellow into an apologetic look. "Bradley, I didn't mean…"

"Well, you did. Just make sure to clear up the mess and turn off the lights when the concert is over."

I storm out of the room and toward the stairs, my heartbeat rising with overwhelming fury. The last time I felt this angry was when my father had imprisoned Max in the basement with nothing to eat or drink. Standing up to my father on behalf of that ungrateful jerk! Apparently, that wasn't enough. Nor letting him sleep on my bed, or getting beat up by the bully at his school for him, or even dressing up as a stable boy! No, nothing is enough for that asshole!

I bump against someone and stumble back, falling on my butt. I'm about to lash out at the idiot who interrupted my mental rant…

"Dad?" I blink up at him in confusion. Where did he come from? His room is on the other side of the mansion.

"Left the party early?" he asks casually, extending a hand to me.

I take it and let him help me up to my feet. "Yeah, I got tired. Told Max to clean up after he's done."

He nods. "Very well."

Still feeling confused, I watch him walk away to his room. He came out of nowhere, like a thief in the night.

I shake my head and make my way to my bedroom, heading straight to my bed and flopping down on it. I nestle into my pillow and curl into a ball, cursing continuously and beating the pillow with my fist. An overwhelming mixture of surging emotions is rising inside me, threatening to break through to the surface.

I toss and turn in discomfort and try to wiggle out of my jeans, too tight, I can't take them off while lying down on the bed. I give up eventually and lie still, stretching my arms and gazing up at the ceiling, imitating Max earlier this week. The thought of him, my dad, and everything wrong in this timeline makes me scoot backward up against the headboard into a sitting position and reach out to open the drawer in my nightstand. I fetch out the gold sun. I'd hidden it here after I had taken off my dirty overalls that day.

The moonlight illuminating the room reflects on the gold's surface, making its edges glimmer. My hand closes on it. A tight, determined grip that seems to have sealed the deal for me. I'm leaving. It's time to move forward. There's no use reliving a false past and trying to change it for my own benefit. None of the changes I've made here are making me content, not when I know deep down that this is not where I belong. Where I'm supposed to be.

My heartbeat rages in my chest as I make my way toward the dresser. Don't think. Just do it. My hand wavers over the knob in a moment of hesitation, but then I decisively grip it and pull the drawer open.

It's not there.

I stand in my spot for a moment, my gaze searching inside the drawer for the necklace. Panicking, I dig inside, throwing out everything in sight. Now the drawer is empty, and the necklace isn't inside.

Where the hell did it go? I never… it has always been in this drawer… but, wait!

My reflection darkens in the mirror.

A thief in the night, indeed!



~*~*~*~*~



I barge into my father's room without knocking, standing with my arms crossed in defiance. "Where is it?"

He lifts his gaze from his book, giving me a nonchalant stare. "This is not the way to behave around your father."

"You lost all your privileges by sneaking into my room and going through my things. Where is my necklace?" I demand again, trying my best to steady my rage.

For a moment, I think he's going to deny being in my room at all, but instead, he puts his book on the table and looks steadily into my eyes. "I'm going to have it tested first."

My mouth hangs open in shock. "Tested? What the hell, Dad?"

"Whatever spell that boy has put on you must be stopped."

My mouth still agape, I look at him like he's gone insane, but he looks as serious as ever. "You've got to be kidding. Since when do you believe in magic?"

"Since you started to act differently three weeks ago."

I'm thrown by this. "What?"

"Good night, son." He picks up his book from the table and resumes reading. It's my cue to leave, but I can't move my feet. This is just too much, but after years of living here, I know there's no way I'll get him to talk further about this now.

I walk down the hallway, shocked and scared, then stop by the stairs leading to the lobby. I peer at the living room where Max and I had our little party. The lights are off, and no sound is coming from there. Max has probably gone home before the concert was even over.



~*~*~*~



My life is completely over! I'm going to be stuck here forever, forced to relive the next four years. I'm not even sure I'd call it reliving when everything in this reality is so different from my real past. Goofy and Max working for us being the most obvious change. But then, so is my school life and my relationship with my father. Heck, by now I'm supposed to have already rebelled against his rules and met Tank. Right now, I'm supposed to be packing my bags for military school.

But none of that is happening, because my past has been rewritten by Slouch's witch of an aunt. What if whoever examines the necklace discovers that it's magical? What will happen to me? What will happen to Max? Dad would obviously believe that whatever evil mojo the necklace has on me is Max's doing. Last time he thought Max had hurt me, he'd locked him in the basement for three days. This time, he'd do something far more drastic.

I hear strong knocks on the glass doors leading to my balcony and stare at the closed drapes with furrowed eyebrows. Did I accidentally lock someone out on the balcony? But other than Yoli, none of the servants come into my room, and I've already seen her this morning. The knocks return, more forceful this time, followed by the detested voice of Max Goof.

How the hell was he able to climb all the way up to the balcony? How did he even know which balcony is mine? I don't remember telling him that my balcony overlooks the stable.

I snap the drapes open and squint my eyes at the streaming sunlight that frames Max's figure. Unlocking the glass doors, I raise an eyebrow in boredom. "What do you want?"

He has a sheepish look on his face, a gloved hand rubbing the back of his neck. "You didn't come to the stable today."

"I didn't feel like it."

"Is it because of what I said last night?"

I scoff, already heading back to bed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Then what?"

I lie down on the bed and take hold of the gold sun, staring at it in somber silence and ignoring Max's existence altogether.

He approaches my bed and rests his hand on my nightstand, looking closely at me as if he can feel my nerves. "Thought you'd put this in your necklace by now."

"Yeah, well, I can't."

"It doesn't fit?"

"No, idiot!" I slap the gold sun on my chest and glare up at him. "Dad took the necklace and locked it in his room. He said it must have some kind of voodoo influence on me."

"Why would he think that?"

"I don't know, but it seems he's not the only one who thinks a friendship between us is an impossible thing."

"Oh." He breaks eye contact, taking my small notebook and rubbing his thumb on the cover. "Why don't you go into his room and take it?"

When he starts flipping through the pages, I get up and snatch the notebook from him. "Not in the mood for stupid jokes, Max."

"I'm serious."

"Right." I put the notebook inside the drawer and raise an eyebrow at him. "Go into his room without his permission in the middle of the day where everyone can see me."

He shrugs. "Do it at night. I'll help you."

I lean against the nightstand and cross my arms over my chest. "A goody-two-shoes like you?"

"Stop calling me that. You haven't met me in Spoonerville; trouble is my middle name when mischief isn't."

I consider what he says, watching him wander around my room and check out my calendar. "So, just like that? We sneak into his room and steal the necklace?"

"Technically, it's yours, so it's not stealing."

"What's in it for you?"

"The satisfaction of knowing that a stable boy like me has been into your dad's scarce room."

I smirk. "You're full of surprises, Goof Boy."

He smirks back. "You haven't seen nothing yet."




~*~*~*~

I stand there, staring at my reflection, fully decked out in black and, if I do say so myself, absolutely nailing my terrible Will Smith impression. Or, at least, that's what I think I'm doing, before realizing those ridiculously oversized sunglasses make me practically blind. Ripping them off and flinging them onto the dresser, I finally see what I really look like: less "Man in Black," more "witless teen desperately ready for prom".

The knocks on the glass doors distract me from glowering at my reflection. Finally, Max is here; let's get this over with.

"What the hell are you wearing?" I hiss in shock and abhorrence, eyeing the black shirt and loose dark slacks, folded at the bottoms. "Are those your father's?"

He pulls up his pants as he steps off my balcony. "Well, yeah, I don't own black pants."

"Max, I told you we're going for Men in Black."

"And here I am, in black."

I stare at him disbelievingly. "You don't know Men in Black?"

"Is it a movie or something?"

"Is it a movie…" I blink at his confused face and suddenly realize that I'm back in time. Will Smith is probably still the Fresh Prince.

"Never mind. You didn't bring sunglasses?"

"About that."

He presents the ugliest, most clichéd dark shades I have ever seen.

I heave a disappointed sigh. "Just toss them on the dresser and let's get going."

We sneak through the hallway, tiptoeing our way in complete silence toward Dad's bedroom. The door is locked, as I expected, so I throw an anxious glance at Max, and he gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He pulls a paperclip and a butter knife out of his pockets and examines the door lock, apparently to see which one he's going to use. I watch the master work his magic with fascination and wonder if he'd ever committed a felony when he was in Spoonerville.

Max takes a step back with a satisfied smile and pushes the door open, then gestures for me to walk in. The darkness of my father's room surrounds me, and a chill runs down my spine. After Mom passed away, I was forbidden to step a foot into this room without Dad being inside. Not that I ever wanted to, given the pervasive scent of impending doom and the wonderfully uplifting black wallpaper.

I flinch when Max snaps the lights on, catching me off guard. He returns my glare with a confused look.

"Man, this room is still dark even with the lights on." He walks toward the lamp on the nightstand and turns it on.

This room wasn't like this before. Not when Mom was alive. I turn my attention to the singular couch next to the small wooden closet displaying a collection of books on its shelves. I feel a pang of rare sympathy, switching my gaze from the one couch to the one pillow in the middle of the king-sized bed. The room speaks of how hard my father had taken Mom's death; for all my gripes about him getting rid of every reminder of her, there's no doubt he'd only done it to make life easier. But one more look at the room, and I can clearly see that it didn't work at all.

Suddenly, I hear the flush of the toilet coming from the bathroom and twirl around in shock. Max walks out with a dopey smile on his face.

"What did you do?" I whisper in apprehension, looking at the open door leading to the hall, hoping no one heard that.

"Oh, just performing a vital service for His Majesty," he announces with a smug grin. "Though, it's a shame I won't get to see his face when he realizes the stable boy has blessed his private facilities."

I scrunch my nose in disgust. "And he never will, seeing as you flushed the evidence."

Max shrugs. "I'm a rebel, but I'm not insane."

"'Rebel' is a strong word to describe your case." I rush toward Dad's desk and start checking the drawers. "We better hurry up. Dad would kill us both if he finds us here."

We haven't searched for long when a sudden, loud noise of a car screeching comes from outside. I hurry to the window and freeze at the sight of my father's car parked outside the house.

"Out!" I hiss, turning off the lamp on the nightstand. "We gotta get out of here."

I fluster around the room, trying my best to hide any evidence of us. Max turns off the lights and closes the bedroom door. I stop in my tracks and look at Max in horror. "The door is unlocked. He's going to know." I'm shaking, my eyes wide with panic. "Shit! We haven't thought this one through."

Max grabs my arm and drags me after him. "Too late to fuss over that now."

We hear the front door of the house shut and pick up our pace, running toward my room. When I hear my father's footsteps getting closer, I shove Max out onto the balcony and shut the glass doors behind him. Withdrawing the curtains shut, I turn around and stare in fright at the door.

"Bradley, can I come in?"

My heart pounds fast enough to drive nails; I try to gulp air to answer, but I can't manage it before Dad pushes my bedroom door open.

I hold my breath as his critical eyes travel down my black clothes. He doesn't say a thing. He just makes his way toward me, and now my heartbeats are banging in my ears.

We stare into each other's eyes for a moment, then he silently hands me my necklace back.

I look at it speechlessly, then lift my gaze to him in confusion.

"It's ordinary," he says.

"Oh." Then all the trouble we went through tonight was pointless. He'd taken the necklace out with him, and... it's ordinary. I take the necklace from his hand and narrow my eyes at it. Aunt Broom-Hilda must have put a protection spell on it somehow. That witch seemed to have thought everything through.

"Did… Max give it to you?"

The uncertainty in his eyes makes me sigh despite myself. "Max can't afford a gold necklace, Dad. Besides, why would he give me a necklace? Unless you think our so-called buddy-hood is a gay thing."

He nods, lowering his gaze to the necklace in my hand. The air thickens between us, compelling me to take a step forward and catch my father's gaze. "Look, Max is just… he's just someone I get along with. We're not friends. We can't be friends when he's my servant."

"It's all right, Bradley." He turns around and leaves my room, but something about his eyes didn't look right.

I find myself rushing out of the door, calling after him, "Dad…"

He stops but doesn't look at me. "I fixed the stable and got the horses because I thought it would bring us closer. But obviously, you're not interested."

He continues on his path, leaving me standing there, shocked and ashamed.



~*~*~*~

Max has lost it again, and the usual yelling match begins in the stable, except it's only Max who does the yelling. Goofy just stands there, taking his son's abuse in melancholic silence. Sitting on a pile of hay, I can barely hold my temper watching Max explode at Goofy over the most trivial things. But then, when Max goes as far as shoving his father, I can't take it any longer.

I jump between the two and shove Max back. "That's enough!"

"That's not your business."

"But Andrea is!" I point at the tense horse in her stall. It seems that's all I needed to calm Max down, as his face softens into a look of guilt and worry, and he rushes to comfort her.

I feel Goofy's hand on my shoulder and look up at his sad smile. "Don't be too hard on him, Bradley."

"But…"

"What he's going through isn't easy."

"I know, but you don't deserve…"

"Oh, yes, I do." He squeezes my shoulder and then leads Alexander out of the stable, his head downcast and shoulders slumped. Suddenly, I'm reminded of my father retreating to his room last night, and the anger inside me rises up again.

I walk to where Max is standing with Andrea, grab his arm, and spin him around. "You better get over it soon!"

He yanks his arm out of my grip. "What?"

"So, your dad screwed up. And you ended up in this hell. And it makes you really, really angry. But is it worth it? Holding the grudge for such a long time?"

Max regards me quietly before he grabs his grooming kit and leads Andrea out of her stall.

"He's trying to reach out to you, and here you are…"

"He bet on me!" Max snaps, causing Andrea to tense again, so he starts running his hand along her withers tenderly.

I stare at him in confusion. "What?"

Max's hand stops on Andrea's back, trembling slightly. "No, Pete bet on me, and my dad agreed."

"I don't follow you."

He sighs, taking a brush out of the kit and starting on Andrea's back. "You know the story, Bradley."

"I don't, Max."

He scoffs. "C'mon."

"I don't. I honestly don't."

For the first time since I came into this timeline, I admit knowing nothing, indirectly admitting I'm a different Bradley, and Max can see it in my eyes now. Probably not the whole truth, but enough for him to tell me the story.

He rubs the heel of his palms into his eyes and drops down on the hay, lifting a thin strand and twirling it in his fingers. "Pete and Dad met your father at some dive bar in Spoonerville. They were playing some card game, but Pete, being Pete, wasn't betting pocket change. He was gambling on everything he could leverage, and somehow, he convinced my dad to put up the deed to our house and Dad's entire future earnings as collateral for a monstrous loan, just to stay in the game." Max let out a humorless laugh. "And then, as if that wasn't insane enough, Pete bet it all against your father, Bradley, promising a lifetime of service from my dad and even me, as his dependent, if Pete lost. And he lost, big time. So, here we are."

I try to process what he just said, but it doesn't make any sense. There's no way he's telling the truth. "That's… that's impossible. That's horrible. You mean my family actually controls your lives? This whole arrangement isn't temporary?"

He gives me a "duh" face, rises to his feet, and grabs a comb from the grooming kit.

I shake my head, my eyes still wide with shock. "But that's practically illegal."

Max starts combing Andrea's mane, untangling the knots with a gentle manner that contrasts his harsh tone. "C'mon, the laws of this country bend their asses for people like your father."

The pieces of the puzzle slam into place with the force of thick bricks: Mike's hesitation to tell me about the Goofs' predicament, Dad beating Max with a belt, Goofy saying and doing nothing to stop him, Max begging me not to talk to my father about it.  

Max continues combing Andrea's tail, his eyes lifting to meet mine with a bitter, lopsided smile. "You wanted a slave, Bradley? You've already got one. And that's why we can never be friends."

My eyebrows draw together, my jaw clenching. He gives me a mocking bow, then resumes his work on Andrea's tail.

~*~*~*~

I slam my hand on my father's desk, making his pencil holder jump. "What the hell, Dad? Do we actually own the Goofs?"

He glances up from his newspaper, meeting my furious gaze. "Yes?"

The sheer indifference in his expression fuels my rage. "We can't own human beings! We have to un-own them now!"

"Disown," he corrects, without missing a beat.

I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Whatever!"

He places the newspaper on his desk and lowers his glasses to the tip of his nose to give me his best confused stare. "What happened to change your mind all of a sudden? You knew about this from the beginning."

I smack my chest in shock. "Me? Me?"

"Yes, but you were so happy with the horses and the young stable boy, you didn't object to this at all."

"I didn't? I didn't! I… I…."

I didn't care. I didn't care. I was so happy to have Max and Andrea around, I didn't care how much it was hurting Max to be some property of mine. And all this time, I used to think of the pre-shift me as some sort of a saint, but it turns out he was nothing but a selfish bastard.

Like me.

I guess everywhere I go, I'm destined to be the same selfish, spoiled, rich bastard who never stops to think about how much his actions hurt others.

Dazed, I grip my father's desk, a fragile attempt to steady myself. This is too much to take in. My legs give out, and I sink to the floor.

Hands. Hands going around me, pulling me into a hug. Panicking, I push my father off of me and crawl away, but he grabs my arm and tries to pull me into another hug.

"Let me go," I snap at him, trying to get away. "You're a monster!" I turn around, using my fist to break free. Then I blink. I look down at my fist. I look up at my father… whom I just punched.

Wide-eyed, I stare up at the trickle of blood running down my father's lip. I squirm out of his weakened hold, edging to the wall and using it to lift myself up to my feet.

"And I'm not," I continue with trembling lips. "I will… I will never be like you."

The hurt in his eyes is as unmistakable as the line of blood going down his chin. I run out of his office before I faint. I hit my father. I hit my father. I hit my father.

~*~*~*~





I spent last night in my room, listening to my old records until my brain stopped trying to think. Everything is going upside down in this timeline; Dad suddenly decides he cares about me, but then I find myself caring more about the Goofs, while Goofy cares about Max, who cares about a girl in Spoonerville, and the chain of caring goes on and on.

I don't know what to do with these mixed emotions simmering inside me. It just hurts, Goofy's longing gaze, Dad's longing gaze… two wronged children so angry with their parents, they can't accept their desperate attempts to reach out and fix the damage.

Andrea sticks her muzzle over my shoulder for another carrot, so I give her a gentle pat and then what she wants. I take one more carrot and feed Alexander as well. I'm glad I agreed to be out here taking care of the horses while the Goofs are busy cleaning up the stable. As cleaning places isn't my thing. Cleaning my own room and bathroom, for example, is a hobby I've always managed to avoid.

I wave a hand to Goofy as he walks out with the wheelbarrow and dumps the filth in the manure pile. He returns my wave with a warm smile and a nod, then wheels the barrow toward the new, fresh straw. I head into the stable and watch Max cleaning Andrea's stall by using a pitchfork to remove manure and soiled bedding.

Goofy brings in the clean straw and starts shaking and spreading it out in Alexander's clean stall. The Goofs used to keep the horses inside before my essential help, which caused them a lot of pain and prolonged the cleaning process to more than forty minutes.

Now, with Alexander's stall all clean and ready for use, Goofy parks the empty wheelbarrow in front of Andrea's stall. He maneuvers it to face the direction Max will go when the barrow is full. "There," he says with a sigh, wiping away the sweat from his forehead. "Think I'm gonna walk them horsies around 'til you're done."

"Leave Andrea," Max says dryly. "You can barely manage a horse without starting to act like yourself. Don't want her to get hurt."

No, but you're determined to bleed your father dry, aren't you? The raw hurt on Goofy's face is enough to make me want to give Max a bleeding nose right then and there. Goofy must have caught my furious glare, because he's offering a sad, unhappy smile and subtly shaking his head. I let out a heavy sigh, finally understanding what he'd meant yesterday when he said Max's struggle wasn't easy.

I wait until Goofy leaves, turning my sympathetic gaze to Max, who is placing the wet bedding into the wheelbarrow. "Will you ever find it in your heart to forgive him?"

"Bradley, my dad has been falling for Pete's traps since I can't remember. He never learns. He does whatever Pete tells him and never stands up to him, and now, I'm paying the price."

"So is he," I say softly.

"But it's his mess!" He puts away the pitchfork and starts sweeping the floor with a stable broom. "Why the hell should I pay for his mistakes?"

I can't blame Max. His situation is twice worse than mine, and here I am, unable to let my own father give me a hug. Not only that, but I used my own fist to prevent it from happening. How screwed up am I? How screwed up are both of us? This is getting out of hand. Max's pain, Goofy's pain, Dad's pain, and mine.

It's time. It's definitely time.

"When you're done," I start, getting his attention. "Saddle Andrea up. I'll be back in a sec."

He frowns. "You're able to ride her now?"

"No."

"Then…"

"Max," I bite my lips, hating the words I'm about to say with passion, "It's an order."

He presses his lips shut and nods silently.

~*~*~*~

I snatch my sketchbook and hurry out of the room, running toward the stairs. But then I stop in my tracks, my eyes wide at the sight of my father in formalwear taking the stairs. He stops, looks up, no sign of a bruise on his lip.

"Dad," I say, my voice ashamed and low.

He nods. "Bradley."

He continues on his way down the stairs.

"Dad…" I call after him, waiting until he looks up at me. "Are you… are you going out?"

"I've got an important meeting."

I blink, my lips flutter, everything I want to say dies in my throat. Even the last goodbye.

"Do you want something?"

I give a small headshake. "No, um, take care."

"You too," he says quietly, and goes on his way.

I watch him leave, my chest tightening painfully. Goodbye, Dad.

~*~*~*~

Max and Andrea are waiting for me in front of the stable. "I thought you were going to change?" His gaze falls on the sketchbook in my hands, but he doesn't comment on it.

"Max…"

"What?"

"Ride Andrea."

His eyebrows fly to his hairline, and he shuffles his way on his dirty rubber boots to where I'm standing. He takes a close look at my face. "You hit your head or something?"

I sigh. "I'm serious."

He gives a humorless laugh. "Bradley, we've already established this. I don't know anything about…"

"I'll hold the reins for you."

"Dude…"

"For God's sake, Max," I snap in exasperated frustration. "Can we pretend we're just a couple of normal kids? Can you, for just one hour, pretend that we're friends?"

He stares at me, speechless for a moment, then lowers his gaze to the ground, thinking about my request. It isn't easy after two months of being treated like nothing but a servant. Looked down on, shamed, and humiliated. I'll understand if he doesn't agree to this, even though it'll frustrate me like hell.

He looks up at me, eyes as hard as steel. "What if your dad saw us?"

"I won't let him hurt you."

"I wasn't just talking about me."

A faint smile curls up my lips. "We'll both be fine. Hey, we've snuck into his bedroom together. We can do anything now."

He smiles back, but says nothing.

I help him hop on Andrea's back. The kid has balance issues, all right; he can barely sit upright. Once that problem is taken care of, Max starts looking around the place with wondrous awe. I smile up at him, remembering the first time I rode Andrea and how cool that experience was.

"So, uh, what should I do?" His voice drips with excitement.

"You asking me?" I say with amusement. "You were the one who taught me how to ride."

"Reading books is nothing like experience."

"Tap her gently with your feet."

He does, and she starts walking. Max holds on to the reins with a startled, happy laugh. "She's moving! She's moving!"

I remember how he used to roll his eyes at my excitement when I first managed to make Andrea stop walking. If it were the old me, I'd have probably done the same. Actually, I wouldn't have let him ride my horse in the first place. I hold the reins and start guiding them both around the estate. I thought it was going to be humiliating at first, but now as I lead them both around, it feels kind of nice. Like I'm more experienced in this stuff, wiser, kind of like the big brother I used to be in the first timeline.

"Can we make her walk faster?"

"Better not risk it, Max." I look up at him and smile at his gleeful joy.

Everyone we come across drops their mouths to the ground in shock, except for Yoli, who throws me a proud grin. I bet her delusion of my heroism is going up a notch.

We walk past Goofy and Alexander; nothing improves my mood like that cheerful smile that lights up the older man's face. He looks so happy, in contrast to the sorrowful state he was in after Max had yelled at him earlier. Now I know I did the right thing.

After walking for a while, we stop in the wide field next to the small forest, and I help Max down to the ground. I lie on my back on the green grass with a warm breeze blowing the swaying trees above me, squinting my eyes at the bright sun in the middle of a clear blue sky. Suddenly, Andrea comes into my vision and blows on my face.

I shriek and roll away in the grass, hearing Max's loud chuckles. I laugh as well, lying on my stomach now, using my arms as a pillow. Then a sudden pang of sadness hits me, and the laughter dies in my throat.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" I mumble in sorrow. "Makes me feel…" The sentence trails off with a quiver, making me shut my lips and close my eyes to prevent the stinging tears from falling.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You talk like you're dying."

I look at him with a shaky smile.

His eyes widen with fright. "Are you dying? For real?"

I prop myself up on my elbows and reach for my sketchbook in the grass. "Max, I… have been working on this for a while. I haven't finished it yet, but…"

I flip the pages until I find a certain drawing and hand the book to Max. "Here."

He looks at the drawing, and I watch closely as his eyebrows shoot up and his lips part in surprise. "Bradley," he whispers in a croaky voice, his eyes blurring slightly.

I give him a playful punch on the arm. "On a scale of one to ten, how similar does she look to how you pictured her?"

Max shakes his head, speechless. "This is incredible." He looks at me with eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You…"

I say nothing. Just grin.

"God, I'm… I was such a jerk to you, and all that time you were…"

I tap him on the shoulder. "It doesn't matter, Max. 'Cause you're right. We have to be equals to be friends." I stand up and throw him a meaningful look. "I don't think it's possible in this timeline."

His eyebrows furrow. "Timeline?"

I wrap my arms around Andrea's neck and hug her close, feeling a burning in my eyes and a tightness in my throat. "I'm going to miss you so much."

Max jumps to his feet and stands next to me. "Bradley, you're scaring me."

I let go of Andrea and then hug him. He freezes in my embrace, flustered and awkward. "Promise me you'll take care of her," I whisper into his ear.

He twists out of my grip. "What the hell is going on?"

"Max, I hope one day, you'll find it in your heart to forgive your father."

I pull out the necklace from under my shirt and bring out the gold sun. Max looks between the two objects in bewilderment. One last look at my stable boy and my beautiful horse, this time it's harder to keep the tears locked in my eyes, so I let them slip freely down my cheeks.

And then… I did it.

Bright white light surrounds me, swallowing Max and Andrea. Their disappearance scares me, making me regret my decision for a mere second before I feel the ground vanishing from underneath me. Unlike the last time, it's not a quick shift. This time, it feels like I'm falling into a dark loop, drowning in it, unable to stop myself. I try to scream, but I can't; I can't move a muscle in my body, just falling. Falling. Falling.

Suddenly, my eyes snap open.

