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ghostmartyr · 4 years

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how a life can move from the darkness [5/?]

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Summary: Two drug addicts (Eren and Historia) meet in group and decide to be roommates to make their living situation slightly less weird. From there we do the slow burn found family dance mixed in with the struggles and agonies of recovery. Heavy on friendship feels, especially EMA. Eventual yumikuri.

Eren had lunch plans for the weekend. An appointment. Specific time and everything. It took a lot of debate, stress, one meeting and several more confirmations from Historia that it was fine, but there was a plan, and Mikasa and Armin had agreed to it. Sunday lunch. Dinner reminded Eren too much of his mother watching every twitch of his hands at the table. Lunch’s only association was with forgetting it.

He couldn’t forget this one.

Of course! the happy letters from Armin’s latest text spelled out. Mikasa had been more formal, which was easier. He could tell she didn’t really believe the offer either. He should have felt like crap over that, but it was too nice being back on the same wavelength.

He was going to see his friends again. And try like hell not to screw it all up this time.

Petra had said, many times, that one of the best things they could do to aid their recovery was keeping their minds engaged in something besides sitting around wanting drugs. It was important to keep life going instead of hiding in its cracks.

The first time she’d said it to him, directly, had been when he’d gone off on a rant about Zeke’s damn baseball games. He couldn’t even remember why it came up, except that Petra thought maybe going to a few would be good for him, and he’d still been in the yelling stage of everything.

Now locked in the stage where he took people’s advice and did something with it, he was doing what he could to distract himself. Benjamin was accepting food that wasn’t wriggling now. His tank still needed regular checks and cleaning. Several bouldering groups were lined up for the week.

He’d mentioned it to Reiner, since Reiner knew more about keeping busy than anyone he knew.

What he got was a copy of one of Ymir’s books.

“This one’s not about the porn,” Reiner had assured him, like that was a mark of quality.

Ymir had rolled her eyes loudly when he said it, snagging Eren’s toast off his plate. “Great review, Reiner. You should be my new marketing team.”

Eren was fifty pages in, and except for the very disconcerting moments spent realizing that Ymir’s insights about human emotion could translate to something painfully earnest when they had nothing to do with an actual person, it was okay. Mostly.

The two characters who were the focus of the romance were starting to spend a lot of time together. On purpose, instead of being forced into it. The narrator kept denying that part, but the narrator was also starting to spend an uncomfortable number of paragraphs being distracted by the other character’s physical appearance.

It was a lot of hunger. Wanting. Not being allowed to have.

“Historia?” Eren called out, flipping a few pages ahead. He’d forced her to the couch with her homework by stealing her usual spot under Benjamin’s tank.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been in love, right?”

The vibrations of a very heavy textbook hitting the floor were followed by a hiss of pain. Eren’s head swiveled around to catch Historia sucking a paper cut. Her face was an uncomfortable red.

“I—why?” she asked.

He brandished the book into the air. “One of Reiner’s friends is a romance novelist, and he gave me this to read.” Historia knew one or two things about Reiner thanks to awkward questions about whether or not it was okay to mention his roommate was a drug addict to other addicts. “And I was wondering if it’s normal for it to all sound like…”

Historia picked up her textbook, continuing to look at him with the kind of paralyzed horror he would have reserved for one of their talks about dead people. Eren cut to the chase.

“Is it supposed to sound like addiction?” he asked. “Is that what it feels like?”

Because every single page was taking him further and further away from the kind of want he knew Ymir had been intending and tossing him back into the hazy memory of needing a fix so badly that he talked to the man behind Zeke’s batting cage and staggered into Armin’s granddad’s bathroom and—

He didn’t know how Reiner had gotten through the full book. Eren didn’t think he could.

Petra read romance novels. She enjoyed them. Was it just him?

“No.” Historia stopped rubbing at her finger. “It—they’re not the same. Whatever I…” Her eyebrows knitted together. Carefully, with a precision that was at odds with the panic that had somehow been unleashed, she placed her book on the other side of the couch. “I don’t know if it was love, but it was nothing like… that.” She looked at the offending manuscript like it was one of Petra’s cookies. “Why are you still reading it?”

Eren shrugged, flipping through more pages. “Trying to keep busy.”

Trying not to think of what Ymir would say if she found out he couldn’t stomach the tamest book from her shelf. He could picture it pretty easily. He had no interest in living it out.

Hell, though. Did this character ever bother doing anything about all the wanting? Fifty more pages, and the obvious conclusion was that this was the only one Ymir wrote that wasn’t pornographic because she’d picked out a main character who couldn’t figure out how to communicate her feelings to her love interest, so there was nothing to be explicit about. No wonder the project had stuck out to Reiner. Someone like Ymir writing someone with a sense of embarrassment or insecurity was jarring.

“’Crystal Wick’?”

Historia had left the couch, and was investigating the book’s cover. She looked halfway alive, which was about as good as Eren had come to hope for lately. The shadows under her eyes had stopped darkening each morning.

“It’s a penname,” he said. “Bertolt says she mostly writes porn.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Reiner gave you porn to read?”

“He specifically said this one wasn’t.”

She peered closer at the cover, reading the quotes on the back. “Reiner gave you a romance novel that ‘Speaks to the truest soul of melancholic love’?”

Eren turned it over. “It says that?”

“Yes,” Historia said. “Crystal’s a ‘genius.’”

It did say that. Eren looked at the innocuous bits of text with a growing nausea the came from the book’s content, but felt appropriate for the glowing praise Ymir of all people had somehow earned. “If you ever meet her, you can’t say things like that,” he said. “Her head’s big enough already.”

Reading her reviews had probably paved the way on that. Ymir seemed like she came by most of it naturally, though. The reviews probably just confirmed what she already thought about herself.

“You don’t think she lives up to her accolades?” Historia asked. “She isn’t the—Eren your thumb’s blocking that one.”

Eren rolled his eyes and opened the book back up, pretending to read more about addictive, repressed lust with more of a smile than he’d managed all day. “Do you want to trade books?”

Historia stepped over his feet and grabbed the hardback Frieda had left on Benjamin’s table, pausing to give their fish a moment to say hello to her. She dangled his namesake’s volume over Eren’s head. He took it before he ended up with another black eye, handing over Ymir’s paperback.

“Frieda screens everything she reads around me,” she said. “She’s—protective.” Concernedly so, if it were over anyone besides Historia, but Historia didn’t need Eren voicing that. “You’ll probably have better luck with one of hers. It’s longer, too.”

Along with heavier. Eren rolled onto his stomach. “Thanks.”

Historia shrugged, returning to her couch vigil. Eren cracked open his Frieda-approved reading. Sci-fi, based on the cover. Armin had probably read it. He liked going through the bestseller’s lists. He liked sci-fi. They’d have something to talk about at lunch.

“It’s going to be fine, Eren,” Historia said, a minute into the author’s foreword.

“Yeah,” he said.

----

Not sleeping was marginally better than nightmares. He was supposed to look at the positives of his life, not focus on the negatives. Tossing back and forth between walls before settling for a few minutes at a time on the ceiling meant he wasn’t waking up in a cold sweat.

Frieda would be around soon, if she was having a sleepless night. He could make himself useful and start the hot chocolate early.

Mikasa and Armin would be showing up in a few hours. Their first time in an apartment he hadn’t shared with either of them.

Rivaille was coming with Mikasa. A neighbor hadn’t been watching their dog, Rivaille had no tolerance for non-human mammals breathing in his presence, and Mikasa didn’t trust him not to tear off his bandage if she left him alone. Armin and Mikasa had coordinated letting Eren know. They didn’t say that outright, but Armin had told Eren Rivaille was coming instead of Mikasa asking. They hadn’t wanted to give him the option of taking back his invitation.

He could see that conversation happening. It played out in his head until his worry about how things would go was smothered by how much he missed being there for those conversations.

He wouldn’t have taken back the invitation. He wondered how weird starting out with that point would be.

Eren swapped over to his side again. The streetlights several stories down barely winked at him through the blinds. He pulled the edge of his pillow up to block it out. He lowered it.

He snatched the blanket by his feet and swung off the bed. He’d make hot chocolate and keep a sleeping Benjamin company. If Frieda showed up, he’d keep her company too. That was better than lying awake all night wondering how he was going to screw everything up again.

He stepped out into the hallway, blanket over his shoulder, and there was no sign of anything but him being wrong.

He was thinking about hot chocolate and kitchen pans.

Down the hall, a thump sounded from Historia’s room.

Eren used to beat up his mother’s walls. And people. He’d heard worse.

It was just a noise. It was just a dark apartment.

It was just the sound of something hitting the floor in his suicidal friend’s room in the middle of the night where no one would be around to—

Eren’s blanket dropped to the floor, and Historia’s door appeared in front of him with a snap of motion he knew best from Armin’s toy magnets he’d got for his seventh birthday. The juxtaposition didn’t do anything to settle his nerves.

“Historia?” he asked the door. His voice came out loud and distant. One of his fists found the wood and knocked. “Is everything okay?”

Several more heartbeats of silence confirmed that to be the stupid question it was. Eren cleared his throat and tried to think of something besides how Frieda, who didn’t even have the full story, couldn’t sleep some nights until she saw her little sister breathing.

That was supposed to be weird. Kind of creepy.

“Historia, I’m opening the door,” he said.

He pushed it open more roughly than intended, and there wasn’t really a noise that came with it, but the door’s swing had some definite resistance that put his head in all the wrong places, and the random thought hit that he’d never been in her room before, and he was three steps in before his eyes even tried to pick anything out of the shadows, and for an insane moment he was so sure that this was the start of another nightmare, just in time to break Armin and Mikasa’s hearts all over again, and Historia was on the floor next to her bed.

Eren’s hand snapped out and hit the light switch.

The searing brightness hurt, but relief made up for it when it illuminated Historia’s tearstained face.

Eren almost fell to the floor. “You’re okay,” he said.

Historia, in a state of much less alarm over the last thirty seconds, stared at him with tears still actively falling, listless shock and a force that threw tennis balls taking in Eren’s presence under the spotlight that lit up her room.

“I don’t think so.”

Eren shook his head. “I meant you aren’t dead,” was the only thing he could think to say. He slid down into a more comfortable position on the hard floor. “What was that noise?”

Historia continued staring at him. She was in her pajamas, holding her flannel top tightly around her nightshirt. Like she’d tried to hide herself in it, and realized somewhere in the middle that there wasn’t enough room, so just left her hands frozen stiff.

One moved. Rigidly. She pointed at the floor behind him.

Somewhat wedged between the door and the floor was a book.

Ymir’s.

So he wasn’t the only one.

The comprehension wasn’t the gentlest place to land, but it was tinged with enough relief to pass.

“Too real?”

Historia nodded.

Eren smiled. Shooting for comforting. “Yeah, it didn’t work for me either.” There was a review to take back to Ymir. ‘Two out of three drug addicts agree your main character reads like a junkie.’ Maybe Reiner just read enough of her stuff to be inoculated.

But Historia was shaking her head. Not in a definitive motion, just back and forth. She whispered something Eren didn’t catch.

“Sorry?”

Historia swallowed. Visibly. “She left.”

Eren’s eyes drifted back to the book. It was the only thing on the floor. The only spot of color in the entire room, really. The furniture was all bare, left staged and sterile. One book, hurled at the door, was the only indication that someone lived in the space. The romance novel Historia should have had more of an interest in anyway, that the words on the back cover and that he’d skimmed near the end dubbed a tragedy.

“She doesn’t say anything,” Historia said. “She spends—she spends half the book wanting this girl, loving her so much it sounds like—” one of her sleeves pulled up, and the scars popped. “She spends all that time, but then she never says it. She leaves and never says it.” A new fount of tears started, and Historia whipped them away with the back of her hand.

Her voice broke. “If she doesn’t say it, how’s she supposed to know?”

Eren moved to the bed, sitting next to Historia on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully put his arm around her shoulders. She curled inward, but not away.

“If she doesn’t know, she won’t know to…” The sleeve pulled further up, drawn by Historia’s hand raking through her hair. “She left,” she repeated. “She loves her, and she leaves anyway, over some stupid, idiotic, self-righteous—”

More tears. Eren had never been great with them. When Armin cried, it was usually after someone had hit him. Eren’s job was to go hit them back so Armin wouldn’t have to anymore. Mikasa had been better at that. She’d also been better at making Armin feel better. She was better at just about everything.

Eren wished Historia had one of the better ones in her corner. But she was stuck with him.

“I left too,” he said, the truth of many, many hours of guilt and hatred clawing its way into words that sounded halfway human, and like maybe forgiveness was okay to want. “People don’t always—”

“But you’re getting them back!”

The shout was hoarse and broken, and much louder than the rest of the conversation.

Historia continued on, savagely tearing through the words. “You never reached out, and never said anything, and you needed them. More than anything.” Her voice caught. “I… She was so… I always thought she didn’t need anyone. Even…”

Eren was five and Armin was the coolest kid on the playground. He mouthed off to everyone he disagreed with, even after he took a beating, because it was right.

Eren was seventeen and hearing for the first time how little Armin had thought of himself back then.

Eren was ten and Mikasa was winning all the fights he started.

Eren was nine and Mikasa would not let go of his hand.

“She left,” Historia said, “and all this time… but I’m the one who…” She stopped, and Eren could see the cords in her wrist tighten before she started again.

When she did, the words were slow and agonized. “I’m not like Armin and Mikasa,” she said. “I didn’t wait. I didn’t keep trying. I took it for granted that she didn’t want me and gave up. She left. I never chased her. I want her but I never—”

Eren was probably holding her shoulder too tightly. He knew his jaw was too tight. He could hear Armin tutting at him, flicking a spilled cheerio from the kitchen counter at his forehead. “You were stuck in juvie,” Eren said. “You’d have to be an idiot to expect someone to chase you from there.”

“She is!” Historia shouted at the floor.

Eren kept the half-hug stable through the laugh that choked out a sob. He thought he heard the click of their front door unlocking. Hot chocolate felt very far away. Historia was shivering. She could use some.

He hoped her girlfriend felt half as bad about everything as he had when he’d flamed out and abandoned everyone who loved him. Whatever had happened, there was no way this didn’t earn her at least that.

“I don’t know what went on between you two,” he said, not adding that he didn’t think Historia did, either, “but I never wanted Armin and Mikasa to stick this through. I’m—” hell “glad they did, but I was a jerk. They deserved better. I wouldn’t have blamed them if they never talked to me again.”

“But you would have wanted them to.”

And hated himself all the way through his bedroom wall for it. “Yeah.”

“Because you love them.”

“…Yeah.”

Those were definitely footsteps. Eren didn’t want to listen for the moment they spotted the extra light in the hallway, or his blanket on the floor. Historia’s eyes were peeking out from behind her hair again. They were trained on Ymir’s book.

“I don’t even know if she loved me back,” she said.

Eren couldn’t give an answer to that. All he really knew about Historia’s girlfriend was that all the flashbacks in the world wouldn’t be reason enough to shrug off a chance to punch her in the face, and if that needed to happen, Historia had first claim.

The footsteps stopped. Eren winced when they started again, slapping the floor, and he caught the second when Historia’s confusion at the noise turned into horror.

Frieda appeared as a breathless shadow in the doorway, and Eren didn’t even have a chance to spot the panic her body was screaming on her face before she swooped in. A blur of older sister dove on both of them, and shock and a welcoming thud of a heartbeat stole the breath from Eren’s lungs. Frieda’s fingers caught his head and pulled him over her shoulder while Historia was simply dragged bodily into her side with a surprised croak.

“You’re both okay?” Frieda asked, squeezing more air out of them. She sounded faint. Fear bled through her grip, and Historia had gone suspiciously still.

Eren had wanted her around for these late-night encounters, once. Right now it felt cruel to both of them.

“I’m good,” Eren said.

Frieda nodded, and Eren felt her pull away just enough to look down properly at her sister, who was still clutched to her like a limpet.

“Historia?”

Both of her sleeves had rolled up. Her fingernails were digging matching imprints into her scars, and every person in the hug could feel the flinch Frieda tried to hide. Historia buried herself closer. Shaking like it was her first night off the hard stuff.

“I—” she started through a new sob. “I’m sorry.”

Eren disentangled himself before Frieda’s hand decapitated him on its way to hold her sister more tightly, soft words and reassurances brushing by his ears as Frieda told Historia not to apologize, she had nothing to apologize for, and Historia dissolved further into tears.

“I’m going to go get started on the hot chocolate,” he said.

Frieda’s gaze shot over him, and Eren almost stopped in the middle of standing at the unadulterated terror dampening her eyes, but she only mouthed her thanks, pulling Historia fully into her arms in the midst of another litany of sorrys, one after another.

The one thing Historia had never wanted was for Frieda to know how bad things were. Eren doubted any of them wanted to think about how long she had guessed at it.

“Does it ever help? Talking?”

Eren patted Historia firmly on the head on his way out.

He also grabbed the book off the floor.

----

Eren was cleaning the apartment, which was stupid. They had maid service. They did a superhuman job of cleaning. Short of making a deal with the devil, Eren wasn’t going to be able to match their work. He was leaving streaks on the counter. It didn’t matter how many times he dragged the washcloth over the spots. The streaks just moved.

Armin had shared an apartment with him. He knew how Eren lived.

Right, and his last memory of what that was like was forever linked to digging through Eren’s bedroom and finding all of his drugs.

The streak moved from the edge of the counter to the center. Eren was chasing it around the way Benjamin swam after their hands when they were over his tank. With about as much success.

Lunch was takeout. Takeout plus a few mangled apples.

Historia had been nice enough not to say anything. Her face had handled that.

A night of no sleep and hysterics had peeled off some of the darkness in her eyes. She looked almost human again. By their standards, but their standards had improved lately. She’d stopped Eren’s jittery hands from costing him a finger and spun her phone over the marble at him, several restaurant tabs already opened.

Eren had texted Armin and Mikasa. Everyone had ordered. It was all fine. They had enough chairs. Frieda had double-checked before she left. She’d spent the night.

“You don’t want to stay?” Eren and Historia had asked in perfect, frantic unison when she announced her departure over breakfast. A breakfast she’d cooked for them, smiling through her yawns the whole time.

For a moment he’d thought Frieda might cave, with both of them asking. Instead, she’d given them both a perfunctory pat on the head. “You two are all grown up. You don’t need me to supervise your play dates.”

Frieda was the only one with that confidence. Historia had come back from feeding Benjamin dripping dread, and Eren was left wondering if sleep deprivation and drug addiction looked anything alike and how much it would worry Mikasa and Armin that he could barely walk in a straight line.

“Sorry,” Historia said, joining him with a washcloth of her own. She didn’t leave streaks.

“Stop saying that,” Eren said. He wiped down a dried spot of water he’d left earlier. “I was only up because I couldn’t sleep.”

“Still.”

Eren yawned into his hand. “If you’re sorry about that, I’m sorry for giving you the book.”

Historia’s mouth thinned.

They worked in silence for several minutes, contributing very little to the overall cleanliness of the apartment. Eren could hear a clock ticking. None of the ones either of them owned ticked.

“What are they like?” Historia asked in a blurt.

