Chapter Text
Maxwell shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his worn jacket, shoulders hunched against the chill. The night air tasted like smoke and rust. Behind him, the low hum of the city never quit—sirens, distant laughter, the clatter of footsteps on wet cobblestones.
Jasha lit a cigarette with a flick of his lighter, the flame throwing sharp shadows over his lean face.
“You think they’ll ever stop watching us?” Jasha asked, voice rough but steady.
Max shrugged, a half-grin flickering. “They don’t care. Not really. They just want to control the noise. Make us quiet.”
Jasha took a long drag, eyes flicking sideways. “Your Ma and Pa? They got their version of quiet.”
Max’s grin thinned. “Yeah, I hear it every time I’m home. ‘You’re a goddamn disappointment.’ Like clockwork.”
“Mine too.” Jasha cracked his neck. “But at least we got this. You and me.”
For a second, the weight of the world slid off Maxwell’s shoulders, replaced by something rough but real—the steady pulse of a bond that kept him from falling apart.
“Have you ever thought about running?” Jasha asked, flicking ash on the pavement.
Max looked up at the cracked sky, clouds heavy and dark. “Every damn day. But there’s nowhere to go where they don’t find me.”
Jasha nudged him with an elbow, a grin teasing. “Well, maybe we just gotta make a place. Our place.”
Max’s laugh was short and bitter. “You mean like getting caught again? Fighting off the cops? I’m tired, Jash. Tired of all the noise. The pressure. The pretending.”
“Hey,” Jasha said, tone softening, “I’m here. You don’t gotta pretend with me.”
Max met the other male's gaze, something raw and honest breaking through. “That means more than you know.”
Jasha smirked. “Don’t get soft on me now, Max.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The flicker of a neon sign outside sputtered through the cracked window of the cramped apartment. Maxwell sat on the threadbare couch, elbows on his knees, head heavy with the weight of a thousand expectations.
His Ma’s voice still echoed in his mind—crisp, sharp like the snap of a whip.
"Maxwell, you’re destined for greatness. Like Howard Stark. We’re building the future, and you—"
"You’re going to be the brightest mind Russia has ever seen."
The words felt less like encouragement and more like chains tightening around his chest.
Max ran a hand through his thick hair, jaw clenched.
Jasha leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. “They want you to be a genius lab rat, huh?”
Max scoffed, voice low. “Genius lab rat. Yeah, that’s me. But what about what I want?”
Jasha took a slow drag, blowing smoke toward the empty sky. “What’s that?”
“Control,” Max said. “Not just some puppet in their show. I can do the science—hell, I probably could be Stark-level smart if I wanted. But I want to make my own choices. Screw their blueprint for me.”
Jasha cracked a grin. “Sounds like you’re just itching to bust out.”
Max’s eyes darkened with something fierce, something tired. “Every time I try, they pull harder. Like they own me, not just my brain but my whole damn life.”
Jasha walked over and slapped Max on the shoulder. “Well, you got one thing locked down, man—you got me. And I’m not letting you walk that line alone.”
Max’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know. That’s the only thing that keeps me from losing it sometimes.”
They shared a look, unspoken but solid—two kids against the world, trying to carve out a corner where they could breathe free.
“Let ‘em expect the Stark genius,” Max muttered, standing and stretching. “I’m gonna make my damn legacy.”
The alley was dim, with cracked pavement that almost seemed like whispering words—the dampness of the rain from before sank into the cracks. It almost made Max scoff. Sounds like one hell of a metaphor to him.
He kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering into the shadows. “The world’s trying to tell me something. Maybe it’s just boredom.”
Jasha lit a cigarette nearby, the orange glow cutting through the gloom. “You always get poetic when you’re pissed.”
Max’s eyes flicked to the soft glow. “I’m not poetic. I’m just tired of the script.”
They’d been running from the suits—his parents’ expectations, the future they’d written for him—but the city never let you run far. It clung to you, like the damp to the cracked concrete beneath their feet.
“Your folks want you to be the next Stark, huh?” Jasha asked, voice low, like he didn’t want the walls to hear.
Max laughed, a short, bitter sound. “They want me to be better than him if anything. A walking trophy. ‘Our son, the genius scientist.’ Like they bought the whole future with one name. But they don’t get it. I’m not a product to put on a shelf.”
Jasha blew a smoke ring that drifted up and disappeared. “So what do you want, Max? What’s your script?”