A white ceiling, beeping sounds, and I'm lying on a mattress. It only takes a few seconds to realize I'm in a hospital. I look at my surroundings wryly before my eyes land on my best friend, absorbed in his textbook.

"Tank?" I say in the hoarse voice of someone who hasn't spoken for days.

He lifts his gaze from the book, and a surprised, delighted laugh escapes his mouth. "Bradley, you're awake."

"What… what happened?"

He sends his textbook flying to the floor and brings his chair closer to my bed. "You've been in a coma for more than a month."

A coma. So, all that time I've been traveling through different timelines, my body has been sent into a coma. That Broom-Hilda is one sneaky bitch.

"So, I'm… I'm back?" I sound like a little boy trying to hold onto the last shred of hope. "It's over?"

Tank raises his eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"Just… been having those weird dreams."

I watch him walk over to his textbook on the floor and place it on a table. He's been sitting by my side for the last month. I can't believe he did that after…

"Tank, about what I said…"

"What?"

"You not stepping a foot in the Gamma House?"

"Oh, don't worry your pretty head about that."

"I was angry, and I didn't mean a word I said."

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

We share a smile before he nods his head at the door. "Better tell the doctor."

I wiggle slightly, feeling a heavy object on my chest.

Tank stops at the door before he leaves, throwing a reassuring smile. "Hey, Bradley, don't sweat it. It's over."

I slip a hand into my hospital gown, and my hand freezes on a moon-shaped metal piece. Oh, no! I pull it out, and it's the necklace, minus the gold sun.

It isn't over yet.

Chapter Text

There's nothing worse than hospital meals. I stare at the single, soggy, wrinkled hot dog and the runny, flaked potatoes, accompanied by a plate of something masquerading as dessert. Everything had sounded so delicious on the menu list I filled out beforehand, but in reality, this "food" shouldn't even be looked at, let alone eaten.

I fiddle with my spoon, diverting my gaze to the stack of papers and notes resting on a surprisingly decent coffee table. Not many patients can afford the luxury of a furnished hospital room. Some hospitals don't even offer such amenities, but we certainly can't have an "Uppercrust" kid staying in a dull, sterile room with nothing but tubes, a heart monitor, and a limited-channel TV for entertainment.

The pile of papers and notebooks fills me with mixed feelings of dread and excitement. Dread of the upcoming examinations for which I'm woefully unprepared, and excitement to return to my old life. Just a college student getting ready for finals. A college student who also happens to be the leader of the Gamma Mu Mu Fraternity. The one who disgraced his team members by losing the X-Games and, furthermore, disgraced himself by almost killing his own friend for a silly trophy.

A heavy sigh doesn't clear my chest. There's nothing to look forward to in the life I left behind. I had lost everything important to me: the X-Games, the respect of everyone, and Tank. But... I've been in a coma since then. Tank is my friend again. A lot has happened in one month. So many changes have occurred while I was in that coma.

Perhaps, I still am.

A wave of anxiety washes over me, as heavy as the necklace hanging from my neck. I pull it out from beneath my hospital gown and examine it, a dull ache in my chest. The moon-shaped piece glistens in my hand, a reminder that my nightmare isn't over yet.

"He'll leave no track" is all I can recall from Broom-Hilda's chant. At first, I assumed Max didn't exist here, until Tank told me last night that he does exist and is as popular as ever. So, what did the witch mean by Max leaving no track, and what's the difference between this timeline and the real one? So far, from what I've gathered from Tank, everything is exactly the same as in the real timeline. Max had won this year's X-Games, Tank and I had our fallout, and Slouch's aunt had set up her tent outside campus, which we visited on that doomed day.

Tank said that the tent and its owner had disappeared minutes after the incident, leaving behind only my unconscious body. There were no means of contacting her whatsoever; even Slouch couldn't find a way to reach his aunt and ask her to lift her curse off of me.

The gold in my hand glistens mockingly. I failed to stop Max from taking another path, thereby preventing him from competing in, and winning, the X-Games. That was the objective of the last two timelines. Yet, on reflection, perhaps I didn't entirely fail. A crippled Max from the first timeline wouldn't have been able to compete. And Slave Max in the second wouldn't have been allowed at the same college as Master Bradley, assuming his father would have even permitted him to attend college at all. But those extreme scenarios weren't what I wanted. Right now, all I desire is to defeat Max in the X-Games fair and square. Winning through cheating or witchcraft just doesn't feel satisfying.

I might be able to compete against Max next year without cheating. Still, the presence of this necklace confirms that witchcraft remains an active force. I'm just unsure of the specific nature of the intervention meant to keep Max from competing. Broom-Hilda explicitly stated that her three chances were intended to reshape events across the past, present, and future. Therefore, whatever is transpiring in this timeline is undoubtedly aimed at preventing Max's victory next year, a win she foresaw, along with his rise to Gamma leadership.

Sudden knocks on my door echo through the room, followed by the sound of someone opening it. I quickly hide the necklace inside my hospital gown. Whoever it is, they can never find out about the spell, not even Tank.

My heart almost stops, and I can't bring myself to utter a word as I watch my father standing before me.

"Dad… are you… are you going out?"

"I've got an important meeting."


Something stings my eyes, and a lump rises in my throat as the memory of my father, suitcase in hand, standing at the bottom of the stairs, assaults my mind. The last time I saw him was at the mansion, and I was sixteen.


"Do you want something?"

"No, um, take care."

"You too,"

For a moment, there's no movement, no exchanged words, or anything; just us staring at each other. It's a bit distracting how he's aged, even though this is what he's supposed to look like. I've grown accustomed to him appearing younger.

He silently pushes a chair next to my bed and sits. Through his glasses, his eyes hold a trace of unusual relief. "How are you doing?"

Still in a complete state of shock, I stammer, "Um, fine. I'll, uh, be leaving later today."

"I spoke with the doctors," he says after a momentary pause. "They think you're well enough to leave."

I nod awkwardly, unsure what to say next. According to Tank, my father had filed a lawsuit against Slouch's family after what happened to me. I'm no stranger to his violent fits of anger; I can picture him now, threatening Slouch's father and demanding justice.

"I heard you've got an exam a few days from now. Are you well enough to take it?"

I push my hair back, wiggling to get more comfortable. "I…"

He stands up abruptly and, to my shock, rearranges the pillows behind me. "All better?" he asks, his gray eyes remarkably clear behind his glasses.

"Uh, yeah." This is so weird.

He goes back to his chair and motions for me to continue.

"Right," I say, "I'll… I'll be camping in the library tomorrow."

"What about the exams you missed?"

"Everything is taken care of, Dad. Tank made sure of it."

"Tank," the name rolls off his tongue like a curse he hadn't said in years. I had rarely, if ever, mentioned Tank around him when I came home from college. Though I'm sure he knew I hung out with him, he probably preferred to ignore the issue.

"Yes, Dad, the stray thug I picked up from the streets, the one who was sitting by my side when I woke up yesterday. That Tank."

My words seem to have stung him, and his eyes harden. "Is that right, Brad?"

I give him a pained look. "Stop it."

"What? You were the one who insisted on being called by that ridiculous name."

"I was twelve. I wanted my name shortened like other kids and thought it was cooler than Bradley, until you turned it into a taboo." I sink back into the pillows, trying not to pout like a little boy. "It was just a phase."

His lips form what could pass as a teasing smile. "Oh, I remember that phase."

"Not as much as my rib cage does." The remark flies out of my mouth without thinking. Damn it! I bite the inside of my cheek and lower my gaze to my fisted hands. That unforgettable beating back in 1991. The memory of it weighs so heavily on both of us.

"Well, that was all in the past, I guess," I say softly in an attempt to clear the strained atmosphere.

It doesn't help. He's still quiet. This takes me back to another unpleasant memory: my fist, the blood on his lip. Growing up, I'd never hit my father. I'd never lost it to that extent. The memory of hitting him, even in a fake reality, will haunt me forever.

"This is a mistake," he states.

My fists harden at his words. Anger starts thrumming through me, and I find the courage to look up at him. "Yep, visiting your only son in the hospital. What were you thinking?"

"You…" He's about to defend himself as usual, but stops with an exasperated headshake. "Never mind. Study hard for those exams."

That night I had the worst beating of my life. I had to crawl my way to the bathroom where I'd hidden the first aid kit. I couldn't reach the middle of my back, so I left it untreated.

As my father walks away from me now, Yoli's soft voice echoes with that dear old song. The touch of her hands burns my battered skin with each gentle stroke.

"Never sing that song again!"

"I'm sorry, mi'jito."

I turned into a jerk after I rebelled against my father, particularly once college started. It was my way of ensuring I would never be him. Never. The words were a fierce whisper in my mind.

"Oh, and Dad?"

He pivots, looking at me with an expectant, almost wary, gaze.

"Say hi to Yoli from me."

He freezes for a beat, a faint disappointment registering on his face, as if my trivial request wasn't worth the halt.

"And tell her I miss that song," I clarify, just as he begins to turn for the door.

"What song?"

My smile, thick with nostalgia, tells him all he needs to know. "She knows."



~*~*~*~*~*~



The college library, where the books live, so different from King Academy's library. Other than its size, one has to whisper to communicate in this one.

Stop thinking about the past timeline!

I'm trying, but it's been all I've thought about for the past three days since I woke up from the coma. I can't seem to get over it easily; I can't forget the smell of the hay and the thrill of riding Andrea around my father's estate. I can't get over…

Shit! I've got to get my act together and ace this upcoming exam. No more wasting time with reminiscences. I demonstrate by surveying the books on the shelves with exaggerated resolve, so engrossed that I don't notice the guy standing in my way.

Bump!

"Oops, I'm sorry." I blink in confusion at the boy I almost knocked down. "Oh, hi, Max."

He's about to fire an accusation until he sees it's me. "Hey," he says in surprise, looking me up and down. "I didn't know you were out of the hospital."

"They let me out yesterday."

"Good." He scratches the back of his neck. "Uh, how do you do?"

The hint of relief and concern in his voice, which completely baffles me, curls my lips into a small smile. "I'm better."

He nods. "Good. Good."

He's a bit taller than the fourteen-year-old back in the stable, and somewhat thinner. I bet it's the skinny jeans he's wearing. The red shirt looks somewhat longer on him than I remember, but a whole month of interacting with younger versions of Max ought to make me forget.

We stand in front of each other as a cloud of thick silence falls upon us. Why am I so awkward around him? I used to be so at ease with my stable boy, but coming face-to-face with the college boy, I'm lost for words.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and sways slightly, inclining his head at the books. "You're, um, studying?"

"Yeah, I, uh, missed a few exams." I brush my hair back, looking at the books as well to avoid meeting his eyes. "I'm not studying for them; I've got an exam in two days."

He nods, barely meeting my eyes. "I see. Good luck."

I nod back. "You, too."

With a bashful grin, he starts reaching for a green book on the shelf. "So, I'll just take that biology book and be off your hair."

I don't really want him off my hair, not the way I used to. I guess, given the awkward atmosphere, and the fact that this Max hasn't spent a whole month getting to know me and growing to like me, it's better if we don't meet for a while.

Boy, is he taking his time to reach for that book. He's jumping up and down now, grunting in frustration as his attempts fail miserably.

I rise on my toes and easily seize that biology book. "Um, here."

His body stiffens and his eyes widen, staring at the book in my hand. For an instant, I thought he was going to take offense, but instead, he accepts the book with a sad, bitter expression. "Thanks," he mumbles and walks away.

I watch him leave with a frown on my face. I've always thought we were the same height. Perhaps having him as a rival made him seem taller than he really is; after all, he was so short as a fourteen-year-old, and he'd already gone through puberty.



~*~*~*~*~



The heat of the sun is beating down on me, forcing sweat to bead on my brow every time I stop on the way, waiting for Slouch to catch up. Leonard stands next to me, wearing nothing but a white sleeveless shirt and holding a cola can. He gulps down the cold soda with great relish and a burp directed at my face. Irrepressibly, I smack the can from his hand and watch the foamy brown liquid smear on the pavement.

"Hey!"

His irate outburst goes ignored when Slouch finally reaches us and bends over to inhale a couple of breaths.

"What's wrong with you?" I brush away a puddle of sweat that has formed on my forehead. "You're an athlete. Start acting like one."

"Haven't been exercising since… well, you know."

No one mentions the detested X-Games, at least not in front of me. They still think it holds great significance in my life. None of them know that a month of traveling through timelines has made the biggest event of this university nothing but a travesty.

"We'd better get to the library," I mutter, already moving forward.

The three of us walk side by side, earning a few curious stares from those around us. Everybody is used to me standing at the front, leading my teammates wherever we go. The Gammas were surprised too, but now that it's the fifth day since I woke up from the coma, they've started to get used to the new me.

We stop by a lemon juice stand; Slouch and I wait for Leonard, who goes to buy us some fresh lemonade.

"No word from your aunt yet?" I ask Slouch, wiping the sweat from the back of my neck.

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, man. When my aunt vanishes, she literally vanishes."

No wonder Broom-Hilda made the perfect escape after putting the son of a very wealthy man into a coma. A thorough search is a must, but I need to finish my final exams first.

My thoughts are interrupted by the joyous cheers rising in the air. In the distance, I watch Max approaching on his skateboard with a gaggle of groupies racing after him. Not so long ago, that sight would have sent me straight over the edge. Right now, though, Max can kickflip and fingerflip, and it won't faze me a bit.

However, Max isn't doing any sort of flipping. Actually, he looks like he's struggling to stay on the skateboard. After a couple of awkward moves, he loses balance and slams his face against a streetlamp, his skateboard bouncing off and landing upside down.

Through the gasps of disbelief and the spiteful snickers of my teammates, I rush toward him. He's trying to sit up with a groan when I crouch beside him and take hold of his shoulders.

"Are you all right?"

He shrugs off my hands and glares up at me, his face holding a look of rigid control and anger.

The cold shock hits me with a slap. That… that face. The misty, subtle waft of hay and manure reaches my nose. The sound of horses neighing and blowing their lips. I can't believe it. I'm looking right at the face of my stable boy.

Someone pushes me out of their way, and I end up falling on my side. I lie on the sidewalk, watching PJ helping a resisting Max to his feet. Their other friend stands next to them with Max's skateboard tucked under his armpit.

From my place on the ground, I notice Max's usual jeans, folded at the bottom, looking like they're in dire need of a tailor. My gaze travels up to Max's usual red shirt, which looks much longer and bigger on him than it did two days ago at the library.

I'd always thought that college-aged Max was taller than PJ.

"Bradley," Leonard says, extending a hand to pull me to my feet.

I stare at Max, who is pushing PJ's hands off him and scurrying away with his friends trailing after him.

Slouch gives me a nudge. "We'd better hurry up. The exam is the day after tomorrow."

I give a shaky nod, and we continue our way to the library, my mind still overwhelmed by what I've just noticed.



~*~*~*~*~




"How was it?" Leonard the nerd asks me with the enthusiasm of a child about to open his first Christmas Eve present.

I reveal a charming grin and wordlessly go for a high five.  He lets out a squeal and smacks my hand.  

I have to admit, I wouldn't have aced this test without his help. He had made sure I didn't leave the library in the past few days until I had mastered everything. This guy is a born tutor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot PJ and the other one walking out of the biology building.  I salute my friends and hurry toward the twosome.  

"Hey, PJ!" 

They look over their shoulders, their eyes reflecting their astonishment at the sight of me.  

I catch my breath when I reach them and throw in a friendly smile. "How was the biology exam?"

They share a brief puzzled look. PJ looks at me, it's still hard to get used to that beret on his head, thanks to a certain redhead. Here's hoping he won't spout some poetry my way. "It went okay," he answers politely.

I nod. "How did Max do?"

They share another puzzled look, but this time no one answers me.

I look between them with a rising feeling of worry.  "What's wrong?  Where is Max?"

Third Wheel shoots me the snidest stare.  "Why do you care?"

Caught off guard, I shrug my shoulders and blow at my hair indifferently.  "I don't," I say, my voice coming off defensive and not at all convincing. "But the three of you are inseparable.  It's unusual to see you two without his majesty."

"He didn't make the test."

PJ smacks his friend's shaved head.  "Bobby!"

This time I don't even try to hide my concern.  "Is he all right?"

PJ glares at Bobby before heaving a sigh and shaking his head in dismay.  "I wouldn't say that."

"What is it?" I ask, flustered.  "What happened to him?"

PJ narrows his eyes.  "Seriously, Bradley, why do you care?"

I bite my lip and drop my gaze.  "I… I don't."

Something creepy must have happened to Max.  But I can't ask any more questions seeing that I'm supposed to hate Max.  

"C'mon, buddy," Bobby says to PJ, "We've got a date with the library."

I hear them walking away, feeling a huge fist reaching inside my chest and twisting my insides.  This is it.  I just know it.  Whatever it is that happened to Max is the mystery of this timeline.  I clutch the necklace beneath my shirt and begin running toward Max's dorm.




~*~*~*~*~



Finally! I was going to lose my mind trying to figure out the differences in this dimension. I was almost convinced that the misery was over and that I was back in my correct time, if it weren't for the edges of the golden moon poking at my chest. Now, the ugly face of my reality is rearing its head. He'll leave no track. I couldn't crack that code. Guess it's time to find out what the heck it means.

I reach the final stair, then bend with my hands on my knees and breathe heavily. That's Max's room right before me, makes me wonder why I haven't come here in the first place, found the golden sun, and gotten this whole nightmare over with before it started.

Firm knocks on the door. "Max, are you in there?"

"Can't you see this room is busy?"

I freeze, noticing the sock on the doorknob, but this isn't why I feel so chilled to the bone. That irritated voice that had just snapped at me. That raspy voice, feminized but very recognizable.

I swallow thickly, staring at the door with my heart jamming in my chest.

"Max?"

"He's very busy with me, pal. Come back some other time."

The same voice. The voice of the treehouse, the old ramp, and the bunk bed. I remove the sock from the doorknob and then push the door open.

"Hey!"

A small shadow jumps into a pile of crumpled blankets on top of the single bed and hides beneath them. "You perv! How could you walk in on us like that?"

Could it be? But that's insane. Not to mention, impossible. As impossible as… going back in time. The necklace weighs heavily on my chest, and I drag my feet toward the shaking bundle beneath the covers.

"Get out of here! It's not polite to see a girl nude!"

Pausing on the way, I feel a playful smile working its way to my lips. Just like old times. I fold my arms over my chest and smirk. "What clothes did you come in here wearing? Because I don't see any dresses or skirts."

"What century are you living in? I came in here wearing pants."

I look around at the variety of clothes with different colors and sizes lying on everything in sight and fix my eyes on the dirty white socks hanging from the dumbbell on the barely visible floor. "Oh, based on this fashion graveyard, I can only assume you're channeling your inner Michael Jackson. Because, you know, I'm still waiting to meet a woman who'd willingly commit the cardinal sin of white socks with black shoes."

"Hey! I'm no slave to the status quo. I wear what I want to wear."

"You definitely should be applauded." I start tapping my index finger against my crossed arm impatiently. "Cut the charade, Max. I know it's you in there."

The small figure stops shaking and an anxious voice mumbles, "N-no, I'm not."

I consider my next move, knowing that doing anything drastic may unleash the hounds of hell on me. However, I am clinging to my last thread of patience and can barely care about the dire repercussions. So, I sweep the covers off him.

"Yes, you are," I whisper in shock, my mouth starting to dry and my lips beginning to shake. "M-Max?"

Before my widening eyes, a very young Max, wearing nothing but an extra-large purple shirt, is curled up in a fetal position. His knees are pulled to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and his head resting on top, hiding his face from me.

"Get out," he says in a trembling voice, not daring to look up at me.

I place the blanket in my hands on the floor as gently and quietly as possible, as if trying not to provoke the angry creature in bed. "Max?" I venture in a careful tone. "There's no need to be scared. I understand what you're going through because I've been there, but in reverse."

"I said get out," his voice grows angrier, if still controlled.

I inch closer to him, rethinking sitting on his bed. "Being zapped into the future can be…"

"I said GET OUT!" The monster is unleashed. He pounces on me, sending my whole body smacking onto the floor. Small hands grab the collar of my shirt and pull me toward the open door. I yank myself out of his grip easily, but my freedom only lasts for a second as he grabs a fistful of my hair with one hand while the other goes for my arm.

"Ouch! Max, calm down."

He's having none of it. It's as if he's possessed by some sort of small but powerful animal. We're already a few steps shy of the door. I try to keep my cool, knowing that what he's going through is very traumatic, but I completely lose it when I feel some of my perfect hair being torn from my scalp. With a growl of sheer agony, I wrench my arm out of his grip and drive a fist into his gut.

He drops to his knees, clutching his stomach. I rise to my feet and fix my disheveled hair. "Would you calm down for a second?!"

Glistening eyes, filled with rage and hate, look up at me. "Go ahead," he says in a livid voice. "Take your best shot."

"What?"

He stands on his feet and spreads his arms, giving me a full view of his tiny body. The big shirt he's wearing falls a couple of inches over his ankles. "Mock me."

He knows me? But how? My stay at Spoonerville should have been erased from existence the moment I attached the gold sun to the moon. Unless, I stare at the angry young face with horror in my eyes, unless this isn't Spoonerville Max. This is the real Max. Eighteen-year-old Max, reduced to eleven!

"Max?" I whisper in shock.

He spreads his arms even wider. "C'mon. Get your jollies out."

The horror in my eyes softens into a look of bitter sadness. "Why would I want to do that?"

"'Cause you hate my guts."

"I don't hate your guts. Well, not anymore."

He scoffs. "Don't tell me that coma of yours changed you into a better man."

I give a lopsided smile. "Something like that."

He lowers his arms and shakes his head, making his way toward his bed. "Whatever. Get out."

I grab his arm and spin him around, looking into his eyes. "I'm not leaving. Believe me, Max, I want to help."

A humorless laugh escapes his mouth, and he looks at me bitterly.

Anger swells in the pit of my stomach. "I'm serious, Max."

He goes on laughing until his glassy eyes let loose a couple of teardrops, forcing him to throw his face into his bare hands. His choked sobs twist my heart painfully. It would have been much easier had there been a body switch like I had assumed at first. I wouldn't have minded having my little brother around for a while.

He slumps onto the bed, face hidden in his hands, body shaking with sobs. I look around the room and notice the X-Games trophy perched on the shelf above his bed. The shame and guilt I'm feeling intensify with the gleaming of the trophy's gold and red. All this mess because of that?

Max raises his distressed face and wipes the tears and snot with the long purple sleeve – PJ's, I'm assuming. His hollow eyes begin to stare into space, his body fragile and weak. My guilty conscience starts to torture me as I picture Max waking up in the morning in a child's body. Locking himself in this room, keeping away from everybody and missing the biology exam.

"Did it happen this morning?"

He remains silent. I probably won't get an answer out of him. Let's face it, we're still bitter rivals. I tried to kill him! No wonder he doesn't trust me.

"Max," I say with a hoarse voice. "I want to help. I really do. I can't help if you don't tell me."

"And why do you want that?" he asks dryly.

I swallow thickly. "I changed."

"Right."

"You can ask Tank. I know the two of you are friends now." I wince at the hint of jealousy in my voice; apparently, their newfound friendship is still a sore topic.

He shakes his head. "I can't ask Tank. No one knows about this but Dad, PJ, and Bobby."

"Your… your dad knows?" I watch him nod lifelessly and inwardly curse myself. The thought of causing Goofy pain makes me sick to my stomach. "How did he take it?"

Max shrugs. "He'd gone back home to get me some clothes that fit." Throwing a critical glance at the oversized shirt he's wearing, he adds, "Obviously I'm going to shrink even more, so he's going to bring everything, even my newborn footsies."

I just can't wrap my mind around the idea of Goofy dealing with this. That man loves his son more than anything in the world, and I mean that literally. When Max had hurt his back, his father became a dead shell of himself, with no purpose in life but to fulfill his crippled son's needs. Here's hoping what happened to Max isn't going to drive him off the edge…

Wait! What did Max just say?

"Shrink even more?" I ask, confused.

His hunched shoulders shake with small tremors. "This has been happening for days now."

I stare at him in bafflement until the truth sinks in. This has been happening for days? It wasn't sudden. It's been happening gradually.

"How did you…?"

"I get shorter every day. Tomorrow I'll be younger than I am now."

That day. At the library. He already knew. The way his body had frozen and that bitter tone when he'd thanked me. It was then that he realized he was losing a year of his life with each passing day.

I watch the kid on the bed, silent and still for more than a minute, like one of the statues in the hallways of my father's mansion. I can't help the tears gathering in my eyes at the thought of Max realizing what was happening to him. The hours of freaking out about his unusual problem. A shudder crawls down my spine, thinking about Max keeping it to himself at first before it started to become obvious. Trying to find a solution on his own, unaware that he was a victim of a spell done to satisfy my selfish ego. Dealing with the ramifications of my actions. All alone.

He turns his wet eyes toward me, blinking when he sees the tears in mine. "Why… why are you…" he trails off and looks away.

I almost spill the beans. The truth is on the tip of my tongue. But I force it back and wipe the tears with shaking fingers.

"What's he doing here?"

I jump at the abhorrent tone I haven't heard from that voice in a very long time. The bags Goofy is carrying fall to the floor; a small shoe rolls out of an old shopping bag. Goofy dashes to Max's side on the bed and stands between us in an act of protection. From me.

"Mr. Goof…"

He raises a finger to my face and waves it like a maniac. "Don't Mr. Goof me! Do you think you can fool me again?"

I shake my head. "No, sir, you're not a fool…"

He jumps into my personal space and yells, "Well, I'm twice the fool you don't think I am and then some!"

I blink away the nonsense he just said, being used to his jumbled phrases by now, and try to think of the right words to explain myself.

He doesn't give me a chance, grabbing me by the collar. "It was you!"

"What do you…"

"Don't deny it! Honey, you shrunk my kid!"

"Dad, don't be silly!" Max rolls his eyes at his father's accusation. "There's no way it's his doing."

It is my doing, though I find myself dwelling more on the look of sheer hate in Goofy's eyes than the irony of Max defending me.

"What's going on?" PJ's voice reaches my ear from the door. He and their nut-job of a friend walk into the room with a few books they've just borrowed from the library.

"Hey, what's the Gamma-nerd doing in here?" the weasel sneers.

"I think it's best if you get out, Bradley." Max looks at me with a meaningful stare from his swollen eyes.

A heavy weight drops on me and forces me to the floor. "He knows too much. Maybe we should hold him hostage."

"Bobby is right, Max," PJ says. "Aren't you afraid he's going to tell someone?"

Max heaves a sigh. "Does it really matter?"

My struggles for breath are over when Goofy pushes Bobby off me and starts dragging me toward the door. "Time for the Gamma King to leave."

Bobby lifts a hand from his place on the floor. "I'm still in favor of the kidnap-age."