“Huh?”

“Armin and Mikasa.”

Eren stopped scrubbing. “They’re… Armin and Mikasa.”

“Your friends,” Historia said. She made the term sound alien.

Eren glanced at her. She was frowning at her rag. Tiny, blond, and maybe looking for the words instead of being too stubborn to share them, but the blast of nostalgia wasn’t pulling its punches. Eren slowly renewed his swipes at the counter.

His friends. The two people who made him get it a little when clients chattered on about their other halves. The foundation of everything he was that he’d bombed halfway to hell when everything he was turned out to be pain.

Armin and Mikasa.

“Mikasa’s good at everything,” Eren started. He remembered jogging to one of Zeke’s baseball practices, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk and trying to keep up, whining those same words because his big brother would never tell anyone. “She’s strong. I—not just in things like sports, or fighting. I could never win against her when we sparred, and she has better times than I do on all the mountains nearby, but that’s not it.” His reflection blinked emptily from the shining counter. “She’s reliable. The responsible one. Always there, even when you don’t want her to be, because she knows more about when you need her than you do.

“It’s annoying,” he didn’t say. It used to be. It would have his head full of steam and his feet stomping cross the sidewalk. It had leaked into the things he’d said when withdrawal hit and he hated everyone.

“Armin’s… an optimist. He doesn’t think he is, because he’s always thinking about the most depressing stuff, but it’s always about… ways to make them better. To fix them. He doesn’t lose it when it’s hard or looks too difficult. He just does it. Like it’s nothing. He’s tough. The toughest person I know. And the smartest. He—I don’t know how many things he’s tutoring by now, but he picked up as many jobs as he could to pay for every college course he could stay awake for.” And then some. Eren had seven different alarms set for each day of the week to go and collect Armin for his classes. There were days he ended up carrying Armin to class. That was what finally got him to change up his schedule. “He’d be an expert in all of them after a semester. Sometimes less. He got a free ride to several places, but—he stayed behind. He cared more about staying with us.

“He lied about that,” Eren added. “He’s not usually good at it, but he was then. We wouldn’t have let him lose out on something like that. We both tried to get him to go when it all came out, but he wouldn’t. He—we kept trying, but he just wouldn’t. He staged—” The flash of the kitchen lights flashed against the counter, hiding the reflection he knew was smiling. “He staged an intervention for us. A whole PowerPoint on why we had to stop, because the only one who knew what was best for his education was him.”

Historia walked over to the sink, squeezing her rag dry. “Did it work?”

“Of course it worked,” Eren said, grabbing a fresh towel. “You can’t argue with the smartest person you know.” That was why people always tried beating him up; that was the only thing they could come up with.

For a while, that was the only thing Eren could come up with for dealing with himself. Mikasa would have thrown him over her shoulder and told him to stop hitting things. Armin would have devised his own twelve-step program, devoted to all facts about Eren he’d picked up throughout their years of friendship, and handed him a copy.

Historia took the paper towel roll off the counter, watching him with the subterfuge of someone who’d maybe read a summary of the concept in a book.

Eren balled up his washcloth and landed it in the sink, giving up the pretense for a moment. “What do you think I should say?”

Historia’s gaze took a small detour to Benjamin’s tank. “You’re the one who knows them.”

“You’re the one here who knows what it’s like to be screwed over.”

The storm cloud darkening her countenance was very specifically aimed at him, but it cleared fast. Historia sent her rag into the sink after his, frowning. She waited on the words for a few moments. “They still love you,” she said, “so… love them back?”

It sounded like a nicer version of what Ymir said, and he was about to say so when it struck him that comparisons to Crystal Wick were the last thing that would be helpful today. Or any other time.

“Would that be enough for you?” he asked.

Laughter barked out of Historia, surprising both of them. She shook her head and leaned against the island. “Eren, seeing her again would be enough for me.” She reached out and tapped his shoulder in an odd, noncommittal pat. “Just be you.”

Eren watched Benjamin’s lazy circles. “I’m not sure he’s around.”

“Oh,” Historia said.

“Oh,” Eren echoed.

Historia turned around to lean bodily over the sparkly clean marble, nudging Eren’s elbows with hers. Benjamin reacted to the extra viewership with a flourish as he rounded the rock he had decided was this week’s favorite.

“…You could try smiling more?”

Eren looked over at Historia’s unsmiling face. “You think?”

“Maybe?”

It was the sleep deprivation, maybe, that made him smile.

They both still sucked at this.

----

When Eren was little, there were few things in his life he enjoyed as much as sci-fi B movies. Zeke would let him and Armin watch the worst, implausible action adventures, all about mutated sharks that were part dinosaur and sludge beasts that lived in the Arctic. Horror movies were bundled in, but Armin wasn’t allowed to watch those because he’d keep his parents up with existential life questions about good and evil that they hadn’t wanted to discuss with their seven-year-old.

Eren didn’t have that problem with his parents. He would sit in Zeke’s lap while they went out wherever, chattering loudly about all the things the monster’s victims were doing wrong, and how he’d do it better. He’d be a good monster slayer, he told Zeke. He wouldn’t die first.

Zeke had always said if the scientists hadn’t been so careless, and the other humans hadn’t bothered the monster so much, none of them would have had to die.

He was the worst person to watch movies with. He’d also been the only babysitter Eren had who would let him watch those ones.

Some of Eren’s chief complaints about the screaming people in the movies had been how they handled doorways. They’d run into places and open doors without a second thought about where it would land them.

There was a knock on the door.

Eren dropped the plate he was fussing with and almost tripped over Historia bolting for the doorknob. He threw it open before any sort of sense had a chance of reestablishing itself, and met the alarmed eyes of the delivery girl with heavy breathing and

Historia pulled him back by his shirt. He stumbled back into the apartment, socks sliding on the wood.

“Sorry,” Historia said, plastered, rigid fake smile in place. “We’re expecting—”

Mikasa.

Armin.

Sound fell away to only Eren’s heartbeat. Historia pulling out her wallet and overpaying the delivery girl was barely a blip.

They were standing in the hallway. Behind the bright uniform. Standing there. Outside the door, like they’d never been anywhere else. Like he’d never left. Like Armin had forgotten his key when he brought Mikasa over for game night.

Ten steps away. Nine. Five.

“Ah,” Historia said, loud and echoey, “you must be Mikasa and Armin?”

A hiss came from the space below Mikasa’s elbow.

“And Rivaille,” Historia said. “Hello.”

No one said hello back. The cat’s perturbed mreow could have counted in another life full of hallucinogens. This one had Mikasa and Armin, standing in a doorway as the heavy apartment door heaved itself shut in their faces. Historia hurriedly blocked it with her foot, attention darting between the human statues she was surrounded by.

Eren wasn’t even sure which one he was staring at. Armin, caution and hope bursting like a newborn star all over his face. Mikasa. Mikasa. Somehow still standing and still there despite every horrible thing he’d thought and shouted and thrown.

“Mreow,” Rivaille said again.

Historia, having abandoned the bags carrying their lunch to the floor, pushed the door open more properly. “I could—take him, if you would like?”

Mikasa’s eyes snapped to Historia with such mechanic efficiency that Eren’s blink missed it. Her iron stare added one more statue to the scene as Rivaille continued to prowl about his enclosure. For an eternity, she and Armin were both staring at Historia. Slowly, that stare turned, very directly, back to Eren. Eren felt halfway to blitzed. Being all the way there might have been the only thing that could help to decipher the new looks they were giving them.

“Thank you,” Mikasa said at last. Talking like a Mikasa who hadn’t lived through the last year. She handed Rivaille’s carrier off to Historia. “He’s very well behaved. It should be safe to let him out. As long as you watch him around—Benjamin?”

Eren nodded. His head felt like it was on a string.

She nodded back, and addressed Historia. “I don’t know how he is around fish. He also shouldn’t be jumping, but I can… I will take care of supervising him.”

Historia held the carrier gingerly, and miraculously, Rivaille wasn’t screaming at the loss of his stable pedestal that was Mikasa’s arms of steel. “He hurt his paw?”

Armin interrupted before the storm cloud on Mikasa’s face could start thundering. “The neighbor’s dog did,” he said.

“Right.”

“Rivaille prefers his space.”

“Okay.”

Mikasa and Armin still hadn’t stepped inside. Their food was going to get cold if they left it on the floor. Rivaille was only a moment’s distraction as long as he was in his carrier. Eren felt like he was in the center ring of that circus Armin’s parents had taken them to when they were small enough to need to climb up on their shoulders to see anything.

He didn’t have a script or any pies to throw in his face. Just him and whatever that meant.

He was reminded, and he didn’t want to be, of another family meal. Back when his father had been alive, and there was a family. Mikasa, Armin, and Eren, all sitting around the table with his parents, candles lit, fancy tablecloth set out.

Someone had knocked on the door.

Zeke. Uninvited, unaware that anything was going on, and wondering if Eren would like to go see a movie.

Eren found himself echoing their father.

“Do you—want to come in, maybe?”

He hoped he sounded more like he wanted his guests to say yes.

Mikasa and Armin both relaxed their shoulders so much, for a moment, it looked like they were melting. Armin’s instant smile was so heartfelt and earnest that Eren wanted to scream, and he didn’t know how he was going to exist with Mikasa one step closer when all he could think was how many apologies he owed and how many they’d never let him finish because his friends were too damn kind and too damn perfect and he had missed them so much.

They hadn’t been here five minutes and he already felt like crying. He was fucking this up right out of the gate.

But everyone else knew that, too, so they were going to keep talking around him. Door collapsing shut, closing off the one path of retreat, Mikasa briefly stopped dissecting him with her eyes and turned her focus squarely on Historia. “You are Eren’s new roommate.”

Not really new, anymore. Just not Armin. Eren reached to the floor and picked up the food bags. At the same moment Armin stepped forward to reach for one. Their hands bumped and snapped apart.

“Yes,” Historia said. “Hi. I’m Historia Reiss.”

There was a pregnant pause of evaluation and judgment before Historia seemed to think to stick out her hand. It shot out from its place on Rivaille’s carrier like one of Zeke’s pitches.

Mikasa took it. “How is it you two know each other?”

Fussing with the food was suddenly a really convenient way to not be looking at any of them, but Armin had never been great about hiding his sharp draws of breath when he thought one of them was throwing a first punch. “Mikasa, that might not be the—”

“NA,” Historia blurted. “I’m a heroin addict.”

Eren didn’t know why he looked at Armin, but Armin was already looking back, dismayed panic as clear in his face as all his emotions always were. No one really wanted the door to drug-addled pasts thrown open. Not today, not now, not ever until they were all sure they were sticking around and not running off again to live with strangers.

“…You have a lovely apartment,” Mikasa said.

Historia was nodding in his peripheral. “Inheritance. From murdering my father. Self-defense,” she clarified in a hurry. “Maybe. I’m not—I am a murderer, but it was only that one time. I’m not going to do it again.”

Frieda should not have left the apartment.

Eren froze in the middle of setting the boxes out on plates. Armin, gathering the bags and folding them into a neat pile, mimicked him, and they both silently waited for the next thundering shoe to drop.

“I moved in because we had that in common,” would have been an honest response, and saved them all some of the silence, and it was at the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t want to start that. He didn’t want the shock or the tears, or the long argument that would all be kicked off with, “You didn’t kill Dr. Yeager.”

Maybe. Like Historia had maybe killed her dad in self-defense. Eren had still felt his heart stop. Eren’s hands had helped that along, and no one ever wanted to hear it.

Mikasa saved the moment. Calmly, like a modern day superhero whose qualities were eternally called out to balance Eren’s failures. “I have a cousin who went through something similar,” she said. Smiling. With her eyes, but that was where her best smiles were. “He’s less reluctant about repeat offenses.”

Armin coughed a chuckle, catching Eren’s eye. Another knot in his chest loosened.

“We should eat before it gets cold,” he said.

“We should,” Armin agreed, handing Eren one of the napkins set out.

Eren took it quickly and gratefully, swiping away his tears before anyone else could see.

----

“He’s gorgeous, Eren,” Armin said softly, peering so closely at the aquarium that with his old haircut, he would have already been drenched. Benjamin wasn’t swimming as close as he did with Historia, and not used to people saying hello from up above unless they had food, but he wasn’t hiding away in one of his caves, either. “Have you thought about adding to the tank at all?”

“Some. There are a few eels that might be a good fit, but he should have some more time to settle and grow before we give that a try. The tank could also use a sturdier hood first.”

“I’ve read they can be escape artists.”

“Yeah. I told Historia nothing that can get out and crawl around, but—” he wasn’t going to relapse, and Armin didn’t need to hear about how recently he’d doubted that—“it’s a big tank. Benjamin could use some company.”

“A predator tank suits you,” Armin said. He floated his fingers above the water, clearly tempted to give petting Benjamin a shot.

Eren shrugged, leaning his hip on Benjamin’s table. “If you say so. I can’t handle the live feeding. Too squeamish. I’ve got tank duty on the chore wheel while Historia does the heavy lifting.”

Armin was quiet. A thinking sort of quiet where he was about to say something that made more boring people want to hit him. He glanced at the kitchen counter. Mikasa was sitting on a stool. Historia, with Rivaille’s prompting, had been encouraged to sit on top of the counter.

The cat hadn’t left her lap.

He’d hissed when Eren had tried to say hello.

With Historia, he nuzzled her cheek and purred like a chainsaw. Only less literally than what Eren had seen from those claws. Even Mikasa was taken aback by how gently Rivaille was behaving.

They were getting along. They’d all survived lunch past Eren asking who had won Levi’s MMA tournament this year (Annie, and Armin had immediately switched the topic to movies while Mikasa stabbed the floor with her eyes), Eren had a few lines on his hands from where he’d grabbed his knife and fork too hard, but none of him or the silverware was broken.

“Moving out helped after all, didn’t it?”

Eren’s hands gripped the edge of the table. “Armin…”

“I’m happy,” Armin interrupted. “I’m really glad, Eren.”

“Don’t.”

The low hum of conversation from the kitchen stopped. Rivaille’s warning meow was quickly stifled by Mikasa getting up from her stool. Historia grabbed her arm before she could take a full step. It was a surprise to everyone that Mikasa let that be enough, but Eren couldn’t think about that right now.

He wanted Armin to be hurt. Betrayed. Upset.

Not relieved that the person who caused all of that was better. Not putting some piece of disloyal garbage over—

“Don’t act like it’s all okay now,” Eren growled. Speaking to the floor because the floor did the right thing when he fell on it and gave him a damn bruise. “I—” he wasn’t supposed to do this Petra had told him to take it easy it didn’t need to come out all at once to be progress—“You can’t just be happy I’m not breaking everything I touch anymore and act like that’s the end of it.”

Armin was the weak one, in kindergarten. That’s what everyone thought. Lied to about themselves so they didn’t have to think about why this one kid made them all want to beat him silly instead of listening to him.

He was the bravest person Eren had ever met. “Well, why not?”

“Why—what?”

Armin pulled away from Benjamin’s tank. He patted his hands with the towel Historia had started leaving out. “If you think you messed up that badly,” he said with a forced, careful steadiness, “why do you think it’s up to you to say how we feel about it? Isn’t it more important for us to get a say?”

Eren had fallen back into looking at him. Armin looked back earnestly, months upon months of frown lines meeting his words and promising that this wasn’t someone who said things he didn’t mean. Someone who didn’t think for hours on end before he worked up the nerve to blow everyone’s mind with his confidence.

He’d had months of Eren not being ready to be his audience.

“Eren I don’t think—” Armin shook his head, his shorter hair not flurrying the way it used to when he did that. “I don’t think anyone here would say things went well. It was awful.” Understatement. “As happy I am that you’re doing better, I think I’m even happier none of us are back in that place.” Nothing gave Armin the right to say things Eren agreed with even when he was so angry he could barely see straight. “But if you’re going to be angry over us wanting you back—you should understand, shouldn’t you? How painful it is that you don’t blame us for missing everything you went through?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Eren said. “Those are still my mistakes, Armin. You can’t take on the blame for that.”

Armin kept shaking his head. “You’re my—you’re our best friend, Eren. That should mean you never have to go through anything alone, but you did,” he said softly. “We were right there. We saw you every day. And we missed… everything.”

He smiled his crooked, unhinged smile that their middle school D&D club had voted to ban. “You’re so busy being angry at us for being happy we didn’t ruin you that you’re letting us get away with being really selfish. Of course we want things to be fixed. We’re the ones who let them break.”

Eren could feel more tears waiting and burning under the pressure of his own heartbeat building up behind his skull. He’d heard that kind of blame in his head, once. Right before he screamed it at Mikasa. Hateful and full of everything he never wanted to be while he threw up his organs.

They were crap. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“We wanted to do more right,” Armin said. “Didn’t you?”

“You can’t argue with the smartest person you know.”

Hell. Oh hell.

Historia had said just seeing that girl of hers would be enough. Even after she broke her heart. She still thought about her all the time. They couldn’t have known each other that long if they met in juvie. Not anywhere near as long as Eren had known Armin and Mikasa. They had years of friendship backing up one really, really inexcusably awful year.

They wanted him back.

He’d known that. That was why he was so pissed. They deserved so much better.

Armin was standing right in front of him, earnest, brilliant eyes telling him that all over again. Staring at his idiot friend who’d ruined their lives and hoping, more than anything, the idiot would take him back.

He had known that’s how they felt, right?

This whole time?

Eren didn’t want to start sobbing in front of Mikasa. Not again. He thought that every single time it happened. It was maybe the one thing about him that none of this had changed.

Armin, his first friend, the guy who’d taught him all about why dinosaurs were the best and how to stick to a study plan, took pity on him, and moved in to grab him before the crying could really start, catching his shoulders and head in his hands and not feeling, or not caring, that this was closer than they’d dared to be for over a year.

And Eren hated crying, hated that he spent so much of his life now doing it, but Armin’s tears rolling down his neck felt too much like home to hate anything properly. He grabbed Armin right back and held him as tightly as he’d never let himself after the funeral.

He had missed him too. So much.

----

Lunch had technically been over for hours by the time Mikasa and Armin left.

None of them wanted it to be. That was why Armin had finally said they should get going.

“It won’t change just because we head out the door,” he said. “We’re doing better than that, now.”

None of them wanted to talk about how that was still a hope, not a fact, either. Eren felt more clingy than he ever had in his life. For maybe the first time, he fully understood why Mikasa had to be talked down from looking after him all the time. Some hurts didn’t ever let you think things could go back to being okay.

Armin was still the smart one.

Historia was helping to coax Rivaille back in his cage. Eren didn’t make the repeated mistake of trying to be friendly with the cat. His hand still hurt from earlier. Armin was standing out in the hall. Ready to go.

Mikasa was lingering in the threshold. Halfway between helping Historia with her cat and not leaving Eren.

Eren had only had half the talk that needed to happen so far today. Drilling Armin on his studies and Mikasa on her judo students and Historia on anything that wasn’t her family or drug habit had soaked up the time. Maybe too much. Armin and Mikasa’s questions about school had sounded very sincere and gentle, but Eren wouldn’t be surprised if Armin already had another PowerPoint project playing out in his head about what they now knew about Eren’s new friend.