Max shrugged, looking up at the faint stars fighting through the city’s haze. “I want to write my own damn story. No blueprints. No experiments. Just me. Flawed, messy, real.”
Jasha smirked, nudging him with an elbow. “Sounds like a pain in the ass.”
Max grinned, the first genuine smile in a while. “Yeah. But it’s mine.”
For a moment, the rain’s whispers softened, drowned out by the steady beat of two friends ready to face whatever came next, together.
Jasha pulled the cigarette from his lips, flicked the ember, then held it out without a word. Max took it between his fingers, the smoke curling up slowly and sharply. He drew in deep, like it was the only thing he still owned—his body, his choices, the one small defiance left in a world that tried to script him.
He exhaled a slow, ragged sigh, eyes narrowing against the burning in his lungs.
“I think I woulda’ gone insane if not for you, Jasha,” Max said, voice rough around the edges but honest. “Don’t know what I’d be doin’ if you weren’t here with me... listenin’ to my sorrows like some kinda therapist.”
Jasha chuckled, a low sound that held no judgment.
“Hey, somebody’s gotta keep you from hangin’ yourself, right?”
Max smirked, flicking ash onto the cracked pavement. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. I’m not the kinda guy who makes a habit of spillin’ his guts.”
Jasha shrugged. “Guess I’m just lucky then.”
The silence that settled wasn’t empty. It was real. Two friends, scars barely hidden, standing in an alley where the city’s grime mixed with the weight of expectations neither wanted.
Max’s gaze flicked to the dark sky, his voice quieter.
“Sometimes I wonder if they even see me. Or just the idea of me, the perfect little science prodigy. But I’m not some project. I’m me. And if I gotta fight to keep that? Then so be it.”
Jasha nodded, smoke curling between them like a fragile bond.
“Well, whatever comes, I’m with you. Messy, brooding, stubborn as hell—you’re not in this alone.”
Max gave him a look that was half-grimace, half-gratitude.
“Yeah, I know. And that’s the only damn thing that keeps me sane.”
Max’s eyes darkened as he stared at the cigarette’s glowing tip, the red ember flickering against his calloused fingers. Each tiny burn was a sharp reminder of pain, of being alive, of feeling something besides the constant drag of despair and expectations.
He flicked the ash off, almost savoring the sting as it traced down his skin.
“Ya’know,” he started, voice low, almost like he was talking to himself more than Jasha, “maybe this is a stupid idea.” He glanced sideways, weighing whether he should even say it out loud. “But... I wanna start a farm with you. Like my granddad had. Out there, away from all the noise... no fancy gadgets, no tech. Just you, me, cows, and that smell of manure hanging thick in the air.”
He chuckled dryly, shaking his head like the thought was both ridiculous and tempting. “Could be a hell of a lot better than this mess. Just a little patch of dirt where we get to call the shots.”
Jasha studied him for a beat, his words leaving heavy from his mouth, almost hanging. “You serious, Max? Leaving all this behind?”
Max shrugged, a flicker of hope twitching beneath the usual rough exterior. “I dunno, man. Maybe I’m crazy. But sometimes, the only way to stay sane is to dream about something real.”
The alley felt colder, darker, but in that shared silence, the idea lingered—raw, reckless, maybe even possible.
Max’s fingers tightened slightly around the cigarette, the ember burning slowly, like the weight settling deep inside his chest. He didn’t need to say it outright, but Jasha knew—this wasn’t just talk. It was hope wrapped in something raw and fragile.
Jasha offered his hand out, asking for the cancer stick back. Jasha took a long drag, then exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving Max’s. “You think I’d let you do this alone?” His voice was rough but steady, a promise more than a question.
Max glanced at him, a flicker of something like gratitude—and maybe more—softening the hard edges of his usual smirk. “Hell, Jasha, you’re the only one who’s ever seen me—not just the shit they expect me to be.”
There was a pause, thick like the damp air around them. Neither of them moved. It was the kind of silence that said everything they were too scared to speak: loyalty, trust, maybe even something like love, tangled up in years of shared fights and scars.
Jasha cracked a half-smile, his hand brushing against Max’s for just a heartbeat before pulling away like it had burned him. “Then we build that farm. Together.”
Max nodded slowly, the cigarette finally burned down to the filter. “Together.”
And in that moment, the city’s noise faded—just two souls holding onto something real, against everything trying to tear them apart.
⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁
“The hell you mean you pulled strings!?” Max’s shout bounced off the polished walls, sharp as shattered glass. His mother’s calm reply cut through the noise like a scalpel.
“We’re not asking, Maxwell. We’re deciding. You’re brilliant—a gift. It’s time you started acting like it. Not running wild like some street kid.”
His father’s voice, low and steady, joined in from the background. “You think the world bends for dreamers? It bends for those who make it bend. That’s the life waiting for you.”
Max clenched his fists so tight his knuckles whitened. “That life’s not mine. You’re carving a cage around me, and I’m not the animal you can just shove in.”
His mother’s eyes hardened, unwavering. “You don’t get to choose. Not yet. You’re part of something bigger, Maxwell. Whether you like it or not.”
Max’s breath hitched. His mind raced back to late nights in the alley with Jasha—their plans, the promises to run free, to build something real far from this suffocating world.
He looked at them both, then slammed a fist on the table. “You can pull all the strings you want, but I’m still me. And me doesn’t bow.” Striding forward, his face now up and personal with his father's.
“I’m not your fuckin’ dancing monkey.”
The words tore from Max like a shot—loud, unforgiving, final.
His father flinched, not from fear, but from the sheer audacity . Saliva landed on his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it. His mother’s mouth pulled into a thin line, sharp enough to slice steel. Max stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides like he wanted to tear the world apart with his bare hands.
The silence that followed was loud , thicker than the tension that hung between them. Every breath, every heartbeat felt like it echoed through the floorboards.
Their eyes locked. Father and son. Same steel in the gaze. But only one of them still believed in control.
“You forget who gave you everything,” his father said, low, trembling just under the surface. “That mind of yours, that education, those hands that tinker with every damn wire and gear— we gave you the platform. We pulled the strings so you’d be seen. And this is how you repay us?”
Max took a step forward. Not backing down. Never again.
“I didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t raise me—you built me, like one of your goddamn projects. And now you wanna sell me off to some cold war nightmare because it looks good on paper?”
His voice cracked slightly at the end—too much truth. He hated that. Hated the ache in his throat, the sting in his eyes.
“I had plans,” he whispered harshly. “I had dreams . Jasha and—we were gonna leave. Start something that was ours . Something quiet. Simple. Have you ever even thought about what I wanted?”
His mother finally spoke again, cool and smooth like oil. “You’re a Stark brain without the Stark name, Max. Do you know what people would give to be in your shoes?”
Max laughed—a single, hollow sound. “Then let them take ‘em. Maybe they'll fit better on someone who doesn’t wake up every day wondering if the best part of his life already passed him by in some shitty alley, sharing a cigarette with his best friend.”
The silence roared again, and this time, Max didn’t wait for a reply. He turned his back on their perfect little kitchen, their perfect little agenda.
Because he wasn’t perfect. He was real .
And real didn’t always follow orders.
Pushing past his parents, rushing up the stairs, to his old room, having been forced to move back in with his parents, with the Cold War that's going on, and it's mandatory for him to join in as well. Slam. His door is closed shut, shaky, breath rapid, feeling the pressure on his chest, his clothes too tight now.
Hands tangling, gripping his hair in a way that almost seemed like he was gonna rip the very roots out–he thought about it–anything, just anything to tell him this is some horrible nightmare.
“Fuck…” His hand roughly hits his head, “ ...Fuck.” The pain blooming across his skull is the only thing to soothe him, unhealthy, he knew, but he didn’t know what else to do.
Stinging in his eyes, tears welling up, ready to pour and glide down his face.
“I need to tell Jasha.”
A deep inhale through his nose, like he’s trying to ground himself– you can hear the snot that builds up from the not very pretty crying– He loosens his grip on his hair, now a mess, almost spiky looking with it sprayed out on top of his head.
He wipes away the wetness on his face with his hands, trying to present that he's okay, that everything is alright–when it's far from it–swiftly he grabs his old jacket again, the one he tossed away from in almost like it was hanging him, his earlier outburst felt as though everything was just against him, even his clothes.
Shrugging it back onto his shoulders, he steps over to the window of his room. Then, he stepped to the window. The lock had been broken for years—a casualty of teenage rebellion. His parents tried to fix it, to keep him from sneaking out. But they’d raised a kid too smart for his good.