Goofy tosses me out of the room and slams the door behind me. Well, that went well. I didn't even get to ask Max about the gold sun.

~*~*~*~*~



I waited outside Max's building the next day until his friends and father left. Now I'm standing in front of the door to Max's room with nothing on my mind but to fix this mess. I give the necklace under my shirt one last squeeze before I knock on the door.

"Max? It's me. Bradley."

No answer. I probably shouldn't have said my name. But he would have checked who was knocking through the peephole.

Raising my hand to knock again, the door opens with a small squeak, but no one appears to greet me. I walk inside the room, struck by how tidy and clean it is compared to yesterday. Obviously, Max needed to occupy himself with something, being imprisoned in his dorm room all day.

When the door clicks shut, I turn around to find Max in the old red shirt and the yellow-striped purple pants he used to wear in Spoonerville. I have a strong urge to bend down and ruffle his hair for old time's sake but know better than to do it.

"What are you doing here?" he mutters, taking his broom and walking to the middle of the room where he resumes sweeping the floor.

"I came to help."

"You keep saying that." He starts sweeping under the bed, lying on his stomach to reach the far end.

With all this cleaning, he must have found the gold sun by now. "Max, did you find a gold object in the shape of a sun in this room?"

He looks up at me with a frown before it clears. "Oh, yeah, Bobby found it in one of the drawers. He considered it a good luck charm, but after he failed the biology exam, he sold it to a student."

He carries on cleaning, and I kneel on one knee beside him and grab his chin to make him look up and focus. "Who is that student?"

The door of the room swings open with a smack, revealing an outraged Goofy. "You've got a lot of nerve!" He storms in and grabs me by the collar, lifting me to his height, my feet swinging in the air. "Coming here to gloat. Rub it in. Add sugar to the injury."

"I did not come here to gloat, sir. I came here to help."

"Well, tell that to someone who cares!" Catching what he just said, he amends, "Obviously, I do. But not from you!"

I jerk myself out of his grip and land on the floor. On my knees again, I clutch Max's shoulders and look desperately into his surprised eyes. "Max, listen to me, we need to get the gold sun back. Just tell me who Booby sold it to."

Max gestures with his head at someone behind me. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

I turn around, and a pair of glasses with furrowed eyebrows fills my vision. "Booby? Booby?! Might as well just say…"

I push him back and stand on my feet. "No time for stupid questions."

Booby looks like he wants to kill me.

"Who did you sell the gold sun to?"

He takes a step back and shoots Max a confused look. "Gold sun?"

Max shrugs. "He means the giant coin."

Bobby pokes my chest with a gloved finger. "How did he know about that?"

"Because it's mine." I slap his hand away and pull out the necklace, pointing at the moon. "Look, it fits right in here."

He holds up his hands in offense. "Wait a minute, are you implying that we stole your giant coin?"

"Gold sun. And what?"

Bobby paces around the room, gesticulating wildly. "He's calling us thieves!"

"No, I'm not."

"Dude, just go back to your loser Gamma Shamma fraternity." He grabs my arm and drags me toward the door.

I'm being pushed out of the room. Again. Before he closes the door, I put my foot inside, blocking it. "Wait, just tell me who you sold it to?"

He lets out a suffering sigh. "Beard Guy."

"Who the hell is Beard Guy?" I exclaim, frusturated.

Bobby rolls his eyes. "The guy with the black beard."

"Right. Because there's only one guy on campus with a black beard."

Bobby pushes the door open with a groan, revealing the blinking faces of his friends and Goofy. He leans against the door frame and starts explaining, "Laid back. Expresses himself in very short sentences. Doesn’t get fazed easily."

I shake my head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

He taps on his temple and thinks. "High-fived Mr. Goof after his great '70s entrance."

I think hard, and then remember Goofy's first appearence in college. "Ah, yes, the unforgettable day Max treated us to his critically acclaimed, glass-shattering vocal performance. Nearly cost him his voice, that one."

"Oh, and don't forget the mane event – his hair almost staged a full-blown rebellion." Bobby pulls on his imaginary hair and air-screams in an imitation of Max.

We both explode into a gale of laughter.

Max clears his throat.

"Right. Get out of here." Bobby kicks my foot out and slams the door shut in my face.

Chapter Text

The Bean Scene is crowded this afternoon. The intoxicating smell of coffee tickles my nose, so relaxing it calms my intense nerves. But it doesn't help with the itch at the back of my neck, the itch I've had since I watched Tank drive away in his truck. I should have gone with him. This whole mess is my fault, and I'm the one who should work on getting it right.

Turns out, Beard Guy has finished all his examinations and left for Nevada to visit his sick mother. Tank has volunteered to drive all the way there to fetch the gold sun. He's asked a lot of questions about its significance, but all I had to say was, "Trust me," and he did. His damn loyalty breaks my heart. I don't deserve his friendship.

It was even more heartbreaking when he argued that I needed to stay for Monday's exam because of my father. If I failed the exam for spending the weekend driving from one state to another, Dad would probably cut me out of his will.

I breathe in the aromatic scent of cappuccino and latte and watch the wannabe poet on stage bow after finishing his piece. Poetry is lost on me. Though I have the sensitivity to appreciate beauty, I'd rather use a brush than words to capture it.

Our favorite poet, PJ's girlfriend, takes the stage now in her usual black attire, earning loud finger snaps from the customers. She sits on the stool, positions the microphone in front of her lips, and her blue eyes catch mine. I smile at her. She scowls at me. I was never really popular with her. Tucking her silky red hair behind her ear, she begins her performance, and an avid silence fills the place. I turn my attention to the bar, and to my surprise, I spot Goofy sitting there, looking uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn.

"Mr. Goof?"

He gives me a side glance, then returns his sad gaze to his drink. "What do you want?"

The cute brunette behind the bar smiles at me, and I order a Grande cappuccino. I grab a chair and sit next to Goofy, who seems to have lost his bounce. He looks dull and pale, his shoulders hunched with a sense of weariness and defeat.

"How's Max?" I whisper gently.

He looks at me for a long time, as if trying to decide whether I'm a friend or a foe. His features soften when he clearly sees the concern on my face. He lowers his gaze to his cup and watches the dancing brown liquid inside. "I'm worried about him."

"Of course, you are. He's getting younger every day."

He stops moving the cup in his hand and breathes a heavy sigh. "Not just that. He's…"

He trails off when the girl brings over my cappuccino and gladly receives my money. When she leaves, I lean closer toward the depressed man next to me. "He's what?"

He takes a sip from his coffee and grimaces. "It's gotten cold."

I order another coffee for him.

He smiles at me. "You don't have to."

"What is wrong with Max? I mean, besides the obvious."

He sighs again. "He's locked himself in that room for the past four days, and it's…"

"Driving him bonkers?" I finish for him.

Another grimace on that usually cheerful face. "Oh, I really hope he doesn't end up turning into a bobcat cop."

Laughter bubbles in my throat, and both of us end up laughing until tears gathered in our eyes and we started coughing. Goofy's coffee arrives at that instant, so I take off the plastic lid of my Grande cap and drink in the flavor of caffeine and sugar.

Fingers start to snap when Beret Girl finishes her piece. She bows gracefully to her audience and leaves the stage. Our eyes meet again, with a beautiful frown creasing her forehead when she sees Goofy and me drinking coffee together. I can see her posture straightening with a protective streak, but at the sight of my unusually friendly smile, she relaxes a bit.

I turn my attention to my companion. "Mr. Goof. There's a way to fix Max's problem; Tank is on his way to fetch the cure."

Goofy raises hopeful eyes at me. "You know how to help him?"

"It's up to Tank now. But in the meantime, I have something in mind that will lift your son's spirits."

"You do?"

"But you have to trust me. Can you manage that?"

"Whatever it takes to help my boy."

I give a nod and swallow the rest of my cappuccino. Ms. Poet is still staring at me with confusion. Everybody needs time to get used to this new side of me, apparently.

I feel a gentle touch on my arm and almost fall off my chair when I see Goofy's grateful smile directed at me. "Bradley. Thank you."

Those damn warm eyes I never got accustomed to. "Don't mention it."



~*~*~*~



My car races down the road as the sun bids the day farewell. I watch the orange and red meshing together, creating a beautiful picture I'd once have felt obligated to draw. I go over the speed limit after a quick glance at the car clock. Here's hoping I won't come across a highway cop. I have to reach my destination before the sun disappears completely behind that mountain.

A groan in a young voice rises behind me, followed by the rattling of handcuffs. Stop trying to figure out where Goofy got them from and why he has handcuffs in the first place.

"Rise and shine, Sleepyhead," I say in a teasing voice to the heavy burlap sack that's twitching on the backseat floor. "Though it's sunset, so I guess it's close to your bedtime."

"Who the hell…?" Max says in a muffled voice through the burlap. "Bradley? You son of a…"

"Careful, hostage. I won't allow any badmouthing of my mother."

Max struggles against the handcuffs tying his hands behind his back. "How did you…? Did you chloroform me?"

"Nah, your dad snuck you out while you were sleeping."

"My own dad played a part in my kidnapping?!" I can see his little body jerking around through the rearview mirror. "Great. Another incident where my dad…"

"No badmouthing your father either," I warn in the firm voice of a guy who's had enough of Max's intolerable insults toward Goofy. "He was worried about you."

I can sense him glaring at me even though I can't see it. "Obviously. Helping my worst enemy kidnap me and take me into God knows where shows that very clearly."

Goofy is a bit too trusting, isn't he? One talk at The Bean Scene and he's completely forgiven me. Oh, and as a bonus, he graciously assisted me in handcuffing his beloved son and spiriting him away to who-knows-where.

"…my dad has been falling for Pete's traps since I can't remember. He never learns. He does whatever Pete tells him and never stands up to him…"

Probably it wasn't too wise of Goofy to trust me. Good thing I don't intend to harm his son. "Am I really your worst enemy?"

"You tried to kill me." Now he's lying there on the backseat floor, apparently having realized that no amount of struggle can set him free. "Last time I checked, other than Bigfoot, no one ever tried to do that to me."

"I was…" No, this isn't about me. This is about helping Max feel better and forget what's happening to him. "You're gonna love the place we're going to."

"Oh, now I'm all relieved and excited."

I ignore his sarcasm as I exit onto the side road. The sky has turned a dark shade of blue now, making it easier to spot the faint lights of the amusement park in the distance. There aren't many cars parked in the parking lot. A carnival funfair in the middle of the desert, no wonder a lot of the families are rushing out to their cars before night.

The car pulls over. The hostage is out of the burlap and his bindings. He is looking at the dazzling lights of the merry-go-round with a glare that would burn a hole in the head of the laughing clown in the middle.

He directs that deadly glare at me. "Do I look like a kid to you?"

I eye his small form. "Yeah?"

"Jerk." He kicks my leg and storms off, so angry that he's causing puffs of dust to fly around with each furious step.

He doesn't get far as I grab his arm and spin him around. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Back home," he spits out, struggling unsuccessfully to free himself from my grip.

"You don't even know where we are."

"I can ask around."

I plant my hands underneath his armpits and lift him up before he can take off again. I sit him on top of a wooden fence, holding him still as he tries to fight me off. I look into his angry eyes and try to reason with him. "Max, it's dark, and you're an eight-year-old kid."

"I'm eighteen," he objects in his baby-raspy voice. One look at my raised eyebrow and he ducks his head in humiliation, mumbling, "in the body of a ten-year-old."

Eight days have passed since I woke up from the coma, so that does make him ten today. He looks way younger than his age. "You think a kid your age can find a ride that can get him somewhere safe at this hour in this place?"

He sits still, looking around at the filthy bikers and creepy drunks. This place is too clichéd; I have to pat myself on the back for finding it. It's like we're right in a cheesy 80s movie.

"I hate you," Max mutters in defeat.

I pick him up and lower him to the ground, holding his hand and leading him to the entrance. "Come on. We're gonna have fun."

There are a few families inside the park, giving the place a touch of normality. Two little girls run past us to the cotton candy stand and bounce up and down with money in their hands.

"Want some soul food on a stick?" I pull my wallet out and gesture at the stand.

Max follows my line of sight, and his face comically freezes with terror. "No freakin' way."

"Language, kiddo," I chide with a mock stern expression. He flips me the finger.

I stuff my wallet in my pocket and look around. "Okay, then. What do you wanna play first?"

"Whatever."

I grin mischievously. "How about the teacups?"

He regards me with half-lidded eyes. "And why would I wanna play that?"

"Seems more your style."

"Ha. My style is more like that." He points at a creepy-looking roller coaster that looks so old it's about to collapse. I can even see the corrosion on the railway. And it's dark now.

"I don't think so, Max."

"Why not?" he actually whines like a little kid.

"No sane person would board this thing unless they have a death wish."

"What? Chicken?"

That's what does it for me. That competitive fire in his eyes, the fire that hasn't been there for a while. We're rivals again, and it's as exciting as it's always been. I give a challenging grin. "Let's go."

The roller coaster operator shakes his head before we even reach the ride. "I'm sorry, sir. This ride is too dangerous for a kid his height."

I push Max back before he blurts out an insult. "I'll be sitting next to him the whole time. I'll make sure nothing happens to him."

The man shakes his finger no and points at the measurement guidelines at the entrance. Max is a few inches below the appropriate height.

Judging by the crummy condition of the roller coaster, I'm not disappointed one bit. Though, it appears that Max thinks differently.

When we're standing in a place far enough from the operator, Max pulls me down and whispers in my ear, "Go in there, and I'll meet you at the ride."

"What? How?"

"A magician never reveals his secret."

I'd rather face a tax audit than board this death trap, but the thought of Max's inevitable chicken noises is far more terrifying. So, against every fiber of my self-preservation, I get in.

My heart starts doing the Mambo when Max is nowhere to be seen. Great, I'm stuck riding this tetanus-mobile solo. The cars themselves look like they've survived multiple apocalypses, my cardiologist is going to have a field day. And apparently, I'm the only thrill-seeker with a questionable grasp on self-preservation in this entire park. When did a roller coaster become less popular than a root canal? The operator, who clearly moonlights as a grim reaper, clicks the lap bar into place. I try not to look at the track as the operator ambles towards the control panel to start the ride.

"Psst, Bradley."

Someone is tugging on my pants. I look down and hold in a gasp. Max wiggles his fingers at me. He's been hiding in this roller coaster car all along.

With a quick glance at the operator, I whisper at him, "How the heck did you sneak in here?"

He slips into his seat easily with a wide grin on his youthful face. "Like I said, a magician never reveals his secret."

I stare critically at the gap between Max and the lap bar. "You're not even strapped in right. You're going to fall out! Let's call this thing off."

The words are barely out of my mouth when the ride lurches forward, sending us hurtling toward our doom. Max, meanwhile, lets out a joyful shout and waves at the operator. The man simply shakes his head, as if Max just snuck a cookie and plopped himself down on his favorite armchair.

Max hollers again with two fists up in the air.

I smile down at his gleeful face. "Good to see you so excited."

The grin on his face gradually dissolves into a frown like he just realized he shouldn't be having fun. "Whatever."

We start chugging up the long chain hill, and I can't suppress the terror clawing at my gut. The metal track groans, threatening to buckle under the cars' weight. I start muttering prayers, hoping we'll somehow make it back in one piece.

"Check out the view, Brad!" The little moron is practically vibrating in his seat.

What view? There's nothing but inky blackness out there. I can't even retort, though, because we're at the top, and I wouldn't dare look down. That one agonizing second of waiting is over. My high-pitched scream blends with Max's triumphant holler as we plummet toward what feels like certain death. We careen downwards at a dizzying speed that jars the heck out of me, I'm pretty sure my stomach is still perched atop that hill.

We whip through a couple of corkscrews and a few bunny hops, and then... that's it. We're back. Except, we're not.

"Again, again!" Max shouts at the operator.

"No, no!" I shake my head fiercely.

The man gives a bored nod, and we're off again.

"But he's not height-appropriate!" I yell over my shoulder.

~*~*~*~

 


Tingly, icy goodness washes down my throat, and I let out a loud, satisfied sigh. Naturally, my moment of peace is shattered by Max trying to stifle his laughter.

"It was a very old roller coaster," I mutter, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Right. Right." He still snickers.

"Just go to hell."

"Hey, I don't blame ya," he says, a smirk evident in his voice. "Now I understand why they don't let kids on those things. I was practically hanging by my feet!"

We pass a couple of drunken bikers, beer cans in hand. Makes me wish I hadn't left my fake ID back in my dorm. Just one more month, and I won't need it anyway.

I gulp down the last drop of my coke, then toss the empty can in the nearest trashcan. "Glad to see you're enjoying yourself at my expense."

"It's not bad," Max admits, "for a spontaneous abduction. The last time I had this much unplanned excitement was four years ago, when my dad set a pretty high bar for 'wacky road trips' by turning a roller coaster into a puke Picasso."

I feel a sullen heaviness on my jawline. "You have a lot of great memories with your dad, huh?"

"I wouldn't call vomiting on my shoes a great memory, but yeah."

I remember going to an amusement park when I was about four years old. But the memory is very vague, because I only recall getting lost in the hall of mirrors, and Mom rushing toward my crying self and pulling me into a hug. Dad was there, too, but I don't remember what he did exactly. It was too long ago, and I was too young.

After Mom died, Dad and I never did anything together. There were no road trips, no amusement parks, no restaurants, and heck, I'd kill for a memory of him throwing up on my shoes. All I remember are silent dinners, formal parties, and that damn belt.

I must have stopped walking for a while because Max is standing in front of me, looking up at me with a muddled expression. "You, uh, never been on a road trip with your dad?"

I shake away the unpleasant memories of my childhood and force a smile to my lips. "Tonight isn't about me. It's about you." I poke his forehead with my finger, knowing how much it annoys him, and start heading toward the ghost train. "Come on, let's play some more before we head back home."

~*~*~*~



The sky is pitch black; there's no moon tonight. This time, I don't drive over the legal speed limit, better not end a fun night with an accident. Santana's "Smooth" comes blaring through the radio, filling the car with its grooving guitar sounds. I mouth the lyrics and nod my head, turning to the passenger seat to find Max doing the same.

We share a brief smile and then continue singing, but this time, our voices are full volume and our heads are banging.

"So, how's our little abducted rockstar feeling tonight?" I ask him after the song is over.

"Let's just say I'm not sending thank-you notes yet, but I'm no longer contemplating my own escape by chewing through the seatbelt. So, progress."

I glance at him in the passenger seat, head bobbing to the laid-back groove of "Scar Tissue" as he stares out the window, completely lost in the music. My focus snaps back to the road, an uneasy knot tightening in my stomach. Not a single car is in sight. I hate being out here in the dark, with no other vehicles around. What if we get a flat tire? No one ever taught me how to change one, and even if Max had a clue, he's too small to do it himself. The last thing I want is to be stranded in the desert with a ten-year-old, an easy target for wolves, criminals, or those unsavory bikers from the amusement park.

Higher by Creed's raw energy blasts through the speakers, and Max is absolutely living for it, headbanging with fervent abandon. My own enjoyment, however, dissolves into a rising tide of unease. The harder the rock pounds, the more my nerves fray, each crashing drumbeat and searing guitar riff amplifying the silent, empty highway stretching before us.

"What?" I shout through my raging heartbeats and the loud rock-n-roll.

"I said thanks," Max shouts back.

I turn down the volume and stare at his reddish face. "You're thanking the wrong man. The theme park was your father's idea."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "And obviously the kidnapping was yours."

I smirk. "Obviously."

He leans back against his seat, his fingers idly fiddling with the seatbelt buckle. "I can't believe Dad agreed to this."

"He was worried about you," I tell him, softening my tone. "He's a great father."

"If a bit clumsy."

"Does it matter when he loves you so much?"

Max pauses, considering this. "I guess not," he finally concedes, a hint of something warm in his voice.

Two yellow dots appear on the horizon, swiftly growing into a car. A wave of relief washes over me. At least we're almost at State College.

"He's graduating this year, right?" I ask Max, mostly to distract myself from thoughts of creepy bandits.

"Yeah."

"What will he do after college?"

"Leave it," he replies with mock hopefulness. "I don't know. Find a job. Spend most of his days with Ms. Marpole."

I'd completely forgotten about Goofy and the college librarian. I don't think I've ever seen them together in public. It's hard to imagine Goofy with a girlfriend, even harder to imagine him with a wife and a son, but the man managed that on his own. "Does it bother you that he's dating her?"

"Why would it bother me?"

A beat of silence.  "She's not your mom."

"My mom passed away, Bradley." It freaks me out how he says it without a trace of emotion. It transports me back to Max's old room in Spoonerville, to that night I blamed him for his own mother's death. My cruel words hadn't fazed him until I started blaming him for his dad's "miserable life." When it comes to his mother, there's little to no feeling. He never knew her, which means he never knew what it's like to have that warmth, that unconditional love that a mother gives. He never knew the gentle touch, the comforting lullaby, the safe haven of her embrace. He never knew the irreplaceable presence that shapes a person's earliest memories, the one that, even years after she's gone, still feels like the sun on your face and a whisper of joy in your heart.

He won this one over me, too. He's blessed he never experienced that kind of pain.

"I know. Still."

"How did you know?" he asks, completely unfazed.

Busted!

"Your dad mentioned it. Back when he was a Gamma."

I'm becoming an expert in lying, a skill I know will spectacularly backfire one day.

"It wouldn't be fair to him," Max says after a moment of silence. "Forcing him to live alone for the rest of his life because of some petty feelings, which I don't have, mind you."

I'm back in my dining room at home. My father, talking business with Elaine and the others. I never warmed up to any of them. He called it business, but I could always see it was more. I never wanted him to move on.

"I want him to be happy," Max concludes with a small, contented smile.

I wish I could be like him. He's always... he will always be the better one. I can never be like him. Good, pure, virtuous, the hero who saved my best friend. I bury the burning jealousy deep in my chest and try, God, I try, to rise above it.

To be a better person.

The tight knot in my chest loosens as I pull over in front of his building. The night is over. Finally.

"Max, if you're going to tear your dad a new one over this, I'm going to kidnap you again."

He chuckles as he unbuckles his seatbelt. "I won't. I'll probably thank him. This short trip was very... therapeutic."

I smiled. "I'm glad."

"It's just..." He pauses, then shakes his head. "Never mind."

I lock the doors before he can leave. "What?"

He tries the door handle, then looks at me sadly. "The fun was for a few hours. I got to forget about it. But now that I'm back, it's time to face the music. And it's not Santana music."

The hollow feeling in my chest mirrors the despair in his eyes.

"How's it going to end?" he whispers, and the childish rasp in his voice makes the question twist my gut.

He'll leave no track...

My hand clamps onto the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white, as if trying to anchor myself against the storm. Across from me, his small body begins to tremble, a violent shudder as the truth crashes down. He shrinks into the seat, rocking back and forth, and the tears come, not a gentle stream, but thick, bitter torrents of pure hopelessness, tears of someone who's lost the last hope to stay. A searing pain ignites behind my eyes, fueled by self-loathing and despair. Watching him in this state shatters my heart, especially seeing him look like this, like the little brother I once had.

"Max..."

He reaches over me and unlocks the doors before storming out of the car and running into the building.



~*~*~*~



I tuck the red box under my arm and knock on the door. This time, Max doesn't hide behind it when he opens it.

"Hey…" he says softly.

"Last night when you left, you were..."

"Crying like a ten-year-old? Good thing I'm nine today."

I stare at him, a wave of sympathy washing over me.

He brushes his hair back and lets out a long sigh. "It's freaky. Pete has sent a sample of my blood..."

I blink. "Pete? As in PJ's dad?"

"Yeah." His brows furrow in confusion, probably wondering how I know PJ's father. "Everyone is trying to help out in the best way they can. At least the ones in the know."

"Max, why are you keeping it a secret?"

He gives me a look and walks further into his room. "You know why."

"I don't," I counter, closing the door behind me and following him into the middle of his, unsurprisingly, super-spotless room. "You've missed the biology exam."

He turns, arms crossed over his chest. "You've missed some exams, too."

"I have a legitimate reason for that. What reason did you give the professor?"

He shakes his head and wanders aimlessly before flopping onto his bed. "I just can't go out during daylight."

"What? You're a vampire now?" I ask, sitting next to him on the bed.

He glares at me. "People will be everywhere, gawking at me with their judgy eyes. I can't just come out looking like this." He rubs his gloved hands on his chest. "I'd be a laughingstock."

"It's a bad feeling indeed," I say, speaking from very recent experience. "But no one knows you're you, so there's nothing to worry about."

The door swings open with a smack. "Ah-yuck! Hi-ya, Bradley!"

I stand up and greet the cheery man with a smile. "Oh, hi, Mr. Goof."

The air disappears from my lungs due to the tight hug Goofy gives me. "What you did for my Maxie last night, there are so many words to express how happy I am. Happy, glad, grateful…"

I pull myself out of his crushing embrace and gasp for air. "That's okay, Mr. Goof. I get it."

"So, do you have the cure to fix him?"

I hold out the red box. "I have Monopoly."

"Cheer up, Maxie, now you can swallow those green little houses all you want! Ah-yuck!" Goofy snatches the game from my hands and drops to the floor, cross-legged.

"Actually, I thought we could play a game of Monopoly until Tank gets back from Nevada."

Max rolls his eyes. "Thanks, Bradley. You really don't have to babysit me."

"You kiddin', I'm a-beating you both fair and circle!" Goofy starts arranging the game pieces.

As his father sets up, Max pulls me away for a sidebar. "Dad says you know how to fix this. Care to explain?"

This is my chance to come clean, to tell the truth. "I don't know for sure. There's a way we're going to try."

"And that's…"

"When Tank gets back. I promise."

I decide against telling the whole truth. I've finally gotten Goofy to trust me, and Max seems to see me as a friend. If Tank returns with the gold sun, there'll be no need for anyone to find out anything.



~*~*~*~




"Beard Guy sold it to a gang of thugs?!" I snap at Tank, an outrage I haven't felt in ages boiling over.

"His name is Mike."

"I don't care what his freakin' name is. I want that gold sun."

I snatch the pool stick from James's hand and hurl it with all my might at the wall. I'm so angry I could torch the Gamma house. I'm sick and tired of these delays. I need to save Max now, before he gets even younger.

Tank's hand hovers over my shoulder, but he wisely chooses not to touch me. "The good news is, those guys are seniors here at college. They have a fraternity of their own…"

"Excuse me," Goofy's voice drifts from the doorway. "Ah-yuck, how you doing, old gang?" He shifts from one foot to another, looking at each member of my Gamma team with an anxious gaze.

Leonard scoffs from his place on the couch. "What's Mr. Fuddy-duddy doing here?"

Goofy ignores him and gestures his head toward the hall. "Can I speak with you?"