Armin caught his eye as Historia finally, without a mark on her, convinced the devil cat that he wanted to be back in a box.

Eren couldn’t help one last scowl at the golden eyes leering at him. Rivaille returned the expression with interest. “He’s never done that for me.”

“You’re too rough with him,” Mikasa said.

“You used to pick me up like that all the time.”

“You are not a cat, Eren.”

Armin laughed and even the appearance of a grudge had to fall away. Mikasa smiled softly at him. Eren doubted his expression looked much different. “We should take him back downstairs while he’s still settled. Historia, would you like to carry him?”

Eren did his best to roll his eyes at Armin. The attempt wasn’t great. Ymir or Annie would have laughed themselves silly at him. …Ymir would have. Annie probably would have kicked him and told him to work on it.

Historia followed the leading question and flicked her eyes between Eren and Mikasa, catching on way too fast. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll… follow you down, then.”

To her credit, she raised her eyebrows questioningly at Eren before she actually followed Armin. Eren shrugged a shoulder, which she took to be good enough reason to abandon him to be an adult on his own. Petra would probably hug both of them if she ever got the full story out about today.

He and Mikasa watched their friends trot off.

The renewed silence wasn’t that awkward, but Eren was starting to feel it. Armin was the talker of the three of them. He took all of the twists and turns of Eren’s temper and made sense of it.

Mikasa didn’t talk as much.

They’d had a long time of not talking. Even the old kind didn’t feel right. He wanted to say something. Anything. As long as it included an apology.

“She’s very pretty.”

Eren’s readied words stopped short. “Huh?”

Mikasa had her scarf pulled up over her mouth. It didn’t quite cover the red in her cheeks. She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was still on the now empty hallway.

Comprehension, hitting Eren over the head like a loud, embarrassed gong, rang out in his mind. The expected start would have been bad enough.This was different. This was Mikasa confiding in him, and he’d had too many talks about his and other people’s feelings to miss a cue like that. It wasn’t a year ago where he could be confused and move on with his life while Armin came back home five hours later and told him that his people skills needed work.

They did still need work. But Mikasa was his friend, and deserved the effort.

“I could get you her number,” he said hesitantly, “but she’s pretty hung up on this girl she knows.”

Mikasa’s face went so red that he knew for a fact that they both wanted anything else to be happening.

“I—see.”

He had to try. For Mikasa, he could do that much. “You two got along really well.” Or Historia got on well with her cat, which was like the same thing. No wonder Mikasa was asking. “I don’t know—she’s not… she’s really not available, but you could probably be good friends. Or hang out at Zeke’s games; he conned her into subbing for a few, and she could use someone besides me to practice with.”

He couldn’t tell if he was helping. He and Mikasa didn’t do this, and the unfamiliarity alone would probably be enough to make her face that color, because she knew as much as he did that this was not how they were them.

“Zeke stopped asking for my help,” Mikasa said, picking the closest side of normal to engage with.

Normal wasn’t safe. Pins and needles ran all up Eren’s spine before he went for it and took the damn plunge. “He was trying to be considerate, I guess. His version,” Eren added, more than aware what Mikasa thought about Zeke’s considerations. They were about what he thought, after all. “I… I’ll tell him he doesn’t need to do that anymore. It’s… better with you around.”

“…Thank you.”

The oppressive quiet came back. Eren’s fingernails were fighting to dig into his palms. The door was propped open by his back. He could imagine hearing Benjamin’s water filter if he just gave himself a second.

He didn’t want to put something this important off for any more seconds.

“Mikasa,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

Mikasa didn’t move. “I know.”

“The things I said…”

“Eren.”

“No one should ever talk to you that way,” Eren said. “I shouldn’t have—” He stopped short. His problems could stay with a different step. One that mattered less than his friends. Only one piece of it all really belonged here, and he said it again.

“I’m sorry.”

Mikasa had one hand buried in her scarf. Her blush had faded, as well as the gentle smile Armin had won out of her. There were tired lines in her forehead that only Eren could claim complete responsibility for.

“You wanted Armin to be angry at you,” she said.

Then cried all over him for sparing him that. “Yeah.”

Mikasa adjusted her scarf, pulling it tighter, but lowering it from keeping her mouth hidden. “It hurt,” she said. “You never say things you don’t mean, even if you only mean them for a moment.”

His mom had yelled at him for that. Many, many times.

He’d yelled back that moments were important.

That was another thing he and Mikasa agreed on.

“None of it was your fault,” Eren said.

“But you were right. We didn’t see it.”

“You were trying to give me space.”

“We didn’t.”

Mikasa had moved in for several weeks under the guise of helping Eren since his leg was broken.

“Your version of space.”

Another life would have seen that as a very strong complaint. Silent hovering was annoying and if Eren had been on a lower dose of painkillers or been less insane, it would have driven him nuts. But it stayed at silence. It stayed at a quiet hand helping him through the day and never asking how he was feeling because how he was feeling was so obvious.

“That still should have put us close enough to notice,” Mikasa said.

How she was feeling during all of that was pretty obvious, too. Even through the drugs. Eren just hadn’t been able to care. “My dad died,” Eren said, like it really was the accident Mikasa had never had any trouble seeing it for. “You knew something was wrong. You didn’t know I was making it worse.”

Mikasa wasn’t looking at him.

That should have made it easier than facing Armin, but he’d had too many years of getting annoyed over Mikasa always looking at him to finish the comparison just inside his head.

“It hurt,” she repeated, softly. “But what hurt most was thinking you might stay that way, and there was nothing I could do to help. Armin was right. We wanted to do more.” She frowned, a touch of irritation through the melancholy. “Zeke did more for you than we ever could.”

“Zeke didn’t stick around long enough for me to shout at him to leave,” Eren couldn’t help pointing out.

It almost got her to smile. The shadow of it faded too fast.

She did look up, and extensive cardio training as a way of life kept him breathing.

“No matter what happened, what matters to me now is that you’re okay. As long as that’s true, the rest is easy to forgive.” She closed her eyes and pulled her scarf tight. When she opened them again, they were the same eyes he’d seen when he woke up in the hospital.

“Are you okay, Eren?” she asked.

“Are you really?”

He’d gotten sick of that question long before he’d been anything close to the angry yes he kept snapping at his family. His mom had kept asking. Petra had always known better than to ask, but only because she’d been there. She had almost bit her lip through when he and Historia showed up with his black eye.

Who wanted okay, anyway? What kind of life was an okay one? Why would that be worth anything? He’d always been just okay. Armin was brilliant, Mikasa was perfect, and Eren was okay enough to lag behind them.

Until Eren wasn’t.

Until he couldn’t remember what okay or being a person even felt like, and someone had decided that the worst thing about him made him the best choice for a roommate. For a friend.

Armin had hugged him today.

Eren looked Mikasa straight in the eye, the weight of all their baggage nothing next to her being a few steps away and still caring. “I’m getting there,” he said.

She did smile, then. One of her real ones, with too much warmth to be anything but embarrassing when they were young. The step between them almost vanished, all of her starting to move forward before she remembered how many times Eren had actually called her embarrassing.

Armin had moved first with him. Fair was fair.

Eren took the step and wrapped Mikasa in the best hug he knew how. His chin bumped her forehead and their shoes snagged together, but he tried to hug her like he was never going to let her go again, and she hugged him back so tightly that his ribs creaked.

“I’m glad,” she whispered into his shoulder. “That you aren’t alone.”

He was not going to cry again. He squeezed her tightly. “Me too.”

----

Hours later, Eren was on the couch. Breathing into a cushion. Not on purpose, that was just where his face had landed after everything wound down.

“Thanks,” Historia said at some point.

“What for?”

“Letting me meet your family.”

Eren flopped his cheek against the side of the pillow. Historia had done her collapse under Benjamin’s tank. She looked as exhausted as he felt, drooped against the table. Benjamin blubbed away over her head.

Frieda had offered to drop some of her dinner off on them. She said she made too much for just her, and she had no room in her fridge. They’d have to help with the leftovers. One last visitor for the day.

“Yeah,” he said. “No problem.”

[next]

#drug au #fic #mine #long post

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epicstuckyficrecs · 5 years

Text

Weekly recap | July 29th-August 4th

Here’s what I read in the last week! 💙

You can find my other Weekly Recaps here!

Complete

This Has Already Happened by Mollyamory (Molly), Speranza/ @cesperanza (canon divergence | 8K | Not rated): "There are absolutely no circumstances in which I give the Time Stone to you," the Wizard gasps. "None. Nada. Zip. Choke on that, you sonofabitch."

Not Broken, Just Bent by amethystkrystal/ @amethystkrystal, goodmanperfectsoldier (ABO AU | 3K | Teen): Steve teaches a prenatal yoga class, and though he has a soft spot for all his students, he can't help being especially drawn to Bucky Barnes, the soft-spoken — and unmated — omega who just joined the studio.

💙 Ill With Want by thedoubteriswise/ @thedoubteriswise (Pre-war | 27K | Mature): Bucky pretends to be asleep when Steve crawls into bed, too tired to feel guilty over the quivery pleasure that settles in his belly when Steve’s arm brushes his. Bucky doesn’t move him. He drifts to sleep in a comfortable haze and tries not to wonder where this feeling was two hours ago when he had Marie in his lap.

💙 you are the future (series) by greyhavensking/ @greyhavensking (canon divergent, post-Avengers | 6 works, series marked not complete | 33K | Teen): Sweat trickles down from his hairline into his eyes and he irritably swipes it away, a little convinced that the gesture will also serve to wipe away what he’s seeing. But no, that’s definitely a man -- at least judging by the breadth of his shoulders and general body shape -- single-handedly facing off against a trio of enraged aliens.

It's possible that he wants you too by belovedmuerto/ @belovedmuerto (Post-WS | 4K | Teen): “Bucky kissed me this morning,” Steve says, not quite believing the words even as they’re coming out of his mouth. “Wait,” Sam replies. “Back up.”

14-Inch Cock and a Few Hundred Bimbos by verzacefatale/ @verzacefatale (PWP | 3K | Explicit): There are some things in life, Steve muses as he stares down at his crotch, that nothing can prepare you for. Sure, becoming a super soldier was, at the time, the most wild thing he could think of, and sure, his tolerance for ridiculous, catastrophic and immeasurably weird situations has very much grown since then, but this? His dick suddenly growing six inches in length and another two in girth, just because he opened a box in a Hydra dug out that maybe he should have read the instructions on before he did? How was he to know it was literally magic that would make his cock grow huge?

Hic sunt dracones by stevergrsno (noxlunate)/ @stevergrsno (Medieval Fantasy, Dragon Steve | 5K | Teen): There are stories: Stories of knights and the dragons they slayed. Stories of princes who conquered the great fire-breathing beasts terrorizing their kingdoms. Stories of how they saved their lands and won the hand of fair princesses in battle. This is not one of those stories. At least not in the strictest sense.

To Eat from the Tree by AidaRonan (30′s AU | 6K | Explicit): There is a story they tell in Collinwood, NY. A story of two priests-in-training who fell off the path of righteousness and into each other.

💙 As long as I have a face, you'll always have somewhere to sit by Avaaricious (Modern AU, meet-cute | 5K | Mature): AKA the "My friends bet that I couldn't pick up someone using the worst lines I know, but I actually like you and don't want to screw up" AU

Proud by dixons_mama (TFA | 2K | Teen): While trapped in Azzano, Bucky accidentally confesses to Steve that he loves him. Bucky is sure this will be the end of their friendship.

WIP

Solitary by exclamation/ @jessicameats (Canon divergent | 35/? | 87K | Mature): The Winter Soldier has been a prisoner of SHIELD for about a year and a half, placed in solitary confinement under strict security when it was clear he wasn’t going to respond to the best interrogators and deprogrammers SHIELD had available. When Fury asks a newly awakened Steve Rogers to assist, Steve is hesitant. He doesn’t understand why Fury thinks he would have a better chance of getting through to this guy than all the people who have tried and failed.

💙 This Side of the Blue by notlucy/ @notlucy (Mermaid AU | 23/44 | 83K | Explicit): Tucked against a set of crumbling, stone steps was a tank made of metal and glass, filled to the brim with greenish water, distorted sunlight filtering through and casting strange shadows. Playing tricks on the eye. A trick was the only explanation for what Steve saw floating there. This figment of his childhood. This myth. This legend. Within the tank, the siren bared its teeth.

💙 Latte Art and Slow Dancing in the Dark by deadonarrival (Modern AU with powers, Daddy kink | 15/20 | 77K | Explicit): Bucky is a somewhat well-adjusted former army sniper that got his shoulder blown out. He took his discharge and went home to finish school and is working on his international relations masters. His best friends and roommates (Nat & Clint) are CIA agents and tip him off that their local Sbux is hiring. He gets a job there and meets none other than the hottest guy on earth. So how does one get a date in the most top secret government location in the US? What happens when that guy is more than just a hot dorito and wants to give Bucky everything he wants? Bucky is going to have to figure out his shit and fast.

💙 Like Real People Do by 2bestfriends (Shrunkyclunks, canon divergent post-Avengers | 31K | 5/10 | Explicit): Seven years into an isolated retirement after the Battle of New York, Steve has carved out a place for himself in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. He has a best friend (his dog, Lady), a frenemy (a local black bear named Rufus), and a cabin in the middle of the woods, an hour’s drive from the nearest town. As November comes to a close, he heads into town to pick up supplies and ends up with a stowaway.

💙 Cakes & Balances by mambo/ @whtaft (POTUS Steve | 14K | 7/? | Teen): It’s kind of hard to date the cute baker from down the street when you’re the President of the United States of America. But Steve Rogers will make it work.

Bucky Barnes and the Embarrassment of Spidermen by AggressiveWhenStartled (Multiverse, Peter-centric(ish) | 4/5 | 15K | Mature): “Peter,” Steve said into the table. “Please tell me you didn’t bring home someone from Tony’s alternate dimension.” “Of course I didn’t,” Peter said, looking indignant. “I wouldn’t do that. I brought him to your place.”

Re-read

💙 All's fair in [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] (series) by redcigar (canon-divergent, post-WS | 3 works, series marked not complete | 10K | Mature): AU wherein Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers never met, Steve somehow manages to rescue the Winter Soldier anyway, and Avengers Tower ends up with the world’s angriest duckling and a whole new brand of entertainment.

💙 honey don't feed it, it will come back by ellebeesknees (umetnica), thedoubteriswise/ @thedoubteriswise (canon compliant, TFA | 18K | Mature): He lets out a long sigh and watches Bucky. Back home he was always too vain to let more than a day’s worth of stubble build up, but now he’s got about three days of scruff on his chin. He shouldn’t look handsome like this. His eyes are shut, but Steve can tell by his breathing that he’s still awake. The cat is curled up on his stomach and purring like an idling motor.

Learning To Say Hello by heartsdesire456/ @heartsdesire456 (Post-WS, Clint POV | 11K | Mature): In which Hawkeye befriends the Winter Soldier and discovers the Epic Love Story of Steve and Bucky nobody knows about)

Howl Home (Shift for Me) by Menatiera/ @menatiera (canon divergent, wolf Steve, Bucky Cap | 13K | Teen): As Captain America, Bucky Barnes rescued a hyper-intelligent wolf from HYDRA during the war. He makes a good fit with the Howling Commandos - and later, with the Avengers.

💙 The Sweetest Spark by deadto27 (Modern AU, age difference | 73K | Explicit): Steve Rogers runs a successful business. He has great friends and a great life. It seems like he has it all. So why is he sitting in a diner on a Friday night alone? Maybe he's just a little lonely. Maybe Bucky Barnes can help with that.

#stucky #stucky fic #stucky fanfic #stucky fanfiction #stucky fic rec #weekly recap

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angryhausfrau-writes · 4 years

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Something Old and Something New - Chapter 8: Dinner...

“I feel like an idiot.”

BJ curls into Peg's side and she wraps her arms around him. And they're still standing right outside of the hotel room door, blocking the hallway. But her husband clearly needs this right now – and she won't be the one to pull away.

“I just – I just spent so long getting ready to see Hawkeye, you know? And then he wasn't there. It was Trapper!”

And BJ's voice is full of anguish. Peg holds him closer.

“I know dear, I know,” she soothes.

He had clearly been thrown for a loop. And she can understand why. He'd been both looking forward to the reunion and dreading it for weeks now. He'd stood in their hotel room tying and untying and retying his tie in an expression of nervous excitement – and a desire for everything to be perfect for his and Hawkeye's reunion. And that's been shot in the foot, now, hasn't it? But there's nothing either of them can do about it now.

And they are running a bit late at this point. Late enough that Trapper has disappeared downstairs with the wedding present and they're left standing alone in the empty hallway. Late enough that she doesn't have the time to comfort him like she wants to.

None of this is going how they wanted it to. But it will all turn out all right, she's sure. Because the two of them are here together and they'll figure things out - come hell or high water. So she holds BJ tight once more and then gentles his head out of the crook of her neck. A position that he'd had to contort himself into, bending his knees to reach – and that can't have been comfortable at all.

“BJ, look at me. You're not an idiot. And I'm sure Hawkeye is downstairs with the others, waiting for us.”

The “So let's get a move on, huh?” is silent but heavily implied. And he can't really argue with that – much as he just wants to spend the whole reception in his room where it's safe. Where he doesn't have to confront his feelings for Hawkeye. Where he doesn't have to have the coming awkward conversation of just what, exactly, those feelings are. Where he doesn't have to come face-to-face with Trapper – the lover of the man he's in love with, and who he just made an idiot out of himself in-front of.

At least things can't get any worse, impressions-wise. And Hawkeye's already seen him at pretty much his worst anyway and they're still friends.

“Ok, yeah. Let's head down.”

Trapper makes the long, awkward slog to the gift table at the front of the reception hall. And it feels like all the rich fuckers are staring at him – cussing him out with their eyes for daring to be late, and be him, and pollute their refinement with his presence. And Jesus fucking Christ, he hates Back Bay. Charles had better fucking appreciate this.

And he ain't feeling too fucking charitable towards BJ for making him this late – and therefor the center of attention like this - either.

But Trapper's had plenty of practice bullshitting his way through poncy parties where people just barely tolerate his presence – left over from his college days at Dartmouth and the yearly holiday shitshow with his ex-wife's family – so he keeps his back straight and his face blank and his seething pissed-offedness locked up tight.

He delivers the gift. And Max owes him so fucking big for this. But also, he's glad this is happening to him and not her and Soon Li. Cuz that would prolly get about a million times worse for them than it is for him. And Max would mouth off at someone – or Soon Li would, cuz she ain't one to be condescended to either. And then whatever rich fucker'd started it would get even more upset. And that wouldn't end well for anyone.

Trapper can see the whole scenario play out piece by piece – and it ends with Max and Soon Li getting kicked out. And then the party wouldn't be no fun at all. So it's just as well she's a conniving little bastard who knows just how to play him.

But he ain't gonna let it go that easy, either. Not when he can prolly knock her down another five percent or so on that lingerie price via guilt trip, anyway.

