Hazel (boyxboy)

Poison-Ivy Green

"So... That guy? Um, Grayson? He's your manager, right?" Max is sitting in Otto's lap, huddled close because they're both too lazy to turn on the heat, reading an old, dog-eared novel. Winter sunlight floats through the window, and the man's voice vibrates his spine gently.

"Yeah? Grey. What about him?" Max turns slightly, ignoring the hairs on the back of his neck rustling uncomfortably in the chill, sweat-slicked from laying in warmth for too long.

Otto shifts, looking slightly uncomfortable, obviously trying not to show it. "Ah, nothing. I was just- He just popped into my head."

"Hm." Max turns back to his book, trying to find a more comfortable position on the new face of Otto's shoulder. "Maybe we should invite him over sometime, for dinner, or something. He seems a little lonely."

Otto nods, mind suddenly absent, floating someplace between nowhere and everywhere, lost. The apartment creaks, and it's a dull grey. "I'm gonna turn on the heat."

Max smiles up at him, kissing the underside of his chin, distracted by his book. "'Kay. Hurry back; I need you for warmth."

Otto slides his boyfriend off of him, shuffling down the hall in his socked feet. He hates it when he gets like this, this cotton-filled mummy full of muffled anxiety. He wishes he could keep Max farther away from it, but it is winter; the ice might be worse. Numb fingers press at the control panel on the wall until the furnace rumbles to life and rattles the vents, tinny and copper tinted. He can hear Max cheer from the living room, and tries on a smile. Things could always be worse.

He climbs back onto the couch, nearly collapsing in on himself. His boy curls into his side. He couldn't possibly be unhappy like this, could he? And yet...

"Who are you texting?" He tries not to sound accusatory, but he can feel the orange snaking into his voice, wishes it away.

Max seems not to notice. "Greyson. He's asking about cake recipes, the usual. He wants me to come in to work to help him." He shifts slightly from his seat, half on Otto's knee. "Should I?"

Please don't choose him over me, a dark, vulnerable part of Otto whispers. Otto says, "If you want to, go for it. But, I'll miss you dearly."

Max nods, slumping a bit. "I know... But, I could get some nice overtime, and God knows we need the money." The way his words stretch at the ends, trailing like they want Otto to follow them, tells Otto what his answer will be.

"Hurry back," he whispers, slouching back against the sofa and feeling childish for doing so. "I'll miss you."

Max snuggles closer, kisses Otto's neck, quick. "I will, promise." He then scrambles out of the couch, limbs a bit stiff, socked feet slipping, off-white, across the wood. Otto sits in a blackberry blood grumbly mood, hating Greyson for no reason, hating himself for hating Greyson.

Max clunks back in heavy boots, coat half on, scarf untied. Otto's bones crackle, sharp shards, as he rises to complete his usual task of buttoning and zipping and tying until Max is cold weather ready.

He's halfway through the buttons when Max grabs his hand. "I can d-do them, today." Barely a whisper, it seems like it's shattered everything. And, though Otto wants to brush it off, to assure himself that it meant nothing, Max's stutter mutters otherwise. He only stutters when he's flustered, or very nervous. You know that. He doesn't want you to do up his coat today, and he knows that the reason why might upset you.

Frozen wrists. Otto can't make himself look up. He's sure that Max's eyes will be the somber grey-brown that they turn when he's thinking hard. "Okay." He steps away, eyes somewhere above the orange fluff of Max's uncombed curls. "Do you need lunch? A snack? A tea?" His voice is escalating into yellow fever pitch clouds, and his breaths are tinted with pollen.