"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.
"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.
A note sits in the center of the white, white counter.
Went for a walk, down to the park. Will be back soon. I love you.
It's missing a doodle, usually Otto's sign-off. Max sighs.
"Grey, wanna go ahead and eat? Otto went out for a minute." Max slumps into a chair nearest the door, coat only half undone, pout sulking on his lips.
Greyson, obviously uncomfortable, thunks his bags down on the table. "Max... Should I be here right now? Because it feels like I shouldn't."
"Don't be stupid." A dismissive hand wave, a shrug. "You can be wherever you want."
"Otto is upset, you're upset, and I'm confused. Is it about that time when we went out, like, three years ago? Is that why he's upset? After all this time?"
Max colors, pretends he hasn't. "Well, he doesn't really know about that, see? And I am not telling him. He's mad enough as it is."
The two of them snap to attention when a third voice asks, "Tell me what?"
—-
Otto has not stopped being a crazy bitch. He's outside, in the cold, on December 24th, pacing the streets near his apartment like some wild, mangy, stray animal with no one who loves it, and maybe it's how he feels, too. He knows he's overreacting, wants to stop, cannot stop, keeps reacting and reacting and reacting, and knows that this can't be good for anyone. Reactions lead to decay, lead to waste products, lead to mishaps.
He stands on the porch outside of the lobby. The world is silent, or maybe he's going blind, or maybe he just can't hear over the winding what if he leaves me what if I'm not good enough what if Greyson is better what if I am not The One what if in his mind.
He should go in and apologize. He knows this. He isn't ready. And yet his feet push him forward and into the elevator.
He's now just opened the door, and Greyson's colorless voice trickles through the crack in the door.
"Is it... we... three... all this time?" And then Max's voice is shooting into the blankness, orange and tense.
"...I am not telling him...he's mad enough..."
Otto shivers, more from the flat grey smog building in his chest than from the cold. Is he cheating? He wouldn't. But what else would he hide? What is he hiding?!
Sucking in a too cold breath, he slips through the door. "Tell me what?" The two of them jump, stare at him, surprised.
Deer in headlights is a phrase with two sides, one of which Max never understood until now. One is a feel of shock; the other is the blackened dread of an unstoppable doom. "Otto, I-"
"What do you not want to tell me?" The door swings shut, an afterthought to the stretched tight silence. "What do I need to know?"
Greyson looks at Max, then at Otto. His brow is furrowed, and he looks ready to squirm out of his seat. "Look, Max," he begins, voice hesitant, "Do you want to tell him, or should I?"
Oh fuck.
"No, don't-"
"Max, he needs to know. If it's causing this much upset, he should be told." Greyson turns to Otto, looking troubled. Otto thinks he might pass out. "Max and I dated once a few years back. I don't know if this bothers you, but I want to tell you that there's nothing there, absolutely nothing, and that I don't hope to keep being a divider in your relationship. I love Max, but as a brother, and nothing more, and I wish the two of you the best." If Max's mouth was open any wider, it would be on the ground. Otto's brain has gone totally numb.
Greyson claps Otto on the shoulder, then opens the door behind him. "Call me later," he calls, without turning back. "I hope you two work this out; you're really meant to be." And with that, he shuts the door behind him, nearly too quietly to hear.
Max is flushed bright red. "Otto, listen. I didn't tell you because I knew you would be upset, and I was scared you would be angry with me..." Otto's responding huff makes Max flinch slightly. "I didn't mean to be dishonest, I just- I wasn't sure how you would react, so I said nothing." There's a pause here, and it is, for once, colorless. Otto can't think. "Why are you upset, anyways?"
"Because you went to work instead of staying with me, and I'm a jealous asshole." Otto has blurted it before he can stop himself, sounding petulant and childish, and hating it. "Because you didn't let me button your coat. Stupid, small things that maybe mean you like me a little less than you used to." He frowns. "And then I was having a grey day, and you brought him home, and I didn't want to hurt you. So I left."
Max softens, suddenly, eyes melting and overwhelmingly chocolatey. "Is that what you were in a tiff about? Me leaving? The coat?" His voice is blue, mesmerizing in its indigo hue, and Otto feels his face heat. "I wasn't doing that because I don't like you," he murmurs, taking a small step forward. All resistance in the room dissolves in that step.
Otto reads the plea in Max's eyes, in his boy's eyes, and closes the distance between them easily. The part of his mind that questions everything and is always dissatisfied has quieted for the time being, replaced by the warm hum of forgiveness.
"I- This is embarrassing," Max says, voice cotton ball-muffled by Otto's sweater. "I wanted to... to show you I could do stuff on my own."
Otto shakes his head, puzzled. "I already know that, though."
Max sighs. "No." Otto, sensing that he's troubled, waddles them to the couch. Once they've flopped onto the cushions, Max continues. "It's just- you're getting more popular, and you're making more money every day, and I'm barely contributing to the rent and bills, and- and you already button my coat, and tuck me in, and make me coffee in the mornings, and you don't even drink coffee, and- I just wanna feel helpful."
Otto smiles, despite himself. "You are helpful. You do so much for me. You clean, and you work, and you keep me sane. And, you're just so much better at literally every human-related aspect of living together." Then, he smirks. "Plus, didn't you want me to be your daddy?"
For once, Max is the flustered one. He blushes, looking around nervously. "U-uhm... I mean. Yes?" His voice is pale pink, floating aimlessly around the room.
Otto laughs softly, and it's lavender tinted, and nothing feels so horrible. "I was kidding." Both of them know that he wasn't really, but neither says it. "I want you to feel helpful, too, however you gotta do it. Just say something next time, okay, babe?"
Max shrugs. "Okay. But, you promise not to overthink it, okay?"
Mutual nods resound, and they return to their position from earlier, Max snuggled into Otto's arms, the two of them enjoying one another's quiet. The apartment is finally at a comfortable temperature for cuddling, slowly approaching too warm; neither of them will pull away when it gets too hot. Otto kisses the top of Max's head, glances at the clock. 12:02.
"Oh. Merry Christmas." And there's something golden in the air, and maybe it's just the way the couch creaks when Max shuffles to sit up in his lap. Max smiles, eyes wide and excited, and startlingly blue.
"Merry Christmas."
A/N: Merry Christmas!! (Unless you don't celebrate, in which case, happy holidays ^^)
This one was a wild one to write. Hopefully there was sufficient fluff aha.
I love you guys! 😚
AJ