Task complete, Trapper swings by the bar cuz he's noticed that none of the tables have any drinks other than booze at them. And maybe Marjory made sure Hawkeye's got something he can drink - but he wouldn't bet on it, given that even the kids got champagne to toast the happy couple – whenever they actually show up. And some of the kids are clearly parroting their parents in describing the bouquet of the wine or whatever else bullshit. Which, Jesus Christ. Imagine being a wine snob at eight.

So anyway, Trapper gets Hawkeye a Shirley Temple, which nets him a weird look from the bartender, but it ain't like he gives a shit about what he thinks either. Thought even the reception's bartender is posher than just about anyone else Trapper's ever regularly interacted with. Only the best at this wedding, apparently.

And then finally, Hawk's drink in hand, he makes his way over to his designated table, and thank God that's over with. And thank God that they – all the MASH contingent, plus Letta and her husband – have been put at an out of the way table so none of the Emersons or Winchesters or Oakes will have to look at them. And maybe that should feel like a snub, but Trapper's honestly glad he won't have to put up with any of the sneers and glares he got walking into the reception while he's eating dinner.

“Hawk!” BJ exclaims and goes tearing across the ballroom toward a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair and an old fashioned tuxedo, sitting next to a man who appears to be a priest. Which seems rather out of character for the description she has of Hawkeye Pierce. But the man stands at her husband's shout.

And responds with an equally exuberant, “Beej!” before getting pulled into a bear hug.

At least BJ's anxiety about seeing Hawkeye again appears to have abated.

Peg approaches more sedately than her husband, so they've broken apart by the time she gets close.

“The infamous Hawkeye Pierce, I presume?”

He looks different from the grainy black-and-white photos she's caught glimpses of in passing, when cleaning BJ's study or when they'd been passed around to her and Erin if BJ'd been telling bedtime stories about Korea and in a particularly nostalgic mood. The man in those photographs had looked gaunt and tired and overall worn down by the mundane horrors of war. This man here is vibrant and alive and full of the kind of childish mischief most people outgrow a decade or so earlier. But despite the differences, this man is undoubtedly Hawkeye.

He grins and holds out a hand. “And you must be Peg! It's wonderful to finally meet you in person.” Then his expression turns sly. “BJ, you've been holding out on me. Your stories didn't come close to doing her justice.”

Peg finds herself grinning despite herself. Hawkeye is quite the charmer - no wonder her husband had been so taken with him.

“Hey, hands off my wife! Go bother your own date.” BJ pretends affront.

“Would that I could, but alas, Margaret has run off to the powder room with Kat and half the other women at the table. They're either unionizing or planning a bank robbery.” He turns conspiratorially to Peg. “If you want to get in on the ground floor of the heist, I'd cut out now.”

Peg laughs. “I think I'll wait a few more years to start a life of crime. At least until the children are a little older.”

“I'm just surprised Margaret agreed to be seen with you,” BJ chimes in.

“Well, it was between me and Trapper – and Kat drew the short straw in the date department.” Hawkeye grins at Trapper, who's just arrived at the table, presumably from dropping off the wedding present.

“Ouch,” Trapper says, not sounding very hurt. “Just for that, you're getting your own drink next time, Hawkeye.”

But he's smiling as he hands over the glass of whatever it is. And Peg watches as their fingers brush and linger. And she sees how Trapper angles himself around Hawkeye, pressing against him in a way that would look innocuous if you didn't know better.

Peg hadn't been entirely certain that her husband wasn't reading too much into things. That Hawkeye and Trapper weren't simply very close friends, the way she assumed BJ and Hawkeye had been. Friends forged in war and terror – and closer than brothers for it.

But it turns out that BJ's in love with Hawkeye.

And then she'd thought that maybe BJ was reading too much into Trapper and Hawkeye's relationship because of how he felt about Hawkeye. Like if Hawkeye really was a homosexual and in a relationship with Trapper, then there was a chance for BJ too. And maybe it's all just wishful thinking.

But it's fairly obvious, now, that BJ was right. And that Hawkeye's relationship with Trapper is more than simple friendship. Which has some potentially unfortunate implications for BJ's chances with Hawkeye. Which Peg doesn't really know whether to be happy or disappointed about, she honestly doesn't.

And now the conversation has foundered with her focus on Trapper and Hawkeye – and on the two of them together– and BJ's focus on her reaction. So she endeavors to set those thoughts aside for now and return to the social niceties.

“Who's Kat?” Peg asks. BJ hadn't mentioned her in any of his stories about Korea. Maybe she left before he got there.

“Margaret's roommate,” Hawkeye supplies. With perhaps a touch of emphasis. Hmmm.

“So you're on a double date?”

Trapper laughs. “Just like old times. Though I don't remember them running out on us quite this fast in Korea.”

“That's just because there were fewer places to hide.” And that's how Peg meets Major Margaret Houlihan. BJ really was not exaggerating about her in his stories at all.

Finally, Charles and Marjory and all the rest of the wedding party show up – so Trapper'd been glared at for nothing. He guesses the rich get to decide how late is fashionable and how late is rude and everyone else just has to lump it. But their arrival seems to be the signal for everyone to sit down and shut up so that a succession of really boring people can make terrible speeches about how great Charles and/or Marjory are. All without really seeming to know them at all.

Trapper's a little jealous of Hawkeye, BJ, Peg, and the Padre cuz they're carrying on a silent conversation in sign language the whole time – even with the other three way down the table - and that looks like a lot more fun than trying to actually pay attention. But Trapper does have Kat whispering sarcastic commentary in his ear. And sure, it's mostly so he'll whisper it into Margaret's ear like some kinda lesbian to lesbian telegraph service. But he'll take what he can get at this point.

And God, he'd forgotten how much fun Kat is. Not that Margaret ain't a good time – but Kat has one hell of a sharp tongue and Trapper's counting on her running commentary to make this upper-crust shitshow of a wedding reception bearable. Since all the Back Bay snobs are gonna be gossiping about Trapper and his friends all night, he may as well get his own entertainment outta them.

And then Honoria joins their table after the speeches finish up and dinner gets started. And she's apparently stolen a bottle of top-shelf champagne from the head table to get their portion of the party started early.

“Shouldn't you be in the wedding party?” Hawkeye asks her after turning down a wine glass of champagne. “You know, since your brother is the one getting married.”

“And your dress looks an awful lot like a bridesmaid dress,” Trapper adds. “You on the lamb?”

“It-t's tr-true,” Honoria says, with a dramatic hand to her brow. “I confess, I've run aw-way from home.”

“They gonna come hunt you down?” Trapper's a little wary of causing more of a scene this early in the proceedings.

“Ooh, do you need a disguise?” Hawkeye asks, delighted at the prospect. “How bout you and Max swap outfits, you're about the same size.”

“And I look absolutely stunning in teal, it has to be said,” Max adds from down the table.

She laughs. “Th-thanks, but I doubt th-they mind I've gone missing. Less chance of embarrassing th-the family w-way over here.”

“I'm sure that's not true,” Margaret chimes in. “Charles always spoke very fondly of you, Honoria.”

“And you seem like a fun gal to spend time with,” Kat adds with intent.

Trapper bets her and Margaret will run off somewhere with Honoria the minute they can get away with it. Not that he can really blame them for jumping at a good time when it lands in front of them. He's just a little sore that his built in dance partner is gonna abandon him – given that was the whole point in getting a date to this shindig. He'll have to hope there's someone in the rest of herd of MASH vets and their partners that wants to take a spin around the dance floor.

“In fairness,” Hawkeye says, interrupting some pretty heavy eye contact between the three women, “Charles is too busy making eyes at Marjory to notice a herd of elephants stampeding through the ballroom – much less that his sister is missing.”

Trapper looks up at the happy couple. “I'll say this for 'em. They do genuinely seem to be in love.”

If Winchester gets to looking any sappier, he's gonna have little hearts coming outta his eyes like in a cartoon.

“Isn't it something,” Radar interjects in an awed tone.

“Radar! Come sit with us, it's been an eternity since I've seen you.” Hawkeye pats the seat next to him. They've all started playing musical chairs as various couples swap with each other, using the time it's taking for the servers to reach their table at the back of the room to catch up with everyone they've missed talking to, either upstairs or before the festivities got underway.

“You saw me upstairs ten minutes ago,” Radar grumbles under his breath. But he sits with them readily enough. And brings his date along as well.

Their whole table's completely ignoring the fancy little place cards set out for them – and given that Honoria's stolen a chair from some other table, that appears to be spreading across the whole room. Trapper can spot at least one surreptitious chair theft happening while the former owner is busy at the bar. And some of the guests are just baldly demanding others give up their seats since their own have gone missing and they're obviously much more important. It genuinely feels like things may come to blows – or the posh equivalent – at some point this evening. So at least there's that to look forward to.

And it's good to know that the 4077 can still sow chaos wherever they go. Though hopefully it doesn't get them booted out before dinner's even served.

And it's nice to catch up with Radar. He's changed a lot since Trapper'd last seen him – and even since Hawkeye had, apparently. And it ain't really a surprise. He'd been just a kid back in Korea, stuck in a shit situation with way too much on his shoulders. But now he's really come into himself, it seems like.

Radar talks about running the farm – and it sounds like him and Park Sung are doing a good job of it. Not that he's one to judge or anything. The depth of his experience with rural living amounts to going to visit Hawkeye's dad and a few semi-disastrous Boyscout camping trips as a kid. But he's glad Radar's happy. And his Ma's apparently doing fine too.

But mostly, Radar talks about Patricia – his date to this little shindig and who's been pulled into a conversation about nursing by Margaret and Kat. Leaving Radar to gush over how smart and pretty and all around wonderful she is - to Trapper and Hawkeye's amusement. To hear Radar talk, she's invented penicillin and polio vaccines all in one.

Finally, Radar pauses to take a breath and Hawkeye mock whispers, “Do I hear wedding bells?” And at Radar's blushing nod, he sniffs dramatically and pretends to wipe his eyes with a handkerchief. “They grow up so fast, don't they Trapper?”

“Seems like just yesterday we were conspiring to get him a date.”

“Yeah, after his fiance threw him over – jokes on her,” Hawkeye says, pinching Radar's cheek, “Radar's grown up to be quite the catch.”

“Oh, cut it out you guys. I ain't some dumb kid no more. And me and Patricia are engaged now, anyway. So I ain't thought about Lindy Sue in forever.”

“Engaged!” Hawkeye gasps, affronted. “And you didn't tell us? Does family mean nothing to you?”

Radar looks abashed and mumbles “I didn't figure you'd wanna come all the way out to Ottumwa for the wedding so I didn't bother sending nothing out. Id'a told you after I was actually hitched.”

And it makes sense, given Radar'd been left at the altar before. He wouldn't wanna jinx nothing by spreading things around. But it looks like both of them are in this thing for the long haul.

So Trapper throws an arm around his shoulders. “Radar, Radar, Radar. It's us.”

“Your Aunt and Uncle,” Hawkeye continues. “We threatened to adopt you.”

“And those threats ain't made lightly.”

“Of course we'd come to Iowa for the wedding.”

Radar blushes. It's a little embarrassing – them talking like they're his kinda parents still – but it's nice too. “Thanks you guys. I'll make sure to invite you once I know when it's happening.”

It sure won't be as grand as this one is. But it'd be real nice to have his friends there – Hawkeye and Trapper and maybe Max and Soon Li'd wanna come down for the wedding. It ain't that far from Toledo to Ottumwa. And maybe Colonel Potter'd wanna be there. He ain't Colonel Blake, but he'd done his best to look after Radar – just like Radar'd done his best to look after him. And it'd be real nice have the Father there, even if he'd have a pastor to officiate.

Radar leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and lets himself open up to the future like a sunflower opening up to the sun. Till now, he'd been real careful to keep whatever it is lets him look squeezed shut tight, just in case he'd see something he don't wanna see. Like Patty leaving him like Lindy Su'd done – not that he's been thinkin on that or nothing. Or maybe he'd see some other kinda disaster befall them that'd keep 'em from getting hitched. And he's still scared of all that.

But here, with all his friends, it feels like things are gonna work out just fine. And like it ain't gonna hurt to let the future in.

Eventually, Radar and Patricia leave – running off to go talk to Max and the Padre about their engagement, looks like. And Trapper doesn't mind that. He knows they'll have time to chat again later if they want.

What he does mind is that BJ steals Radar's vacated seat, plopping himself right between him and Hawkeye.

BJ'd been kinda hovering in the background for a while now, like Hawkeye had suddenly gained a blond, over-earnest shadow. And Trapper figures he's probably missed seeing Hawkeye everyday like Trapper knows he had after getting home, so he can't begrudge them wanting to catch up. And he has a wallet full of kid pictures and enough public-appropriate stories from work they oughtta make it through dinner ok. If BJ even deigns to talk to him, that is.

He seems real fixed on talking to Hawkeye – and only Hawkeye. Margaret barely warrants a distracted nod and Trapper doesn't even get that.

But it ain't like they've ever been close, so he just shrugs it off and goes to talk to BJ's wife. She's small and blond and pretty – and bears a striking resemblance to Louise. It's a little uncanny, if Trapper's being honest.

Mrs. “Peg, call me Peg” Hunnicutt seems like a nice gal, though. Shame about her husband.

And that's maybe a little too catty. So he turns to engage Peg in conversation about her real estate career – and the interior decorating that goes along with it - cuz it seems polite and she's kinda being ignored by BJ, too. And maybe not his favorite topic – or one that he knows anything about, given that he'd pretty much left his house like Louise had had it, plus a few additions from Hawkeye and his dad – but it beats trying to horn in where he ain't wanted.

Seeing Hawkeye is... seeing Hawkeye is indescribable. BJ almost can't believe that he's real and here and sitting next to him. Close enough that BJ can feel Hawkeye – electric and chaotic and full of an infectious joy that's not exactly settling but that feels familiar like home and bright shiny new all at once. Magnetic in a way that makes BJ have to fight not to touch him, press against his side, throw an arm around his shoulders, pull him into another hug and just never let go.

He turns sideways a little in his seat to more fully face Hawkeye and it brings their knees bumping together under the table and it's like there's a live wire running through him lighting him up and he can't fucking stand it.

Can't keep hold of the thread of whatever story Hawkeye's telling because he's too busy watching the dance of his hands. Too busy feeling the press of his leg when he leans towards BJ during an especially emphatic point. Too busy looking at Hawkeye's face – split by a huge grin and with his eyes all crinkled up in mirth and shining with joy as he tells the punchline of a joke.

He can't bear to tear himself away.

And then Hawkeye's leaning behind BJ to talk to Trapper and the little world he's built around just the two of them comes crashing down. Because, oh yeah, there's other people in the room aside from him and Hawkeye.

All the ambient noise of the room rushes back in – including Hawkeye rattling his glass of ice meaningfully at Trapper.

Who's leaning around BJ to smirk at Hawkeye – and there's an intensity so very visible in his eyes. “Why Hawk, would you like another drink?”

Hawkeye effects a “who, me?” expression, which just prompts Trapper to roll his eyes and take the glass from him – hands brushing and lingering – and BJ has to turn away.

Trapper stands and turns to the ladies. “You want a drink, Maggie? Kat?”

Kat waves him away but Margaret orders, “Scotch and water, tall,” with all the strength and steel of a military command.

“Yes ma'am!” Trapper sketches a sarcastic little salute. And then he turns to Peg. “How 'bout you, Peg? What're you drinking?” And he seems very familiar, leaning towards her in a way BJ doesn't particularly like.

“I'll be buying Peg's drinks,” BJ interjects. Where does Trapper get off flirting with his wife?

Trapper looks a little taken aback – and maybe BJ shouldn't have been so quick to jump down his throat. It's just that things between him and Peg have been a little – not strained, never that – but different. Like they're standing at the precipice of something neither of them can see and trusting that everything will be ok if they jump. So BJ's maybe been a little protective of her.

Luckily, Trapper just shrugs and says, “C'mon then” over his shoulder as he heads to the bar. And he seems completely relaxed walking through the crowded room, even as BJ wilts a little under the bald stares of the other wedding guests.

Although some of his self-consciousness may have something to do with being alone with Trapper without the buffer of Hawkeye – or even Charles – to ease the conversation along. And the way Trapper's lounging at the bar, all broad shoulders and long, lean body – seeming perfectly at ease – doesn't help any. And neither does the way Trapper plucks the cherry out of Hawkeye's drink, puts the whole thing in his mouth, stem and all, before pulling the stem back out, tied in a perfect little knot - which he places back in the glass like some kind of trophy or calling card or something.

BJ squirms a little in what's probably jealousy.

He downs his double Scotch in one and orders another. But the feeling is still there whenever he catches a glance of Trapper out of the corner of his eye – still sprawling on his barstool like he owns the whole damn hotel.

And it doesn't help when they get back to the table and he puts a big, possessive hand on Hawkeye's shoulder as he hands over his drink. Yes, definitely jealousy - and nothing else. Because what else could it possibly be?

And jealousy is something he's been trying to be better about. But hasn't exactly been easy – particularly with Trapper right there in front of him, flaunting his closeness with Hawkeye.

“Don't forget to tip your waiter,” Trapper jokes as he hands over Margaret's Scotch.

“Oh, I'll give you a tip and a whole lot more later tonight.”

Hawkeye's lascivious whisper right into his ear makes Trapper almost forget where he is and who he's with. But all he says is, “I look forward to it.” And then turns his gaze towards Margaret and Kat – two much more socially acceptable targets for whatever the hell his expression looks like right now.

And Margaret just smiles knowingly at him, bless her. “I don't know, Trapper. You took an awfully long time bringing a lady a drink. I'm not sure I care for the service at this establishment.”

No, she wouldn't, would she.

He laughs. “It's not my fault some pompous asshole ordered a punch Romaine – to be made immediately, of course – right in the middle of the bartender making your drink. I had to sit there for fifteen goddamn minutes while the poor guy chipped ice.”

“Oh! Is that why my cherry's already been plucked?”

BJ chokes quietly on his drink.

“Sorry Hawk. I know how much you like to watch.”

Hawkeye opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but Margaret interrupts them by asking after the girls. Probably for the best, cuz they're being maybe a little too overt. BJ's giving them a kinda weird look, anyway. And the change in conversational topic means Trapper gets to show off Becky and Cathy's school pictures and a real nice snapshot from when they all went up to Maine to visit Hawkeye's dad.

Despite Hawkeye's insistence that Trapper loves his daughters more than just about anything else, BJ is still surprised when he pulls out a series of photos of his daughters and shows them to Margaret. Who passes them around to Kat and then Peg.

“Oh, Trapper, they're lovely!” Peg exclaims.

“That's Cathy.” Trapper leans over her to point out which daughter is which – and BJ has to stop himself from doing something stupid. Like tackling him from across the table.

“And that's Becky. She's smart as a whip – got that from my ex-wife, along with her looks, thank God.”

“Oh, I don't think you do too badly,” Hawkeye interjects glibly.

Trapper studiously ignores him. “And that's all of us at the beach in Maine with Hawk's dad and Steve and Millie.”

Peg laughs. “Here, BJ. You'll get a kick out of this.” She hands over the photo – and BJ's a little afraid of what might be in it to make Peg so certain he'll want to see it.