"Sure." I give the Gammas a warning stare and follow Goofy outside the room. He grabs my arms and spins me around in excitement the second we're alone.

"Max wants to get out!"

"Really? What changed his mind?"

"Something you said yesterday." Goofy clasps his hands together and practically floats with happiness. "I was hoping you'd take him out. He seems to improve when you're around."

"Sure. Just a sec."

I go back inside the room. James and Chip are back to playing pool, Leonard has returned to his book, and Yowie is doing something so profoundly stupid with glue that I don't think I ever want to find out what. I walk straight to my best friend. "Tank, you know who bought the gold sun, right?"

He sits on the chair next to the couch. "As I was saying…"

"Great. I'll leave it up to you. Gammas, you answer to Tank."

They don't seem to have heard me, but I couldn't care less at the moment.

"Where are you going?" Tank yells after me.

"I've got something important to do."




~*~*~*~



Girls gush and squeal as I walk the college streets alongside my "little brother," who's sporting sunglasses and a blue cap as a disguise. Max has spent the last ten days swinging from panic to depression, to, as he puts it, unmanly displays of emotion. Now, he's pulling himself back together, climbing his way out of the black pit he'd fallen into.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks.

I look down at him, frowning.

"Trips to amusement parks. A game of Monopoly. Promising to save me. What's in it for you?"

I look straight ahead at the cute redhead admiring the "cuteness" of the two brothers together. "Nothing."

He lowers his sunglasses, giving me a skeptical look. "Don't tell me your coma of redemption actually made an honest man out of you."

"Actually, it did. In a way." I'm clearly no honest man, but I don't say that aloud. "Plus, it makes your father happy."

"You really like talking about my dad." He narrows his eyes at me. "Is this a Stacy's Dad situation? Am I Stacy?"

"Max…"

"First of all, bleh! Second of all, don't think my father swings that way, and he does have a girlfriend now, and…"

I clap my hand over his mouth. "Just shut up, motormouth!"

"Bradley!"

It's Slouch. Now that I think about it, he was conspicuously absent from the Gamma house this afternoon. He practically skips across the street, bumping fists with me, a manic grin splitting his face. "Bradley, I finally reached my aunt! She said the last wish is meant for the clock to go back for no one but Max Goof."

Max looks up at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. "The last wish?"

"Slouch, don't..." I try to cut him off, a sudden dread seizing me.

"He'll get younger and younger physically until he ceases to exist," Slouch blares on, completely oblivious to the widening horror on Max's face, or the sharp glint of panic in my own eyes.

Max's gaze snaps to me, small and accusing. "A wish? You wished this?" His voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through me.

"Max, I didn't..."

"Holy shit, Batman! Is this Max Goof?" Slouch interrupts again, staring at the eight-year-old with wide-eyed amazement, clearly mistaking Max's current state for some incredible magical feat. "I knew my aunt was a real witch, but I never saw the result of her work before…"

"Would you shut the hell up, Slouch?!" I roar, the volume of my voice startling even myself. My chest tightens, a cold dread washing over me.

Max is shaking his head, his mouth set in a tight line. "You… Gosh, I was so stupid."

"No, Max, wait…"

I reach out for him, but he backs away, warning me off with his hand. The rush of hate that floods over his face makes me flinch.

"You pathetic excuse for a human being! All this because I won the X-Games?!" He yanks off his sunglasses and smashes them on the pavement. "Son of a bitch!"

I recoil when he throws his blue cap at me.

"Shit! Shit!" He runs his hands through his hair in disbelief. "Screw you, asshole!"

"Max! Max!" I call after him as he runs away from me. An awful, ripping hurt tears through me, and something pricks at my eyes. For a second, my vision blurs, and my fingernails dig into my palms.

I'm so freakin' angry I could kill someone.

"Damn you, Slouch!"

He stares at me, speechless for a moment. "Bradley…"

"I don't want to hear a word out of your mouth."

"There's more," he says softly.

With a sigh, I turn around and hear him out.

"You have to attach the sun to the moon before Max's disappearance, or else he will never come back."

My heart literally sinks into my Hermès loafers.

Chapter Text

My lungs burn as I sprint down the sidewalk, my eyes glued to the small figure ahead. "Max! Wait!" I gasp, but his little legs pump faster. This is ridiculous! I'm an athlete, and he's just an eight-year-old! I quicken my pace, finally reaching him. I grab his arm, but he jerks away from my grasp. I lose my balance, and we tumble onto the pavement.

He springs to his feet and punches me square in the eye. It's a solid hit for an eight-year-old, though not as powerful as he intended. I stare into his eyes, seeing a sharp, angry glint, the look of an eighteen-year-old trapped in a child's face. The Max I had wanted so badly to hurt, this look in his eyes is hurting me twice as much in this moment.

"Max," I mutter, "I understand if you won't forgive me..."

He cuts me off with another punch, then another. He lunges, smashing my back and head against the pavement. He glares down at me, a hatred in his eyes that tears at my soul. He punches, and punches, and punches. The blows take me back to the previous timeline, to the moment I did the same to him after he pointed out my room to those Richardson jerks.

Girls and guys gather around us, their faces a mixture of shock and morbid curiosity. They stare at the furious child, ripping into the ex-X Games champion. Whispers of critical comments and questions ripple through the crowd, yet no one attempts to stop the enraged kid.

"Max!" I hear PJ yell through the beating.

Then, I feel Max being lifted off me. I look up, tasting blood in my mouth, and watch PJ holding an enraged Max who struggles to slip from his tight grasp.

"What's going on?" Bobby asks, his gaze shifting between Max and me, a rising suspicion in his eyes.

"Max, hold still!" PJ struggles to keep a grip on him. "Tell us what's going on?"

"Wait a minute," a girl with curly blond hair steps foward, staring at Max in astonishment. "Is that... Max Goof?"

The crowd gasps, their eyes on the little boy who gradually stops struggling. Tears well in Max's eyes, fueled by the humiliation of being recognized. He spits on me and yells, "Are you happy now, Brad?"

"Hold on," Bobby says, his eyes widening. "You're telling me he's the reason Max is suddenly fun-sized?"

"No way," PJ exclaims. "It can't be."

I swallow hard, the judging eyes of the crowd burning into me, but none sting as much as the raw hatred blazing in Max's eyes. "I know I screwed up," I admit, my voice hoarse. "But I have..."

Max spits at me again. "Shut up! You did this to me," he says, his voice a child's treble but laced with adult accusation. "You wanted me gone."

"No! That's not true, Max!" I say desperately, rising to my feet.

Bobby takes a step forward, blocking my path. "Stay away from him." His eyes burn with a protective fury.

PJ glares at me, his jaw tight. "He's disappearing, man! Because of you!"

"I can fix it," I stammer, my voice cracking. "The gold sun! Once I get a hold of it…"

"Stay away from all of us!" Bobby snaps and shoves me back.

"I'll save him," I insist, my gaze fixed on Max's small, trembling form. "I never wanted this."

PJ's expression softens slightly, but the anger still simmers beneath the surface. "Just leave, Bradley, there's nothing you can say or do that'll make this better. Leave or I'll…" His voice trails off, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.

The crowd erupts in a chorus of boos, their demands for me to leave growing louder with each passing second. A half-eaten apple whizzes past my ear, followed by an empty soda can clattering at my feet. They hurl insults, curse my name, and scream that they want me off campus entirely.

I deserve their anger. I deserve Max's pain. My breath hitches as my gaze crashes into his. Pure, undiluted hate, sharp and glistening in the depths of his eyes. It's a blow that steals the air from my lungs, a visceral rejection that cuts deeper than any words could. All I can do now is try to undo the damage I've caused, even if it seems impossible.

I turn and walk away, the image of Max's traumatized face when he discovered the truth burned into my mind. I walk slowly, my heart a lead weight in my chest, soaking in the cries of hate and demands for justice.

~*~*~*~*~

The air in the Gamma house is thick with something heavier than stale beer and unwashed laundry. As soon as I step inside, the usual boisterous greetings die in their throats. Tank stands in the middle of the common room, his arms crossed over his massive chest, looking less like my friend and more like a granite monument carved in my likeness for public shaming.

And there, hunched on the edge of a worn armchair like a cornered rat, sits Slouch. The little weasel couldn't slink away fast enough after spilling his guts. He looks pale and fidgety, like he's expecting lightning to strike him any second.

"Uh, hey, Bradley," Slouch mumbles, his voice a pathetic squeak. He avoids eye contact, his gaze fixed on his twisting fingers.

A ripple of uncomfortable shifting goes through the room. James avoids my gaze, fiddling with the frayed edge of a cushion. Leonard stares intently at a dead spot on the carpet. Even Yowie, usually so laid-back he’s practically horizontal, refuses to meet my eyes.

Tank's voice rumbles, low and dangerous, shaking me to my core. "I can't believe you, Bradley. You stooped that low?"

Words fail me. All I can do is stare into his cold eyes, a gaze I can't seem to break.

"Of course you'd stoop this low," he continues, his face a tight mask of fury. "You could always stoop even lower." Then he drops the bomb, the words hitting me like a physical blow. "You left me to die at the X-Games. It was Max who saved me."

I flinch, the guilt a gnawing beast tearing at my insides.

"I'm going to fix it," I say in hushed tones.

"How?" Slouch asks softly. He takes a deep breath before looking at me with a hard stare. "Hey, don't look at me like I'm the one who made a punching bag out of your face!"

"My face would've been fine if you'd kept your mouth shut!" I growl at him.

"You thought you could get away with it, Bradley?" Tank asks angrily. "Karma's a bitch that way."

I try to calm my nerves as I attempt to explain myself. "I was handling it well until Slouch ruined everything."

"I don't think you did, Bradley," James says. "Lately, all you do is drag us down."

Slouch shrugs. "Maybe it's best if Tank becomes our leader now."

My jaw drops. I look at Tank in offense. "You’re not taking leadership advice from Slouch, are you? The same Slouch who thought a badger would make a good fraternity mascot?" I gesture wildly at him. "And let’s not forget who exactly dragged my sorry behind to his lovely Aunt Broom-Hilda in the first place! Ring any bells, genius?"

I pull the gold chain from under my t-shirt, the moon pendant cool against my skin. "Look! This is it. The moon necklace. We need the gold sun. Attach them, and Max goes back to normal. Simple. Elementary, even for this esteemed group." I hold it out, but they just stare back at me, blank-faced.

"You know where the gold sun is, Tank," I plead, my voice losing some of its sarcastic edge, replaced by genuine desperation. "The seniors have it. We can get it from them. Tonight."

Tank's eyes are cold, devoid of any trace of our years of friendship. "You made your bed, Bradley. Now lie in it." He takes a step towards me, and the other Gammas shift, forming a silent, menacing barrier.

"Get out," Tank says, his voice flat, final.

Before I can argue, before I can even try to explain again how desperately I need their help, Tank's foot connects with my backside with surprising force. I stumble out the door, landing unceremoniously on the porch. The heavy oak door slams shut, the sound echoing the finality of their rejection.

I sit there for a moment, the cool night air doing little to quell the burning frustration inside me. They're so blinded by their anger, they have no idea how close we are to fixing this. And they've just kicked out the only person who does. This is just great. Absolutely freaking fantastic.

~*~*~*~

The knot in my stomach tightens with every step I take towards Max's dorm. It feels like walking the plank. His friends must be there, and the last time we spoke, their words were like shards of ice. But I have to try. Max is running out of time, literally disappearing day by day.

I knock softly on the door, and it creaks open to reveal Goofy's imposing figure. His face is set in a grim mask, his eyes dark with a fury that makes me want to shrink away. Max is sitting on his bed, looking even smaller than he did this morning, his brow furrowed with that adult worry that doesn't belong on an eight-year-old's face.

"What do you want, Bradley?" Goofy's voice is low and menacing, each word laced with barely suppressed anger. He reminds me so much of Goofy from the first timeline after Max's accident. The man I never wanted to see again.

"Mr. Goof, please, you have to listen to me," I say quickly, stepping inside. The air in the room feels thick with his disapproval. "There's a way to make things right. The wish… it can be reversed."

Goofy scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound. "Reversed? You think you can just waltz on in here and say that after all you done gone and did? My son is getting younger with each passing day because of you!"

"I know, and I’m so sorry. But there’s a… a counter-spell. It involves two objects: a gold sun and a moon necklace." I pull the golden chain from under my shirt, the moon pendant gleaming faintly in the dim room light. "I have the necklace. We need the gold sun. If we get it, Max will go back to normal. He’ll be eighteen again."

Goofy stares at the necklace like it’s a poisonous snake. "I trusted you, Bradley. Max trusted you."

Now, I've truly done it. I've broken the most trusting man I've ever met. I try to appeal to Goofy's forgiving nature. "It was a mistake, a stupid, selfish mistake," I admit, my voice cracking. "But you have to listen to me."

Goofy takes a step closer, his eyes blazing. "This is the second time you took advantage of me."

A lump forms in my throat. Max's story of his father's misplaced trust in Pete, a trust repeatedly broken, resurfaced with a bitter taste. Unlike Pete, I doubt I'd be granted such leniency. The chance for his trust feels irrevocably lost.

"This is different, sir! This is about saving Max!" I’m practically begging now, my desperation growing with each passing second. Max watches us, his small face pale and unresponsive.

"I am done with you," Goofy says, his voice cold and final. “Done with your lies, your tricks, your… magic. I will never trust you again. Not after this." He gestures towards the door. "Get out. And stay away from my son."

I look at Max, my heart aching at the numbness in his eyes.

"Please, Mr. G," I try one last time, my voice hoarse. Max stares at me in surprise when I called his father by the name PJ would call him.

But Goofy won't listen. He won't believe me. And as he opens the door, ushering me out into the hallway, I know I've failed. Not only have I hurt Max, but I’ve also destroyed any trust his father had in me.

~*~*~*~*~

The wrought iron gates groan open as I push them wider, the sound echoing the hollowness inside me. This place… it's just a monument to what we used to be. The long driveway stretches before me, leading to the imposing stone mansion that feels more like a mausoleum these days. It's all so grand, so empty.

Instead of heading straight to the house, my feet lead me towards the back of the property, to the neglected stables. The paint is peeling, some of the wooden planks are rotting, and the once meticulously kept paddocks are overgrown with weeds. It's been like this since Mom passed away. She was the one who breathed life into this place, especially the stables.

A wave of melancholy washes over me as I step inside. The familiar scent of hay and horse sweat are long gone, replaced by the musty odor of decay. Dust motes dance in the slivers of sunlight that pierce through the grimy windows. I run my hand along the splintered wood of an empty stall, the roughness a far cry from the smooth, warm coat I remember so vividly.

Andrea. My mare. A beautiful, spirited creature with a coat the color of burnished copper. I can almost feel her soft muzzle nudging my hand, her warm breath on my skin. We used to spend hours here. Riding through the sprawling fields, the wind whipping through my hair, feeling truly free. None of this was real, and yet it feels that way. Standing here, genuine memories of my mother and Gloria recede, overshadowed by the vivid and insistent pull of fabricated ones. They feel so immediate, so real, that I'm drawn into their depths despite myself.

A memory surfaces, fourteen-year-old Max in his worn jeans overalls, his hands gentle as he showed me how to properly groom Andrea. "Easy does it, Bradley," he'd said. "Long, smooth strokes. She likes that." He'd shown me how to brush her mane, how to pick her hooves. He'd even braided flowers into her forelock sometimes, making her look like a woodland queen.

My heart longs for the previous timeline. We spent so much time together here, amidst the comforting presence of Andrea. Max, though younger, was infinitely the wiser one, patiently teaching me about horses, about responsibility, about kindness. In spite of everything I've done to him, humiliating him, overworking him, hurting him… I didn't deserve his friendship nor his forgiveness. Not then. Not now. 

The guilt is a heavy weight in my chest, suffocating me in this place that once held so much joy. I should be out there, finding the gold sun, setting things right. But the rejection from Tank, the heartbroken anger in Goofy's eyes, Max's numb expression… it's left me feeling adrift, lost in a sea of my own making.

I push myself away from the decaying stable, the sigh that escapes my lips carrying the weight of my regret. The sprawling mansion looms before me, a monument to a different time, a time before loss cast its long shadow.

The massive front doors feel heavy as I push them open, stepping into the echoing silence of the grand hall. Everything is as I remember it: the gleaming marble floors, the sweeping staircase that curves like a frozen wave, the crystal chandeliers hanging like silent stars. It’s opulent, impressive, yet utterly devoid of warmth. It just is.

"Master Bradley?"

A voice, warm and familiar, cuts through the stillness. I turn to see Yoli, her usually vibrant smile creased with concern. She's setting down a tray of delicate glasses on a side table, her movements quick and efficient, even now. Before I can even register her presence fully, she's rushing towards me, her arms outstretched.

"Ay, mi Bradley!" she cries, her voice thick with emotion. She wraps me in a tight hug, her embrace smelling faintly of the lavender soap she always uses. "Mijo, I missed you so much."

Her hug is a sudden anchor in the storm of my thoughts. Her Puerto Rican accent, usually so cheerful, trembles slightly as she holds me. I hug her back, a lump forming in my throat. "Yoli," I manage, my voice a little rough. "I… I've missed you too." It's true. Amidst the grandeur and the emptiness, Yoli's always been a flicker of genuine warmth.

She pulls back slightly, her dark eyes searching mine, her brow furrowed with worry. "What happened to your face, mi'jito. Who did this to you?"

An eight year old boy, I almost answer. How do I even begin to explain? A stupid wish, a shrinking best friend, a furious father, a band of livid fraternity brothers… it all sounds so insane when I think about saying it out loud.

"It's… complicated, Yoli," I say, trying to force a weak smile. "But I'm okay. I just… needed to come home for a bit."

Her hand cups my cheek, her touch gentle but firm. "You know you can tell me anything."

I nod, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. Maybe, just maybe, having someone who cares, someone who isn't angry or disappointed, is exactly what I need right now. Funny, this Yoli won't remember Max or Goofy. She's never met them. She won't remember Andrea either, because Andrea never existed, a chilling thought that sears through the carefully constructed narrative in my mind, leaving a raw ache of fabrication where a genuine memory should reside.

She keeps her arm around my shoulders as she leads me up the grand staircase, the polished wood gleaming under the soft light filtering through the arched windows. We walk past rows of framed portraits of stern-faced ancestors, their silent judgment a familiar backdrop to my life here.

She stops at a heavy oak door at the end of the hall and then pushes it open.

Stepping inside is like stepping back in time. My old room. It looks exactly as I left it at the age of sixteen, the day I couldn't take another minute under my father's roof. The worn armchair by the window, the stacks of canvases leaning against the wall, the haphazard collection of brushes and tubes of paint scattered across my desk – everything is frozen in that moment.

Pictures of Mom are everywhere. Smiling down from the bookshelf, laughing in a frame on my nightstand, her vibrant spirit captured in each image. It's a stark contrast to the heavy silence of the rest of the house.

"Your father…" Yoli begins hesitantly, her gaze sweeping over the room. "He told me to keep it… just like this. Always neat, always clean. As if you were coming back any day."

I stare at her, dumbfounded. My father? The man whose drunken rages filled these halls with terror? He wanted my room kept like this?

"That's… that's not possible," I stammer, shaking my head. "He hated me." The words taste bitter on my tongue, the ingrained fear still potent after all these years.

"He never hated you, mi'jito." Yoli's expression softens, her eyes filled with a gentle understanding. "People change. Your father carried a great sadness after you left. A regret. He never said it outright, not in so many words. But I saw it. I lived in this house. I saw the way he would sometimes stand outside this door, just looking. He missed you."

Missed me? The man who'd made my childhood a living hell? The man whose belt I still have nightmares about? It's impossible to reconcile the monster of my memories with the image Yoli is painting.

"I don't understand," I whisper, my mind reeling. Years of resentment, of anger, of a deep-seated belief that I was unwanted here… and now Yoli is telling me it might not have been the whole story.

She takes my hand, her touch grounding. "Life is complicated, Bradley. People make mistakes. Sometimes… sometimes they realize those mistakes too late. But that doesn't mean their feelings weren't real."

I look around the room again, at the familiar objects that suddenly seem imbued with a different kind of significance. My mother's smiling face, a silent testament to a love I knew. And now, the possibility of something I never dared to imagine – a father who regretted his actions.

The carefully constructed dam of my composure finally cracks. I sink onto the edge of my old bed, the worn quilt feeling strangely comforting beneath my hands. "Yoli," I begin, my voice thick with unshed tears, "I… I messed up. Really bad."

She sits beside me, her hand resting gently on my back. Her presence is a safe harbor in the storm raging inside me.

"I hurt someone," I confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I did something… stupid." This is what I tell her. I neglect to talk about the specifics. I don't mention the  wish, the magic, the timelines, and the fact that Max is getting younger every day until he vanishes completely.

The enormity of my mistake, the potential finality of it, overwhelms me. I bury my face in my hands, the shame and guilt a crushing weight. "I'm just like him," I sob, the comparison to my father a raw, self-inflicted wound. "I hurt the people I'm supposed to care about. I’m a monster, Yoli."

"You're not, Bradley," she murmurs, her arms wrapping around me, pulling me into a comforting embrace. I cling to her, the familiar scent of lavender and warmth a small solace.

And then, softly, she begins to sing. The melody from my childhood, the gentle lullaby she used to hum whenever she tended to the bruises my father left behind. The words, in Spanish, speak of comfort and healing, of a love that endures. Her voice, though older now, still holds that same soothing magic, each note a balm to my wounded spirit.

As she sings, a fresh wave of tears washes over me, a release of years of pain and the immediate agony of what I've done to Max.

When the song ends, she holds me close for a moment longer before pulling back slightly, her eyes filled with a deep empathy. "Your father delivered the message. He told me how much you missed this song."

My breath catches in my throat. I can't believe he actually did that.

"Tell me about your friend," Yoli says, "How did you hurt him?"

I swallow thickly, unable to look her in the eyes. "It's a long story. The thing is the solution is clear. But none of my friends are willing to help. They don't trust me anymore."

Yoli's gaze is steady, filled with a quiet strength. "If these amigos of yours don't want to help, then you will help him yourself. You made this mistake. You carry the weight of it. You have a good heart, mijo. I know it. Now, you have to be strong."

Her words are a lifeline, a spark of hope in the darkness. I can't wallow in self-pity. I can't wait for someone else to save Max. I have to do this on my own.

I pull away from her embrace, a newfound resolve hardening my features. "You're right, Yoli," I say, my voice stronger now, the tears replaced by a flicker of determination. Though the fear is still there, a knot of anxiety in my stomach, but it's now intertwined with a fierce sense of purpose. I hurt Max, and I will do everything in my power to bring him back. Alone if I have to.

~*~*~*~*~

The Omega Alpha Psi is a hulking brick building radiating an aura of arrogant superiority. Senior territory. I hug the shadows of the overgrown hedges, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Sneaking in here is suicide, but I have no other choice.

A window on the ground floor glows with a dim light, and I inch closer, peering through a gap in the curtains. My breath catches in my throat. Tank. And James, Leonard, Yowie and Slouch are inside. They're facing a group of older guys, all broad shoulders and smug expressions, the Omega Alpha Psi letters emblazoned on their worn sweatshirts.

Tank's voice, usually booming with confidence, is tight with a nervous edge. "We know you have it. The gold sun. We need it."

A tall senior with a sneer that could curdle milk steps forward. "Look what the little pledges dragged in. Think you can just barge in here and demand our traditions, Gamma trash?" The other seniors laugh, a cruel, dismissive sound.

"Tradition? You just bought it from Beard Guy," James pipes up, his voice wavering slightly.

The seniors frown.

"Mike," Tank explains.

"Oh."

Tank sighs. "Look, it's important we get that gold sun."

"Important for what? Your little tea party?" another senior scoffs, earning more jeers from his cronies. “Run along now, boys. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt playing with the big dogs."

Tank's face flushes crimson. "We’re not leaving without it."

The tall senior’s eyes narrow. "You got a death wish, pledge?" He shoves Tank hard in the chest.

That's the spark. Tank roars and lunges forward, James and Yowie right behind him. Slouch throws himself into the fray as well, a desperate yelp escaping his lips. It's a chaotic mess of flailing limbs and grunts. The seniors, bigger and more experienced, quickly gain the upper hand.

I watch from the window, frozen. I see Leonard get cornered by two seniors. A sickening crack echoes through the room, and he collapses to the floor, clutching his arm, his face contorted in pain. The fight seems to drain out of the Gammas then. Tank, his face bruised and bleeding, helps James and Yowie pull a whimpering Leonard towards the door. Slouch trails behind, looking shaken.

They stumble out of the building, Leonard's arm hanging at an unnatural angle. Tank glances back at the Omega Alpha Psi house, his eyes burning with a mixture of pain and fury. Then, they disappear into the night, presumably heading for the hospital.

I remain hidden in the shadows, the scene replaying in my mind. Leonard's broken arm. Tank's futile attempt. Their desperate need. And I did nothing. I just watched. Am I really any better than my father, standing by while others get hurt? The thought chills me to the bone. But the gold sun is still inside that house. I can't do this on my own. I need help.

~*~*~*~

The Bean Scene is a sensory explosion. The rich, dark aroma of roasted coffee beans hangs heavy in the air, a comforting blanket woven with the sharper notes of cinnamon and cardamom from someone's spiced latte. Above the low hum of conversations and the clinking of ceramic mugs, a melodic voice rises from the small, makeshift stage tucked in a corner. A woman is passionately reciting poetry, her words painting vivid pictures that drift through the crowded space like fragrant steam.

I scan the tightly packed tables, my eyes finally landing on PJ in a dimly lit corner booth. He looks… wrecked. His usual easygoing demeanor is gone, replaced by a raw, exposed grief that tugs at my own guilt. Beside him, his girlfriend, The Baret Maven, with her usual air of quiet confidence and, yes, her beret perched jauntily on her head. She is holding his hand, murmuring softly.

I approach their table hesitantly, the floorboards creaking beneath my sneakers. PJ's head snaps up, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a cold fury that makes me want to retreat.

"What do you want, Bradley?" His voice is low and tight, laced with a bitterness I deserve.

"PJ, I… I need to talk to you," I say, my gaze flickering between him and his girlfriend.

He scoffs, turning away. "There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear." His girlfriend’s hand tightens on his.

"PJ, please," I persist. "It’s about Max."

Baret Rhyme looks at her boyfriend, her expression thoughtful. "Maybe you should hear him out, babe." Her voice is calm and surprisingly reasonable, especially considering the daggers she's been shooting my way with her eyes since I approached.

PJ looks at her, a flicker of confusion in his tear-filled gaze. "But… it's him. He did this."

"I know, His presence is a dissonant chord in the symphony of my being," she says softly. "But if there's a chance to help Max…" She trails off, her eyes urging him.

