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The stark click of the camera cut through the silence like thunderclap to Max’s ears. She could feel, clearly, her fingers straining against the plastic, almost instinctively clutching it like a life-line, even as nervousness clawed up her throat. Even after all these months, after so many shots taken, so many compositions carefully assembled, all the waiting for perfect lighting, crawling on her belly even for that one awe inspiring moment, taking photos of people still left her shaken.
It wasn’t that she lacked the capacity for it. While Victoria’s impromptu classes gave way to a substitute who actually knew his stuff, Max still took the time to learn from her, to spend time with her friend in something both were passionate about, challenging each other through biting commentary and soft compliments.
The rest of the class had somewhat remained getting lessons from them for a bit longer, but as November gave way to December, and the cold crept further into the bones of the poor students, most had decidedly taken the sane approach and began remaining indoors, avoiding their outings, and without meaning to, leaving Max to wrestle alone with her anxiety, and budding warmth towards the other girl.
Which lead to her current predicament: getting a shot of Victoria, standing against the wintry landscape of the changing Bay.
It looked just like what Max remembered when she was younger, filled with cold tones, swaying pines that refused to give in to the elements, and a semi-persistent fog that rolled across the docks, blanketing the streets and air of the town in frosty brine. The sun itself seemed cooler, the tones in the air shimmering with something akin to blue, as the light refracted over so much frost and fog in the air, bathing the world in what Max could only classify as slow, sharp contrast. The empty streets carried with it the howling winds, and the muted chatter of the people indoors, which added to the suspended feeling that the not-quite-winter of Oregon brought.
The landscape was stunning. Max recalled what it was like to take photos of Seattle in the winter, of avoiding rainfall to get good shots, trekking over puddles with her dingy, cherished camera, shooting reflections and hazy blurs of activity in the streets, of chasing after fleeting life to photograph. She thought of her mom, driving her about patiently, and how she hadn’t appreciated the gentleness that her parents always had for her in full.
But all of that, all the great details and brilliant, sharp blues and frosty greens of the Bay were set dressing for what made her hands clammy and sweaty.
Victoria Chase stood in front of Max like a model. That wasn’t even the photographer’s gay little heart leaping over reason, obsessing over the dignified cheekbones, the elegant eyebrows poised in a casual expression of thought, or the way her pink lips contrasted desperately with the cold, bringing attention to their vivid fullness by the mere act of existing. Nor was it because her eyes, sharp and steely, were a warm summer green, staring at Max just beyond the camera lens.
No, all those (brilliant, beautiful, heart-fluttering) details paled in comparison with her posing, and how she had dressed for the shoot.
They had agreed upon it beforehand. This outing was specifically for portfolio stocking, a quest both of them had embarked on for the last few months (since the Skittles incident, that Max couldn’t forget). So, Victoria stood, her rear pressed into the icy wooden fence that was faded enough to look rustic, one leather-boot-wrapped-foot extended just a bit further than the other pressed against the first snows of winter, while the other balanced her, a small gap between them adding to the negative space, calling attention to the slender legs that went up and up. Designer jeans with a leather belt wrapped tight around gave way to a tiffany-blue blouse, clinging to her body, contrasting with the draped over the shoulders varsity jacket Max had ordered a few weeks ago. One hand was delicately placed on the fence, the only point of contact being one singular nail, while the other rested against her thigh, leading the eyes of the audience up.
It was a breathtaking sight. But Max’s fingers still trembled slightly with agitation, the nervousness in her gut taking hold of her to a point she wasn’t exactly sure she could continue much longer.
“Maxine.” The sharp voice cut through the silence of the clearing.
The photographer didn’t lower the camera, but let out a soft noise of acknowledgement, unwilling to speak, lest her nervousness come across.
Victoria didn’t once change her pose while she spoke, which perhaps spoke to her utter professionalism whenever they were out and about. “Are you going to take the shot, or just stand there appreciating my beauty, Lamefield?”