And oh boy. There's Hawkeye in swim trunks - and nothing else. And sure, BJ's seen him in his skivvies plenty – one of the dubious pleasures of living together in an army tent with no privacy and a roommate with even less shame. But this is different. This is... wow.

BJ's almost glad when the waiters show up to serve them dinner and he has to hand the photograph back to Trapper. But only almost. Because what he really wants to do is look at it long enough the planes and lines of Hawkeye's sunkissed skin are burned into his memory forever.

Maybe Hawkeye'd like to come out to California sometime – he's talked about it before in some of his letters. Then BJ would be the one throwing a casual arm over Hawkeye's naked shoulder. The one Hawkeye would lean into to keep his balance on the shifting sands.

Instead, it's Trapper that's standing there with his arm around Hawkeye's shoulders and with Hawkeye pressing into Trapper's side. Trapper standing there tan and built and – BJ will admit, but only under duress – attractive. The crooked grin and aviator sunglasses certainly don't detract from that impression and BJ wants to punch the non-photograph version right in his stupid, handsome face.

Because, the thing is, is that Trapper's not a bad looking guy, objectively speaking. BJ can see why Hawkeye might want to be with him – with his movie-star looks and his secretive little smirk. Flirtatiousness practically oozes out of him like an oil slick.

But that's the thing – he never seems sincere. Through all of their interactions – and now, through all of Trapper's interactions with Peg and Margaret and Kat and even Hawkeye – BJ has never once gotten the sense that Trapper has actually displayed a genuine emotion. He just sits there joking and flirting indiscriminately like none of it matters – like none of it means anything.

And BJ thinks Hawkeye deserves better.

Dinner's really nice. Lots of laughing and joking around and yelling down the table to pass the salt and elbowing each other in the ribs cuz they're all packed together like sardines. It's almost like being back in the mess tent – minus the accompanying horrors of the Korean war.

And they tell stories from Korea, all shouting over one another and arguing about how events actually transpired. BJ joins in for most of the ones from his tenure at the front. Including stories of pranks he'd played on Frank and Charles and even Hawkeye – which causes him to elbow BJ in the ribs while Trapper leans around him to grin at Hawkeye in silent laughter. And Margaret even chimes in with little tidbits about Frank Burns that none of the rest of them had even known about, so that's fun. Particularly the part about him having a weird thing for her feet. Just lovely. Hawkeye is so glad he's learned this little fact.

“Between Frank and feet and Ponobscott and fingers, I feel like you tend to attract a very peculiar class of man, Maggie,” Kat says.

So it's just as well I've given them up, now isn't it, her eyebrows seem to say in response. And it really, really is.

“Wonder what that says about us, Trap, given that she wanted to jump your bones and actually jumped mine.”

Trapper laughs. “Don't worry Margaret, Hawkeye's into completely normal things like getting stepped on by women in high heels. You have nothing to worry about there.”

BJ blushes as Hawkeye practically launches himself across his lap to slap a hand over Trapper's mouth. “Shut up, Trap. Now she's never gonna wear those leather hip boots around me.”

Kat raises an eyebrow at Margaret who just smiles demurely. She makes a mental note because that. That bears future investigation.

Meanwhile, Trapper has licked Hawkeye's hand in a bid to get it off his mouth. And poor BJ's looking a little squashed with Hawkeye still half in his lap. And a little red in the face.

Probably because Hawkeye is now exclaiming, “Gross, Trap. Stop that – I know where your mouth has been.”

Trapper waggles his eyebrows lecherously. “And I know where your hand's been.”

Hawkeye laughs and runs his wet hand through Trapper's hair to dry it off. And their faces are right in front of BJ's when Hawkeye's hand catches in Trapper's curly hair and it's like time stops. They're just staring into each other's eyes – expressions full of such naked desire – and it's like BJ's caught in some kind of sexually charged force-field. And he's got to get out from between them, he's just got to.

Luckily, Peg rescues him by nudging Trapper in the shoulder – conveniently knocking him and Hawkeye out of their trance – and saying, “Why don't you swap with BJ? I'd like to spend some time talking to my own husband tonight.”

And Trapper agrees readily enough. Probably because it means he gets to sit next to Hawkeye too. But BJ can't bring himself to mind too much, not when he's got Peg's hand on his thigh and Hawkeye and Trapper have stopped looking at each other like they want to devour one another. Though Trapper pretty obviously has his leg pressed into Hawkeye's under the table – the way BJ had until just moments ago.

But he doesn't really want to think about that right now. So he gets down to the business of eating dinner and lets the chatter and laughter blend into a wash of background noise. The only thing that's real is him and his fork and Peg's small, soft hand on his leg.

BJ's gone a little quiet, Hawkeye notices. Quiet like he'd gotten towards the end of his visit to Boston. But maybe that's just how he is now. Hawkeye himself had gone through a similar change after the war, so he's not one to judge. And he's more than capable of filling the silences with stories of the better parts of the war – helped along by Trapper, who remembers some good ones that Hawkeye has half forgotten about.

And even though BJ isn't saying much, Hawkeye's enjoying getting to sit next to him. Just sort of soaking in his presence. Because he has missed BJ a whole hell of a lot over the years since Korea. And they have an unspecified number of days after the reunion to visit with one another, anyway.

Maybe BJ will open up a little more when it's just the two of them. Well, the two of them plus Peg. Who's an absolute delight and Hawkeye can more than understand why BJ's completely and utterly besotted with her. Which Trapper obviously picks up on, cuz he tips Hawkeye a very knowing look when Peg starts talking about the injustice of the government mandated redlined neighborhoods in San Francisco.

She's truly a woman after his own heart. And he's really looking forward to getting to know her better over the next few days.

But the dinner conversation mostly stays light. Funny stories from work, or joking flirtation with the women at their table. And he and Trapper fall back into their little double act from Korea pretty easily – just treading the line of overt camp and humorous insinuation, with Maggie and Kat playing along happily enough – and Peg, once she figures out the game. And she's very good at it – which makes sense, given that she's married to a man who makes terrible puns on an hourly basis.

All in all, it's like being at a better version of the 4077. One without death or bombs or rats or death. Plus, the food's a whole hell of a lot better than army food. Not a single powdered egg in sight – and Hawkeye's more than grateful. Though all the talking he's doing means he doesn't have very much time for eating and he has to pawn the rest of his plate off to Trapper. Who's never exactly been shy about eating Hawkeye's food, invited to or not.

Trapper takes the plate of mushed together potatoes and vegetables – stirred together by Hawkeye as a pretense that he was actually eating the food, rather than just playing with it – with a grimace. But he ain't one to waste food. And it means something to Hawkeye to give it to him.

“You're lucky I love you,” Trapper whispers into Hawkeye's ear.

He throws his head back in a laugh. As if Trapper has said some uproariously funny joke, rather than a declaration of love – framed as a tease or not. And it lets him slap his hand down on Trapper's thigh – totally accidentally, of course, and not at all an excuse to touch him intimately in public. It's a gesture that absolutely doesn't end in a gentle caress of said thigh. Or in Trapper slapping a hand to Hawkeye's shoulder in shared mirth – a hand that ends up with the thumb stroking gently at the nape of his neck.

Hawkeye feels something inside him settle at the gesture. At the reminder that Trapper's here with him and they're home and that Korea is just funny stories and distant memories to be rehashed with friends. He bumps his shoulder gently against Trapper's in appreciation and understanding. And then steals his dessert.

“You just did all this so you could eat all my cake while I finished your vegetables, you little sneak,” Trapper says with a mock glare. It's obvious he doesn't really mind – and he ought to be used to Hawkeye stealing his dessert by now, anyway.

But Hawkeye's feeling generous, so he holds out his fork. “Fine, you can have one bite.”

“Wow, thanks, Hawk. One whole bite of my own cake.”

But he takes it anyway.

And they probably can't get away with much more than that in such a public setting. BJ's already giving them a weird look. But for now, it's enough.

#mash #piercintyre #something old and something new #chapter 8

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eventuallyfall-blog · 7 years

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Hiii! Can I request something? If so... Prompt: pippa x reader. Pippa offers a back massage to her tired friend the reader, but then regrets it once she sees the close proximity it puts her next to the love of her life. So now she's almost shaking especially when she grazes her bare skin by her neck. You choose how it goes, but please let it have a romantic and fluffy arc. Thank you!

this took me some time to get to! hope you like it i was stressing over it but it’s really cute imoalso is it a drabble if it’s 1.7k words???no warnings apply i think

Here was the thing about Phillipa and you: the two of you wentback to Julliard when you two had been put together as roommates.She’d been in the acting program and you’d been involved a theatertech program. She’d gone on to get involved in something calledNatasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 and you yourself startedpicking up odd jobs in various theater companies that needed help toput on a show. Occasionally you helped on her project, but for themost part you were freelance and not contracted out to anyone. Andhere was the thing about being involved in the behind the scenes workas a stage technician: it was exhausting.

You knew it would be exhausting yet you loved that about the job because it meant that not a single moment went to waste. Doublechecking lighting rigs, running around the stage to make sure thateverything was in its place… all it was pretty tiring. So it wasno wonder that you’d eventually developed a crick in your neck andyour back felt like you’d dropped a thousand pound weight on it. “Ithink my back is broken,” you complained to Pippa. The one thingthat hadn’t changed from Julliard to now was the fact you were stillroommates. The two of you just got along in way you never thoughtpossible. “I’m pretty sure I’m dying. Make sure my browser historyis cleared.”

She laughed, that same twinkling laugh you’d always loved. “I’mcertain you’re not going to die,” she said, plopping herself nextto you on the couch. She hesitated briefly, her eyes tracing alongyour neck and you didn’t eve notice. “If you like, I could give youa shoulder massage? I bet that’ll help.”

“A massage sounds great,” you said as you leaned back againsther with a bright grin, trying your best to ignore how nicely you fitagainst her. Phillipa was amazing with her hands, as it turned out.She didn’t need much further permission than that. “God, the stagemanager for this show was a real prick, too. He couldn’t make up hisdamn mind where he wanted one of the larger parts of the set – Idon’t even know how to describe it. And it weighs a good hundred andseventy-five pounds too. Carrying it was insane. And I would’ve hadit too – this stupid guy came along and stood in my way demanding Ilet him help me move it! So I dropped it on his foot by mistake causehe wouldn’t move no matter how much I yelled at him to get out of myway.”

You didn’t notice her eyes darting down to your bare arms or hercheeks turning red as she realized how close she was to you. What youdidn’t know was that Phillipa had been harboring feelings for yousince Julliard when she first entered the dorm and saw you assemblinga bookshelf on the floor of the dorm. And she’d been gone ever since.But she didn’t want to risk ruining the friendship. She’d rather haveyou as a friend than as nothing else. “Yeah,” she said, shiftingslightly as she thought about how you’d most likely be able to lifther up. “No wonder you’re so exhausted. You poor baby.”

You gave a soft sigh, nodding. “Very exhausted,” you saidsoftly. Here’s what Phillipa didn’t know: you’d been crushing on herever since she entered the dorm room the two of you shared. Her kindeyes had drawn you in upon first sight. But you weren’t eager to makethings weird with a roommate situation the two of you would be stuckin and after the two of you became friends, you didn’t want to muckup that friendship. Her friendship meant the world to you. “Infact, all I can think is how some wine would be great.”

She nodded slightly, pushing you away to get up and rush over tothe fridge. “I just got this amazing shimmery wine,” she said,holding up a bottle with a red, shimmering liquid inside it beforeturning to grab two wine glasses. “I thought we could try ittogether.”

A shimmering wine with a shimmering woman. “That soundswonderful,” you said, a slight hitch in your voice. “I mean, youcould tell me all about this musical you’re workshopping at thePublic. Rumor has it that whatever you’re working on is going to bebig.”

“Can’t really tell you much. But I can make sure you’re on thelist for previews come January 20,” she said with a light grin asshe handed you a glass full of the shimmering liquid and pouring aglass for herself. It was easy to get the guys who stood in your wayand treated you like some delicate little flower with her around. Shewas like pure sunshine. “But when you see it, it’ll blow yourmind. It’s a bit wild, though. Most of this we’re literally learningthe same night Lin writes it.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you said as you took a swig of thewine with a slight grimace – it was much sweeter than you’d prefer.Then again, you thought as you looked at Pippa, maybe sweet wasn’t sobad. “Is that why you’ve been so busy lately? I feel I rarely seeyou anymore.”

“You’re one to talk,” she said with a slight smirk and youblushed – it was true. Between each of the demands of the plays andmusicals you’d gotten involved in, you were barely able to squeeze infifteen minutes to sleep. You were lucky the apartment the two of youchose was in the theater district – even if the main reason youwere barely home was to make rent. “I wish you’d let me pay more ofthe rent. I can handle it. It makes me sad to see you so overworked.”

You shook your head – Pippa was already generous enough when itcame to the rent. It was embarrassing enough that you barely couldcover your half. The idea of letting Phillipa pay more had came upseveral times over and the argument always ended the same way. “Ican’t let you do that. I mean, here you are massaging my shouldersand bringing me wine. I feel like I was taking advantage of you if Ilet you pay more. Maybe we should just get another roommate.”

You could never understand why Phillipa was so against the idea –the two of you clearly needed a third to cover the rent. What youdidn’t know is that Pippa didn’t like the idea of sharing yourdowntime with anyone else. “Absolutely not,” she said, farquicker than she’d like to. “We’ve talked about this already,”she started again, this time more gently. “I thought we agreed thatwe have… a sort of… chemistry and adding to the dynamic mightthrow the roommate flow off.”

Her cheeks turned bright pink at the mention of chemistry and yetyou barely noticed it. “It’s just that the rent keeps going up andwe never know if our next paycheck is going to come in. We work intheater for god’s sake,” you said in annoyance. “It’s not likewe’ve got steady television jobs going for us. Bringing in a roommatewho can be counted on to pay rent isn’t the worst idea in the world.I don’t know why you’re so against it! I’ll even have theroommate in my room if the idea of sharing a room is so awful toyou!”

“I’m not against sharing a room,” she said, getting up fromher spot on the couch and turning away from you. You hated when shedid that – it felt like she was doing it specifically to hidesomething big from you. “I mean, I’d rather share a room with youthen let some stranger be in your room where you could get hurt. It’sNew York City – I don’t want to share the place with someone wedidn’t know.”

Your cheeks heated up at the idea of sharing a room with Phillipa– you’d had nice dreams relating to that idea right there. “Well,with any luck, they’d be like us and we’d never see them anyway,”you said, standing up and setting your wine down. You realized yourtolerance must be lower than you remember – your head was alreadyspinning “We’re struggling, Pip. Having a roommate, even if it’stemporary until something pans out proper for us, will help. And thenmaybe I wouldn’t have to be riskin breaking my back carrying huge setpieces all over a stage!”

“It’s not that I want you to risk hurting yourself to make rent!Of course I don’t,” she said as she spun around her, her dark eyesthrowing you off guard – you couldn’t read them like you usuallycould. And she was so close, so much closer than you expected. Youtook a step back. “I just… I don’t… I don’t want to share,okay!”

“You’re being childish,” you said, reclaiming your ground anddrawing yourself up to your full height. “I mean, you share withme! What’s wrong with sharing with another person? What is the bigdifference between me and someone -”

You were cut off the minute her lips were on yours and your eyeswent wide. You thought the imaginations you had of kissing her wouldbe similar to reality but you realized very quickly you were wrong.You could taste the wine still left on her lips and traces of herlipstick. The shock wore of quickly as your own eyes fluttered closedand you reached up to cup her cheek, the other hand on her waist. Youquickly pulled her in closer. You weren’t certain if seconds,minutes, or hours had passed before the two of you broke apart. “Idon’t wanna share you,” she finally said softly.

“Sounds reasonable,” you said softly with a grin. “Though ifwe get a roommate, we can give them my old room and we could share aroom.”

Phillipa’s twinkling laugh was still every bit as beautiful –perhaps even more so on the other side. “I suppose we wouldn’t wantthe second bedroom to go to waste.”

#phillipa x reader #pippa x reader #phillipa soo x reader #phillipa imagine #mywriting #Anonymous

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braxarchives · 4 years

Text

Safety Blanket ― CANON. (current verse)

Max’s emotions and insecurities finally reach a boiling point. They come erupting out in surprising ways, and in the process Brady has to learn to confront his own feelings. NSFW.

Things were… weird. Of course they were. Brady hadn’t expected anything less after he and Max had had their whole thing a couple weeks ago. It wasn’t like they could pretend all of it never happened, but they also didn’t seem anywhere closer to talking about it. They had to put all of it aside, though. Max still needed a cameraman, after all. So Brady would pick up his camera as usual, but there was a lot less of their usual lighthearted bickering. In fact, Brady wasn’t sure they’d done that at all in a while, at least not naturally. He’d definitely been trying to fake it for the camera so that no one would notice much of a difference. In any case, when the camera wasn’t recording, things were just plain weird. And ridiculously tense. Brady hadn’t realized how accustomed he had gotten to just touching Max and ending up in one of their beds until that wasn’t a thing anymore. He would think about it, then remember all that had gone down, the fact that they weren’t doing that anymore on top of the anxiety he felt about having let things go too far, and he had to force himself to forget it. Rinse and repeat every fucking time he and Max crossed paths over the last two weeks. Which was a lot, considering they lived together.

The tension was annoying, mostly, but it wasn’t like they were straight up ignoring each other, or even being particularly aggressive. It was almost like they were just roommates who barely tolerated each other, rather than best friends. Brady kind of hated the whole dynamic in the apartment, but he knew it was up to them to fix it. Or him, more accurately. When he was ready to talk. That day wasn’t today, even when he walked into the kitchen and found Max there and felt immediately on edge. Brady nodded at him to acknowledge that he was there, then made a beeline for the fridge. He was set on getting his leftovers from a couple of nights ago and then going to put on a movie. Except…he didn’t see said leftovers when he opened the fridge. His name had clearly been on the container. “Dude,” Brady said, looking over his shoulder at Max. “Did you eat my fuckin’ wings? There were like six left. The fuck, bro?”

After their fight a couple weeks back, Max had admittedly been keeping his distance. It wasn’t like he was intentionally trying to avoid Brady… it was just easier for them both this way. At least until Max got over himself and moved on from… whatever it was he was feeling. Their usual banter on and off camera had been painfully forced, and maybe it was his fault for not being 100% up for it lately, but it still sucked. He wanted so badly just to go back to normal, but every time he looked at Brady now, his stomach would still flip. Only, now it was accompanied by a hot rush of embarrassment, and he was brought back to reality again. Max pushed for too much from him, and it made things weird with his best friend. And while that was the last thing he wanted, he honest to God couldn’t help his brain from shutting down a little whenever they would interact. Because the truth was, he still felt a little wounded from the whole ordeal.