Reluctantly, PJ sighs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Fine. You have five minutes." His tone is still hostile, but it's a crack in the wall.

"Okay," I say quickly, seizing the opportunity. "To reverse the wish, we need to attach the gold sun to the gold moon necklace." I gesture to the golden chain still hidden under my shirt. "That's it. That’s the key to making Max… whole again."

PJ stares at me, his skepticism palpable. "A gold sun? What are you even talking about?"

"It's the giant coin Bobby found in your dorm room," I explain, remembering Max and Bobby's conversation before. "The one he sold to Mike."

"Mike?" PJ asks.

"Beard Guy," I explain.

"Oh." PJ nods.

"It's for Max, PJ." I lean closer, my voice dropping. "Your best bud. You've known him since you were both eleven. Living next door. Remember all the skateboarding sessions in your driveway and the ramp? And… remember tormenting Pistol with water balloons from the treehouse?"

PJ's eyes widen, a look of absolute shock washing over his face. "How… how do you know about Pistol? How do know about all of this?" His voice is barely a whisper.

I manage a small, enigmatic smile. "Does it matter?" I let the mystery hang in the air while a wave of memories wash over me: PJ's gentle smile in the sterile hospital hallway, his quiet reassurance that Max's accident wasn't my fault. I could almost see him then, trying to coax a smile from a confined Max in his bedroom, his little sister giggling nearby. PJ had always been a godsend to Max, a friend anyone would be lucky to have.

PJ seems to have been thrown off balance. He looks from me to his girlfriend, then back again. The shared history he had with Max, the specific, almost forgotten childhood pranks. He sighs again, the anger slowly bleeding out of him, replaced by a weary resignation. "Fine," he says, his voice heavy. "Where do we find this… gold sun?"

~*~*~*~*~

PJ leads the way down the hallway of the dorms. He stops outside his shared dorm room with Max and Bobby and knocks softly on the door. It opens to reveal the heartbreaking sight of Max, looking even smaller than yesterday. He's perched on the edge of his bed, his little legs dangling, and Bobby is standing protectively in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest, radiating hostility.

"You gotta be kidding me," Bobby's voice is a low growl, his eyes narrowed slits of suspicion.

"Hey, Bobby," PJ says, stepping into the room. "Look, Bradley has a plan to..."

Bobby snorts, his gaze never leaving me. "A plan? Well, that's a new one. Usually, his plans involve more duct tape and panicked yelling. We don’t want anything he has to say."

Max looks from Bobby to me, his seven-year-old face etched with an unnerving seriousness. "Bobby, it’s okay. I want to hear what he has to say."

Bobby hesitates, his loyalty to Max warring with his anger towards me. He finally steps aside, but his stance remains tense, ready to pounce.

I inhale slowly, trying to project an air of calm I definitely don't feel. "Thanks, Max. Look, and I swear I've said this a million times already, the only way to reverse the wish is to attach the gold sun to this moon necklace." I slip the necklace from my neck and hold it out. Before I can even fully extend my hand, Bobby snatches it, his brow furrowed in suspicion.

I reach for it, saying, "Hey..." but Bobby clutches it tightly in his fist, his eyes still narrowed on me. "Let me see this thing," he mutters, turning the golden moon over in his hand as if it holds the secrets of the universe. "You mean, the giant coin fits in there?" he finally says, tracing the edge of the golden crescent with his gloved finger. "I already sold it."

"The seniors have it now," PJ interjects. "The Omega Alpha Psi fraternity. They bought it from Beard Guy."

"We're going to sneak into their house tomorrow night and get it," I explain.

"Great," Max says. "We'll be there."

I look at him, my heart twisting at his eagerness. "No, Max. You're not going."

His brow furrows. "But it's my problem."

"No, it's mine," Bradley says gently but firmly. "Besides, you're going to be six tomorrow night, remember? It's too dangerous. Tank and the Gammas… they went there tonight to try and get it."

A stunned silence fills the room. Max's eyes widen. "Tank and the Gammas?"

Bradley nods, his expression somber. "Yeah. It didn't go well. They got beat up pretty bad. Leonard ended up with a broken arm."

A wave of emotion washes over Max's small face. A flicker of guilt, but also something akin to… gratitude? "Tank… they did that for me?" he whispers, his voice barely audible.

Bobby's hostility seems to soften slightly at this news. He looks at Max, then at me, a grudging respect dawning in his eyes for Tank's reckless bravery.

"So," I say, breaking the silence. "Tomorrow night. We go to Omega Alpha Psi. Just the three of us." I point at myself, then PJ, then look at Bobby, hoping he's finally on board. I extend a hand for the necklace.

He looks at it hesitantly, then hands it back.

"Right," I say, shifting my gaze between three faces that clearly hate my guts. "Off I go then."

As I turn to leave, Max's voice pipes up behind me. "Wait," he says, "Can I speak to you in the hallway?"

We step outside, the tension thick between us, just as a couple of students pass by. One of them pokes Max on the forehead. "Hey, X-Games Champion, need your diaper changed?" His friend snickers beside him, and they walk away laughing.

My hand instinctively forms a fist, and I almost charge after them, but Max holds up a hand and shakes his head no. "I've been hearing lots of those today," he says, his voice surprisingly steady. "Everything from 'did you wander away from the daycare?' to 'who's your mommy, little man?' and 'do you even need a fake ID to get into the library now?'"

I gesture towards his room. "If you want, we could go back inside."

Max sighs, a sound far too world-weary for a seven-year-old. "Everybody knows now. There's no point in hiding anymore. I mean, even if this gets fixed," he gestures at his tiny frame with a bitter flick of his wrist, "the jabs will continue until I graduate from college."

I wince, a sharp pang of guilt twisting in my gut. "I'm really sorry, Max."

He tilts his head, his gaze unwavering. "And that is my dilemma." His hard stare meets my apologetic one, and I feel the full weight of his accusation. "You did this to me. Why do you suddenly want to help?"

"Does it matter why?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

"It will determine whether I should trust you or not."

"Believe it or not, Max, I'm not an emotionless monster," I say, my voice a low, earnest rumble. "I never wanted you killed."

"But you hate me," he insists, his small voice sharp, cutting through the thin air between us. "And I've seen you choose your selfish win instead of helping your best friend who was about to get killed. You are a monster, Bradley."

His words hit harder than any of his earlier punches. A raw, painful hurt gnaws at me, twisting my gut. "I swear," I grit out, forcing the words past the lump in my throat, "I never intended for you to die."

"But you wanted to hurt me." His gaze is unwavering, searching, and in his eyes, I see a deep, ingrained fear, a betrayal that runs far deeper than anything I could have imagined.

"Yes, that I did," I admit, the confession heavy on my tongue, the weight of my past actions pressing down on me.

Max stares at me, his gaze searing, and then shakes his head slowly. "You didn't even give it a second thought, did you?" he whispers, his voice cracking, thick with disbelief and a pain that mirrors my own. "You wished me away in the most cruel way imaginable, making me watch my life slip away day after day, slowly waiting for my death. You didn't even think about the people you're hurting with this. My dad, my friends..."

He pauses, the words catching in his throat as raw emotion floods his small face. Tears well in his eyes, bright and shimmering. "All that... all that because I won a trophy?" His voice breaks on the last word, and a single tear escapes, tracing a path down his cheek. The sight shatters something inside me.

I can't help but drop to my knees, bringing myself to his eye level. My hands itch to reach out, to place a comforting touch on his shaking little shoulders, but I resist, knowing the gesture would be rejected venomously. "Max," I say, my voice raw, holding his tearful, resentful gaze with my own. "I've changed. There's no time to explain it now, but I promise I will tell you everything once we fix this."

"No, Bradley," Max says, his voice devoid of childish innocence, now sharp and cutting. A fierce, icy look hardens his young face as he cranes his head up to meet my gaze. I'm reminded of how I used to relish that fact, how I'd enjoyed looking down on him. "Once this is fixed, I don't wanna see your pasty face again. You never talk to me, or even look at me. We're done." He turns on his heel, walks inside, and slams the door, the sound echoing the finality of his words.

I stand there, frozen, the slammed door echoing in my ears. The cold finality of Max's words wraps around me, squeezing the air from my lungs. This is the absolute, undeniable rejection of a young man I'd grown to know and, against all odds, to love. Memories of the simple life in Spoonerville flood my mind: the genuine love, the childhood pranks, Andrea and the stable, Max and I watching the Powerline concert. Those precious moments might not be "real" in the grand scheme of things, but their impact on me is profound, undeniable.

But then, there are the memories that did happen: the amusement park and the monopoly game, dinners filled with laughter, Max asking to come out of hiding with me, not his best friends. With me. Now, all of it is gone, leaving a gaping, ragged hole in my chest. I know, deep down, that I deserve every bit of it, the hate, the resentment from everyone, and this searing, unbearable loss.

Chapter Text

I wander the campus streets, each step aimless, my mind a blank where plans for the night should be. Where in the world am I going to sleep tonight? Going back to the Gamma house is out of the question, isn't it? Despite that thought, my feet are leading me straight there. Perhaps I can sneak back into my room, or maybe I can sweet-talk the guys into letting me stay. There's the Gamma House, and I immediately notice a black car parked right in front. Standing next to it, I see Tank talking to a woman in a severe black suit. She's got that undeniable air of corporate menace, the kind that screams "works for my father." I quickly duck behind a thick azalea bush, the leaves scratching against my face, and try to make out their words, but their voices are just a low murmur.

The woman gives a curt nod, slides into a black sedan, and drives off. The moment her car disappears around the corner, Tank’s voice cuts through the quiet night.

“Bradley, you can come out now.”

I push myself out from behind the bush, my limbs stiff from crouching, feeling foolish. The damp air nips at my exposed skin. "You knew I was here?"

"Oh, I don't know, was it the subtle rustling of a panicked hippopotamus, or just the overwhelming scent of desperation?" Tank deadpans, shooting me a bored look that feels colder than the night air itself.

"Was that woman working for my dad?" I ask, a knot tightening in my stomach.

"Yes, she wanted to whisk you away," Tank replies, his voice flat. "The word's spreading about what you did to Max, and it got to your father."

The thought of my father knowing complicates everything. He'll want to "fix" this, of course, the way rich people always do, with money, with lawyers, by making problems disappear. But this isn't something that can be bought away, not this kind of damage.

Tank's gaze remains as hard as steel. "Things could get ugly for you."

I'm shocked at how little that fazes me. My own safety, my reputation, my father's wrath, it's all background noise now. Max's well-being, that's all that truly matters. I swallow, the action suddenly difficult, and lower my gaze to my worn shoes. "How's Leonard?"

He frowns, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I know you went to face those Alphas," I reply, my voice barely a whisper against the quiet hum of the campus.

"Were you spying on us?" he asks, his tone laced with suspicion.

"I actually went there to get the gold sun myself," I say, meeting his gaze.

He shakes his head, a humorless chuckle escaping him. "I don't think you can do that on your own, they're vicious."

My eyes trace the fresh bruises blooming on his face, dark smudges against his skin. "I can see that. That's why I'm teaming up with PJ and Bobby."

He scoffs, a sound of pure derision. "And why would they team up with you?"

The night air is cool as we stand on the cracked pavement outside the fraternity house. The only light comes from the distant streetlamp, casting long, distorted shadows. I take a deep breath, the weight of my confession heavy on my chest.

"Tank," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper, "I need to tell you… everything."

I spill it all out, the words tumbling forth in a torrent of guilt and regret. The jealousy that had festered inside me, watching Max, a freshman, steal the X Games championship right out from under me. The irrational envy I felt for his easy camaraderie with Tank. The dark, selfish desire that had fueled my wish.

I tell him about Broom-Hilda and the jarring trips through time: seeing eleven-year-old Max in 1992, a tiny kid with boundless energy; then the fourteen-year-old stable boy, his gentle hands grooming Andrea in my now neglected stables. I describe the unexpected pangs of friendship between me and Max that bloomed in those borrowed timelines.

The silence hangs heavy between us, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. Tank listens intently; his bruised face unreadable in the dim light. When I finally finish, the confession feels like a physical burden lifted.

He looks away for a long moment, then back at me, his swollen eye reflecting the faint glow of the streetlamp. The anger that had been so prominent before seems to have receded, replaced by a weary understanding.

"So… that’s it?" he asks, his voice rough. "You were just… jealous?"

"Yes, I was an idiot," I admit, shame burning in my chest. "I didn't know Max like I do now. Those trips changed things for me. I know it doesn't excuse what I did, but… I really want to help him."

I look at him, my plea hanging in the air. "We're going back tomorrow night. PJ, Bobby, and me. Do you… do you want to tag along?"

Tank stares out into the darkness for another long moment, his jaw tight. Then, he slowly turns his gaze back to me, his bruised face etched with a weary determination. A small smile curls the corner of his lips. He nods.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The air crackles with nervous energy as we huddle in the shadows across the street from the Omega Alpha Psi house. Tank's bruised face is grim, but his eyes hold a determined glint. PJ keeps fidgeting with the strap of his backpack, which supposedly holds our "infiltration gear." A tangled mess of rope, a pair of oversized bolt cutters, courtesy of Mr. Pete, and a surprisingly detailed map of the fraternity house PJ somehow acquired. Bobby, believing himself to be the muscle, cracks his knuckles, his gaze fixed on the imposing brick building.

"Alright," PJ whispers, unrolling his map under the weak glow of a nearby streetlight. "According to my intel, and by intel, I mean a very disgruntled former pledge, there’s a service entrance around the back, near the dumpster. Less likely to be guarded."

Tank nods. "Bobby and I will create a diversion at the front. Loud and obnoxious. Draw their attention."

"While we slip around the back," PJ finishes, pointing to a circuitous route marked in red pen. "Bradley, you’re with me. You’re the one who knows what we’re looking for."

"Right," I say, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Suddenly, a small figure emerges from the darkness beside us. Max. He looks even tinier than yesterday, barely reaching my waist. His eyes, though, still hold that unnerving adult intelligence.

"Max! What are you doing here?" I exclaim, my voice a harsh whisper.

"I told you, it's my problem," he insists, his small chin jutting out stubbornly.

"No, Max, it’s too dangerous," PJ says firmly, "I'll take you back to the dorms."

But it's too late. Just as PJ reaches for Max's hand, the front door of the Omega Alpha Psi house bursts open, and Tank and Bobby launch their diversion. A cacophony of shouted insults and strategically placed trash can lids being banged together echoes across the night.

Immediately, several hulking Alphas spill out onto the porch, their faces contorted in anger. In the chaos, Bobby, ever eager to engage, gets a little too close. Three Alphas converge on him, their larger frames easily overpowering him. He struggles briefly, but they quickly subdue him, dragging him towards the house.

"Bobby!" PJ hisses, his face a mask of alarm.

Max, however, his eyes sharp and focused, grabs PJ’s arm. "Remember the old oak tree? The squirrel maneuver?"

PJ stares at him, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "The distraction?"

A plan sparks between them, a silent language forged in years of childhood adventures. It's insane, relying on the tactics of two kids playing in a park, but desperation breeds strange alliances.

"I'll go left, towards the bushes," Max whispers, pointing to a thicket of shrubs bordering the lawn. "You go right, towards the parked cars. Make noise, then double back."

Before either PJ or I can protest, Max darts into the shadows. PJ, after a moment of stunned hesitation, nods grimly and takes off in the opposite direction, letting out a series of exaggerated shouts. The Alphas, momentarily confused by the two smaller, separate distractions, loosen their grip on Bobby just enough.

That's Max's cue. With surprising speed and agility, he darts between the Alphas' legs, heading straight for the porch. He's tiny, almost invisible in the darkness.

"Max, no!" I yell, but he's already there, scrambling onto the porch railing. He lets out a high-pitched yell, mimicking a distressed animal, drawing the Alphas' attention away from Bobby, who uses the opportunity to break free and stumble back towards us.

But in that brief moment of distraction, a Alpha spots Max on the railing. With a swift movement, he grabs the small boy, pulling him roughly into the house. The door slams shut, the sound echoing like a death knell.

My blood runs cold. First Bobby, now Max. This is a disaster.

"Bradley, the necklace!" PJ gasps, helping a bruised Bobby as they rejoin us behind the bushes. Bobby looks panicked, his bravado gone.

My hand instinctively goes to the golden chain hidden beneath my shirt. I pull it out, the moonlight glinting off the moon pendant. "Here, PJ. Keep it safe."

PJ takes it with a confused stare.

"I'll throw you the gold sun. All you have to do is attach them together."

"What are you going to do, Bradley?" Tank asks, concerned.

A terrible resolve hardens within me. This is my fault. All of it. I can't let Max pay the price for my stupidity. "Tank," I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. "Keep them off PJ."

Before Tank can even register my intent, I'm sprinting towards the imposing front door, the heavy oak a formidable barrier. It's locked, the deadbolt a cold, unyielding obstacle. My thin frame, more accustomed to sketchbooks than brute force, slams against the wood. A jolt of searing pain shoots through my shoulder, but the door holds firm. I try again, gritting my teeth against the agony, my breath catching in ragged gasps. Still nothing. Frustration and desperation claw at me. This isn't some flimsy dorm room door; this is solid, meant to withstand more than my pathetic attempts. On the third try, a sickening crack echoes through the wood, a small splintered fissure appearing near the lock. Hope flares, quickly followed by a fresh wave of pain as my shoulder protests the brutal impact.

Suddenly, the door swings open and I'm snatched inside. The heavy doors close behind me, and two larger men, each one grabbing one of my arms, lead me to a larger room.

The interior of the Omega Alpha Psi house is a maelstrom of yelling Alphas, their faces contorted in rage. They're scrambling to regain control, their initial surprise at our intrusion replaced by furious intent. My eyes dart around the room, desperately searching. There, amidst the flailing limbs and angry shouts, I spot Max. His small body is clutched tightly in the grasp of two hulking Alphas, his face pale with fear but his gaze fixed on me, a flicker of something akin to awe in his young eyes.

One of them approaches, not as large as the others. His build is surprisingly similar to mine, and his face is a mask of casual cruelty, radiating an arrogance that rivals mine. "So, the rumors are true, then?" he drawls, gesturing dismissively towards Max, who still struggles in the grip of the other Alphas. "News travels fast on campus, especially when an X-Games champ turns into a literal child overnight." He extends a hand, a smirk playing on his lips. "Andrew. Top of the scientific class, at your service. And frankly, I'm intrigued."

My blood runs cold. "Intrigued?"

"Indeed. As scientists, we tend to dismiss magic, but your little freshman here presents a fascinating anomaly. His condition... it's begging for observation, for experimentation." Andrew's eyes gleam with an unsettling, predatory curiosity.

"You're playing with a person's life!" I thunder, outrage momentarily eclipsing my fear.

Andrew's smirk widens. "Like you did?" he retorts, his voice dripping with condescension.

I shoot a helpless glance at Max, whose small body is still being held captive, his eyes wide with a fear I can only imagine. "Please," I plead, turning back to Andrew, "just give us the gold sun, or Max will die in six days."

Andrew raises an eyebrow, his perfectly coiffed hair unruffled even in the chaotic room. "How so?" he asks, his voice smooth and unnervingly calm.

I don't want to tell this guy anything, but desperation claws at me. "Max has been getting younger for twelve days now. He loses a year of his life each day. By the last day, he'll be an infant."

Andrew's eyes sparkle, a chilling light in their depths. "Now that," he muses, his voice a low, excited hum, "would be interesting to see."

"No! What are you talking about, no!" My voice cracks, horror surging through me.

But Andrew isn't listening. He simply gestures to his lackeys. "Take them down to the basement."

~*~*~*~*~

The stench hits me first, a damp, earthy smell, thick with the scent of dust and something vaguely metallic, like old blood. They drag us down a narrow, crumbling staircase, each step echoing our descent into what feels less like a basement and more like a forgotten tomb. The air grows heavier, colder, clinging to my skin. We land on a concrete floor, dimly lit by a single, bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling, casting long, dancing shadows. This isn't just a basement; it's a dungeon. My gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the rough, unpainted stone walls, the rusty pipes snaking overhead, and the general air of neglect. Typical Omega Alpha Psi, even their torture chambers are uninspired.

My eyes snap to Max. The Alphas holding him roughly shove him towards a large cage in the corner. It's crudely constructed from thick, rusted rebar, designed more for a wild animal than a human, let alone a six-year-old. He stumbles, crying out, as the heavy metal door clangs shut behind him. His small hands grip the bars, his face pressed against them, eyes wide and terrified.

"Max!" I yell, a surge of adrenaline momentarily overriding the pain in my shoulder. This isn't happening. I can't let this happen.

I twist, struggling against the two brutes holding my arms, trying to break free. They're big, easily twice my size, but a desperate strength floods me. I kick, I squirm, I even manage to land a pathetic elbow against one of their ribs. He grunts, but his grip doesn't loosen.

"Let him go!" I snarl, my voice raw. I lunge forward, aiming for Max's cage, for any way to pry him out of there.

That's when the first punch lands. A brutal, sickening thud against my jaw, sending my head snapping to the side. Stars explode behind my eyes. Then another, this one to my gut, doubling me over. The air rushes from my lungs in a painful gasp. They're not holding back. Fists rain down on me, 1q2my ribs, my face, my chest. Each impact sends a jolt of agony through my already protesting body. I hear a wet crack and wonder if it's my nose or just a particularly nasty bruise forming. My vision blurs, the dungeon spinning around me. I taste blood, warm and metallic, filling my mouth.

When they're done, I'm a crumpled heap on the floor, every inch of me screaming in protest. My head throbs, my vision swims, and a searing pain radiates from my side. It's a miracle I'm still conscious. They grab me by my arms, the harsh grip jarring my battered shoulders, and drag me across the rough concrete. My body bounces with each pull, leaving a faint smear of blood in our wake.

They haul me upright against a cold, damp wall. The metallic click of chains echoes ominously. My wrists are roughly pulled up, then clamped into rusty manacles. The iron bites into my skin, cold and unyielding. I strain against them, but there's no give. My arms are stretched above my head, pinning me against the grimy stone. I'm helpless, a bloody, beaten mess, chained to a wall in a fraternity dungeon, while the boy I desperately need to save watches from a cage across the room.

I peer through half-closed eyes, every movement sending a fresh wave of agony through my battered body. Andrew hovers over Max's cage, a predatory gleam in his gaze. He's staring at Max as if he's a newly discovered species, a specimen to be meticulously studied rather than a terrified kid.

"Enjoying the view, Frankenstein?" Max snarks, his voice trembling slightly but still defiant. "Planning on adding me to your little collection of freaks?"

Andrew's lips curve into a calm, condescending smile. "On the contrary, Max. I find your unique physiological regression to be... quite fascinating. It will be exceptionally interesting to observe biological development in reverse. We anticipate documenting the process of senescence on a grand scale, a rare opportunity indeed."

"What are you even talking about?" Max cuts in, fear now clearly etched on his small face.

"Simply put," Andrew continues, undeterred, "we'll witness your ontogenetic development in reverse. Your current rate of regression suggests a complete return to an earlier developmental stage within approximately six days. Following that, given the established trajectory, it is plausible to hypothesize a recapitulation of earlier embryonic and fetal stages. This could potentially manifest over a period mirroring typical gestation, perhaps nine days for nine months, leading to a complete de-differentiation."

"De-what?" Max interrupts again, his voice rising in panic.

Horror grips me, a cold, suffocating dread. My stomach lurches. Andrew's words, so detached and clinical, paint a terrifying picture. He's talking about Max shrinking past infancy, reversing through his own birth.

"Naturally," Andrew muses, seemingly oblivious to our terror, "once our subject reaches the embryonic state, we will need to ensure a suitable ex-utero environment to sustain the… specimen. The goal is to observe the full spectrum of reversed human development."

My blood runs colder than the concrete beneath me. Max's brave facade is paper-thin; I can see the terror in his eyes.

One of Andrew's men gestures towards me with a grimy thumb. "Why keep this one? We got the freshman. Just toss him out."

Andrew glances at me, a calculated glint in his eye. "Because this 'one' is the mastermind behind this abnormal experiment: Bradley Uppercrust the Third, son of Mr. Uppercrust the Second." He pauses, letting the name hang in the damp air. "We'll need him. A prominent disappearance like his will certainly attract attention, but it also gives us leverage. We'll use Bradley to ensure his father doesn't interrupt our... studies."

I'm suddenly face-to-face with Andrew, his minty breath assaulting my senses. "I honestly pegged you for just another muscle-bound imbecile," he sneers, "What a truly unwelcome surprise to find out this campus has yet another actual scientist."

My breath hitches, and each shallow inhale sends a fresh throb through my ribs. Does this idiot actually think I experimented on Max? Scientists like him don't believe in supernatural powers. I should introduce him to Aunt Broom-Hilda—if I get out of here in one piece. The cold steel of the chains bites into my wrists, a sharp reminder of the wall pressing against my battered back. I force my eyes to focus on Andrew, even through the haze of pain.

"On what grounds," I manage, the words a raw rasp in my throat, "are you doing this? Who… who approved this?"

Andrew simply smiles. "I'm on the verge of graduating. And if I can come up with a new, interesting study, I can score a position in a high-level scientific institution. This little freshman," he nods towards Max, "is abnormally interesting."

My stomach clenches again, a mixture of nausea and pure, unadulterated rage.

"We'll run tests on him as he regresses in age," Andrew continues, his voice sickeningly calm, "and document his changes."

"You won't get to finish your illegal experiment!" Max explodes, his face still pale but hardening with defiance. "My friends are coming back with the police, and then you're finished!" His voice cracks on the last word, but the fury in his eyes burns bright.

He turns to his men, his tone suddenly urgent. "We need to change locations immediately. If word of this gets to the police, things will become inconvenient."

Andrew and his goons finally leave, their footsteps echoing up the stairs until silence, heavy and suffocating, descends upon the basement. The single bare bulb flickers overhead, casting long, dancing shadows that make the cage around Max seem even more like a tomb.

"Don't worry, Max," I say, my voice hoarse, trying to inject a confidence I don't feel. My wrists ache from the chains, but my eyes are fixed on him. "Tank and the others will get us out. And my father won't let this…"

"Who gave you the impression that I want to talk to you?" Max cuts me off, his voice a harsh, brittle sound that cracks in the damp air. He stares at me from behind the bars, and the sheer revulsion in his eyes is a physical blow.

I reluctantly close my mouth and hang my head, feeling the darkness envelop me as the sting of my bruises lulls me to unconsciousness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

My eyes flutter open, the dull ache of my body a constant companion. I'm still handcuffed to a wall, but the air is different here. No longer thick with the musty stench of the dungeon, this room smells… of nothing, really. It’s an improvement, I guess, a sterile kind of emptiness. There are no windows, no visible doors beyond the one through which we must have entered. The room is barren, save for a single metal desk in the corner. On it sits a tray of what looks like food, untouched.