“What beauty, Chase?” Max managed to bite back, the fluttering in her stomach growing even more. For once, she was glad of the cold. She could use it as an excuse for why she was turning red.
Her model clicked her tongue in disapproval, and went back to her pose, schooling her expression into the placid thoughtfulness they had discussed for the shot. Max checked the light, and then went back to her camera, one eye behind the ancient lens, fingers ready to push the button. A moment passed, where she took stock of each of the little details again, making sure the angle was right, that Victoria was just a little bit off center, the fence splitting the frame right on the thirds, and then-
The darkness of the room. The shot of the butterfly. His voice. Flashes of light.
Her hands shook slightly, and she tried to take a calming breath, a shuddering plume escaping her mouth as Max wrestled for control. She could do this. It had been enough time, really. It had been months now, and that week never really existed, not truly, and more than that, she couldn’t get like this every time she had to take photos of people, photos of Victoria or Kate, even though all she could picture was her, behind that fancy camera, prowling around them, folders resting against a clean tabletop. It was stupid, this was all so very stupid.
Max felt like a child, as an uncomfortable warmth spread under her fluffy hoodie, as her breath started to hasten just enough for her to notice, the pounding of her heart making her feel like she couldn’t quite take the shot. It was a perfect shot, and Victoria, bitchy, caring, stubborn ass Victoria had come out with Max at 6:28AM on a Saturday, just so she could get this shot. And here Maxine fucking Caulfield was, trembling, unable to will her fingers to press down on the button.
She knew, deep down, that it wasn’t her fault. She knew this was a trauma response, like Kate had said, knew that it was her body thinking she was back there, but it didn’t help. Knowing didn’t help, it just made her feel more hopeless, trapped by herself in this state.
A hand suddenly touched her shoulder, and Max finally noticed Victoria had moved. She had missed her shot. Stupid.
She barely managed to move her eyes from the viewfinder, darting quickly to the other girl’s expression, before she got to embarrassed and looked away. Victoria looked… worried, maybe.
“Maxine,” she started calmly, barely above a whisper, “are you alright?”
“Uhm, peachy, yeah,” was the only lame response Max could give, trying to shake away the horror of messing up this badly.
“A spoiled peach, maybe,” Victoria spat out, an eyebrow raised. “Try again.”
Max’s shaking continued, and thinking quick on her feet, she tried for an overly dramatic shiver, to pass it off as the cold, but those hopes were swiftly dashed when the hand on her shoulder squeezed. Not tightly, Victoria was many things, but she had never physically hurt Max, or anyone aside from shoulder-checking people in the hallways. No, the squeeze was soft, something almost grounding, and it made Max want to curl up and die.
Victoria was still looking at her, a dispassionate look now adorning her face like it belonged there, but her hand didn’t leave Max’s shoulder, still there. The photographer felt weak, and she knew it wasn’t just the utter anxiety that still threatened to claw its way out of her stomach.
“I, I’m not feeling great.” Dog, that sounded lame even to her. “A-and I think I might be, uhm, having an anxiety attack thingy.”
“’An anxiety attack thingy’, Maxine, you are- ugh.” Victoria huffed in frustration, and with care that Max knew she only every applied to photography equipment (and her figurines), she took William’s camera and set it inside the little equipment satchel that they had brought along. Then, with something close to indignity, Victoria Chase dragged her over to the least dew-soaked bench near them, and sat Max down.
It froze her ass a little bit, but at this point, the contrast with the creeping warmth was almost a relief.
“Elaborate, Lamefield, before I personally drag you to the counselors office, and then yell at you for getting my ass up at rat-fuck o’ clock with no results.”
Well, that didn’t leave a lot of room to argue, did it? Max took a few moments to breathe, to feel the contact between her and Victoria, to take in the cold of the air in her lungs, the bench under her, to try and block out the rushing anxiety. It was still there, lurking a little in her stomach, but Max was a grown up now, and wasn’t going to just, let this get to her.