He barely looked up as Brady walked into the kitchen, nodding in return. His laptop was in front of him on the table as he sat perched with one of his elbows resting on the surface. But he didn’t turn back to him; didn’t smile or make a joke. He just minded his own business. Which truthfully is what he probably should have been doing from the start. Max wasn’t expecting Brady to say anything to him, really. So when he did, he lifted his head to see what was up. “Nah dude. Didn’t eat your crap.” Max rolled his eyes and glanced back at his laptop, busying himself at the screen. “I threw them out. They were getting little fuzzy spots on them. Sorry.” Max shrugged, and normally when he tried to tease it would be obvious, but his tone wasn’t quite up to par. “Didn’t know you wanted that for seasoning.”

Brady almost wanted to say that he didn’t believe him when he claimed not to have eaten them, but Max seemed pretty serious about having thrown them out. And honestly, that was worse. He could have at least let him know first. “God dammit.” Brady shut the fridge door and rolled his eyes right back. This was one of the bigger disappointments of his life recently. “Gimme a freakin’ head’s up next time. Or just worry about your own shit.” Was he being a little over the top about leftover wings? Yes. Was he going to stop being dramatic about it? Absolutely not. Truthfully, something in Max’s tone was off today. Brady couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was torn between thinking it wasn’t his business, and thinking it totally was because Max was still supposed to be his best friend. The biggest issue from the very beginning had been making sure that didn’t get ruined. So dammit, Brady was going to see to it that their friendship remained intact, even in its current slightly fucked up state. “What’s up with you today?” he asked as he directed his attention toward one of the cabinets instead, reaching for a box of mac and cheese. He would just have to settle for now. “Maybe I’m just goin’ crazy but you don’t seem all that happy to see me.”

“You got it. Next time I’ll just let you eat moldy wings.” He should have maybe told him, like he usually did, but this time it hadn’t really crossed his mind. Which was a little weird and he knew it, because usually he told Brady everything and didn’t think twice about it. Max sighed and sat up a little straighter in his chair; he wasn’t trying to be off with him. He was just a little off in general today. “Just a little stressed out, but I’ll be fine, man. Just a bad day. It’ll be all good tomorrow.” He turned his head to look at him pointedly. “Jeez didn’t know I had to entertain you every time you walk into a room. What d’you want? A welcome party?”

Brady rolled his eyes again, and it was weird that it wasn’t particularly comforting or reassuring like it was typically. Usually it meant things were as normal as ever between them. But now there was genuine annoyance behind it. And that sucked pretty hard. Max said it was a bad day and while Brady stayed focused on finding a pot to fill with water to cook his pasta, it still registered with him. He wondered what was going on, but wasn’t sure if Max was going to want to tell him. And a likely selfish, admittedly still anxious part of Brady wondered if he had anything to do with it. So he didn’t ask because he didn’t want to have that conversation. “Yeah, here’s hopin’.” He put he pot on the stove and turned it on, shrugging with his back still to Max. “From you? Depends what kinda welcome party you’re talkin’ about.” He knew he shouldn’t be joking about shit like that. But it was his default when he didn’t want to get real with Max. He supposed he couldn’t help himself.

The conversation was short; clipped. Max wasn’t helping matters, he supposed, by not elaborating more. He just really wasn’t sure how to talk to him again yet, since they’d been so weird around each other. And it was mostly his own fault, but it just sucked because Max missed his friend. He smiled slightly, and it didn’t feel genuine, but he was trying. “Just YouTube drama. The puppy hasn’t been lettin’ me sleep. And Ratthew’s sick again. Just small things.” And things he didn’t want to get into right now. He was about to say something more, something that bordered on normal for them. But then Brady had to go and say that. And he tensed a little bit, the reply flying off his tongue before he could censor himself. “How about the kind where I leave the room and you can have your own damn party?” He looked at him over his shoulder, and this is where he tried to sound like he was joking. “I’ll put on some music for you an’ your hand to enjoy together.”

“YouTube drama,” Brady repeated, nodding firmly. He wasn’t sure what exactly that meant but he knew enough from doing this with Max for so many years that it was probably something stupid. YouTubers weren’t always very understanding people. “Puppy hasn’t been letting me sleep either.” And it was a joint decision, yeah yeah, whatever. Brady would get over it. “Do rats go to the vet?” he asked. He couldn’t remember what had happened last time he’d been sick, but he knew it probably made Max feel as shitty as Brady felt when it was Draco, so he was gonna try to be mindful of that. Max’s reply had Brady turning away from the stove with his eyebrows raised, surprised at his response. It didn’t feel like the usual playful kind and sort of threw him off. “Damn.” Brady shook his head, leaving the water to heat up on the stove and moving closer to the table where Max sat. He remained by to the counter, though, leaning back against it and crossing his arms over his chest as he faced him. “Tell me how you really feel.” He didn’t want to push his buttons, but it was easy for him to feel all bitter and resentful that things were so weird between them. It felt like they were both kind of trying but it wasn’t exactly working. And Brady just had that fleeting moment of wondering again why Max had to go and say anything. Which wasn’t fair, he knew. But he couldn’t help thinking it. “You don’t gotta be like that, bro. We have fun here.”

He’s glad he didn’t have to over explain himself about the YouTube thing. Few people would understand just from that, but Brady had been with him long enough to know the ins and outs. “Yeah, I’m taking him to the doctor tomorrow. Might bring Emmie along. It’s just a respiratory thing but she knows more about that stuff than I do.” Plus, moral support. She always did have the same love of rats as he did, if not moreso. As the conversation shifted from weird to weirder, Max realized that he’d maybe slipped up too much. But that comment got to him more than it should have; reminded him of things they were both currently trying to forget. So he was just a little bit defensive. But he wasn’t trying to be a complete asshole. He just felt… off. Uncomfortable, like he didn’t know how to act around him right now. So he was saying the first things to come to mind, blurting them out as they came. But part of him knew Brady could handle it. “‘We?’” He echoed with a raise of his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair, so aggressively that it tilted back a little, but his hands holding onto the table stopped him from going too far. His eyes deliberately looked at the empty space behind Brady, and he made a show of looking around. “Didn’t know someone else was here. Guess I’ll leave you to it, then.” He sighed and closed his laptop and standing up, kind of joking but also fully planning on going to his room. He looked at him as he stretched. “Enjoy your Mac n Cheese bro. Don’t worry. I won’t be throwing anymore leftovers away.”

“Lemme know how it goes, I guess.” Brady watched Max’s reaction, quirking an eyebrow in a mix of confusion and amusement. He wasn’t sure what sort of game Max was playing, or if he was even playing one at all. Brady had never really seen him like this before, honestly. Even when Max had had bad days throughout their time of knowing each other, Brady had never seen him be so… sassy. It was super obnoxious. For a moment he considered the fact that that was how he sounded, like, all the time. But Brady being some level of aloof was fairly expected of him at this point. The fact that he was getting it from Max just because he couldn’t give him what he needed right now was frustrating. They weren’t like this. They didn’t get on each other’s nerves just by being in the same room. But that was exactly what had been going on lately and Brady hated that things had to be all weird. Max standing up to walk away from him just like that was genuinely irritating. Brady rolled his eyes and dropped his arms to his side as Max started to stretch. “Okay,” Brady said simply, pushing himself off the counter. He had learned over the past few months how to shut Max up, and right now he wanted to do that more than ever. Old habits were hard to break, as it turned out, because Brady knew it was a bad idea, just like he had known it the very first time, when he came face to face with Max and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him in so he could press his lips against his, hard. He had no idea how this was going to go. And maybe he’d regret it in just a few short seconds. But dammit, he was getting tired of this weird tension, and he was just agitated enough to say fuck it and do something about it.

Max just wanted to go to his room to get away from this weird tension. It was so strange to live with someone who you just had a sort-of-fight with. Max didn’t have a chance to fully process it, because everywhere he turned Brady was there. Not only did they live together, they worked together. Max was realizing now how messy he’d made things by saying what he did to Brady. But on the same hand, now he could get those thoughts out of his head once and for all and move on. Max would get over himself, eventually. He knew nothing would make him want to stop being Brady’s friend. Right now, though? He wanted to get the hell out of there.

But he didn’t even have a chance to grab his laptop before Brady was tugging him in by his wrist and kissing him like that. Immediately, Max’s thoughts went blank, just like they always freakin’ did when Brady and him were like this. Instinctively, Max began to kiss him back, lips moving against his before he could realize what he was doing. But after a few moments, Max shook his head. His hands found Brady’s chest, and he pushed him back enough for the kiss to break. “Fuck you.” He said quietly, not understanding what Brady was playing at here. But they were so close, faces just a breath apart. He just stared at him for a moment, a whirlwind of different emotions coursing through him. Mostly, Max was beyond frustrated, because he wanted to keep kissing him. That urge alone woke something up in him. His frustration boiled up, and suddenly he wasn’t in charge of his own actions.

A chant of ‘I shouldn’t be doing this’ ran through his mind as his hands twisted in Brady’s shirt, tugging him back to him despite the way he’d just pushed him away, eyes burning into his as he did. “What exactly do you want from me here Brady?” His voice was low; unrecognizable to his own ears. Max’s gaze dropped to Brady’s lips, but he didn’t kiss him like he wanted to. Like he would have before everything went to hell. Instead, he dropped his lips down to the side of his neck, not nearly as careful as he would have been normally. His teeth grazed his skin, sucking the spot briefly. But then he let go, breath fanning over Brady’s neck while he spoke. “Don’t wanna be playin’ games with you.”

Brady knew he had gone a little over the top here, but Max shoving him away and talking to him like that was entirely unexpected. Brady swayed where he stood a little but didn’t look away from Max’s face. Something had to give here, and since Brady had been the one to go for it in the first place, he wasn’t sure it was his call to say what happened next. He didn’t need to do anything, though, because before he could Max pulled him forward by his shirt. Brady held his gaze and fuck, Max was kinda pissed at him. Maybe it shouldn’t have been that hot, but…it was. “You know what I want.” Brady tilted his head back instinctively when he felt Max’s lips and teeth on his neck. He raised his hands to Max’s waist, pulling his body closer like he’d done a hundred times before. Jesus, this was probably the worst idea in the world. But Brady and Max were no strangers to giving in to how badly they wanted each other despite the consequences. “Shut the fuck up,” Brady told him quietly, his jaw tense. He wasn’t playing games and he showed it by dragging Max closer, pressing into him and sliding a hand up under the back of Max’s shirt. “You know you missed this.” He angled his head so he could pull Max’s earlobe between his teeth, and stayed close after he let go. “Still think about me fucking you every time you look at me?” Okay, so he kind of wanted to push him a little bit now. He was on a tightrope and he knew it, and Max could push him off at any moment. But Brady was holding out hope that Max was equally as blinded by desire to forget about the aftermath.

Max didn’t know what he was doing. Which, encapsulated most of his life, but particularly about Brady. His head was screaming at him to stop what he was doing and just walk away, but the rest of him was telling him otherwise. Because despite the weirdness, Max still wanted him, and he had a hard time controlling that apparently. “Do I?” He murmured, lips bumping against Brady’s neck. Max let his tongue brush over the spot he’d just given attention to, pressing himself even closer as Brady brought him in. The shut the fuck up only spurred him on; the tone of Brady’s voice encouraging him even if it should be sending him running. But the hand sliding up the back of his shirt was telling him to stay, and whatever resolve Max still had was broken. The fact of the matter was that Max did miss this. Way more than he’d care to admit to even himself. A small sound rumbled in the back of his throat as Brady’s teeth tugged at his ear, and he used his own hands to slide down Brady’s torso, ending up at the hem of his shirt. His lips dragged down Brady’s neck, only stopping when he lifted his head to look at him. ”What makes you think I still think about you?” He evaded the question almost too easily. His voice felt gravelly and Max didn’t feel like himself; he felt mean and defensive but fuck if he didn’t still want this. And that much was probably painfully apparent to Brady despite his words. His lips suddenly felt dry, and he licked them as he tugged Brady’s shirt roughly up and over his head. “Think it’s you who’s been thinking about me.” He breathed as his hands dropped to Brady’s belt, desperate to get his clothes out of the way and touch more of him. He leaned in close to his ear, brushing his nose against it as he spoke quietly to him. “Since I’m the best you’ve ever had.” If Brady was gonna throw things he said in his face, hell, right now he was petty enough to do the same.

“The fact you’re still here,” Brady replied, his eyes slipping shut at the mere sound of Max’s voice. He couldn’t believe the side of him that he was seeing. Brady knew it was only because shit was so bad between them, so he should have probably been upset about it, but the frustration between the two of them was fuel to the fire. Brady just wanted more. Brady let his shirt be pulled off and then looked right at Max, watching his hands immediately fall to his pants. “Never said I wasn’t.” Brady still stared at him, borderline challenging, waiting to see what Max would do without Brady directing him one way or another. For perhaps the first time since this whole thing between them started, he was willing to relinquish control if it meant seeing Max like this. The mere thought of it sent a chill down his spine. It didn’t, however, stop him from pressing his fingers against Max’s skin, maybe with a bit too much force, but Max didn’t usually seem to mind, and he figured especially not now. “You are,” Brady said with a smirk, intent on not giving Max the satisfaction of getting under his skin like that. So if he admitted it all himself, Max wouldn’t have the chance. “I’ve been fucking dying to touch you again.” Brady slid his hand up to Max’s hair, pulling it back to bring Max’s lips away from his ear so he could look him in the eye. “Since I’m your best ever too.” Brady brought their lips together again, his hand still tightly holding a fistful of Max’s hair to keep him right where he wanted him. “But if you want me to stop…” he said quietly between kisses, his free hand hooking a finger into Max’s belt loop in a desperate attempt to bring their hips even closer, but without accidentally forcing Max’s hands away from his belt. “I’ll stop.”

This whole situation didn’t seem real. It was hazy and weird and happening so quickly. Max wasn’t thinking, at all - and he should really know better by now. But he truly and honestly couldn’t bring himself to care. He was just so - frustrated. Angry at their weirdness, hurt by the situation. Annoyed by Brady’s fucking smugness. That last bit was usually a huge turn on, but right now it just got under his damn skin. Which, coincidentally, was also fuckin’ turning him on. The fingers biting into his skin were familiar; the grip stinging just the right amount. And right now he hated that he’d missed the feeling of Brady’s hands on him so much. “Aw. Sounds really hard for you.” He replied as his hair was pulled back, causing a pleasurable chill to roll down his spine, and he couldn’t help the way he bit his lip and automatically brought his body closer. The way Brady would grab onto his hair always drove him crazy, and the press of his lips to his was always addicting to him. Too bad Max didn’t really wanna make out and stare into his eyes right now. Before he would have been all for it, but now it just kind of made his chest hurt and his defenses fly up. Max’s hands still worked to remove Brady’s belt, not pulling away from the kisses because he didn’t want to be a complete jerk. But he made a point to deepen them; to kiss him harder before they were breaking away. At his urging, Max’s hips pressed firm against Brady’s, giving away the fact that he was already half-hard. He rolled against him the best he could without stopping himself from his task, before finally freeing the belt and tossing it to the ground where Brady’s shirt already laid. “Brady?” He mumbled, eyes darting back up to his briefly so he could see how serious he was. Max grabbed onto his waist firmly, thumbs grazing his sides, before backing him up and turning to press him against the counter. He dipped his head in toward him, mouth so close to his. “Shut the fuck up.”

He knew that was usually his move, but right now, Max literally couldn’t care less. He was so desperate for something; to touch him even if this was a bad idea. But there was no way he was going to let himself get all wrapped up again and make things even weirder between the two of them, so today he was going to do things his way. With that, he pressed one hand to his friends stomach with one hand, keeping him pressed against the counter, while he gave his pants a rough tug with the other. Max let him go to drag them down over and off his legs, lowering himself to drop down onto his knees in front of him in the process. He ripped his own shirt off of his head, throwing it into their haphazard pile. Not wasting any time, he gripped Brady’s hip in one hand, and looked up at him pointedly as he leaned in to mouth a kiss over the front of his boxers. He had half a mind to just go for it, but he got a better idea, and stopped abruptly. His own smugness was shining through this time, because he knew Brady wanted him like this. That much was obvious. “Do you want to stop? ‘Cause I’ll leave right now.” He meant it, too. “Not sure if you want it enough.”

Brady rolled his eyes when Max told him to shut up. But he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t still turning him on a ridiculous amount — Max talking to him like this. He let himself be backed against the counter, his hands instinctively flying back to brace against it and hold himself up. Max all but yanked down Brady’s pants and his own shirt and it made Brady a little dizzy. It had only been two weeks, but that was two weeks too fucking long since he’d seen Max on his knees in front of him like this, and the fact that he was giving him such a hard time just added to the anticipation. The feeling of his mouth caused Brady to drop his head back, groaning almost embarrassingly loud. He supposed he hadn’t realized just how much he had missed this until he was reminded of what it actually felt like all over again. “Now you need to shut up again,” Brady muttered, bringing his head back down to look at Max. “I’m not gonna fucking beg you, Cameron.” Brady needed it, though. He really fucking did. He had gone too long without feeling every inch of Max, but he wasn’t desperate enough quite yet to stoop that low. Still, he reached down to pull down his own boxers. “You just said you don’t wanna play games,” Brady pointed out, pushing the fabric down to his ankles and leaning back to place his hands against the counter again. “So cut the shit.“ He watched his face carefully. He knew Max was genuinely pissed and probably wasn’t kidding about stopping, but Brady was willing to take the risk. “Come on, Max.” One of his hands threaded through Max’s hair, not pushing him, but he gripped it just tight enough to urge him on. Brady swallowed, his throat dry, and got the closest he might ever get to begging as he said, “You know how much I fuckin’ want it. C’mon.”

Max felt a smug sense of satisfaction at the groan that escaped Brady. Hearing him react to what he was doing was always one of his favorite things. It just reminded him that he was the one making Brady feel this way. And despite how pissed he was right now, he couldn’t help but still feel proud about that. However, seeing Brady pull his boxers down quickly distracted him. The way Brady told him to shut up and grasped tightly onto his hair went straight to his dick; and his automatic instinct was to just give him what he wanted. Because fuck, Max wanted him too. And having his hands in his hair and hearing him being so demanding was always really fucking hot, but right now it just further annoyed him. If Brady wanted this to just be sex, he was gonna give him that. Max rose a hand up to grasp onto Brady’s wrist, tugging it up and out of his hair, pulling his arm to pin it against the counter behind Brady. “No, I don’t wanna play your games.” He said, and his voice was sharper than he meant for it to be. “I like mine just fine.” With that, Max wrapped the hand that wasn’t pinning Brady’s arm to the counter around his cock. His gaze was defiant, but truthfully he wasn’t strong enough to really and truly deny him. Brady’s dick was literally right in front of his face and he was painfully hard by this point. His grip around him was firm as he stroked him, before letting his hand grip the base of Brady’s cock. Almost too slowly, he was leaning in wrap his lips around him, tongue sliding easily along the length as he inched him into his mouth. He shifted on his knees, a small moan vibrating over Brady’s dick as he finally let himself do what they obviously both wanted. They’d been weird and Max knew on some level he shouldn’t be doing this, but he’d missed being able to touch him like this.

