Hazel (boyxboy)

Poison-Ivy Green

"Otto." Max steps closer, and Otto shifts his weight onto his heels, not much thinking, not really feeling it.

Max feels it.

"No, I don't need anything." This time, the ice is deliberate, slicing. Otto flinches, starts to apologize. "Bye. Love you." The words bump together and fumble about, and Max isn't sure he means it. By the time he closes the door, the words are trying to pull their way back into his throat. It's too late.

—-

A knock sounds at the door. Otto is sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, scrubbing his brushes in a yellow bowl with ugly olive green scrapes. A manic sheen has sharpened his gaze, dissociation clinging at the edges of his cheeks.

Max has been away for six hours.

All of the cabinets in the room are open, abandoned in a frantic search for something to busy Otto's anxious hands; distantly, silver water runs in the bathroom sink.

The heat was turned off over two hours ago; Otto can't feel the cold.

A pan of far too many homemade cookies sits in a clean spot on the kitchen counter, surrounded by flour dust and smeared handprints, spilled chocolate chips and eggshells. His anxiety has produced something beautiful, for once, and Otto hopes it will do as an apology gift. Nothing has been okay today, and he blames no one but himself.

But, nothing has to be messed up anymore, because Max is at the door. He springs up, possibly knocking over the bowl in the process, and jogs to the door. "Max, I-"

Greyson lingers behind Max, both of them caught in a laugh. Greyson covers his face; Max is pink-cheeked and giggly. Do I still make him laugh like that? "Hey."

A thin quiet falls over the group. Otto tears it clumsily. "Hi." It comes in a whisper, and Otto can feel Max finding shadows in his cheekbones, in the paint-stained fingertips that hold onto the edge of the door too tightly. "I- Uh. It's a little messy." He feels himself floating away, hears the water running, running, wants to run down the drain with it.

Max catches the begging in Otto's eyes, raises his eyebrows. "Painted all day, huh? Told you you wouldn't miss me too much." He pats his shoulder in a way far too platonic to be comfortable, and says, "It can't be too bad. You know Grey's seen worse."

Otto clutches the door tighter. He feels his face growing hot with discomfort, notices that it's almost as cold inside the apartment as it is outside. You can't let him see you like this. Make them leave. "No, no, no, it's really bad. Maybe you should, um, go out for a while? I'll clean, you guys can grab takeout, or something?" All he can look at is the little spot where Greyson's pinky brushes Max's when he shifts.

Max frowns a little, shrugging. "I mean, if you want. I guess we'll be back in, like, twenty minutes." He turns without saying goodbye, smile still absent. Greyson follows close behind.

Just before closing the door, he hears Greyson mumble, "That was a bit odd, wasn't it?"

Otto, trying to blink the fog away from his eyes, shuffles back into the kitchen. His socks are soggy with soapy paint water. The apartment is cold.

He spends a few moments convincing himself to stop being such a crazy bitch, and sets to work cleaning up his mess.

—-

"Otto? We're back!" Max tumbles into the apartment, a large paper bag hugged to his chest for warmth. Despite it, his cheeks are pink from the chill. Greyson, still looking somewhat uncomfortable, wanders in shortly afterwards.

The apartment is clean, too clean, antiseptic scented and scrubbed raw. The paint stain in the carpet from the fourth time they'd kissed is gone, and so is the crayon scratch in the table from Joey's last visit. Otto is nowhere in sight.