Chapter Text
Why you, and why me?
I don’t consider myself an introspective person most of the time, yet I’ve been asking myself this question practically from the night we met.
It’s not unnatural for people to initially assume I am a drug dealer; that's my entire gimmick, but no one had found my ad in the Yellow Selection and gone through the process of calling me, scheduling a meeting, and, up until the sugar was in their hand, never realizing that I had nothing to offer except candy --no one other than you, Max.
Even back then, before you were special to me, I didn’t have the heart to consider you stupid, just a bit odd, and increasingly anxious. Despite that, you remained fairly cordial, even complimenting my eyes (although you did immediately try to backtrack), and by then, I could easily pick up on how your demeanor morphed from a bad kind of nervous, to a so-called 'good nervous', but I wasn’t going to dwell on it, not originally. After all, this wasn't the first time a consumer found me attractive, I'm sure.
However, I was given more and more time to think about you, as you kept coming back. I wondered why you would, at first, you obviously weren't looking for much in the way of candy before, but you made it clear from your frequent tangents that you were, well, incredibly lonely. Whether it was assorted movie trivia, or glimpses into your life in the form of places you were banned from or people you pissed off, you inadvertently spelled it out, to the point I questioned whether or not I had begun to pity you, or if sympathy was what you were after. Regardless, I would look forward to your calls, not only for the profit, but just to talk. For your sake, of course.
If only I was able to lie to myself as well as I could to others. Only a few months in and I reached a point I couldn't deny that I liked you as something more than a client, but how could I accept it? Maybe if you had met my public persona things wouldn't have been so complicated, but you'd met me as the "Candy Dealer", and knowing how dangerous a worldly attachment such as you could have been for the life I was leading, it would never work. So, take it as a sign of how much I loved you, that for a moment, I pretended it could.
Maybe if you'd known how deeply I loved you, you wouldn't have stayed so scared that I'd leave. From our first date to every subsequent minor hiccup, you remained terrified by the idea that you'd ruin everything, but you never even came close. This anxiety manifested the same way your loneliness did, a nagging thought in the back of your head that wormed its way into all your words, but I couldn't blame you for it. I knew it came from a place of love, in the same way my fears had.
Later on, I had asked you why you'd asked me out in the first place, considering you claimed not to be the type to take the first step, and I still vividly remember your answer.
"Well, you know how when you think you're gonna die, you reflect on everything you never did? When that devil guy nearly stabbed me, all I could think about was you, and once I got away, I realized that if I never told you how I felt, it would kinda be like I never lived at all."
You immediately cringed, saying that made you sound like a 'total loser', but I knew you meant it, and I felt the knife twist as the guilt returned. Even if you claimed to be fine with me continuing to conceal my identity, if you'd known the extent of what I was a part of, how close I had been to the man who nearly killed you, and how close I remained to people who wouldn't hesitate to do the same? I didn't want to think about it, but the guilt lingered. That's what I assumed the 'presence' I began to feel around you was, guilt manifested.
Until it, or should I say she, started talking to me.
It was no wonder I figured she wasn't real, she was barely strong enough to be seen in mirrors and would only attempt to sneak up on me to convey her simple message of "leave". Before I had faced her much, I put together her identity from an old Halloween photo you swore the previous owners left behind, as if it wasn't clearly a younger version of you in the picture. You weren't lying, you'd really forgotten, both who you used to be, and your sister. In a detached sense, I can recognize that Maizel, as older siblings tend to do, only wanted to protect you, and perhaps I could have accepted that fact better if she wasn’t constantly directing her rage toward me.
Truthfully, she only bothered me because I never had much of a leg to stand on, I was putting you in danger, there was no way I could argue that I wasn't, so I didn't try. I refused to entertain her frequent guilt trips, I walled off until she was satisfied with the conclusion she’d already reached in her head, that I was using you in some way, so she'd stop confronting me. She never truly left, somehow she'd managed to gain enough strength she could appear out of reflections, and no matter what, she was hovering around you, the brother who didn't remember her, a constant reminder of what could happen to you.
If you’d told me before I met you I could have ever felt so guilty, I'd make myself physically sick, I don't think I'd believe you. Yet there I was, exhausted from stress of all things, and I was hardly good enough at hiding it, only barely managing to appear unsuspicious. You, such a good boyfriend as always, invited me to sleep over with you, even taking steps to help me preserve my anonymity. Part of me thinks you had to be a bit insane to let me get away with so much. As much as I loved being close to you, I was paranoid of anyone finding out. If anyone knew who you were, if they knew where you lived, cult or cartel, it wouldn't end well.
Eventually, I was sure I had to be more afraid than you, as aside from the fear I’d leave, you were more competent than anyone gave you credit for. The more you revealed about the slivers of your past you could remember, the more it became clear your fear of abandonment was justified, as every social interaction or relationship you’d had up until now had failed through no fault of your own. Ironically, that was the last thing we talked about before I had to leave for what I didn't realize would have been the last time. You never told me, but I could tell that how frequently I left bothered you, and as much as I know where my priorities lie, I wish I had stayed with you longer. I wish I hadn’t left more than anything.
Maybe it goes to show how delusional I really was that when I saw you again, part of me tried to believe it wasn't my fault. But my denial couldn't last long, it was obvious someone had done this to get back at me, they left you right where they knew I'd find you: Under my graffiti tag, now spattered with blood from the traumatic wound they left in your head.
I assumed, in the moment, that the person standing over your lifeless body was the one responsible, until she turned to face me. It was Maizel, looking more lifelike than ever before, aside from the visible aftermath of her death across what was left of her face. Her eyes, identical to yours, were cold and distant as she let forth her final judgment.
“Well? Don’t look surprised. I told you this would happen.”
“I didn’t-”
“Shut up. You know this is your fault, and you know what you have to do now, what you should have done before he died. You’re this scary, capable cult member, aren’t you? Fucking act like it.”
I assumed that was all she had to say, but before she vanished, she gave me one last look and asked the question on both our minds.
“We both love him, don’t we?”
“Of course.”
“Then why do we hurt him?”
Before I could answer, she was gone.
Carrying you in my arms, rushing to the hospital, it felt wrong to be entrusted with anything relating to you anymore. I was the one who let this happen to you. While she hurt you by leaving, I hurt you by staying when I knew it wasn't safe. Judging from the tears across your lifeless face, I must have been crying, but I could barely feel it from the adrenaline.
Before I left you for the last time, I took your phone from your pocket and deleted the contact of every burner I’d used previously. If you lived, I knew you'd try to find me again, so I needed to do what I did best: Disappear.
Of course, I regretted doing this to you immensely, but I regretted putting you in this position in the first place more. Besides, it wasn’t entirely hard to convince someone something such as a “candy dealer” was made up, especially after removing every trace of myself, everything I'd sold or given you, all of it, from your life.
I know you aren’t dead. Maizel wouldn’t allow that, but for now, to me, you have to be. As I continue with what my life needs to be, I continue to wonder if we could meet again, in this life or the next, and the same burning question remains.
Why me? And more importantly, why you?