“Taking photos of, of people makes me nervous.” She admitted quietly, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. “I’m getting better at handling it, but it got to me today. Sorry.”
“…Why?” Victoria asked, her voice filled with something Max couldn’t even hope to decipher.
Why indeed. Max’s eyes found the horizon, the slowly rising eerie blue of not-quite-dawn breaking apart the monotony of the dark, light spilling into crevices and towering trees alike. If she strained her ears, she could hear the creaking of bark and needles behind her, looming above the morning, dwarfing even her worries with the utter age they exuded.
“I’m…” She hesitated, gaze never breaking apart from the horizon. “I’m afraid of turning out messed up.”
Shuffling to her side, and then Max felt a thigh just barely pressing into her own, as Victoria exhaled, a cloud of hot air dissipating into the cold. “Like he- like they were, right?”
Max couldn’t even put to words how glad she was that Victoria got it in one, that she didn’t have to wrench the stupid explanation out of her bleeding guts. A shudder tore through her, but this one she knew to be relief, to be the deep feeling of being understood, even if a little bit, settling over her.
“Yeah.” A beat of silence, with no response, and Max continued. “When I look through the viewfinder, I just, can’t stop thinking about it,” about her hands being tied, about Kate’s blurry memories, about Victoria being next- “and then I lose my cool sometimes. Hella lame, I know.” She scoffed.
Then, the silence was less comfortable. As if something in the air had shifted, like Max had messed up her words. Her hand twitched, and she bit back a grimace. She wouldn’t rewind this, she wouldn’t, even if Victoria found it lame and stopped working with her, or dragged her to the counselor’s office, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t manipulate people like that.
“Every time I am behind a professional camera now, I wonder if Nathan enjoyed it.”
The admission was so sudden that Max almost whipped around to look at Victoria.
“When I adjust the lens, and tell you to move your hand, or move around the props, I can’t help think that they did it too, to, to the girls who didn’t want to be there,” she continued undaunted, quietly. “Sometimes, I wonder if you don’t want to be there, beyond the viewfinder.”
This time she couldn’t quite help it, and Max turned to her, finding green eyes already locked onto hers, a level of vulnerability swimming in them that cut her breath short.
Even the topic couldn’t make Max blind to Victoria’s beauty in that moment. The openness of her expression, the way her pink lips were brought to a thin, concerned line, cheeks start against the birthing light of dawn, warm green and dark blonde brought to start contrast against pale skin.
“I’m not stupid, Max. I bullied you.”
“It’s okay, really, Victo-”
“Shut up.” She snapped, expression turning angry, before it settled into something sadder again. “It isn’t. Especially when I’m still a massive bitch to the rest of your friends.” Max wanted to argue, to tell her that she had been so much better recently, but the look in Victoria’s eyes dashed those wants against the rocks. “You have no reason aside from possibly pity to stick around me.”
The brunette’s eyebrows furrowed, and she pressed her thigh more forcefully to the other’s.
“But you do. And, when you are there, just beyond the camera lens, I wonder if you think I’m like them,” she breathed out, disgust and regret clear in her words.
“Absolutely fucking not.” Max’s aggression surprised even her. Her fingers turned white against the back of the bench as she glared at Victoria. “Never. You are a bit of a bitch, and insufferably smug, sure, but you aren’t- Victoria, you aren’t like them, at all.”
The blonde laughed, almost in disbelief. “Yeah, but Nathan wasn’t like that either-”
“Nathan didn’t change like you did!” Max cut her off.
“Maxine, I think I knew Nathan a lot better than you did.”
“And I know you!” She shouted, suddenly getting up. The height difference wasn’t even all that pronounced as she did, but she nonetheless glared down at Victioria. “You’re not like them and, and it’s hella fucked up that you assumed I thought you were!”