—
Breath ragged, running from his house to the shitty apartments that Jasha abided in, but its home–a real home for Max–hurreidly he looks at the numbers on the apartment doors.
219, 220, 221, 222…!
Knocking on the door—hard, hurried, with no care for the neighbors—Max just needed a familiar face.
Someone who knew him.
Someone who didn’t look at him like he was some kind of Nobel prize.
He lingered outside, jittery, his breath uneven. The cold bit at his skin, but he barely noticed it.
Max shifted his stance, weight bouncing between his feet, like staying still might tear him apart. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if they were searching for something to hold onto.
Please be home, he thought. Please open the door.
Lifting his hand again, ready to knock once more, the door creaked open.
Jasha stood there—groggy, eyes half-lidded, hair tousled in every direction like he’d just dragged himself out of a dream and wasn’t thrilled about being pulled back into reality.
Max didn’t wait for an invite.
He stepped inside, the smell of the apartment hitting him immediately—old takeout, faint incense, something vaguely damp—but it was familiar. Lived-in. Safe , in its shitty way.
The tension in his shoulders began to slip off, like the walls of this place peeled it away from him piece by piece.
Even the broken light in the hallway felt like home.
For a second, he just stood there in the middle of the room, breathing in like it could ground him better than anything else.
“What’s going on, Max? You pounded on my door like a police officer ready to raid my apartment.” Jasha’s voice finally broke the silence, rough, sleep-laced, like gravel dragged over asphalt. It only made it more obvious he’d just woken up.
Max didn’t even look at him at first.
“My fuckin’ parents,” he spat, the words heavy with disbelief and fury. “They’ve pulled strings somehow—”
He turned to face Jasha now, eyes wide, red-rimmed.
“I’m being put into the war, Jasha.”
The last word cracked like glass in his throat.
Jasha’s expression shifted instantly, sobering up as the last traces of sleep vanished from his face, replaced by sharp, focused anger.
“When did this happen? Why the hell would they do that to you!?”
His voice cracked with disbelief, rising with every word. He knew Max’s parents were asshats—controlling, cold, manipulative—but this ? This was beyond that. This was insane .
Max let out a shaky breath, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
“They told me when I got home.”
His voice was low, trembling with a barely restrained fury.
“Said it was a goddamn opportunity for me. That I needed to stop with the street boy act and be the genius I fucking am.”
He spat those last words like they were poison. Like, repeating them might burn a hole through his mouth.
His voice quivered now, breaking apart at the seams. The tough façade he always wore—cool, untouchable—was falling apart in front of Jasha like paper left out in the rain.
“What the hell do I do, Jasha?”
His breath hitched.
“I-I don’t wanna go into that. They’ve taken everything from me… and now my freedom ?”
He shook his head, like he was trying to shake the weight off, but it only settled deeper in his bones.
“I don’t know if I can do it.”
The words hung heavy in the room, louder than a scream.
“What a joke they are. So much for doting parents.”
Max let out a breathy, broken laugh—one that didn’t reach his eyes. He was trying to joke, to deflect, as always.
Vulnerability was seeping through the cracks, bleeding into his voice no matter how hard he tried to plaster it over with sarcasm.
Jokes were all he had left between himself and a breakdown.
But Jasha didn’t laugh.
Instead, he stepped forward and gripped Max’s shoulders tightly, not roughly, but firmly, grounding. A hold that said I’m here , even if he didn’t say the words yet.
“Don’t let them win, Max.”
His voice was steady, even as emotion clung to the edge of it.
“Don’t let this stop you from chasing what you want. We’re gonna get outta here. You’ll get that damn farm with me.”
There was no hesitation in his tone—only certainty.
A promise, spoken like it was already real.
Max moved before he even thought, leaping forward in a desperate attempt, like his body couldn’t take the weight of it all anymore.
He clung to Jasha, arms locking around him tightly, as if letting go would mean falling apart completely. His fingers dug into the fabric of Jasha’s shirt, knuckles white.
He buried his face into his shoulder, breathing him in—the sharp scent of smoke, the grounding musk of his skin, and that same shitty cologne he always wore. The one Max always pretended to complain about.
But right now?
Right now, it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
“When are you being sent out?”
Jasha’s voice was low, barely more than a whisper, as his arms wrapped tighter around Max’s waist.
He held him like he was afraid—afraid of letting go, like Max might disappear the second there was space between them.
Because really, he was disappearing. Not by choice, but what did that matter?