His hand stroked where his mouth wasn’t currently reaching, the hand on Brady’s wrist tightening as he set his own pace. He only flickered his gaze up at him when he began to slide him deeper into his mouth; inching him into his throat and humming deliberately just to see his face when he did. His hand fell away from his dick to grasp tightly into his hip, steadying him so he could do exactly what he wanted. And only once he was satisfied that Brady was really and truly into it, Max pulled his mouth away. “Say please.” He managed to say, breathing a little labored and throat raspy. He licked his lips and leaned back a little bit, and he couldn’t help but smirk, so different from his usual grin. Because he knew that he had the power here, and honestly he was fucking smug about it. He wanted Brady to be the one who wanted him so bad he couldn’t think. “Do it an’ I’ll let you fuck my mouth. Let you hold onto my hair and everything.” The words tumbled out, brain clouded by lust. “You want more? You’re gonna have to do better than just tellin’ me.” For once, Brady was going to have to ask him outright. And Max wasn’t settling.

Brady’s instinct was to try to pull his hand away from Max’s hold. He wasn’t exactly used to Max holding him down like this. But Max was probably stronger than he was, or deep down Brady didn’t particularly want to pull his hand away after all, because Max’s hold around his wrist remained tight. Brady had to remind himself to trust him. And he did. Even if right now was the worst time to put all of his faith in Max to give him what he wanted, given the circumstances. He stayed quiet, though, and eventually Max gave in. Brady moaned instantly, his eyes fluttering closed until Brady forced them back open. He had wanted this so badly again and dammit, he was going to watch. Max looked right back at him and hummed. Brady’s hips threatened to jerk forward, but he didn’t get much further than thinking about it before Max’s other hand raised to hold him in place. Brady let himself get lost in it; all of it, the way Max felt and the sounds he made and all the things Brady had been desperate for since they’d stopped. He really did trust him, moreso than anyone else, and even when things were so fucking weird and tense between them Brady allowed himself to remember that as his eyes closed again, unable to fight it this time. If anyone else were trying to hold Brady down like this, he’d be trying much harder to break free.

And if anyone else tried to pull the shit Max was pulling right now, sliding his mouth off of Brady’s cock as he leaned back in one swift moment, he might have lost his patience. He looked down at him, mouth hanging open comically in disbelief. “Seriously?” Brady asked breathlessly. He had never been more annoyed with Max in his life, and that was saying something. Smug bastard. Brady’s pride told him not to give in, to find a way to regain the upper hand like always and get what he wanted in his own way. But Max was so different today from how Brady had ever seen him before and…he was lowkey worried it wouldn’t pay off. Brady ran his free hand through his hair and sighed heavily, closing his eyes again. “I fucking—” He stopped, shaking his head. “Please,” he finally said, eyes reopening to meet Max’s. “Fucking hell, Max. C’mon, please.” He hadn’t expected to be reduced to this, but god fucking dammit. Things were never so simple with Max. At least he had held up his end of the deal and given Max what he wanted, so Brady yanked his hand free to bring both up to hold tightly to Max’s hair. And when he had the go ahead, his hips rocked forward, another loud moan emitting from his throat as the warmth of Max’s mouth enveloped him again. As promised, Brady thrust into his mouth, jerkily until he managed to find some sort of rhythm, watching the mesmerizing slide of Max’s lips on his dick to match the way it felt. “Fuck yeah,” Brady choked out.

It was borderline embarrassing how soon Brady started to feel like he wasn’t going to be able to hold back. He squeezed his eyes shut, the movement of his hips becoming less rhythmic and going back to something much less controlled. A steady chant of curse words left his lips before he could stop them. As consumed as he was by Max Max Max, another sound managed to catch his attention, and Brady’s eyes flew open as he loosened his white-knuckled grip on Max’s hair. “Oh shit.” Brady ceased his movements and leaned back slowly, pulling Max off of him in the process. He carefully bent down to pull his boxers back up, regaining what he felt like was some semblance of dignity before rushing over to the stove. The water in the pot had boiled over. Brady had totally forgotten he was cooking. He quickly shut off the stove, noting his ragged breathing and the sweat that had slowly started to drip from his hair. Brady swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and then went back to where Max was. “We can do this your fuckin’ way,” Brady snapped, but still serious as ever. “I don’t give a fuck. But whatever the fuck it is we can’t do it here.”

Max and Brady might not have been seeing eye to eye over the past two weeks, but Max still knew his friend. He knew that he was stubborn; he knew that Brady liked having the upper hand. He knew that it was hard for him to let his guard down sometimes. He knew all of this, but he still wanted to get that one word out of him. Max didn’t know why it was so important that he bring Brady to that point, but it fucking was. Because he felt like he could, like Brady would let him if he played his cards right. And when Brady fucking said what he wanted him to in that wrecked tone of his, Max lost it. Time went by in a blur as he grasped onto either side of Brady’s hips, this time encouraging movement rather than stopping it. He relaxed his throat the best he could, struggling to remember to breathe through his nose as Brady took what was promised. And all he could focus on was how his best friend fucking looked and sounded as he lost all control, and Max couldn’t think. He just groaned into it; fully immersing himself in it, and he couldn’t stop watching him as he did it. Brady really was one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen. But seeing him like this? It was next level, and Max wasn’t going to ever get this image out of his head. He gripped his hips tighter, pulling him in closer, guiding his thrusts because he could. He could feel him getting closer and closer and all he wanted was to see him completely lose it. To come undone because of him. But then as quickly as it started, Brady was up and gone. Max didn’t even rise from his spot on the floor immediately, just turned his head to stare after him. He felt possessed; the pot on the stove boiling over not even phasing him. His heart was still hammering in his chest and his eyes were blown wide. His hair was undoubtedly a wreck from the way Brady was tugging on it, and all he could fucking think coherently was that he’d never been this turned on in his whole life.

As soon as Brady turned back to face him, he was lifting himself off the floor and stalking towards him. It felt like he was on a mission, and suddenly maybe he was. Max breathed in sharply, licking his lips and still tasting Brady on them. His cock ached, still confined in his jeans, and he honest to God did not care in the slightest about the fact they could have set their apartment on fire. Max reached a hand out, fingertips dipping under the waist band of Brady’s boxers to tug him in closer. Brady was all sweaty and it shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. “Your room.” He finally said as he struggled to gain control of his breath and voice. He leaned in close, pressing a biting kiss to the side of his neck. “I’m fucking you.” His heart was racing at the thought, and he wondered if he was speaking clearly because his thoughts felt so muddled right now with how much he wanted him. “And you’re gonna like it so much it’s gonna be all you can think about when you look at me.” He tugged him hard towards him, and he told himself when this started that it was a bad idea to keep kissing on him. But right now he didn’t think twice about slamming their lips together in a rough kiss. It took all of his power to let go of him completely, turning his back on him to start making his way to their destination. And he knew with utmost certainty that Brady would follow.

Brady’s breath hitched as Max pulled him forward. He was so sensitive to every fucking thing Max was doing that the slightest movement made Brady’s brain all hazy. So it was no surprise that Max’s next words damn near knocked the wind out of him. How the fuck had Max Evans of all people reduced him to this? Brady didn’t want to think about it. He chalked it up to how unbelievably turned on he was, but he knew it had more to do with letting Max take total control for once, and the fact that Brady could trust him like that even when they weren’t particularly on good terms. Brady knew he had been selfish in a lot of ways he didn’t even want to admit, so it seemed only fair to let Max have his way this time around. Brady just hadn’t realized how much he could truly get behind it until Max started talking to him like that. Brady nodded, feeling dumb as fuck because he had no idea what to say. No usual sarcastic remark, no sassy response to Max’s words. He was so hard and so desperate to be under Max’s touch again that he simply couldn’t think. Brady instantly pressed his body against Max’s when he kissed him, and he was left leaning forward slightly as Max abruptly turned and walked away. Jesus Christ.

Brady trailed behind, anticipation and excitement flowing through him as they went. He couldn’t explain how hot it was as Max made his way into Brady’s own room. Brady closed the door behind them and then turned to look at him. Even through the weirdness and now this new side he had never seen before, Brady stopped to recognize that he was just looking at Max. The same Max he had known for three years, his best friend, someone who knew more about him than anyone else did. God, it was so fucking frustrating that things weren’t okay between them. The resentment bubbled up inside of Brady all over again as he stared at him, reminding him that this was all just because Brady wasn’t ready to open up. And it wasn’t Max’s fault either; he was hurt and Brady understood that. It just wasn’t enough to wipe away the bitterness between them. So instead Brady was going to let all of his frustrations manifest themselves in his desperation to touch Max again, and Max could take control of the situation however he saw fit. Lord knows Brady was into it, even if he never imagined he would be.

Still facing him from the door, Brady discarded his boxers once more. He certainly wasn’t going to be needing them from here on out. Instead of going to Max and kissing him like he might normally, Brady crossed right over to his bed, situating himself back against the pillows. “Well? What’re you waiting for, cowboy?” Brady prompted once he managed to find his snark again. Anticipation still coiled in the pit of his stomach as he watched Max and waited, but at least he was no longer standing there wordlessly, hopelessly waiting for anything to happen. Brady may not have the upper hand right now like he was used to, but he was still enjoying pushing Max a little, as he always did. “Come show me how it’s done.” Brady tilted his head, licking his lips. “Or did you wanna return the favor of fucking my mouth? Know how much you love that.”

Max didn’t know what had gotten into him, but he wasn’t in the right mind to question himself at all. He was just running on whims; the tension that had been circulating over the past weeks finally boiling up and over, just like Brady’s Mac ‘N Cheese water. Max was so desperate to touch him again, because despite his best efforts not to, he still couldn’t help but want him just as much as he did before their fight. It sucked, the situation sucked, but instead of being sad about it - Max was taking control of the situation, for once. Max ripped his own belt off on the way to Brady’s room, tossing it behind him right before he opened the door. He made eye contact with him as he yanked his pants and boxers down, shucking them off to the side. But he didn’t come over to Brady, now stretched out on the bed. Not yet. The familiar name cut through to his ears, and he fucking hated how it still sent a chill down his spine. Only Brady could call him Cowboy during sex; during whatever this was, and have him like it. Normally he didn’t care that he liked it so much; normally he embraced whatever Brady threw at him. But right now it only served to add fuel to the fire, because everything Brady did to remind Max of just how lost he’d let himself get lost in him was setting him off. “Waiting for when I’m good and fuckin’ ready, Bradford.” He snipped back, eyes trailing down his body, and he wanted to just go over there right now. Give him just what he was asking for. Max’s gaze drifted to his mouth, and he pictured what he was suggesting so clearly. He felt his cock stir at the thought alone. God. Max really did love that, and it took all his strength not to go over there and take him up on it. “You saying you want me to shut you up? I can do that.” He tried not to let onto how much he liked that idea, but the way his words hitched while he spoke probably gave him away. “But I can do that without my dick in your mouth. If you’re good I’ll show you.”

He wasn’t going to be that easy. He wasn’t going to let Brady control this right now. So he stood up straight, regaining the angry sort of confidence he’d somehow gained this evening. He walked over to the table besides Brady’s bed, yanking it open and grabbing out the lube and condoms so he wouldn’t have to stop what he was doing just for that. Max tossed them both on the bed next to Brady. He gave him a pointed look as he leaned down over him, hands pressing against the mattress on either side of him, effectively boxing him in. "These my condoms or did you finally buy your own for once?“ He’d never let onto the fact that he knew, because Max honestly didn’t care. But tonight he wasn’t holding any of his thoughts back. His tone was a little mocking before he brought his lips to Brady’s, the kiss a little too demanding. One of his arms fell down to wrap around Brady’s cock, giving it a couple of strokes while they kissed. Before it got too out of control, he leaned away and let go of him completely. "You really want this?” He fixed him with a serious look. Because as much as they were both clearly into this, he wasn’t going to do anything without his go ahead. “'Cause if you do.” He began, and his brain was all cloudy with a hundred different things he wanted to do. He felt kind of like he was malfunctioning, but trying so hard to hold it together. He couldn’t let Brady try to get the upper hand again, not right now. “You should get on your hands and knees for me.”

Brady wasn’t going to say it just yet, since Max was clearly getting a lot of his own satisfaction already, but how badly he wanted to reach out and drag Max onto the bed with him was borderline devastating. And maybe, if he tried, he would have won the battle, gaining control once again and getting just what he wanted from him. But Brady had to stop and think, where would be the fun in that? He’d never seen Max so aggressive before and was surprised by just how into it he was. He may as well just go with the fuckin’ flow. Brady swallowed, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips but suppressed by how genuinely thrown off he was, still, by Max’s tone and the words he said. “I’ll be good,” Brady promised before he fully recognized the words he was saying. Christ, Max really was bringing out an entirely new side of him he’d truly never knew existed. Brady was so used to being the one who called the shots in every situation. It was weird to have someone he could completely let go with, someone he could let talk to him and direct him a certain way without feeling like he was making some sort of a mistake. Which, okay, maybe he was making a mistake sleeping with Max when they hadn’t taken the time to discuss anything going on, but what the fuck ever. Brady was far too horny at this point to think about it. The point was he could let himself give Max the reigns and still feel safe, and that certainly wasn’t nothing.

Max trapped him against the mattress and Brady just looked up at him, suddenly feeling smaller, but not hating it. “Fuck off,” Brady muttered, the smirk finally returning. “Yours are just closer sometimes.” Not that it had mattered within the past few months, given that they’d both been sharing with each other pretty evenly. The only times Brady had taken Max’s condoms recently were to fuck Max, so he was pretty sure he should stop complaining. One of Brady’s hands instinctively flew up to the back of Max’s neck as he kissed him hard. Brady wanted to hold him there, to keep him from doing his new thing and pulling away just when Brady wanted, needed it most. But he did just that, right when he caused Brady to lift his hips off the bed into his hand. Max left Brady wanting more and for a second he couldn’t believe that he had done this to Max multiple times before, yet he’d still come back for more. But then Brady considered the fact that he would very likely do this whole thing again too. Maybe that was just his aching cock thinking for him, but whatever.

Brady groaned, pushing himself up in his elbows to look at Max. He started speaking and Brady waited, listened, until Max made it clear what he wanted from him. Brady had had an idea when they’d made their way to his bedroom that Max would want to do things a certain way, so he couldn’t say he was necessarily surprised by Max wanting him to get on his hands and knees. And Brady… well, Brady wanted to do what the fuck Max told him to. What a concept. He didn’t argue or even particularly respond, just rolled over onto his side and then planted his hands on the mattress to get up onto his knees. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Max, and holy fuck, Brady could feel warmth in his cheeks spreading down his neck and to his chest. Brady was fucking blushing. He thought he should be embarrassed, maybe even say fuck this and throw Max down on the bed to have his way with him. But, however surprising it was, Brady just wanted to wait. To let Max have his way with Brady. The thought of his kind, extremely generous friend continuing to speak to Brady in this far less than sweet tone to take what he wanted rather than giving was unbelievably fucking hot, mostly because Brady had to wonder if he was the only one who got this side of Max out of him; just like Max was the only person to see this less dominant part of Brady. The thought turned him on a ridiculous amount, despite the circumstances that brought them here. “Max,” Brady started, still looking at him from his new position on the bed. “I really fuckin’ need you. And I know how goddamn much you want me too. So…Jesus, dude. Please fucking do something.” A healthy mix of begging and demanding, Brady thought. He was going to have to find a happy medium between what Max wanted from him and what Brady was willing to offer in return if he was going to let himself relax and get used to giving himself over to Max like this.

Max almost didn’t expect Brady to go along with his request, but when he looked back at him after doing what he’d asked and said those words, Max had to take a moment to collect himself. The image of his face would forever be burned into his mind, he was sure, because he’d never seen him this earnest or borderline pleading about anything. And Max was the one to bring him to this point. Either Brady trusted him enough to just go along with it, or he was too turned on to care. Either way, his chest felt tight all of a sudden. Although, Max’s brain was literally not even in the equation anymore. He didn’t care at that moment how weird things had been between them, or how different they were being with each other right this very moment. He just knew he needed him really badly, even if he wasn’t going to let himself have that just yet. More than his own need to get some sort of physical gratification, he wanted to draw this out a bit more. He wanted Brady to completely lose his mind; to catch him off guard in a way that maybe no one had before. He wanted Brady to remember this. Pride and the overpowering need to prove himself to Brady took over him, and he finally crawled onto the bed beside him, coming up to hold Brady’s chin in his hand as he brought him in for another short kiss. “If that’s what you really want.” He said simply, pulling away, and for the first time that night he let himself visibly soften up. He ran a hand over the slope of his back, and kissed him once more before speaking quietly. “All you had to do was ask.”

Max pushed himself back, sitting up on his knees to for a moment. He swallowed as he let his eyes travel down the expanse of his form. Despite how angrily charged this encounter began, deep down he couldn’t help that familiar warmth from settling into his chest. And he was too worked up by all of this to really focus on it, but it wasn’t something he could just ignore every day like he had been doing and Max knew it. “You’re so fucking unbelievable,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, not even thinking about his words. And he wasn’t even sure how he meant them right now anyway. “So hot like this.” Max made his way down his back, sucking small marks into his skin as he made his way down. His hands traveled down Brady’s sides as his lips glided down his back, his knees supporting him as he moved his own body downwards.

When he was where he wanted to be, Max’s breath caught in his throat. His hands slid over his ass, squeezing the flesh gently in his hands. Max knew Brady had just showered before they pushed each other to this, and even if they hadn’t hooked up in awhile, they were way past well accustomed to each others bodies now. There wasn’t an ounce of shyness left in him at this point, and he showed it by trailing kisses from his lower back and over his backside. He dragged his lips across the skin, before biting down gently, tugging at the flesh of Brady’s left cheek before letting it go. He suddenly felt that smugness rise up in him once more, something he wasn’t entirely used to, but right now he was embracing it. His hands squeezed tighter as he spread him open. “How’s this?“ He couldn’t help but edge him on as he leaned in, breath deliberately hovering over him for a moment. But it was only a moment, before Max let his tongue drag over him, almost a little too slowly. His hands still gripped either side of his ass, and he gave a few experimental flicks of his tongue, not going much further than that just yet. “This 'something’ enough for you?”

Brady took a deep breath, reminding himself to relax as Max slowly made his way down toward the end of the bed. Every touch and press of his lips on Brady’s skin was agonizing in the best way. He squeezed his eyes shut, focused on not tensing up because he knew what was coming. Max was unpredictable tonight, but Brady still knew him well enough to be able to tell where his mind was most of the time. He exhaled slowly, his body buzzing with anticipation as he awaited Max’s next move. Everything about the situation was uncharted territory for Brady, this especially. So he told himself once again that he could trust him. That was what mattered most at the moment. And it was the little mantra he had to keep repeating to himself as the feeling of Max’s lips and teeth and tongue completely threw him off. Brady’s breath caught in his throat. His arms threatened to give out for a moment until he regained his composure, staying steady where Max wanted him. That was the goal.