My gaze drifts across the room, and then I see Max huddled on a single bed against the opposite wall. One of his tiny legs is handcuffed to the bed frame. He looks even smaller now, almost swallowed by the rough blankets.

"Did they change locations already?" I ask, my voice rough, each word a painful vibration through my aching body.

Max doesn't respond. His eyes are fixed on his knees. He’s ignoring me, and the sting of his deliberate silence is sharper than any bruise.

Suddenly, the door creaks open, and two Alphas walk in. Their faces twist into expressions of mild disappointment as they eye the untouched food tray.

"Aren't you hungry?" one of them asks Max, his voice lacking any real concern, more a statement of expectation. Max just glares at him and shakes his head. The Alphas exchange a look, a shrug, and then leave, the door clicking shut behind them.

My own stomach lets out a pathetic grumble, reminding me of how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. "Why aren't you eating, Max?" I ask, already knowing he won't answer me or acknowledge my presence.

He remains silent for a long moment, and then he whispers, "I'd rather die of hunger than let them have the satisfaction of experimenting on me." He shifts, pulling his knees tighter to his chest. "If I die, my body stops shrinking, right? Stops changing." The hope in his voice is chilling, a desperation I understand all too well. He's choosing oblivion over their grotesque curiosity.

The door swings open again, and Andrew steps in, a condescending smile gracing his lips. He carries a small, wrapped package. "Now, now, little man," he coos, his voice falsely sweet, "we can't have you going hungry, can we? A growing boy needs his nourishment." He sets the package on the desk and gestures towards the untouched food tray with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Eat your dinner, Max."

Max glares, his small face contorted with disgust. "Right. Because nothing says 'caring captor' like force-feeding your experiment, does it? Wouldn't want your data to be skewed by a little starvation, would you?" 

Andrew's smile tightens, but his calm demeanor doesn't waver. "Such a spirited young fellow," he remarks, as if speaking to an unruly pet. He nods towards the Alphas. One of them picks up the food tray, touches the plate, and his brow furrows. "It's cold now, Andrew."

"Even better," Andrew replies, a chilling glint in his eyes. "Less palatable, perhaps, but still nutritious. We are merely ensuring the continued viability of our specimen, Max. You leave us no choice."

My blood runs cold as the two hulking Alphas move towards Max's bed. Before Max can even react, they grab him, forcing his head back. One of them pinches his nose shut while the other shoves a spoonful of the cold, congealed food towards his mouth. Max struggles, gagging, tears springing to his eyes, but they hold him fast. It's a grotesque echo of old newsreels, the brutal force-feeding of suffragettes, and it twists my stomach.

"Stop it!" I yell, straining against the chains that bind my wrists, the metal biting into my skin. I pull, I twist, I kick at the air, my muscles screaming in protest. "Leave him alone! You bastards!" But my efforts are useless. I'm anchored to the wall, a helpless, screaming witness to Max's humiliation and torment. All I can do is watch, my heart a raw, bleeding wound in my chest.

Max gags, struggles, but their grip is relentless. A wave of nausea churns in my own stomach, mirroring his torment. My eyes burn, and I grit my teeth, the taste of my own blood in my mouth a bitter counterpoint to the scene unfolding before me.

Suddenly, Max convulses, and a stream of half-digested food erupts from his mouth, splattering across the front of one of the Alpha's shirts and the floor next to the bed. The Alpha curses, but Andrew, seemingly unfazed, just barks an order. "Clean it up, then finish the job!"

They wipe his mouth roughly, then, with renewed brutality, force more food into him. Max chokes, tears streaming down his face now, but he's powerless. They don't stop until the tray is completely empty.

Andrew surveys their work with a cold, satisfied gaze. "Excellent," he pronounces, his voice devoid of any real emotion. "See, Max? Compliance can be... rewarding." With that cruel parting shot, he and his men turn and leave, the door clicking shut behind them, plunging us back into the dim silence.

The room now reeks of vomit, a sickly-sweet odor that clings to the air. Max is curled on the bed, his back to me, his small body shaking.

"Max?" I whisper, my voice raw and broken, not expecting an answer.

Silence stretches between us, broken only by my ragged breaths and the faint, unsettling tremor of Max's small body. The stench of vomit is overpowering, a constant, sickening reminder of what just happened. I stare at his hunched form, willing him to turn, to say anything, even if it's just another cutting remark. But he remains still, a tiny, defiant statue of misery. My heart aches with a dull, persistent throb that has nothing to do with my physical pain.

Hours crawl by. I lose track of time in this windowless cell, the monotony broken only by the occasional creak of pipes or the distant murmur of voices from above. My muscles scream from being held in such an unnatural position, the chains cold and unyielding against my raw wrists. But the physical discomfort is dwarfed by the agony of watching Max suffer, by the gnawing guilt that this is all my fault. He doesn't move, doesn't even make a sound. It’s a silent protest, a declaration that he would rather waste away than let them violate him further. And in that terrifying resolve, I see the Max I knew before this nightmare, the fierce, unyielding spirit that always pushed back.

~*~*~*~*~

The next day blurs into a hazy mix of exhaustion and dread. When my vision finally clears, Max is four years old. His clothes hang a little loosely on him now. Seeing him so much smaller is a fresh twist of the knife in my gut. The hours since he first threw up have been punctuated by grim bathroom trips, precisely every two hours. Giant Alphas, silent and imposing, stand guard, their mere presence a constant threat, ensuring neither of us even considers escape.

There's another trip, but only for Max. They take him for a full hour, and I know it's not for the bathroom this time. They return him with his clothes crumpled and a shameful flush on his face. They chain his small leg to the foot of the bed and leave. Max says nothing. He just buries his face in the pillow, trying to muffle his sobs, desperate not to break in front of me. I know then this trip was for their experiments, to measure him and document his shrinkage. The state of his clothes tells me they must have stripped him naked, touched him, examined him like some animal. I don't even dare to ask if he's okay. The shame of what I've done overwhelms me. I am the reason this is happening to him.

Now, Max is eating his food, his small face still set in a mask of grim resignation. An Alpha hovers over him, making sure every bite goes down, that he doesn't try to hide it or, heaven forbid, feed it to me. They haven't offered me a single crumb in two days. My stomach clenches with hunger pangs, my head pounds, and my vision occasionally swims. I'm tired, bone-deep weary, and the edges of reality feel soft and distorted. Delirious is probably the right word. All I can do is watch Max, a constant, agonizing reminder of my monstrous mistake.

"Hey!" Max's small voice cuts through the oppressive silence, surprising the Alpha guarding him. "Give him some water. And a few bites of food." He gestures towards me with his chin.

The Alpha just stares at me, then at Max, a grimace on his face. "No way. Andrew's orders. He doesn't eat."

Max starts to crawl off the bed, his handcuffed leg making the movement awkward.

"Hey, get back on the bed!" the Alpha barks, taking a step forward.

"Relax," Max says, his gaze sharp and calculating. "You don't want to starve the rich kid to death now, do you? His father will come after you with more lawyers than you have teeth. Trust me on that."

The Alpha hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Max uses the moment to scuttle across the cold floor towards me. I feel his tiny hands on my own, holding a cup of water to my lips.

"Just a few sips," he whispers. "Not good to drink too much too fast when you're dehydrated. It'll make you sick." He pulls away the cup and then offers me a piece of a cookie he must have hidden. "Don't eat fast."

I focus on his face. He looks incredibly young now, almost like a toddler, the baby fat returning to his cheeks, his eyes wide and innocent, yet still holding that unnerving adult intelligence. I try to thank him, but my voice is nothing more than a hoarse croak. He leans in closer, his brow furrowed, his gaze sweeping over my bruised face, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes. After everything I've done to him, he's still looking out for me. The realization is a heavy, humbling weight in my chest.

"Alright, little man, that's enough!" The Alpha's voice is a low growl, a clear warning. "Get back on that bed and finish your own food, or we'll be back to force-feeding you, understood?"

Max stiffens, his tiny hand retracting from my mouth. He spares me one last, fleeting glance, then turns and, with a silent, heavy sigh, scrambles back onto the bed. He picks up his plate, his back to me, and I watch as he slowly, mechanically, begins to eat, every bite a forced act of surrender.

The taste of water, the faint sweetness of the cookie, lingers on my tongue. Max, who's suffering, shrinking, facing an unthinkable end, and yet, he still shared his precious resources with me, the architect of his pain. A profound shame washes over me, colder than any damp concrete, heavier than any chain. Max, even in this hell, is still fundamentally, unequivocally, better than me. He always has been, and I realize with a sickening certainty, he always will be.

Hours crawl by, marked only by the shifting shadows and the growing stiffness in my limbs. The cold seeped into my bones, and my wrists burn where the handcuffs chafe. Every ache in my body reminds me of my helplessness. Max lies on the bed, perfectly still, staring up at the nondescript ceiling. His handcuffed leg dangles precariously over the side of the bed, a small, vulnerable limb in the vast emptiness of the room. The silence is heavy, oppressive, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the building or the distant murmur of voices I can't quite decipher.

I swallow, my throat dry, and manage to find my voice, a hoarse whisper in the quiet. "Thank you, Max."

"Unlike you," Max's voice drifts across the room, dull and flat, "I don't wish death on other people."

I say nothing to that. I deserve his scorn, every bit of it.

After a long moment, Max shifts on the bed, his voice a low murmur. "Look, Brad, I don't trust you, and I definitely don't like you. But I know we have to get out of here. We can't wait for others to save us."

I nod, even though he can't see me. He's right, especially since we have no idea where we even are anymore.

"They brought us here in a van," Max says, his voice low but steady.

I stare at him in surprise.

"I was awake the whole time," he says. "They really underestimated me, didn't see beyond my physical appearance. Didn't even bother to blindfold me." He shifts, rattling his handcuff softly. "We're in an old building, downtown. I've actually been here before, with PJ, when we were kids. I even recognize the street. There's a homeless guy, Buster, we became friends right away."

"You befriended a homeless man?" I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Max shoots me a look, a sharp glint in his four-year-old eyes that's pure Max. "Oh, I'm sorry, did that not fit into your privileged, silver-spoon worldview? Some of us actually talk to people who aren't on the cover of Forbes."

"I just meant that you were kids," I clarify, trying to backtrack from my earlier gaffe. "You know, the whole 'don't talk to strangers' rule? Unless you were feeding that homeless man with your father present, you clearly didn't come to the big city all on your own with PJ."

Max pauses, his gaze flickering. "That's not important right now."

With a conspiratorial lean, he lays out the plan.

~*~*~*~

My legs ache, cramped and stiff from hours chained to the wall. When the Alpha finally unlatches my cuffs for the bi-hourly bathroom trip, I push off the wall, swaying slightly. The cold metal chafes against my raw wrists, but I ignore the pain. Max, a tiny shadow beside the hulking Alpha, is already shuffling towards the door. The Alpha walks ahead of us, his back to me, keying in a code. That’s my cue. As his attention is momentarily fixed on the keypad, I lunge forward, not at the Alpha, but at the wall beside the door. My fingers, surprisingly agile despite the cold, feel for the loose brick Max must have described. It’s there, just as he said. My fingernails scrape against the rough mortar, finding the small, almost invisible crack.

The Alpha turns, a frown already forming on his face. "What are you doing, rich boy? Trying to escape?"

But I ignore him, focusing on the brick. It gives slightly. Not enough, not yet. I push harder, gritting my teeth.

Behind me, Max makes a sudden, high-pitched yelp. "Ow! My leg!"

The Alpha curses, his attention immediately snapping to Max. "What now, runt?" He kneels, distracted, and in that fleeting second, I heave against the brick one last time. It scrapes free, revealing a small, dark cavity. My hand plunges in, fumbling for the hidden object Max described. My fingers close around something small and metallic. The handcuff key.

I don’t waste a second. With a speed born of desperation, I bring my hands forward, twisting the key into the lock on my left wrist. It clicks open. Then the other. Free. My wrists, raw and marked, are finally unchained.

Max is still wailing, distracting the Alpha. I grab the brick, pivot, and bring it down with a sickening thud against the back of the Alpha's head. He crumples without a sound.

"Max, run!" I hiss, scrambling to unlock his ankle cuff. My fingers fumble, but the key finds its mark. Max is free. He doesn't hesitate, darting past the unconscious Alpha and out the now-open door. I follow, pulling the door shut behind us.

We’re in a narrow, dimly lit hallway. Max leads the way, his bare feet making no sound on the cold concrete. We creep along, pressing ourselves against the wall, listening, every shadow a potential threat. The air grows warmer, and the faint scent of stale food and cheap cleaning supplies reaches us. We must be on a different floor, closer to the main house.

Suddenly, Max stops dead, pressing himself flat against the wall, his eyes wide. I follow his gaze. Andrew.

He’s standing at the end of the hallway, illuminated by a sliver of light from an open doorway. In his hand, held carelessly between his thumb and forefinger, glints something impossibly bright. The gold sun. My heart leaps, then plummets. He has it.

"Going somewhere?" Andrew's voice cuts through the silence, calm and infuriatingly unhurried. He smiles, a slow, predatory curving of his lips. He gestures towards a workbench visible through the open doorway. On it, a small, menacing crucible glows with a faint, orange heat. "I was just about to conduct a... rather fascinating experiment."

He strolls casually towards the workbench, the gold sun still clutched in his hand. He holds it directly over the crucible, his thumb idly rubbing its surface. The heat from the molten interior of the crucible seems to radiate even from here.

"Take another step, and this," he says, his voice devoid of a single flicker of emotion, "becomes a very expensive puddle." His gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixes on me. "Go back to your room. Both of you. Now."

My blood runs cold. If that gold sun melts, Max will disappear entirely. The thought sends a wave of nausea through me. My gaze snaps to Max, whose eyes are wide with the same dawning horror. This isn't just about escape anymore. This is about everything.

Without a second thought, I lunge. All I see is the gold sun dangling precariously over that crucible. Every aching muscle screams in protest, but adrenaline surges through me, lending me a desperate strength. Andrew's eyes widen in surprise as I barrel into him, a whirlwind of flailing limbs and raw desperation. He stumbles back, momentarily losing his balance. It's all I need. My hand shoots out, grabbing for the golden orb. My fingers close around it, surprisingly warm against my skin.

"Max!" I yell, spinning and winding back my arm, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder. "Catch!"

I hurl the gold sun towards him with all my might. It spins end over end, a bright, desperate arc through the dim light. Max's eyes track it, wide with a mix of terror and hope, and his small hands shoot up to snag it out of the air.

As soon as it's out of my grasp, I turn my attention back to Andrew and the two hulking Alphas who are already closing in. "Run, Max! Get out of here!" I scream, hoping to create enough of a diversion for him to escape. I don't care what happens to me now, as long as he's safe, as long as that sun is safe.

Andrew is on me first, his face contorted in a furious snarl. A fist connects with my jaw, snapping my head back. Then another, hard and brutal, to my ribs. I grunt, doubling over, but I stay on my feet, stumbling backward, trying to draw their attention, to keep their focus solely on me. I hear Max's small feet pounding down the hallway, and that's all that matters.

Blow after blow rains down. My vision blurs, the dungeon spinning. I taste blood, thick and metallic, filling my mouth. The world shrinks to the sharp impacts, the roaring in my ears, and the desperate, fading image of Max running free. I'm dimly aware of hitting the cold concrete floor, then a final, crushing blow. The darkness that follows is mercifully swift, pulling me down into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

A searing pain jolts me awake, a bucket of icy water flung across my face. My head lolls, vision swimming, but the cold shock keeps me from slipping back into the blessed dark. I'm still chained, still suspended, every muscle screaming in protest. The damp cold of the basement is a constant, biting presence.

Andrew's face swims into view, blurry at the edges, but his smirk is sickeningly clear. "Good, you're awake."

A punch lands in my gut, knocking the wind out of me. I gasp, doubling over as much as the chains allow, my ribs protesting with sharp, agonizing pangs. Then another, hard against my already swollen cheek. They’re methodical, relentless. Each blow is designed not to knock me out, but to inflict maximum, sustained pain.

Andrew leans in close, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Let's be clear, Bradley. We know you're the true mastermind behind making the X-Games champion shrink into the early stages of his existence… brilliant, the work of the devil. Governments would want to work with a mind like yours. Now, I want to know how you managed it. Every detail of your experiment."

"It was... it was magic," I croak, the words barely a whisper through my swollen lips.

"You keep saying that, but I know that it's just a cover for the simpleminded to believe." Andrew's face twists into a sneer of pure disgust. "Don't give me that crap, Uppercrust. Are we talking about some form of cellular reprogramming induced by targeted electromagnetic pulses? Or possibly a novel application of genetic manipulation, accelerating telomere degradation?" He grabs a handful of my hair, yanking my head back. "Tell me, what was your methodology?"

I just stare at him, my mind blank. My tongue feels thick and unwieldy in my mouth. "I don't... I don't know," I stammer, the words barely forming. "I'm just a jock. An average jock. I don't know anything about experiments."

His eyes narrow, glittering with cold fury. "Stop lying! If you won't cooperate, then we'll simply have to persuade you."

The blows start again, harder this time. My body feels like a shattered vase, barely held together by frayed nerves. Every fiber of my being screams for rest, for oblivion. I can barely keep my eyes open. The pain, the exhaustion, the absolute futility of explaining something he won't believe, all conspire to pull me under. The darkness, this time, is a welcome embrace.

~*~*~*~*~

A fresh splash of icy water hits my face, dragging me back from the welcoming void. My body screams in protest, every bruise a burning ember, every chained limb stiff and agonizing. Andrew's face hovers above me, sharp and impatient in the dim light.

"Now, Bradley, let's continue our discussion."

He circles me, his footsteps echoing on the concrete. "My men are still searching for the boy," he begins, casually, as if discussing a misplaced item. "However, should they fail to locate the little freshman, I'll need you to replicate your... process." He pauses, letting the words hang in the air, then leans in closer, a chilling glint in his eyes. "On another test subject, of course."

My stomach lurches. Andrew must see the revulsion in my eyes, because he quickly shifts tactics, a predatory smile spreading across his face. "Let's think bigger, Bradley. Imagine the possibilities. This isn't just about shrinking someone to infancy. If we collaborate and combine our scientific minds, we could control it. Imagine de-aging someone to a specific age. The Fountain of Youth, Uppercrust. Immortality. Power beyond measure. Think of the prestige, the funding, the sheer scientific acclaim. We could be legends." He kneels, his gaze intense. "Team with me. And we will revolutionize human biology."

The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh despite the pain. But I also see the raw hunger in his eyes, the ambition that consumes him. It's a weakness I can exploit.

"Cooperate," Andrew's voice hardens, cutting through my thoughts, "or I will simply kill you. You are of no use to me if you don't comply."

A weak chuckle escapes my lips, the sound ragged and broken. "You won't kill me."

Andrew's brow furrows, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "And why is that, pray tell?"

"Because," I wheeze, forcing the words out, "because I'm the one who knows how to do it. I'm the missing link to your grand discovery." I meet his gaze, trying to inject as much certainty as I can into my voice. "You won't risk losing the chance to become a scientific god, will you?"

I know I got to him. His condescending façade crumbles, replaced by a frustrated scowl. "Is that finally an admission? You admit that you experimented on that boy?"

"I do, and I did." I try my hardest to smirk through my bloody lips, the effort sending a jolt of pain through my jaw. "That asshole dared to take my title. He needed to pay. I made him pay."

A hint of uncertainty glints in Andrew's eyes. "You wanted him out of the way."

"Sure," I say, shifting slightly, feeling my back muscles click in protest from being strained for so long. "But I'm not to share anything with you. You're not in my league, Andrew. You're just a glorified lab assistant, playing with other people's discoveries. My work? It's revolutionary. And I don't share revolutionary work with amateurs."

Andrew’s face contorts, red with rage. His previous calm completely shatters. "You scum! You think you can withhold this from me? Torture him! Make him beg! The most horrible way you know how! We won't stop until he cracks!"

The Alphas move in, their faces grim, their hands already reaching for me. I brace myself. The pain will be immense, worse than anything before. But as the first blow lands, a strange calm settles over me. Max is safe. He's out there, hopefully with the gold sun, hopefully calling for help. That's all that matters. There's nothing left for me beyond these walls, anyway. My father knows what I did, and he's undoubtedly disgusted. PJ, Bobby, even Tank, they all despise me. And Max… especially Max. He hates me with a passion that burns hotter than any physical pain they can inflict. There's no home for me outside this building, no one waiting, no future to salvage. Let them do their worst. I’m already gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Blurry shapes swim through my vision, accompanied by a cacophony of distorted noises. Screaming, yelling, it's all a jumbled, painful assault on my ears, echoing in my throbbing head. I can't make out the sounds, can't tell what's happening. My body feels like a single, colossal bruise, every nerve ending firing with agony.

Suddenly, a hand touches my battered face, surprisingly gentle. It cups my jaw, lifting my head. Through the swirling fog of pain and exhaustion, I make out the familiar gleam of glasses, the precise wave of hair. My gaze struggles to focus, and then, impossibly, I'm looking into the horrified eyes of my own father.

This has to be a dream. It has to be. My mind tries to grasp at the edges of reality, to pull myself awake, but the touch is undeniably real, warm against my cold skin. His voice, too, sounds real, a frantic murmur that I can't quite decipher. I try to hold on, to understand, but the darkness pulls at me, heavy and relentless. Despite myself, I slip back into unconsciousness.

~*~*~*~*~

I'm swimming, or at least it feels that way. Blinding white fills my vision—the ceiling, the figures flitting in and out of focus like ghosts. This disoriented, disconnected feeling... the last time was when I fell off my horse. I remember my father and Yoli arguing then, a heated discussion I later learned was about Max and his terrible punishment. Yoli was defending the stable boy; my dad wanted him gone. Now, neither Yoli nor my father are here. All I hear is the rhythmic beep... beep... beep..., a familiar, unsettling sound. Just as I start to grasp at it, the white fades, and black swallows me whole.

~*~*~*~*~

A soft, humming melody coaxes me back to consciousness, a gentle current pulling me from a deep, heavy darkness. It's Yoli's voice, singing the lullaby she always sang when I was distressed, or after one of my father's "lessons" left me bruised and hurting. The scent of familiar lavender and polished wood fills my nostrils, replacing the damp concrete and stale fear of the basement. I'm in my own bed, in my room at the mansion, the silk sheets cool against my skin. My body feels incredibly heavy, as if gravity has tripled its hold, and my muscles ache with a profound weariness that seeps into my bones. My head throbs with a dull, persistent pain, and my thoughts feel sluggish, wading through thick mud.

"Master Bradley," Yoli exclaims, her voice thick with relief. Her face swims into view. "You're finally awake! You've been out of it for three days."

Three days. The last time I surfaced from the depths of unconsciousness was in the previous timeline. It was also three days then. Three days where my father had left Max starved in the basement.

"Yoli," I manage, my voice a thin whisper, still heavy with fatigue.

She grasps my hand, her squeeze firm and comforting. "Yes, mi hijo, I'm here. We were so worried about you!"

I struggle to anchor myself in reality, my mind racing to process her words. "We?" I push out, the last concrete memory a vivid snapshot of Andrew, that Looney Tune-obsessed senior, relentlessly trying to pry information from me, convinced I'd scientifically shrunken Max.

Suddenly, my mind snaps into agonizing clarity. Three days. Three days of Max getting younger and younger.

"Max!" I blurt out, my voice raspy and desperate. "Yoli, where is Max?"

"Max?" Yoli questions, her brow furrowing with confusion.

"Please, tell me he's okay, tell me the spell is broken." The words tumble out, raw with panic. Three days unconscious. The last time I saw Max, he was four years old. And before that, how many agonizing hours or days was I being tortured by Andrew and his psycho fraternity thugs before I was rescued?

"Master Bradley, what are you talking about?" Yoli asks, her eyes wide with concern. "Let me get your father, he was so worried about you…"

"No!" I yell, a sudden surge of adrenaline giving me a futile burst of strength as I try to push myself out of bed. "No!"

Yoli grabs my flailing arms, her grip firm, forcing me back down against the pillows. "You need to calm down, Master Bradley. You're very weak. Now, let me get your father. He's been sitting by your side all day. I had to force him out of the room…"

"I don't care about that now!" I scream, the words tearing at my throat. "I want Max! Yoli, please, let me contact Max!" I glance at my nightstand; it's bare. "Where's my phone? Why isn't it there?"

"Shh," Yoli tries to calm me, her face a mask of helplessness. "Your father asked me to remove it so it wouldn't disturb you if it rang."

"Couldn't you just unplug it?" I shriek, frustration mounting. "But no, my dad clearly wants to lock me away from the world, just like he did before!"

She squeezes my shoulder gently. "I'll try and call Max. What's his number?"

"I don't know," I say, the admission a heavy weight. I throw my head back onto the pillow, defeated. "Contact State College, ask about him, please." My voice is pleading, stripped of all pride.

"Okay, okay…" she says, trying to calm me, though her eyes still hold a worried skepticism. "Don't you want to see your father?"

"I want to know if Max is all right first."

She looks disappointed, her shoulders slumping slightly, but then she turns and leaves the room. I try to get out of bed again, but my limbs are unresponsive, heavy and unresponsive. The room spins, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I'm weak, and all I can do is stare at the ceiling, my mind consumed by the terrifying unknown of Max's fate.

A soft click at the door pulls my gaze from the ceiling. "Yoli?" I pipe up, my voice still a little rough.

But it isn't Yoli. It's my father.

He looks... disheveled. I've never seen him like this. His usually immaculate suit jacket is wrinkled, his tie loosened, and there's a faint stubble darkening his jaw. His hair, typically slicked back with military precision, is slightly mussed, as if he's run his hands through it countless times. Even at my mother's funeral, he looked perfectly composed, a stoic pillar in a world of grief. Now, he just looks worn, tired, like he hasn't slept properly in days.

"How do you feel?" His voice is rough, and there's an undeniable tremor of fear and concern in it. I don't know how to react to that. This is a side of him I've never witnessed.

He takes a step closer, his eyes scanning my face, my chained wrists. "You look much better now. You were..." He trails off, his gaze lingering on the bruises on my face. "How... how did you end up with those delinquents?"

I swallow, my throat dry. "You came for me."

"Of course," he says, his voice indignant, almost offended that I would even question it. "When that thug you call a friend came to my office..."

"Thug?" I cut in, my own voice rising in disbelief.

"That Tank character," he clarifies, his lip curling with thinly veiled disgust. The sheer disgust in his voice, even now, after what I've been through, after Tank must have begged him for help, makes something in me snap.

"Tank came to your office asking you to help me, and you still call him a thug?" My voice is weak, a hoarse whisper, but the anger behind it burns fiercely, a desperate spark in my exhausted body.

