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Chad shifts in his place on top of the van, the metal creaking and rocking with the movement like some fucked up fat joke from a 2000’s movie. The commotion sends another twinge of anxiety through Max’s stomach. He curls into himself tighter, rolling to face the window. Squeezing his eyes tighter, Max tries to ignore how audibly everyone else's breathing is. He doesn’t know how the others managed to fall asleep so quickly — especially with how many things went wrong this morning. Or— yesterday, by this point, as Max is pretty sure it’s well past midnight.
He presses his forehead against the window, the cold outside air seeping through and chilling his skin. Max shivers, though he makes no effort to pull himself away. Someone shuffles around, though without his eyes open, Max can’t tell who. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. If he opens them then he’ll have to accept he’s not going to fall back asleep and Max really needs the sleep. Too much has freaked him out today — high and scared in the middle of the woods, Chad driving. Sleep is the only escape from the hell that is his own mind, so he can’t open his eyes. Honestly, it’s absurd that in order to fall asleep you have to pretend you’re already asleep. The human body is fucked up, Max hates it. And he won’t delve any further into that thought right now, not in a cramped van with some of his closest friends. He hopes to forget the thought by the time he’s back home.
More shuffling begins to annoy Max. How is a man meant to sleep when the people he’s sardined with won’t quit making noise? It stops almost immediately, obviously. And now Max regrets the angsty internal monologue. The silence is worse than small intermediate sounds that scrape Max’s eardrums. He tries to remember the layout of people crammed into the van, tries to figure out who the hell is wiggling around.
It’s right behind him, Max realizes seconds too late as the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention under the heat of breath against his skin. It comes in slow puffs — Max fights the shiver that begs to roll down his spine. Matt, who had chosen openly and specifically to sleep next to Max, has now rolled over with less than half a meter between them. He’s the one who’s been tossing and turning for the last ten minutes. Why he hadn’t slept near Ryan like Max (and probably everyone else) had assumed, Max does not know. What he does know, is that the close proximity is beginning to freak him out. Not trying to be rude, Max tries to work up the mental courage to tell Matt to chill the fuck out. And just as he opens his mouth, Matt beats him to it.
“Max, you awake?” His voice is barely a whisper, though it feels louder in the enclosed space. It rings around in Max’s head and he has to grit his teeth to make it stop.
He comes across like a child afraid of being caught. Like he’s sneaking around past his bedtime. Max swallows, ignoring the question and squeezing his eyes tighter shut (if possible).
Fabric moving and heat getting closer, Matt speaks up again, “M’cold.”
Max knows that’s bait.
(He tells himself it is, anyway.)
Matt runs on the same breed of attention-seeking that Max does. He knows this game — hell, he invented it. Chad is basically his bitch by this point. But Max has watched Matt the whole trip. He lies across laps and whines at Ryan and squeals and bitches and moans and— God, is Max that annoying? He’s all but clung to Max all week, following him like a sick dog. Max wonders why he hasn’t been giving that attention to Ryan, but he’s too scared to ask. Too scared to make it a thing. It’s just the way Matt is, touchy.
He shifts again, curling a little more into himself on his side, pressing his face against the sleeping bag he’s using as a pillow. If he ignores Matt, pretends to still be sleeping, he’ll leave Max alone. He has to. Or Max is going to have a panic attack in this confined space and wake everyone up immediately.
The heat behind Max gets worse — closer, deliberate. There’s the slow, careful slide of Matt’s body scooting forward until Max can feel the press of knees against the backs of his own. Then his chest. Then the unmistakable ridge of Matt’s hips slotting right up against his ass like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Max’s breath hitches. He keeps his eyes shut so hard it hurts. Matt doesn’t say anything at first. Just breathes — slow, warm exhales against the nape of Max’s neck that make the fine hairs there lift again. Then the tiniest roll of hips. Barely anything. Testing. Like he’s waiting to see if Max will bolt.
His brain goes somewhere ugly with it.
“I know you’re awake, dude.” Matt’s mouth brushes the shell of Max’s ear. His hand slides around Max’s waist until it rests just beneath his navel, beneath Max’s shirt. His fingers are frigid, burning against Max’s skin. He has to stop himself from rolling into it (and Max does not like the instinct).
Max’s breath hitches, he does not respond. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, jaw locked so hard his molars ache. He doesn’t push Matt off. Doesn’t try to roll away, though he presses his head harder against the window until it begins to sting like a headache. His heart slams against his ribs loud enough that he’s convinced Matt can feel every thud through his spine.
Matt’s hips roll once — subtle, lazy, more of a press than a grind. Then again. Firmer. The friction drags a low sound out of Matt’s throat, muffled into the nape of Max’s neck. Hot breath, then lips brushing skin — not quite a kiss. Max’s brain short-circuits between get the fuck off me and don’t make it weird. So he does nothing — lets it happen — though Max thinks with one hundred and percent certainty that Matt is the one who has made it weird. He chose to trail Max throughout his visit, chose to sleep near Max. Max wonders if Matt came to visit just to do this shit in the first place. That thought settles more comfortably than the idea that Max’s own actions have led to this moment. He lets Matt rock against him in tiny, sleepy increments while every nerve ending screams at him on loop. He’s not hard, but his body is traitorously aware of every point of contact anyway. The shame tastes like copper.
Max doesn’t answer. Can’t. His tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. Matt huffs a tiny laugh against his ear — fond, knowing, a little mean. “You’re breathing all fucked up. You want me to stop?”
“Shut up.” Max finally forces out. Barely audible. Voice cracking on the second syllable like he’s thirteen again. It’s not an answer. Matt takes it as one.
Matt’s not even hard, Max can’t feel the press against his ass. He wonders why Matt’s even bothering. If he’s doing this just to torture him. It’s disgusting. Matt is disgusting. This van and the hot breath it contains and the bugs outside in the dirt are nauseating. Max swallows the taste of vomit in the back of his throat, the saliva that fills his mouth. He hates the feeling that burns from beneath his ribs down to where Matt’s hand presses Max more firmly against his crotch.
If Max uses his imagination a little, Matt’s fingers almost feel feminine. Slender and careful just above his waistband. He’s not sure whether he wants the hand to move further down or off of him all together. Max chooses not to linger there either.
The grinding slows until Matt sighs against Max’s neck, his nose in Max’s hair. Max waits, counts two full minutes in his head. Matt never moves away, doesn’t pull closer either. Finally, Max opens his eyes. The van is too dark to really make out anything other than lumps and shadows. Max grinds his teeth, and (against his better judgement) settles against Matt. It’s not comfortable. Matt is far too boney. But Max closes his eyes again until shapes and colors bloom behind his eyelids and waits for exhaustion to take him.