Max stayed pressed against him, unmoving, voice muffled but hollow.
“I don’t know, Jasha. They didn’t say.”
He pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, his own rimmed with red.
“But if I were to guess… soon.” A dry swallow.
“Maybe even tomorrow. The way things are going… they’re desperate out there.”
The silence that followed buzzed like static. Real and suffocating.
“Listen to me, Max.”
Jasha’s voice was low, almost shaking, muffled by Max’s hair as he pressed his forehead into it.
“No matter what, you stay safe . Don’t pull your usual stunts. This is real.”
His grip around Max’s waist tightened, like he could anchor him here with just that.
“Don’t end up dead.”
A sharp breath.
“Bow your head if you have to—I know that’s not you, I know —but please…”
His voice cracked, something raw bleeding through now.
“I’ve lost so many. I can’t lose you, too.”
There it was.
The fear.
The love is tucked behind every word. Not said outright, but screaming all the same.
Max let out a shaky breath—half a laugh, half a sob.
“That’s the first time you’ve ever told me to shut up and behave without calling me an idiot.”
But his voice lacked bite. No smug grin followed.
He leaned into Jasha’s hold like it was the only stable thing left.
“I’ll try.”
A pause. His throat bobbed, fighting the lump there.
“I’ll try to keep my head down. Just… don’t forget about me, alright?”
Another weak laugh.
“I don’t care if it’s shitty letters or a phone call from a trench, I just—”
His voice cracked hard. He swallowed.
“I just need to know you’ll still be here.”
Finally, pulling away just a bit from each other’s arms, their eyes lock onto each other, like two perfect puzzle pieces falling in place, where they need to be.
Max’s eyes roam Jasha’s form, the way his black, usually combed-back hair is a mess now, raw, his true self. The red rimmed eyes from tears that had fallen from the beautiful, thunderstorm blue eyes. Eyelashes are damp, long, and beautifully match his raven black hair.
The tension is thick, the atmosphere is tears, worry, and fear. Now it's something unspeakable, shouldn’t even be happening.
Slowly, hesitantly, Max leans in, getting closer– their breaths franning against one another’s faces, but before he could make their already short distance between them connected, Jasha puts a hand over Max’s mouth.
A knowing smile growing on his face, showing he wasn’t mad, or even upset at this, his voice gently breaks through the silence.
“Kiss me when you get back, you still have something to give to me, so you have to come back.” Jasha's voice is timid, not something he usually hears from the man before him, his long-time friend.
Max’s usual smirk grows on his face, “You got it, Jasha, I could never leave you without something you needed from me.” Licking his lips, a nervous habit of his, the flirting was now outright, not chained away anymore.
Suddenly, the blush and smile were away from Max’s face, eyebrows furrowed, a scowl now grown on his face.
“I... uh, probably should get back, before they barge into my room and think I’ve run away or something, don’t want another search party for me.” Arms now at his sides, pulled away fully from the initial hug.
“You’re right, just–” Jasha stopped mid-sentence, hesitant, almost, scared of a promise to be broken.
“Come back and give me that damn kiss, come back to me alive, promise me.” Both their hearts were beating now, rapidly from the adrenaline of this promise and their confessions. Max shifts around nervously, not sure if he should keep the promise of coming back alive.
“I’ll try everything to get back to you, I'll crawl through hell, with my knees bleeding, glass embedded in them–scratched to all hell if it means I get to give you that fuckin’ kiss.”
“Always such a poet, Max.” Jasha softly chuckled, rubbing his cheek with his hand, trying to hide the blush that grew on his cheeks.
Jasha softly chuckled, rubbing his cheek with his hand, trying to hide the blush that grew on his face.
“Always such a poet, Max.”
Max smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The warmth of the moment clung to him, a fragile thing, already slipping through his fingers.
Then reality seeped back in like a cold draft.
His smile faded.
“I… I should head back,” he muttered, voice low.
“If they find out I snuck out again, they’ll make this whole thing even worse.”
Jasha's face tensed.
“Right.”
Neither of them moved at first.
Max shifted, then took a slow step back, eyes never leaving Jasha’s.
“Don’t forget about me.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
Jasha’s voice cracked just a little.
Max lingered in the doorway for one last second, breathing in the scent of smoke, warmth, and everything that felt like home.
And then he was gone—back out into the night, heading toward the place that never felt like it had room for him.