#i had this on my rp blog at one point but then i remade. therefore it is here now

[brbabcs]

nothing without love. ( snapshots of max arciniega and gustavo fring, throughout the years. written from the perspective of max, and based upon a backstory built around breaking bad canon. ) please do not repost elsewhere. reblogs welcome.

valparaiso, chile. june 1981.

in the years previous, your life has been a race: feet dragging through sand, one heavy weight to another, the word relay becoming absent in your seventeenth year of life. therein lies the absence of a hand, passing one heaviness to another, allowing a singular exhale to find the next.

a steady rumble of: i’ve got it this week, maximino, and one hand  —  brief, ghosting  —  clasped around your shoulder, becomes the last memory you have of your brother. from then on, the weight becomes your own. the weeks following drag on, and on, and on. it seems to never stop, with every bite of yours, becoming a break. one snap of your spine at a time, until a hand  —  steady, reliable  — on the small of your back aligns you once more.

this moment in particular, reminds you of this. gustavo’s touch relieves any trace of what once had been heavy, present in every corner of your hand-built-life: tugging you out from the rubble, and into a rapture. in these minutes, you don’t allow for an exhale. instead, you find your inhale between a kiss that tastes of bittered coffee, and sweet, sweet, nothings, while your hand  — pious, unwavering  —  slides behind the back of his neck. 

your hair, still wet, yet now absent of seasalt, drips an imprint onto his shirt.

in an earlier time, you may have apologized. (for the kiss, for the water, for the heaviness.) now, you tip into a sun-soaked grin, and fall into him further.

dusseldorf, germany. march 1983. 

there’s a morning that feels like the sun has risen for the first time. it’s a marvel of a moment, with all the succinct simplisticity that gustavo provides. some people, you think, would hate the mundane. they’d yawn, stretch their arms, and chase after something ravenous. but as you watch gustavo straighten his tie, blinking into the mirror with the blank-slate-face you’ve come to know well, you think simplicity, in all of its forms, is far more exhilarating. 

your feet find the ground in silence, moving to align the front of your shoulders with his, and replace his hands with your own. you straighten his tie, press a kiss to his cheek, and nestle the curve of your jaw into the crook of his neck. his presence becomes a tether to reality, knitting itself into the very essence of your grin; every echo of your laughter. without him, you wonder where you would be. there’s a pause  —  a brief fraction of a moment designated towards this thought  —  before you abandon it entirely. any reason to fantasize of otherwise is obsolete, washed away as he presses his lips to your forehead. this action, however brief, reminds you that to chase after anything ravenous is a waste.

you’d much prefer the significance of satiation.

george town, the cayman islands. september 1984.

the photo itself means nothing in the face of his smile: ear to ear, tugging a radiance onto features that elicits a thought of how something so bright could exist on this earth without burning it whole. it blinds you, inching into every corner of your own grin until you can’t tell where his ends, and yours begins. 

to anyone else, this may be an infinitesimal moment. to you, it is a fraction of the universe, sliced out in just the right dose. gifted, on a silver platter. to you, it is the final piece of the puzzle, slotted into a space of your heart that reminds it to keep on beating. 

one infinitesimal moment to the next, one fraction of the universe to another: to you, this moment is everything.

the andes, chile. november 1985.

gustavo says, we are insurmountable, and you believe him. 

he says it fervently, intently, with the ever-lasting and ardent declaration that you imagine a prophet to have. as if his words, merely a promise, are nothing but a statement of fact. some years ago, you may have laughed  —   as any would, upon gazing at heights that far surpass your own. but halfway up the mountain, fifty percent of the way there, with beginnings that smolder into a fire that’s now merely smoke in the distance, you think his words are closer to a scripture, than a story.

there will always be nonbelievers. the faithless, the doubtful. once, you may have been one of them. skeptical of your own future, hesitant to invest in his. but gustavo says, we are insurmountable, and you are no longer staring at heights that tower over your own. you may only be five foot seven (on a good day) and halfway up the mountain, but you think that with only an outstretch of your hand, you could hold the whole world in your palms. 

you lace your fingers with his, and wonder if you already do.

michoacán, mexico. february 1986.

recipes, your mother said, are nothing without love.

you’ve scrawled every step down, crafted all the necessary pieces to align into memory, and folded a love letter within your own creation. the word hermanos, in contrast to it all, tugs a full bellied laugh from you; your head, shaking briefly at the mere thought.

it doesn’t bother you, as some may believe it should. the story of your life has never been written for anyone else’s consumption but your own: once, swallowed down in one hard-to-digest moment to the next. now, it’s a smooth sip of sweetness; your honeyed heartbeat pitter pattering against the word hermanos. like drizzle on a windowpane, tapping against the glass, in a reminder of your shelter from an ever-present storm. 

you write every recipe in pin-point accuracy. in careful script that tells of one part fable, and one part truth. a bond, surely, but nothing of brothers. only a step closer to good friends.

however, there are some things, you think, that are implied. some things, that you needn't add to a list of ingredients, regardless of the presence of such.

after all  —  recipes are nothing, without love.