My father’s face tightens. "If it weren't for him, you wouldn't have been in this mess!" His voice rises, completely missing the point.

"What?" I squeeze my eyes shut, a wave of dizziness washing over me. I can't deal with this right now. There are more pressing matters, a screaming void where Max should be. "Dad, what about Max?"

He frowns. "Who's Max?"

My heart sinks, a leaden weight in my chest. "Were there people who tried to see me?"

He's silent, his gaze shifting away, avoiding mine.

"Dad, please. And don't lie to me."

He sighs. "You're in no condition for visitors."

"Who visited me, Dad? Please tell me." I push, despite the weakness, the urgency propelling me forward.

He sighs again, louder this time. "It was a man and his child."

Goofy and Max. A mix of relief and renewed dread floods me. "How old is his child?"

"I don't know, he was a toddler, but a very insufferable one. He and his father kept begging to see you."

My stomach clenches, cold dread spreading through me. Max was a toddler. That means more time has passed, more of his life drained away. "Dad, what did you do?"

"Nothing," he says, his tone dismissive, as if shooing away a fly. "I just sent them away. You shouldn't mingle with people like that."

"When did that happen, Dad?" I ask, the words tight in my throat, filled with a growing horror.

"Two days ago."

Two days ago. My mind races, a terrifying kaleidoscope of possibilities. If Max came here a toddler, that means he either lost the gold sun completely, or PJ lost the necklace, or maybe... maybe it was always supposed to be me who put them together. I need to know what happened to Max. I need to know if there's still a chance.

I try to stand up, pushing against the pillows, my muscles screaming in protest. My father grabs my shoulder, pushing me back down with surprising force. "Lie down, Bradley! Forget about those riff-raff!" His voice is stern, unyielding. "I'm transferring you to another college for your senior year. You'll start fresh somewhere else."

"Dad, that's extreme!" I shriek, flabbergasted, the pain and shock momentarily forgotten in the face of his delusion. "This isn't high school where you can just yank me out and stick me wherever you please! What about my major? What about my life? I'm an adult now, Dad! I'll be twenty-one in less than two weeks!"

His jaw tightens, a familiar sign of his unyielding will. "Agreeing to let you apply to that college was a huge mistake," he states, his voice flat, resolute.

"It was my choice, Dad, and you had no say in my choices, and..." I try to get up again, a desperate energy surging through my battered body, "I can't believe I'm wasting time talking about this! I need to call Max."

"Who the hell is this Max?!" My father suddenly explodes, his face contorted in a furious mask. He practically blows up in my face, his voice a guttural roar. "Was he one of those criminals who were torturing you in that old building? Who are these people you're associating with, Bradley?! When I see other young men your age in prestigious universities, making a name for themselves…"

"Like Riley and Owen?" I shoot back, the words laced with pure resentment.

"Yes, like Riley and Owen!" he snaps, his eyes blazing. "And other young men who are smart enough to listen to their fathers!"

"I bet their fathers never belted them," I say with a bitter taste in my mouth.

His face falls, the anger draining away to reveal a flash of genuine hurt that crosses his features before it's quickly masked, replaced by a deep-seated weariness. "And when will you stop throwing that in my face?" he asks, his voice softer now, almost pleading, filled with an upset I rarely hear from him. We stare at each other across the room, me lying in bed and him standing rigidly at the foot. I clutch the blanket tighter, the soft fabric a small comfort, and look away, my gaze landing on the unfinished painting of my mother. The canvas rests proudly on its stand in the corner, her deep red hair still incomplete, yet her painted smile radiates a warmth that seems to fill the sterile air of the room.

"The moment I saw you in that old building, I…" My father stops mid-sentence, his voice trailing off. I look at him. He's standing directly in front of the painting, his hand running through his already messy hair, his gaze lingering on my mother's serene, smiling face in the portrait. His eyes are softer now, filled with a distant ache. The unspoken words hang heavy, echoing the reason he had given for years of confinement in this mansion: "I won't lose you like I lost your mother."

He sighs and begins to pace the room, his frustration agitated, almost frantic. "I made sure you got treated in your room, not in a hospital far away from…" He trails off again, the unspoken fear of losing me, of me being out of his sight and control, hanging thick and palpable in the air between us.

"From what?" I grit out, pushing past the throbbing pain, my voice trembling with accusation. "From you, right? You want me tethered to your side, ensuring I'm nothing more than a puppet on your strings!"

He stops dead, staring at me in disbelief, his face a picture of shock turning quickly to cold fury. He points a rigid finger at me, his eyes narrowed to slits. "You know what, Bradley? You are in no shape or form leaving this room. I'll make sure of that." He spins on his heel and storms out, the door slamming shut behind him with a resonant thud that rattles the room.

Frustration eats at me, a burning, helpless rage. I try to stand up again, desperate to break free from this room, to find Max, to just do something. My legs buckle immediately, refusing to support my weight. That's when Yoli rushes in, her eyes wide with alarm, catching me just before I tumble onto the floor. Her hands are gentle as she helps me lie back down on the bed.

"You're still too weak, mi hijo," she says softly, her voice filled with concern. "I heard you talking with your father. I didn't want to interfere."

The world stops spinning the second my head lies on the pillow. I stare at her concerned face, my mind racing. "Yoli, were you able to reach Max?" I demand, my voice hoarse, urgency overriding my weakness.

"I was given the number to his dorm room," she explains, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I spoke with Robert."

"Bobby, yes, that's his friend. What did he say?"

"He said something about a necklace with a moon crescent," she explained, her face scrunched up in comical confusion, "and a large coin that, get this, represents the sun." Yoli paused, then added with a bewildered shake of her head, "And he says attaching them didn't work, that perhaps you must be the one to do it

Just as I suspected. A flicker of grim determination sparks within me. "Okay, I will. Let's go…" I try to rise again, but a sharp, blinding headache immediately flares behind my eyes, sending a jolt of pain through my skull. My legs waver.

"Master Bradley, you can't leave in your condition." Her tone is firm, yet gentle, as she carefully slides me back into the bed, the mattress sinking beneath my weight.

"You don't understand, Yoli. Max's life is at stake here."

"But Max is here in New England," she says, her voice dropping slightly, delivering a surprising piece of information that cuts through my pain. "That Robert boy told me that Max, his father, and someone with the initials PJ came to New England two days ago and are staying in a motel nearby. They're trying to get to you but…"

"But my dad won't let them," I spit, the disgust in my voice undeniable.

"Bradley," she says, her tone hardening. She drops the "Master," and I know she means business. "You're too harsh on your father."

"I'm too harsh…" I yell incredulously, disbelief twisting my lips.

"Yes, you are!" she insists, her voice rising slightly. "You're too blinded with hatred, you don't see how much he truly cares about you, how much he loves you."

"Yolenda," I say flatly, using her full name, a silent plea for her to drop the subject.

She raises an eyebrow, unwavering.

"I don't have time to deal with my dad right now. I need to make sure Max is okay."

Her expression softens, a hint of understanding replacing her sternness. "He's the friend you wronged, isn't he?"

"Yes." My voice is barely a whisper.

She heaves a sigh and then nods. "I'm going to help you, but afterwards, you must have an open conversation with your father."

"Fine," I concede, desperate. "How are you going to help me?"

"Your father won't allow anyone to visit you," she explains, her voice hushed, "so I'm going to wait for your friends to bring over the jewelry pieces, and I will bring them to your room."

"But I need to make sure Max is all right afterwards. Didn't Bobby give you their contact number?"

"He didn't," she admits, a slight frown creasing her brow, "but I'll make sure I'll take it from them once they deliver the package."

"Great. And get my phone back. I wanna make the phone calls." The simple act of holding my phone, of having that connection to the outside world, suddenly feels like a lifeline.

She nods. "You got it."

"Yoli, thank you." My gratitude is immense, a raw, unexpected emotion that swells in my chest.

"Talk to your father," she urges again, her voice softer now. "Bradley, the reason he brought you to be treated here instead of the hospital, despite the risk, was so he could make sure you're okay. He was by your bed every day since they brought you here."

I have no words to respond to that. I look at my mother's painting in the corner of the room. I try to picture him then, with her, before everything changed. I close my eyes, straining to recall him as anything other than the man he became after her death, the rigid, controlling, perpetually disappointed Master Uppercrust. But the image won't form. All I can see is the man who has been defined by loss, the one who tried to control my life because he couldn't control hers. The realization is a bitter, confusing pill to swallow. I'm unsure how to feel about this new, vulnerable facet of him, exposed by Yoli's quiet revelation.

~*~*~*~*~

My gaze drifts to my old-fashioned phone, sitting on the nightstand beside me. A wave of relief washes over me just seeing it there. Not so long ago, I used that very phone to call Goofy, to reassure him about Max. I remember carefully choosing my words, avoiding any mention of the belt beating my father had just inflicted on him, or that Max was passed out in my bed from the debilitation of being locked in a windowless basement room without food or air for three days. The image of him, a picture of exhaustion, asleep next to me in my bed that night, has never left my mind. How could my father be so cruel to a teenager? Then again, he was that way with his own son, so apparently, it wasn't far-fetched at all.

I shift my gaze to my mother's painting. Everything in this room, it seems, reminds me of Max from the previous timeline. Her half-painted red hair reminds me of the jerk I used to be, sending Max on a wild goose chase for paint in the dead of night, running all the way across town. Dad beat him that night too. I wince. I'm thankful that my Max, the one who hopefully still exists in this reality, won't remember that. Because it never happened to him.

After Yoli brought me back my phone, I held nothing back. I told her everything. It was brutal, watching her face fall as I recounted the gruesome details, each word a fresh cut. The disappointment in her eyes was a physical punch to the gut, but she needed to know. She needed to understand the full scope of this mess so she could help me, efficiently.

I manage to push myself up, my legs feeling a little steadier than they did a few hours ago. I walk to the window, staring out. The main gate is out of sight, obscured by the dense canopy of trees. I'm practically vibrating with anxiety, waiting for PJ or Goofy to deliver the necklace and gold sun. Earlier, I'd called the Gamma House, asking for Tank. James told me he was the one who’d driven Goofy and the others to my house. The Gammas didn't have the phone number for the motel where Tank was staying. I told them to try Bobby's dorm room, but no one answered.

The door creaks open, pulling my attention from the window. Yoli walks in, a piece of cloth clutched tightly in her hand, hiding the forbidden package from the prying eyes of the servants, and especially from my father. I practically snatch it from her, my fingers fumbling in my eagerness as I slip the gold sun into the moon crescent. Nothing. No blinding light, no shimmering disappearance. Just… nothing.

"Did it work?" Yoli asks, a hint of disappointment in her voice, reflecting my own at the lack of climax.

"Usually, when I attach them, bright light shines and the gold sun disappears," I say, confusion clouding my voice. Is it because I'm late? Has Max vanished already?

I rack my brain, trying to figure out what's different this time. The missing link is clearly Max. He was present every single time I attached them. The first timeline, I did it in his bedroom in Spoonerville, with him and his dad there. The second, I did it right in front of him and Andrea. It has to be it. I must attach them with Max in the room.

"Max needs to be here," I tell Yoli.

She shakes her head. "I don't think we can sneak a baby into your room."

"A baby?" I gasp. "How old did he look?"

"He looked like a six-month-old child," Yoli says, a mix of disbelief and a flicker of fear in her eyes. I just hope she's not afraid of me. It's freaky, I get it, a college boy reduced to a baby, facing death.

Time is ticking. Max is probably getting younger by the hour now that he's only a few months old. If Yoli can't sneak him in, maybe I can sneak outside. "I think I need some fresh air in the garden," I tell her, already heading for the door.

"I think you should ask your father's permission," she suggests, grabbing my arm to stop me.

"I'm practically twenty-one, for God's sake. I don't need to ask his permission."

"Bradley, you want things to go your way? Play nice." She gives me the look, and I know then that I do need to butter up my father so he'll let me outside.

~*~*~*~*~

My hand hovers over the cold, polished wood of my father’s door. Every instinct screams at me to retreat, but Max’s fragile existence flashes in my mind. Yoli's already out there, risking everything to sneak the Goofs into our yard. It's my turn to do my part, and do it right. I take a deep breath and knock.

"Come in."

I push the door open, stepping into the cavernous space that is his study. The dark wallpaper feels like it's closing in, suffocating me with its heavy, oppressive pattern. My father sits behind his massive desk, a monument of polished mahogany, his back to the window. His shoulders are hunched, and the air between us is thick with the residue of our last fight. It’s a joy, really, to be here, pretending to be the dutiful, apologetic son.

"Dad," I begin, my voice dripping with a sincerity I don’t feel, "I just… I wanted to apologize for earlier. I was out of line."

He doesn’t look up from the papers he’s shuffling, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. "I just felt a bit overwhelmed," I continue, pressing on, "and I was hoping to clear my head with a walk in the garden. Yoli could accompany me, just to make sure I don’t wander off." My smile is fixed, polite, and completely fake.

"I’ll go with you."

His words are soft, but they hit me with the force of a blow. My carefully constructed plan threatens to crumble. "Oh, Dad, you don’t have to," I say, trying to sound genuinely concerned rather than desperate to escape his presence. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

He finally looks up, and the sight of his face makes me falter. The dissatisfaction in his eyes is palpable, a profound sadness that I’ve never seen directed at me before. He takes off his glasses, and I notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, the pale, almost sickly tint of his skin. His hair is still disheveled, strands falling across his forehead

And then I see it. On his nightstand, amidst the usual clutter, are pictures of us: him, me, and Mom. A candid shot of the three of us laughing, another of my parents arm-in-arm. I've never seen those photos before, never imagined he kept them out in the open. My obsession with rescuing Max, with fixing my own mistakes, has blinded me. I haven’t really seen him. Not until now.

A pang of regret pierces through my carefully constructed facade. "You know," I begin, my voice softer, more honest than I intended, "I was wondering if we could fix the old stable. Maybe even get some horses. Mom always loved riding. Remember her mare, Gloria?"

He furrows his brows, a ghost of confusion on his face. "Horses?"

"Yeah, horses," I say, a look of contentment finally settling on my face. "What if… what if you and I got some horses? We could ride together."

Memories flood my mind, not of Mom, but of Andrea, my own bay horse with her reddish-brown coat, black mane and tail, and that distinct cross-shaped white mark on her forehead. The thought of riding again, of sharing that with my father, suddenly feels… right.

A faint hint of a smile touches his lips. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it's there. "That's a great idea," he says, his voice a little less strained. "Maybe we can fix the stable again."

"That’d be wonderful!" I exclaim, the happiness sincere, radiating from me. Then, hesitantly, I ask, "So, about that walk with Yoli…?"

He looks at me for a few long seconds, silent, and then he nods. "Go on."

I have to resist the urge to bolt from the room like a bat out of hell. Instead, I offer him a real, unforced smile. "Thank you, Dad."

I turn and practically float out of the room, leaving him there with his memories and the surprising warmth of our shared moment.

~*~*~*~

The cool evening air, crisp and hinting at the coming night, bites at my skin through the thin fabric of my robe. The sun, a molten disc on the horizon, bleeds streaks of orange and purple across the sky. I move with a purpose that belies my casual attire, heading toward the old, abandoned stables, the rendezvous point I'd whispered to Yoli. She's already there, a watchful shadow at the corner of the house that leads to our destination, her dark braids shining like polished wood in the last light, gleaming against her deep tan complexion.

"Are the others there?" I ask in a hushed whisper as I approach. Yoli gives a subtle nod, her gaze sweeping the estate.

"Yes. I’ll stay here for lookout."

Ahead, a hulking figure stands silhouetted in the stable's gaping doorway. Tank sees me and raises a hand in a quick wave. I quicken my pace, my heart thrumming against my ribs. The moment I reach him, I'm enveloped in a bone-crushing embrace. His large body swallows me whole, a familiar scent of old leather and something vaguely metallic filling my nostrils.

"You okay?" he rumbles, pulling back slightly to scrutinize my face. The flaming redness that once blazed across my cheekbones has faded, leaving behind only faint, bruised colors. I nod, the motion small but firm.

"I’m fine. Do you have them?"

He holds up his hands, and in one, the glittering gold necklace with its moon-shaped pendant catches the last rays of sunlight, casting a delicate gleam. In the other, the gold sun glows with a dull, ancient power. My breath hitches. This is it.

I give a shaky nod and walk toward the dark maw of the stable's entrance. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine. I picture peering inside to find my horse, Andrea, her bay coat shimmering, and my father’s magnificent white stallion, Alexander. And then, in my mind's eye, Goofy and Max are there too, in their worn denim overalls and caps. Max, still fourteen, is offering Andrea a carrot, his fingers gentle against her muzzle. Andrea, in turn, nudges his face, a silent act of affection. And then, he looks over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his face, happy to see me.

That idyllic imagery shatters, dissolving like smoke as I step into the harsh reality of the stable’s ruins. Nothing but broken wood and old, yellowed grass remains of what was once a vibrant, bustling place. And in the very center, on a tattered red and white picnic blanket, lies a tiny, sleeping bundle, covered in a vast brown blanket. A baby.

Goofy sits cross-legged next to the small form, his usually cheerful face etched with a profound sadness, yet his eyes hold a desperate flicker of hope as they meet mine. Behind him, PJ stands, his customary apprehensive slouch replaced by a rigid, protective stance, his glare accusing, directed squarely at me.

I kneel on the picnic blanket, my knees sinking into the worn fabric, next to the sleeping baby Max. His soft, dark hair is fanned out on the blanket. His little form rises and falls with each gentle breath, his chubby cheeks rosy. His tiny hand is clenched into a little fist next to his face. I reach out, my fingers trembling, and gently uncurl the minuscule fist. To my surprise, his little fingers instinctively close around my index finger.

"I'm sorry, Max," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. "I'm truly sorry for all the crap I put you through. I can't believe how much of a selfish monster I was." The words are a raw, unfiltered confession, a painful acknowledgment of my past arrogance.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. "Tank, give me the necklace and the gold sun."

He extends them, and I carefully let go of Max’s impossibly small, chubby hand. I hold the gold sun to the necklace, my heart pounding a desperate rhythm against my ribs. All my hope, all my desperate yearning, funnels into this one moment, praying that this nightmare, this agonizing loop of time and consequence, will finally be over.

With a soft, almost imperceptible click, the gold sun attaches to the gold moon, forming a single, large, intricately engraved circle. And then, to my overwhelming relief, it happens. A bright, blinding light erupts from the joined golden items, consuming everything. It's so intense, so brilliant, that I can't see anything, not Max, not Tank, not even the ruins of the stable around me. I'm lost in a sea of pure, unadulterated light.

Gradually, the light begins to recede. As my vision clears, I glance down. And there, under that same brown blanket, is my Max. Not a baby, not a child, but eighteen-year-old Max, lying asleep.

Goofy can't hold it anymore. A guttural sob tears from his chest, and he collapses, laying his head on his son’s chest, his body wracked with silent, shaking tears. The dam breaks within me too. My own eyes well up, a hot sting of tears blurring my vision. My hands fly to my chest, searching for the necklace, but it's gone. It's finally vanished, along with the gold sun. This time, it's over. It really is.

I feel Tank’s large hands on my shoulders. I look up, and he's nodding at me, his eyes filled with a quiet pride that makes my own tears sting even more. I look back down at Max. His bare shoulders and upper chest are exposed above the blanket, and I realize his baby clothes must have been ripped by his rapid growth.

"Max warned us," PJ says, his voice thick with tears, a watery chuckle escaping him. "When we first tried attaching that bling, he insisted on being bundled up. Guess he knew he was about to have a growth spurt that would make the Hulk look subtle. Good thing, too, those baby clothes were not built for a sudden eighteen-year-old."

A shaky laugh escapes me, a half-sob, half-relief. I look down at Max again, whose father's loud sobs are finally starting to stir him. His eyelids flutter, then slowly open. His eyes, dark and still groggy with sleep, lock with mine. A long, silent stare passes between us, a lifetime of unspoken words hanging in the air.

"Welcome back, Freshman," I say, my voice cracking, tears finally sliding down my cheeks.

"Bradley?" he lets out, his voice a little gruff from waking up, but it's no longer a child's voice. It's Max’s voice, the voice I remember from the first time I met him, the one that used to grate on my nerves and now sounds like the sweetest music. He looks up at me, his face a mixture of confusion and heartbreaking relief, and swallows hard.

A frantic blur of movement at the stable entrance. It's Yoli, her eyes wide with alarm, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Master Uppercrust… he’s on his way!" The words are a chilling whisper, but they rip through me like a physical force. Panic claws at my throat.

I lunge forward, my hands already reaching for Max. He's quick, though, scrambling to his feet, pulling the vast brown blanket tighter around his newly adult frame. Without a word, he darts towards the pile of old, withered grass in the corner, his father and PJ right behind him. They vanish behind the yellowed heap, a whispered rustle the only sign of their presence. Tank turns to follow, but then the world freezes.

A dark shadow fills the widely open entrance of the stables. Dad stands there, framed by the dying light of the sunset, his figure a menacing, thunderous mask of fury. His eyes, sharp and accusatory, are already locked onto me, piercing through the dimness of the stable.

"Bradley!" he barks, his voice echoing, reverberating off the decaying walls of the stable. "What is the meaning of this? What's this dirtbag doing here?" He jerks his head in Tank's direction, his disdain radiating off him in waves. "How many times have I told…"

"Mr. Uppercrust, I’ll explain…" Tank rushes forward, his voice a low rumble, ready to rescue me from the impending storm.

"And you," Dad sneers, his gaze finally landing on Tank, filled with a venomous judgment that makes my stomach clench. "You’re still here, poisoning my son’s life. Ever since he met you, everything went downhill. The rebellious phase, the lack of focus… you're a terrible influence. I'm very sure you’re the one who got him with those lunatic frat boys? A frat fight at this crucial time! He should be studying, preparing for his future, not gallivanting around getting into fights."

The old fear, the ingrained instinct to shrink and obey, flickers within me, a phantom limb of my past. But something has shifted, deep inside. Maybe it's the fact that Max is now safe. Or maybe it's just the sheer, soul-deep exhaustion of living under my father’s thumb, constantly trying to meet impossible expectations. A new feeling rises within me, fragile but firm, a nascent sense of self-worth that refuses to be crushed.

I take a step forward, my chin lifting slightly. "Father…" I know he hates it when I call him that, a formal distance he despises. "Please, leave."

His face contorts in disbelief, a comical mixture of shock and outrage. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said leave," I repeat, the words gaining strength, a surprising power flowing through me. "Just… go."

His eyes widen, sharp with anger and offense, and he whips his head towards Yoli. "You knew about this! You helped him meet up with this thug."

"Don’t yell at her," I say, stepping between him and Yoli, a protective instinct surging through me. "I ordered her to."

He glares at me, his face a thundercloud. "You lied to me." Pain, raw and unexpected, flickers behind his glasses. "I came here to check the old stables, I thought that you were being sincere but they were all lies to meet him." The last word is spat out, laced with pure venom.

"No, Dad, I wasn’t lying! I truly want…"

"Shut up!" he barks, cutting me off, his voice echoing. "No matter what I do, you will always be a disappointing failure, going into a college that's lower than your potential for a mediocre sport and losing to a little freshman on his first year. You befriend the wrong crowd and make the wrong choices…"

"Mr. Uppercrust," Tank interjects, his voice low and firm, cutting through my father's tirade. Tank steps forward, placing his large frame squarely between me and my father, suddenly an imposing shield. He looks directly at my father, his bruised face set with a quiet dignity that demands attention. "Your son is a good man. He risked his own life to save his friend. You should be proud of him. For once in your life, try being a father instead of a… a disapproving shadow."

My father's face, already a mask of fury, now contorts into sheer, absolute disbelief at Tank's words. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly for a moment, like a fish gasping for air, unable to process what he's just heard. The sheer audacity of Tank, this “bad influence,” standing up to him, seems to have short-circuited his usual torrent of vitriol. His eyes dart between Tank's resolute gaze and my own, a flicker of something unreadable, perhaps shock, perhaps a sliver of hurt, crossing his features.

A bitter smile touches my lips. "Proud of me," I murmur, the words laced with irony, heavy with years of unspoken resentment. I remember being sixteen, hunched on Tank's beat-up couch, pouring out years of resentment and fear about my father, the constant criticism, the impossible expectations, the abuse, the neglect. Tank had listened patiently, offering clumsy but heartfelt support. "He’ll never understand," I'd said then, and a part of me, the old, cynical part, still believes it.

My father remains frozen for another beat, his chest heaving slightly, the air in the stable crackling with unspoken tension. Then, without a word, without even a glance in my direction, he turns abruptly and storms out of the stables.

Conflicting emotions wash over me, a familiar ache of sadness mixing with a surprising sense of relief. I know, deep down, that my father tries. He shows up at the occasional school event, asks perfunctory questions about my studies. The whole second timeline is a big proof that he tries, and keeps trying. Even now, sitting by my side in bed, wanting to ride horses together. He just… doesn't know how to connect, how to be the father I needed. He tries to be involved, in his own rigid, controlling way, but his love comes wrapped in layers of disapproval and disappointment. It's a sad, broken cycle, and for the first time, I see the edges of his own loneliness in his angry retreat.

"Are you okay, mi hijo?" Yoli asks, her voice soft, pulling me back to the present.

I hear the rustling of the grass, and then Max emerges from his hiding spot, still wrapped in the brown blanket, his father and PJ following behind him. I feel a wave of shame wash over me. He heard everything. He looks at me with an unreadable expression, and I can't handle the thought of seeing pity or even scorn in his eyes right now. I start marching out of the stables, my voice tight. "Yoli, help them get out of the house."

~*~*~*~

The knock on my father’s study door feels heavier this time, my knuckles aching with a different kind of trepidation. This isn't about Max, or time travel, or fixing some cosmic mistake. This is about us. After the scene in the stables, after seeing the raw hurt in his eyes, I knew I couldn't just leave it.

"Come in," his voice calls, sounding weary.

I push the door open, stepping into the familiar, suffocating darkness of his study. The heavy curtains are drawn, trapping the last vestiges of twilight outside. He's at his desk, as usual, but instead of work, he's holding a small, framed photograph. As I approach, I see it's a picture of Mom and him, young and smiling, their arms linked. He looks up, his eyes tired, still a little guarded.

"Dad," I begin, the word feeling less forced now. "Can we talk? Really talk?"

He sighs, a slow, deep sound that seems to carry the weight of years. He places the photo gently back on his desk. "What about, Bradley? More lies?"

The accusation stings, but I expected it. "No. No more lies. I… I was wrong. About a lot of things. About how I spoke to you, about keeping secrets." I choose my words carefully, wanting them to be honest, but also to build a bridge, not burn it. "I've been so focused on… on something else, something I can't explain right now, that I haven't seen anything else. And I haven't seen you."