Her voice rang across the small clearing, the cold and dawn carrying it far into the woods. Max remembered a few weeks back Warren had told her that the cold carries sound better, much as the night did, and if she weren’t so angry, she would be scared someone could have heard them. But right now, as her face flushed red (embarrassment, anger, so many things boiling in her gut), all she could think about was the fact that Victoria thought so little of herself, and of Max for all that matter.
Silence stretched between them, the blonde’s lips parted in possibly shock, or maybe in offense. All that Max knew was that she didn’t speak, staring directly into her own eyes with something lurking behind them.
It continued, just hovering between them, and Max wanted nothing more than to break the silence, to run, to do anything but wait for Victoria to shut her down, or run away. She wanted to reach out, a paradoxical thought that wrestled with her hurt, but it was there nonetheless, the want to touch her friend, to maybe apologize for the outburst Max knew was needed.
“It’s hella fucked up you assumed my friend Max could turn out like those two,” Victoria finally said, lips twitching. Into a frown or a smile Max couldn’t tell, but it was there.
“Victoria, that’s not the same-”
“Shush.” That snapped her mouth clean shut, though she glared from under her too long bangs. “Get up.”
“What?”
Victoria rolled her eyes and nudged her thigh against Max’s, before pushing her to her feet with the determination that only Victoria Fucking Chase could bring to bare. “I said, get up, Lamefield. Now.”
The photographer did just that, scampering to her feet with very little balance to speak of, almost skidding against the wet dirt beneath. Confused, Max looked at her friend, eyebrow cocked, her hands idly fiddling with themselves as she pondered what in the fresh hell Victoria could be up to, when a camera was firmly deposited in her hands.
Her camera.
Her question died on her lips as Victoria imperiously walked to the spot where she was posing before, falling into the same languid posture and demeanor she had borne 15 minutes before. The radiance of the coming dawn now bathed the whole scene in tinged purples, the blue of frost making the edges of the varsity jacket seem crisper to Max’s trained eye, made the blonde’s crown glow ethereally, her hand, delicately resting against the fence look made of ice.
“Take the shot,” was the simple order, spoken softly, just for the two of them.
“Victoria, I don’t-” the camera still felt unstable in her hands as the smaller girl blubbered, trying to spit out some workable excuse.
“Max.” Victoria’s eyes met hers, and Max almost gasped. They were as expressive as she ever remembered them being, though never losing the edge that made Victoria herself. “Take the shot, please.”
And what is a girl to do but obey?
Carefully, Max eyes found themselves right behind the viewfinder, fingers gently perched against the release, her breath held, as the universe slowed to nothing. There was no need for Max to use her time powers at all, to lift her hand to cause the scene to freeze so she could take the perfect shot, because as she looked through the camera, it was just her and Victoria.
Max behind the camera where she belonged, where she had always felt the most right, fingers curled in a way that felt most familiar, her eyelashes brushing against the soft plastic, body still and ready - and Victoria, looking utterly beautiful, posed against the backdrop of the waking bay, like she was born to have dawn break just for her.
It wasn’t solved, in any way. They still needed to have a conversation about all of it, about her feelings, about Victoria’s fears and how poorly she thought of herself, deep down. They needed to talk about the touches that made Max’s heart flutter, they needed to discuss how to help one another, and possibly have a screaming match about letting themselves be helped. They most definitely needed to talk, about so many things that the photographer couldn’t quite put into words even in her own mind. And they needed to get going too, to warm up, to be out from this cold, and be back in time for breakfast. But…
If someone had asked Max, in that moment, what she was always meant to do, she would be able to say it with as much clarity as her heart was capable of. Looking through her camera at her not-quite-just-a-friend anymore, bathing against the coming sunlight, framed by a old forgotten fence, the pines of their home, and all the welcoming cold of winter, Maxine Caulfield knew what she had to do, for the rest of her life.
A shudder. A breath.
Click.