He looks at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He takes off his reading glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The dark circles under his eyes are more prominent in the dim light. "What is there to see, Bradley? Just a man trying to ensure his son doesn't throw away his potential." His voice is low, devoid of its usual authority, almost… vulnerable.

"That's just it, Dad," I say, taking a step closer. "My potential. My future. I need to make my own choices. I need… independence." The word hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken defiance, yet I say it with a softness I hope he'll hear. "I know you want what's best for me, but your idea of 'best' isn't always mine. I want to show you what I'm made of, in my own way. I’ll surprise you, I promise."

He leans back in his chair, studying me. There's a long silence, broken only by the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. "You think I don't want to understand you?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "You think I don't want to be close? I want it than anything. But your way of seeing things… it's so different. And I'm not sure it's the right way. I see the risks, the pitfalls you're blind to." His gaze drifts back to the photograph on his desk, a hint of something wistful in his eyes. "Your mother and I… we always wanted you to have a solid foundation, a life free from hardship."

"I know," I say, my voice gentler now. "And I appreciate that. But I need to forge my own path, even if it means stumbling sometimes. And… about the horses." I pause, remembering the subtle smile that touched his face earlier. "I truly meant it. About riding together. Do happy we were when we had Gloria? I know it's been a long time, but… I'd love it if we could fix the stables and ride."

He looks at me again, really looks at me. The weariness is still there, and the doubt, but something else too, a hesitant spark of hope. He picks up the photo of Mom and him, turning it over in his hands. "Gloria," he murmurs, a subtle ease spreading across his features. "She was a spirited mare. Your mother adored her." His gaze meets mine. "You're serious about this? No more schemes, no more hiding people in the stables?"

"Serious," I affirm, my voice ringing with sincerity. "I promise."

He nods slowly, still studying me as if trying to decipher a complex puzzle. "Alright. We'll… we'll look into the stables." He says the word with a slight hesitation, as if tasting it, unfamiliar on his tongue. "Show me. Show me what you're made of."

A warmth spreads through my chest, a feeling I haven't felt in a long time—a fragile bridge being built, one honest word at a time. "I will. It'll be something to look forward to every time I come back home."

"Home?" he echoes, a small smile gracing his lips in return.

I realize then I was so used to calling it "the mansion," rarely acknowledging this place as "home." But now, standing here, with this tentative connection forming, it feels right. The air in the room, usually so thick with unspoken tension, feels a little lighter, a little less suffocating. It's not perfect, not by a long shot, but it's a start. And for the first time in a long time, I feel a real flicker of hope for us.

~*~*~*~

The soft, rhythmic scratch of charcoal on paper fills the quiet of my room, a soothing counterpoint to the thrum of thoughts in my head. Yoli, with her uncanny ability to read my mind, had caught me rummaging for my old sketch book earlier. She'd reappeared moments later, not just with a fresh, pristine pad, but a new set of drawing pencils, their tips still sharp and untouched. Then, with a knowing, gentle smile that warmed something deep inside me, she'd placed a small, rather unassuming box of vibrant colored pencils on the bedside table. "Your father brought those by this morning, mi hijo," she'd said, her voice soft, almost conspiratorial. "A little… peace offering?"

The unexpected splash of color in the otherwise sterile, muted tones of my room felt like a hesitant olive branch, a tiny, almost imperceptible crack in the towering wall of our strained relationship. Now, the blues and greens of the fantastical cityscape taking shape on the page before me are richer, deeper, the fiery oranges of a setting sun more vibrant, more alive, thanks to his unexpected gesture. It's such a small thing, a simple box of pencils, but it resonates.

I lose myself in the dance of lines and shades, the rhythmic motion of my hand a soothing balm against the lingering anxieties. The door clicks softly, pulling me from my artistic reverie. I glance up, expecting Yoli to pop in, maybe to ask if I've seen her lucky hair tie, or if I need more lukewarm water for my perpetually parched throat. Instead, it's Goofy standing in the doorway, a steaming, covered pot held carefully in his large hands. A warm, distinctly sweet aroma, reminiscent of something both comforting and a little bizarre, wafts into the room.

"Well, lookie here, guys, he's awake!" Goofy says, his voice a low, happy rumble, a wry smile crinkling the corners of his kind eyes. He shuffles in, his movements surprisingly light for his frame, and places the pot carefully on the small table beside my bed, steam curling from beneath the lid.

"Mr. G," I say, surprised and touched by his presence and his offering. I can't believe my dad allowed him to visit me. "You didn't have to."

He waves a dismissive hand, a gesture so characteristic of him. "Nonsense. This is the least I can give you for saving my son." He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that fills the quiet room with warmth. "This is what we Goofs call ketchup spaghetti. That there's Max's all-time favorite, you know. Used to make it for him all the time when he was a little fella. Said it was the best dang meal in the whole wide world."

I know, the thought crosses my head as I smile at a distant memory of my kind stepdad, my little brother, and me in the kitchen, competing over who could slurp the longest piece of spaghetti.

Goofy standing there with that pot of Max’s bizarre culinary concoction, feels like more than just forgiveness; it feels like acceptance. He's become very… important. In a life often shadowed by my own father's disapproval, his constant push for perfection, Goofy's kindness has been a steady light, a rare glimpse of the uncomplicated warmth I always craved. He's the closest I've ever felt to the steady, unwavering hand of a father who just… sees you, without judgment.

The door opens again, and Tank and PJ walk in. Tank and I share a quick, affirming fist salute, while PJ and I nod hello to each other. My gaze instinctively flits to the doorway, expecting Max to walk in, to complete the strange, makeshift family gathered around my bed. But PJ simply closes the door behind him. A heavy feeling settles in my chest, a dull throb of disappointment and a faint sting of hurt. I don't comment on it, though. I can't.

PJ steps forward, his voice a little too loud. "Max is, uh, just getting used to getting back to his real age, you know. You wouldn't believe how bad his balance has become trying to adjust to being tall again. He almost wiped out trying to get a glass of water, it was like a baby giraffe on roller skates," PJ rambles on, piling up more lame excuses for why Max isn't here, his words tumbling over each other in a nervous rush.

I shake my head, a small, understanding smile playing on my lips. "No, that's okay. Really. After everything, I wouldn't blame him if he didn't want to." The thought of Max, finally back to his own age, trying to navigate the aftermath of my colossal screw-up, makes me wince inwardly. He deserves time to just be eighteen again, without the constant reminder of his bizarre regression, or of me.

"Well now," Goofy drawls, rubbing the back of his neck. "That’s mighty considerate of you, Bradley." He looks a tad relieved, like a weight has been lifted from his own shoulders.

"So, uh," Tank says, breaking the comfortable quiet, "We're going to drive back to State College tomorrow morning."

"Nine-hour drive," PJ chimes in, a groan in his voice. "Gonna need a lot of coffee, and probably an extra pillow for Mr. G. He snores like a freight train when he's really out."

"So," I begin, a question that's been nagging at me bubbling to the surface. "What… what happened after Max got away from the Alphas? When he first escaped, I mean."

Tank shifts, a low rumble in his chest. "Max knew he was in trouble, being so little and all. He saw those goons closing in, so he just… grabbed the skirt of this older lady walking by. Pretended he was the age he looked, scared out of his wits, saying some bad men were trying to kidnap him."

PJ nods. "The lady was totally taken in. Hid him right there in her house, no questions asked."

"Then," Tank continues, picking up the story, "he managed to call his friends. Gave them the lady's address, told them to come get him. He also told PJ to call me and was insistent about sending the police to the building you were trapped in."

A wave of something profound washes over me. Max must have been terrified, but he still thought of me, stuck back there. My chest aches with a mixture of shame for how I treated him, and an overwhelming gratitude that he cared enough to try and save me.

"And that sweet lady," Goofy drawls, his voice full of his usual endearing charm, "she was as nice as pie! She gave my Maxie lunch, and cookies! Said he ate 'em right up. And when PJ and Bobby and I got there to pick him up, she even gave me an earful for not buying him clothes that fit! Said his little six-year-old size clothes were just swimmin' on his four-year-old self. Ah-hyuck!" He finishes with a soft chuckle, shaking his head at the memory.

"I called the police," Tank continues, his voice deepening, a serious edge to his tone. "Told them everything, about you being trapped, about the Alphas. Then went to see your dad at his office."

I remember hearing about that part. "He must have been pissed when he saw you."

"Well, he was more freaked out for you than mad at me," Tank says. "I had to tell him because he was going crazy searching for you. He was tearing the city apart. He even went to the Gammas' house, banging on our door, demanding to see you. It was… intense." Tank pauses, his expression softening slightly. "Behind all that rich man bluster, all that anger he was throwing around, I could tell, Bradley. Your father was scared."

A vivid memory flares in my mind, sharp and clear. Waking up in that dilapidated building downtown, the cold concrete against my back, the throbbing ache in my head. And then, the gentle pressure, a hand clasping mine. It wasn’t a paramedic's hand, or a police officer's. It was my father's hand. He was there, his face streaked with grime, his expensive suit disheveled, but he was there. He had come himself, into that grimy, dangerous building, to pull me out, to rescue me.

Tank continues, his voice grim. "Your dad pressed every charge he could against Andrew and the Alphas. Assault, kidnapping, reckless endangerment. He practically dismantled the entire fraternity. State College is still reeling from it. Most of the Alphas got expelled, and Andrew… well, he's facing some serious time. Your dad made sure of it."

A warmth spreads through my chest, a quiet, almost overwhelming feeling.

"At the old lady's house," PJ starts, his voice a bit hushed. "We tried to click the sun onto the moon. Zilch. Nothing happened. So, we figured, alright, it has to be you, Bradley. But you were seriously messed up, and your dad wouldn't let us anywhere near you." He swallows hard, his gaze distant, lost in the memory. "We just watched Max get younger and younger, until he couldn't even speak anymore. It was…" PJ trails off, unable to finish the sentence. The emotions of dread and helplessness PJ must have experienced back then are clearly reflected on his face now. He and Max are inseparable, just as they were as kids when they became each other's first real friends. The bond between them is stronger than I could have ever imagined.

"It was the most painful experience," Goofy admits softly, his voice heavy with a raw sadness that twists in my gut.

"I’m so sorry," I murmur, my voice barely a whisper, looking at each of them in turn, Tank, PJ, Goofy. My gaze lingers on the empty space where Max should be. The person I should apologize to the most isn't here. He doesn't want to see me, and I can't blame him for that. Not after everything.

~*~*~*~*~

The gentle rasp of charcoal on paper filled the early morning quiet. I'm outside, near the ruined stables, perched on a weathered wooden bench. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and distant blossoms. John, our cheerful gardener with dirt perpetually under his fingernails, had ambled by earlier, asking if I was "drawing the dawn." I'd lied, of course, giving him a polite smile and assuring him, yes, the vibrant hues of the sunrise were my current muse. In reality, I’m putting the finishing touches on something else entirely, something hidden beneath my quick, practiced strokes.

I'm almost done, the final details taking shape, when a shift in the ambient quiet catches my attention. Someone is approaching. My hand freezes, pencil poised. Then I look up.

Max.

A shockwave of surprise jolts through me. He stands hesitantly near a gnarled old tree, his tall frame a sudden, striking presence. I haven't seen him as a college kid, fully grown, in… a long time. He looks a little rumpled, like he hasn't slept well, his black hair falling over his eyes. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans.

A flood of conflicting emotions washes over me: a profound sense of ease that he's here, safe and whole; a touch of lingering guilt for everything I put him through; and a hefty dose of pure, unadulterated awkwardness. It's the first time we've really seen each other, just us, since… well, since he was a foot shorter.

"Hey," he says finally, his voice a little rough around the edges, like he hasn't used it much.

"Hey," I reply, my own voice sounding equally stilted, foreign even to my own ears.

An uncomfortable silence descends, thick and heavy, stretching between us. The only sounds are the gentle chirping of unseen birds and the faraway chatter of the gardeners. My eyes flick down to the sketchbook, then back to Max. He's looking anywhere but at me, his gaze flitting around the vast garden, lingering on the ruined stable, then darting to the distant trees. I desperately want to say something, anything, to puncture this suffocating tension, but the right words completely elude me. What do you say to the guy whose life you held so lightly in your hands, nearly extinguishing it forever?

Finally, Max shuffles a little closer, stopping a few feet from my bench. He still won't meet my eyes. "So… uh… how are you holding up?" he asks, the question sounding almost like a forced formality, a polite inquiry one makes to a casual acquaintance, not someone who almost annihilated your existence. "Those guys… they didn't exactly pull any punches."

I manage a weak smile, a slight twitch of my lips. "I'll live. The family doctor said I can get back to college two days from now, actually. Apparently, I'm tougher than I look."

He nods, his lips pursed, his gaze directed at everything but me. Another stretch of silence hangs in the air, thick with unspoken apologies and lingering awkwardness. Max kicks at a pebble on the sandy ground, sending it skittering across the cracked earth near the ruined stables. His gaze remains fixed downwards. I fiddle with the edge of the sketchbook. A couple of birds fly over Max's head, their chirping a stark contrast to the heavy quiet. I long to bridge the gap, to say something that truly conveys the depth of my regret, but the right words remain trapped somewhere between my heart and my tongue.

"So," Max says, a hint of his old wry humor flickering in his eyes, though tinged with a lingering seriousness, "you kind of put me through hell there, didn't you?"

A fresh rush of guilt consumes me, sharp and bitter. "Believe me," I reply, my voice quiet and sincere, "it was my hell."

He snorts softly. "Right. Watching me disappear out of your way is your hell."

"I don't want you wiped out of existence, Max," I say earnestly. "I never wanted this."

A flicker of irritation crosses Max's face. He moves to sit next to me on the bench, and I quickly place the sketchbook on the other side, turning to face him directly. His gaze is cool, unwavering, almost demanding intensity.

"Alright, Bradley," he says, his tone flat and devoid of any warmth. "You owe me this. Tell me everything. I want to know exactly how this… this insane thing that happened." He folds his arms across his chest, his posture rigid, waiting. The silence that follows is no longer awkward, but expectant, heavy with the weight of my overdue explanation.

I take a deep breath, the sweet, cloying smell of the jasmine vines clinging to the stable walls suddenly feeling thick and heavy in the air. Where do I even begin to unravel the colossal mess I created? "You wiped the floor with everyone at the X Games. Including me. It's safe to say I did not take that well." I avoid his gaze, focusing instead on a loose thread on the brown blanket that was still draped over the back of the bench.

"And then Slouch happened," I continue, trying to keep my voice steady. "He mentioned his aunt. Broom-Hilda, who set up a tent near campus, remember that?"

He shakes his head. "I never cared for witchcraft."

Liar, I almost say, as I remember him when he was eleven and babbling about a magic hat that possessed his body when he visited a magic shop once.

"Anyway, Slouch thought it would be a laugh to drag me over there. Said she could help me, you know, get my edge back."

Max's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint appearing in their depths. "So, you went to some backwater witch because you couldn't handle losing?"

I nod miserably, shame burning in my cheeks. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"And what exactly did you wish for, Bradley?" Max asks, his voice dangerously low, each word carefully enunciated, dripping with a quiet fury.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "I… I wished that you would never use a skateboard again."

"By killing me?" Max interrupts, his voice rising sharply, laced with a raw fury that makes me flinch, physically recoiling from the intensity.

"No!" I exclaim, my voice cracking, desperate for him to understand. "No, of course not! She's a witch, not a murderer." I remember Broom-Hilda’s dismissive tone, the casual way she spoke that line, brushing aside my vague phrasing. "I figured she was going to make you choose a different path. That you'd find something else." The memory of her words, now filtered through the horrifying reality of Max’s near-erasure, sounds sickeningly naive, almost cruelly so.

"But that's not what happened now, was it?" Max says, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury, his eyes boring into mine.

"It wasn't a picnic for me either, Max," I retort defensively. "I had to jump from one timeline to another."

Max leans forward, his anger momentarily overshadowed by sheer bewilderment. "Timeline? What are you talking about?"

I take a deep breath, the scent of fresh-cut grass suddenly sharp in the morning air. "She sent me back in time," I explain, trying to keep my voice steady, to project an air of calm I don't feel. "To when you were a kid. In… Spoonerville, was it?" Max appears shell-shocked, his eyes wide and disbelieving. "I pretended to be your half-brother. From your mother's side."

Max's eyebrows shoot up. "My younger self actually bought that?"

"You needed some convincing," I admit, a wry smile touching my lips despite the seriousness of the situation. A pair of sparrows land on the sandy ground before us, pecking at unseen crumbs, oblivious to our heavy conversation. "But your father was conveniently on my side. He loved the idea of you having an older brother." I conveniently omit the part about his father's immediate, almost fervent acceptance stemming from his deep, almost desperate devotion to his late wife.

"So," Max begins, leaning back against the bench. "Things went... swimmingly in that little jaunt through the multiverse, did they?"

I steeple my fingers, adopting a picture of serene composure, a facade I've perfected over years of dealing with my father. "Oh, absolutely. A veritable picnic. We sorted out the temporal anomaly with barely a hitch. Everyone involved is just... thrilled with the outcome."

Max narrows his eyes, clearly unconvinced. "Thrilled, huh? No unforeseen consequences? No lingering… ouchies?"

I wave a dismissive hand, trying for an air of nonchalance. "Everything unfolded with the elegance of a perfectly choreographed ballet. Not a single toe was stubbed, metaphorically speaking, of course." I pause, a thoughtful expression flickering across my face as I recall the bizarre events. "Though, one might say the seating arrangements became kinda… permanent for some."

Max's smile tightens. "Permanent? As in, 'settled comfortably in their favorite armchair for a nice cup of tea' permanent, or 'permanently unable to chase after rogue temporal squirrels' permanent?"

"Let's just say their perspective on standing ovations has… shifted. They've really embraced a more grounded approach to life." I try to keep my voice even, but a nervous tremor makes my fingers tighten their grip on the sketchbook.

"Grounded," Max repeats slowly, his eyes searching my seemingly innocent face, trying to pierce through my carefully constructed facade. "Right. And this newfound appreciation for the earth's gravitational pull… it didn't involve them suddenly being unable to walk?"

I start fiddling with my sketchbook again.

Max sighs, running a hand through his hair. "So, basically, I couldn't walk in that timeline?"

I bow my head, unable to meet his gaze. "Yep."

A few seconds pass, thick with the unspoken weight of my confession. Then, I muster the courage to lift my gaze. He's narrowing his eyes at me, a mixture of anger and disbelief simmering beneath the surface. "And you had nothing to do with it?"

I bite my lower lip, the metallic taste of guilt in my mouth. "Not directly."

Max’s gaze remains fixed on me, unwavering, even as a gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the nearby jasmine vines. A few gardeners continue their work in the distance, their quiet shoveling and murmuring providing a subtle backdrop to our heavy conversation. "And the second timeline? What delightful surprises awaited me there?"

I try to project an air of casual nonchalance by nodding at John who walked past us. "Ah, yes, the second timeline. It was 1995. A nostalgic year, wouldn't you agree?"

He leans forward, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing my attempt at composure. "Okay. And? Did I manage to keep all my limbs intact in this nostalgic adventure?"

"Intact, yes, definitely," I assure him, a touch too quickly. "But the… domestic arrangements were a little different. You and your father… well, you resided… here."

Max glances around the expansive garden, then back at the grand, imposing mansion looming behind us. "Your home? In 1995? That doesn't sound right. We lived in Spoonerville."

"Right," I say smoothly, trying to maintain my cool. "But in this particular branching reality, circumstances dictated a… relocation. Think of it as an extended houseguest situation. A very extended one." I avoid his gaze, opting instead to watch a ladybug crawl slowly across the weathered wood of the bench.

Max's brow furrows, a clear sign his patience is wearing thin. "An extended houseguest situation where we inexplicably live in your childhood home in a different town? There's a catch, isn't there?" He crosses his arms, his posture becoming more rigid.

"Well, yes. The nature of your residency was… let's just say you and your father were in service."

A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Max's face, devoid of any amusement. It's a chilling, sardonic twist of his lips. "Wonderful. So, in one timeline I'm a cripple, and in another I'm polishing your silver and fetching your slippers? You do have a knack for painting a truly aspirational picture of my alternate lives, don't you?"

"Stable boy, Max, stable boy," I correct, a touch of pedantry creeping into my voice despite the absurdity of the conversation. "Not a mere servant. You worked there." I point towards the old, ruined stables. "You were in charge of my horse, Andrea." I speak about her with such affection, warmth flooding my chest at the memory, but the feeling immediately drains as I look at Max. He doesn't share my sentiment, his face a blank slate. He didn't live those memories.

"Oh, forgive my ignorance of the finer hierarchical distinctions of your 1995 household. So, instead of dusting your antique doilies, I was mucking out your stables?"

"Actually," I say with a sincere grin, "you were quite good with her. Andrea adored you. You even taught me how to groom her properly. And ride, for that matter. I was hopeless without you."

Max's expression softens slightly, a brief crack in his hardened façade.

I seize the opportunity, eager to steer the conversation toward a less… humiliating aspect of that timeline. "That's actually where… well, that's where we became friends. All those mornings at the stables, the long rides through the countryside… it was… good. That's when I really… grew to like you. As a friend." The words feel a little clumsy, a little too raw, but they’re true. That version of 1995, despite its bizarre power dynamic and my past arrogance, held a genuine connection I hadn't anticipated, a surprising warmth that I now, finally, cherish.

"What about timeline number three?" Max says quietly. The breeze picks up, rustling the dry leaves on the ground between us.

"You know what happened. The clock only went back for you. You were the only one who experienced the reset."

He gives a slow nod, his brow furrowed in contemplation. It must be a strange thing to consider, a personal rewind while the world around you marches on. After a long moment, his eyes meet mine again. "And now you like me?" he asks, the question hanging in the air between us like the scent of damp earth.

I lean forward, our faces very close to each other. "Not only that, but I know everything about you. Try me. Ask me anything."

A thoughtful look crosses his face, and he taps a finger against his chin. "Okay," he begins, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "I used to have a cat. What was his name?"

"Waffles."

Max's eyes narrow slightly, testing me, trying to catch me out. "Okay, tricky one. I once hijacked the school assembly and danced on stage in front of everyone. What song was playing?"

"Stand Out by Powerline," I answer without hesitation. "And you did it to impress a girl."

Max's eyes widen in real shock this time, his mouth parting slightly. He visibly reels back, as if I've just plucked a secret directly from his brain.

"I told you, I know you inside and out," I press on, feeling a strange mix of triumph and profound earnestness. "I know about the trailer you used to live in before Spoonerville. I know you were in a Spelling Bee. I even know about your… creepy attraction for your hot cousin Debbie."

Max's face flushes a deep, angry crimson, a visible wave of embarrassment washing over him. "You know about Debbie?" he stammers, a mixture of disbelief and mortification in his voice, his eyes darting away from mine.

"Yep," I confirm, a hint of a wince in my own expression. "Seeing your eleven-year-old self… drooling over her picture… it was unsettling."

The heat rises in Max's cheeks, a flush creeping up his neck. His eyes dart around as if searching for an escape route. "Right," he mumbles, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "Well, this has been… illuminating. I should probably, uh, go." He snaps to his feet, a clear indication he's about to bolt.

A sleek, black car glides to a silent stop on the gravel path leading to the stables. The back door swings open, and my father emerges, already in a tailored suit, a slim briefcase clutched in one hand. He’s headed to an early meeting.

His gaze, sharp and disapproving, immediately lands on Max. My heart clenches. "Dad," I say, stepping forward, my voice clear and surprisingly devoid of any trace of jealousy. "This is Max. He’s this year's X-Games champion."

"So, this is Max." My father's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, but he extends his hand. Max, looking incredibly uncomfortable, hesitantly takes it. Their handshake is brief, a stiff formality.

"Bradley," my father says, his voice clipped, his eyes flicking between Max and me. "Don’t stay out here too long. You need your rest." He turns without another word, gets back into his car, and the vehicle purrs away, disappearing down the drive.

Max watches the car go, then turns back to me, a wry half-smile playing on his lips. "So, uh, you guys seem to have patched things up." He’s clearly remembering our blow-up in the stables.

"We're doing okay," I tell him. "He wants to celebrate my birthday next week."

Max shifts his weight, glancing towards the main gate. "My dad and the others dropped me off here. Said they were gonna put some gas in the car and be right back. They must be back by now. It's a long drive back to college." He's clearly itching to leave.

"Max, wait." My voice stops him, firmer than I intended. He pauses, looking back at me, a question in his eyes.

I reach for my sketchbook, my fingers brushing against the finished drawing. It needs a few more touches, a bit more shading here, a sharper line there, but there's no time now. Tearing the sheet free, I hold it out to him, my hand trembling slightly.

He hesitates, then takes the paper from my outstretched hand. His gaze falls on the sketch. It's a woman with short red hair and bangs, a kind smile gracing her lips, her eyes holding a warmth I somehow knew was there. He stares at it for a moment, a soft breeze rustling his thick dark hair as some strands brush over his confused face.

"She's an important person," I explain gently, my voice barely above a whisper, "someone you've never seen a picture of. This… this is how you picture her in your head, isn't it?"

Max's confusion is replaced by a dawning shock. He looks from the sketch back to me, his mouth slightly agape. The distant chatter of the gardeners seems to fade. "You… you drew my mother?"

A small, genuine smile spreads across my face.

Max stutters, "How did you…" He cuts himself off, a sudden realization washing over him, like a light switching on behind his eyes. He looks back down at the drawing, a profound emotion flickering in his gaze, a mix of awe and something deeply personal. Then he looks back at me, a soft wonder in his voice. "You really do know everything about me, don't you?"

"Keep it," I say softly, watching his reaction to the drawing. "She deserves to be remembered. Even if you don't remember her yourself."

A pang of something akin to longing echoes within me. My own mother's face flashes in my mind—her quick wit, her unwavering support, the familiar comfort of her hand in mine. A love so profound, it still aches with its absence. On some fundamental level, I understand the importance of holding onto those precious fragments of memory; this is something I will always have. Max, though, doesn't have that advantage. His mother died too soon for him to remember her at all. I don't think I could ever survive without my memories.

I see it then, the subtle sheen in Max's eyes, the almost unnoticeable tremor in his hands as he clutches the sketch. "Thank you, Bradley," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, husky with unshed tears. "I… I'll see you back in college."

He turns to leave, and I know this is a turning point. We aren't friends, not yet. There's still a gulf between us, built on timelines fractured and secrets revealed. But something has shifted. A seed of understanding has been planted in the barren ground of our awkwardness, watered by this shared vulnerability, by a truth only we share. I watch him go, his figure disappearing between the trees, a quiet certainty settling within me. This is the start. We will be friends.

The End