Brady had never done this, had never even really considered it, but the idea of Max wanting it and going for it was enough for Brady to further lose it. He let his head hang down as he groaned, fingers curling into the sheets below him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, hardly a response to Max’s question but one he was sure he would understand regardless. Max still seemed wary, probably because he wanted to make sure they were on the same page and feeling the same way about things. It was so Max. Brady reached a hand up to hold onto the headboard, pulling himself up a bit and giving himself just the right amount of leverage to rock back against his tongue, craving more in any fucking sense of the word. And Brady whimpered, the sound from his own throat causing him to grip tighter to the headboard and the bed below him. “Max, I—” He pressed his lips into a tight line, swallowing back a full on whine at the feeling of Max’s hands on his ass and his tongue working him open, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “I need more,” he choked out, still surprised at how Max was turning him into such a mess. Brady was sure he had never been like this, or even close, during sex with anyone before. “Don’t… don’t tell me that’s all you got.” He gave himself a mental pat on the back every time he still managed to sound a little snarky tonight.

Brady twisted the hand on the bed into the sheets and shut his eyes tightly once more before both hands held the headboard, and Brady pulled himself forward a bit before completely twisting around to face Max. Even if he hadn’t like, told him to or whatever. Brady was desperate, made evident by his shallow breathing and the now very clear sheen of sweat. This was good, but it wasn’t enough. Brady’s cock was aching to be touched. What Brady cared more about in that moment, though, was that Max’s was too. “Let me suck your dick before you fuck me.” The words felt strange coming from him, more pleading than anything else, but Brady didn’t care, staring right at Max with a wide-eyed gaze. Brady reached for the lube and held it in his hand, figuring he could kill two birds with one stone if Max would let him do what he wanted. He swallowed thickly and realized what he was missing, what might help his case more than anything else; so he tacked on, “Please.”

Max couldn’t believe the sounds coming out of Brady’s mouth. They were addicting, and so unbelievably hot he couldn’t quite focus on everything he was giving him. The way he rocked back to meet his tongue as Max got braver and more insistent made him painfully aware of how much his own cock ached. He purposefully hadn’t touched himself yet, because he knew the moment he did he’d rush this. Brady was testing his patience every step of the way, though. But Max distracted himself by giving Brady more, working him open with his tongue and gripping onto him so tightly he was sure he was going to leave marks behind in his wake. He didn’t hold back then, wanting to pull more of those sounds out of him. He was so dead set on doing just that, that it took him a moment to realize Brady was flipping himself around. But once it sunk in, Max immediately straightened himself up, breathing a little heavy as he looked him over to make sure nothing was wrong. But one look at him told him all he needed to know. Fuck, he’d never seen that look on his face before or heard his voice quite like that. It made his heart pound in his chest so hard he could almost hear it in his own ears, and Max leveled with himself here. There was no way he could keep pushing this out; not when he wanted him this bad. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. The insistent please kept echoing through his mind and driving him crazy. His hand rose up to to push back the hair that was sticking to Brady’s forehead, feeling almost shaky as he did so. He didn’t think twice or mind the sweat, instead weaving his fingers into his hair. “Okay, yeah. Fucking suck my dick then.” He breathed as he gave his hair a small tug; letting go only as he leaned back. “What’re you waitin’ for?”

It was weird how Brady could feel totally out of his element, yet at the same time still comfortable enough to speak up and say things he usually only wanted to hear said to him. He almost felt like he had gone a little too far while Max just stared back at him, but then Max’s hand was in his hair and he was talking in that tone again, and Brady let out a breath as his eyes closed at the sensation. “You didn’t…” Brady trailed off, unsure of just how much he was going to manage to get out right now. He shook his head. It was easier to talk like that with Max leading him into it, he found. So he just reopened his eyes, licked his lips, and moved to a better position as Max lay back on the bed. He still had the lube in his hand, and he kept it there while his free hand wrapped around Max’s cock. Jesus, it was almost embarrassing how much he had missed touching him. Brady didn’t want to waste any time, but he was still Brady. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Max’s inner thigh, too close but not close enough to where he wanted him. Then he did the same on the other side, and he knew he shouldn’t push it, but that was what he always did. So his eyes flickered up at Max as he gave him a smirk.

He couldn’t play that game for long, though. Brady was desperate and Max knew it as well as he did. He wrapped his lips around just the head of his cock, then slowly slid down because he wanted to savor the feeling all over again. Brady moaned as he took more of him into his mouth, knowing Max wanted this just as much as he did, and that was the hottest part of it all. Brady didn’t bother taking his time, immediately finding a quick pace with his mouth and hand and letting his tongue slide along the underside of Max’s cock with each movement. He fucking loved this. He always had loved making Max feel good, apparently like no one else could, but all of that was heightened now that it was truly all this was. They weren’t in a great place emotionally, but they couldn’t physically keep away from each other. And it was really fucking hot.

It wasn’t long before Brady decided he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled his mouth and hand away so he could sit back and snap open the lube in his hands. He could have let Max decide how this was going to go, but Brady still liked having some semblance of control. And he had always been a believer in doing things yourself. He tossed the bottle back somewhere on the bed and reached a hand between his legs to get himself ready. He let out a shaky breath, his free hand reaching out for Max’s leg, but he pulled himself together quickly. He adjusted his position so he could lean down again, the hand on Max’s leg moving back to his cock and lowering his mouth onto it again. It was a little awkward, the angle he was working with, one hand squeezing the base of Max’s dick while the other was wedged between his body and the bed below him, but he didn’t give a fuck. He could move, it was working, and that was all that fucking mattered. The weight of Max’s cock on his tongue combined with the feeling of his own fingers pressing into him, getting ready for Max was almost too much. Brady tried not to think about how desperate he looked and felt, impatience bubbling over and making him feel the need to fucking multitask. What the fuck ever. As if Max wasn’t into it just as much as Brady was.

On any other day, Max would embrace the teasing. He was usually the one dying to see what Brady would do next. He was always so addicted to everything he did; every time he kept him waiting or would look at him with that signature Brady smugness that he couldn’t help to just gravitate to. But right now it was different. He was the one deciding where and how things went, and he’d pushed them both to the point where waiting or slowing down seem painful now. “Keep me waiting too long and I might fall asleep,” he said lowly, right before Brady smirked at him. And he kind of hated how something so simple could make him so goddamn horny. He lifted his hand up to tangle in Brady’s hair once more, fingers wrapping around the locks tightly as he wrapped his mouth around him. Immediately, a low, drawn out groan left his lips, his head tilted back as his eyes fell shut. “Jesus,” he hissed under his breath before forcing himself to look back down at Brady. The sight of him eagerly setting the pace on his cock along with the feeling of finally, finally being touched was completely overwhelming. His hips shifted up of their own accord, gaze burning down at Brady. The moan against him was too much, and seeing how much he seemed to like this and need this was making him feel overpowered by pure want.

“Your mouth—.” He barely managed to say, his words cutting off right as Brady was grabbing the lube. And it didn’t take a super genius to understand what he was about to do, but seeing him to do it was unbelievable. Fuck fuck fuck. “Fuck,” he said out loud, gaze growing all the more intense, and he was no longer thinking. At all. His hand dropped down to the back of Brady’s neck, holding onto him firmly as his mouth slid back over him. “You missed this.” He noted as his breath hitched; hips shifting as he lifted himself to get a better view of him. And he was going off pure desire; his thoughts materializing instead of being shoved to the back of his mind like normal. “You missed me, didn’t you?” His words fell out as another groan left him. He wanted more. More of his mouth, more of the sounds he was making, just more of Brady. But he couldn’t take much more of this lead-up. He needed him at this point. Max’s hand found his hair again, and he yanked his head away from his cock, although it took all of his will to do just that. His gaze didn’t leave his. “Tell me.” It felt demanding coming from his lips. “And I’ll fuck you just like you need me to.“

Brady couldn’t help how satisfied he felt by the way Max responded to him. The way he sounded and how he was looking down at him spurred Brady on further. The hand on his neck was strangely intimate and Brady really fucking liked it. Max was right; Brady had missed this a whole fucking lot. Touching him, hearing him moan, knowing he was the one making Max feel good. He’d missed Max’s hands on him everywhere, his lips on every inch of his skin, his teeth grazing his neck and his hands in his hair. All in such a short time. Brady didn’t answer at first, didn’t know if he even should, since Max was just sort of talking and Brady still had his dick in his mouth. And he was also a little overwhelmed because his head was going further than he wanted it to. He missed fucking Max, but he also missed everything else. Being in bed. Bickering during filming. Max’s head on his chest. The way his voice sounded right in Brady’s ear first thing in the morning. Every fucking thing Brady had selfishly taken for granted and treated like something so much less. It wasn’t right, because Max was more; more than just this, than just someone Brady wanted to get off with all the time. Max was his best fucking friend and that was shot to hell.

Brady couldn’t say any of that. Not now. It wasn’t the time, and his brain also screamed at him to keep that shit on lock. He was lost in his thoughts by the time Max yanked his head up and said to tell him. Brady couldn’t just look him in the eyes and say he missed him. That wouldn’t go over well for anybody. He licked his lips, fully recognizing that Max’s words stemmed from the fact that they were both super fucking horny and nothing else. And that was valid. So Brady pushed all that other fuckin’ bullshit to the very back of his mind and held Max’s gaze. “I missed fucking you,” he said, his voice steady. “Your cock. My dick in your mouth. That’s what I missed.” Maybe it was a cop out and not exactly what Max wanted to hear. But it wasn’t like it was a lie. Just not the whole truth. “I missed this,” Brady repeated, going back to Max’s original statement rather than the one he couldn’t exactly acknowledge right now. “And I do need you.” Brady shifted again, pulling his hand away so he could sit up and scoot away from Max a bit. Brady looked down at him, now feeling a pit in his stomach he hated the feeling of enough to channel it into something more fervent. “So tell me how you want it.”

Max didn’t feel in control of his own thoughts right now, something he noted only after the words left his lips. He was purely going off instinct and what he wanted. He was in this weird haze where all he could really focus on was Brady and how hot all of this was; how much he wanted to keep this going while also wanting to just give them both what they wanted. Deep below all of that, though, he couldn’t help that sliver of frustration from projecting into the situation. What had happened still hurt him, more than he was letting on. Max wasn’t one to tell anyone what they did or didn’t feel. But fuck if it wasn’t easy to let himself believe certain things when he was with Brady like this. Even now, in these less than perfect circumstances. But his words served as a reminder to him and brought him back to reality. Sex. Just sex. That’s all it was now; all it ever was. And it was time Max start letting himself believe that instead of the dumbass thoughts that landed them both in this position in the first place. So he swallowed the fucking sting he still felt, even with as turned on as he was, and he shook his head with a huff of a laugh. “Yeah, well lucky you. You’re fucking getting it all tonight.” He let the hurt wash over him, giving way to frustration at himself, and fueling this whole situation further. Max sat up on his knees, grabbing the condom that still lay on the bed. “On your stomach,” he murmured as he ripped open the package, pausing to reach out with one hand and guide Brady closer to the center of the bed. If Brady wanted to be fucked, he’d give him that. But it didn’t mean Max had to look at him head on while he did it. It was that shit that got Max in trouble to begin with. “Want your ass up in the air.” He just needed to fuck him and get this out of his system. This was ridiculous, and he was too hard to use common sense and just walk away. He tossed the packaging to the side and rolled the condom onto his cock as he spoke. “That okay with you?“

Max laughing humorlessly and the low tone of his voice reminded Brady that he was wasting his time thinking about all that other shit now. He had started this whole thing out of frustration and tension and to shut Max up, and Max was also coming at it from that angle, so Brady was just going to forget that any of that had ever come up in the first place. He stayed where he was and watched Max put on the condom, something Brady might have done for him otherwise. Max wanting him like that was possibly the least surprising part of all of this, and Brady himself was more than okay with the idea of only having to think about how it felt. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he pushed himself up on his elbow to face away from him again. "Sure thing, Maxy,” Brady muttered over his shoulder. He pulled his knees up and planted his hands against the mattress. He pressed his luck every time he teased Max, because for all he knew Max could just say fuck it and leave him there. But Brady knew when he needed it just as much, and the ridiculously smug part of him that knew Max wouldn’t just walk away kept wanting to be a little bit of an ass, as usual. Brady turned his head just slightly, so he wasn’t entirely looking at Max, but enough that he wasn’t just speaking to the wall. “Do I have to say the magic word?”

It had never quite felt like this for Max before; not with Brady. It was only now that he was starting to realize that maybe this whole thing between them had never been just about sex for him. Because now that it’s all it was, it felt like a completely brand new situation. He felt like a different person, almost. And Brady, the guy he thought he knew as well as he knew himself, felt like a fucking stranger all of a sudden. With his back turned towards him, body bent in the position Max had asked for, they could both pretend that nothing had happened between them at all. That they were just doing this to get off. But then Brady had to go and be Brady, and a weird feeling settled into his chest; a dull ache he vehemently ignored for in favor of positioning himself behind him. Without thinking, he lifted his hand to slap him on the ass, the action sharp but not forceful. “Shut up. My name is goddamn Max.” With that, he moved a hand to grip Brady’s hip tightly with one hand, as the other dropped down to grab the base of his own cock. He had to steady his breathing as he guided himself to where he wanted to be; pressing his cock firmly against Brady’s opening, but not pushing in any further. Not fucking yet. “Now that you mention it. Good idea.” He mumbled out, halting in his spot as he leaned down and over him to speak close to his ear. And he wanted him so bad, it hurt to do this. But Brady right now was good at pushing his buttons, and for once he wasn’t going to just give into him so easily. “Go on, Brad. I’m waitin’.”

Brady raised his eyebrows, but still didn’t turn to look at Max as he did so. He considered that maybe he should just shut up and do as he had been doing all long, give Max what he was asking for because Brady needed him so badly. But all the deeper thoughts that had been running through his mind a few moments before seemed to flip a switch again. Before that point he had only been thinking and responding with his dick — which was the entire point here, in fairness. Now, though, when he was more aware of this being nothing but sex, that they were both going to walk away from, and reminded that he had been the one to derail everything in the first place by losing his shit when Max first spoke up… it made him think about how much he hated not being in control of any part of his life. And he knew that this—giving in to Max’s demands instead of making his own—really wasn’t that serious, didn’t make a difference outside of the bedroom, and that was why he’d let it get away from him without first realizing that that was where it was headed. So he was going to let Max have this because fuck, it was hot and Brady wanted it. He wanted to keep hearing him talk like that and to give in to it. But he supposed he didn’t want to do it quite so easily anymore. Brady trusted him, but he also wanted to feel like he hadn’t completely flipped things between he and Max for good.

Max was teasing Brady, pushing him even further past his breaking point, which he was sure he’d reached some time ago now. He couldn’t stop himself from pressing back against him, biting down on his lip too hard as the anticipation within him that had been growing by the second reached its boiling point. With Max speaking right into his ear, Brady finally turned his head so he could meet his eyes. “Abracadabra?” he deadpanned, holding Max’s gaze. “Or accio cock? That’s more my speed.” They could stay here for a while, Brady knew, with him being difficult and Max staying true to his word. He didn’t doubt Max’s reserve, especially not now, and Brady was an expert at making things harder than they needed to be. He could drag it out for his own satisfaction and his whole regaining control or whatever. But he really did want Max to just fuck him already. He had missed it and he fucking needed it. So he wasn’t going to keep playing his stupid games. Still… if Max could do things his way, Brady could do things his own way too. “Pleeease,” he finally said, his tone clearly a little mocking as he dragged the word out a little too long. “Fuck me.” Max wanted to hear it, so he could hear it. Brady pressed his lips together, just the hint of a smile forming, but he managed to suppress it and lowered his voice just a little to add, “And your name is Maxwell.”

Max was honestly now expecting him to just go along with it; to continue on how this night had been going. But he didn’t do that, instead he replied just how he normally would have thought he would. It was all so freaking Brady, it took him aback for a second. God. He was such a nerd. That really shouldn’t have been as hot as it was, but Max always did like that about him a little too much. “Sorry, but your wizard powers haven’t come in just yet. Try that again.” He tried not to smile; tried to keep his thoughts solely on what they were about to do. And when Brady finally said the right thing, albeit sarcastically, it helped him do just yet. The smart-ass Maxwell remark only fueled him, and suddenly he wasn’t able to draw this out any longer. He began to push the head of his cock into him, head dropping back as he fucking finally did what he’d been dying to. He waited until Brady was used to it and ready for more before he continued. “M-ax.” He corrected, a little breathlessly hand continued to grip Brady’s hip all too tightly, drawing back a little so he could snap his hips forward. He guided him with his hand, rocking him back against his cock as he quickly worked set a pace. His other hand rose to glide over his back. “Am I really gonna have to get you to say it?” He felt so fucking good around him and he couldn’t think, but he had to get the last word out. “Fuck.” He groaned as his hips rocked into him with a little more force. “Little cliché, don’t you think?”

Brady might have added something else or tried to be snarky again, but then Max was pressing into him and he couldn’t do anything but drop his head down and groan. Even through the discomfort in the beginning, Brady couldn’t believe how downright relieved he felt to finally have Max inside of him again. Max’s fingers digging into his side with damn near bruising force was pretty fucking hot, emphasized even further when Max actually started to move and touch more of Brady’s skin with his other hand. “I… just said your name,” Brady breathed out, his whole body rocking forward with Max’s thrusts. It helped that Max was pushing and pulling him along too. “Don’t think I have to say it again.” Max could only get so much out of him, especially now that they were both getting what they had been wanting so badly all night. Brady gripped the sheets like he had been earlier, trying to keep himself steady as Max’s hips snapped into him relentlessly, but it was so fucking good, and Brady was trying to move with him to somehow get more of him. Always more. “Christ,” Brady said through clenched teeth. He reached a hand down to wrap around his own cock, stroking himself in time with Max’s movements. He knew he’d have to pace himself to keep from coming literally immediately (which he wouldn’t even be surprised by), because he wanted this to last. He didn’t know when or if they’d do this again and needed to rememorize every single feeling. But his cock also desperately needed attention, so Brady would just have to be careful about it. “Fuck. It’s so fucking good, man.” Brady closed his eyes, resisting the urge to turn around again and look at him. “Bet you missed this too.”

Max was finding it hard to think right now, let alone provide anymore complete sentences. So he just ignored that comment, instead choosing to rock his hips into him sharply. As much as he wanted to keep this drawn out; as much as he had been enjoying having the upper hand, his resolve pretty much crumbled the moment he pushed inside him. He was consumed with how Brady felt and looked and fucking sounded. And it took every ounce of his self control to not just get lost in it completely, but he was so crazily worked up by this point it wouldn’t last long at all. So he tried to pace himself the best he could. Max needed more of this feeling; was addicted to it right now and could only think of how good it all felt. “Fuck, Brady. Wish you could see yourself.” He managed to get out as he glanced between them, heart hammering in his chest and eyes glazed over at the sight. It looked as good as it felt and having Brady try to meet his thrusts was unbelievably hot. “So fucking hot. You feel so good.” He encouraged, rasping out his words as he stretched down and forward, forehead pressing against his back and breath brushing the skin as his hips thrusted into him with a little more force. “Yeah I fucking missed it.” He mumbled against his skin, the hand on Brady’s back sliding under his body to push his hand on his cock away. He wanted to touch him himself. He tried to ignore the traitorous voice in his head that told Max he just missed him. But he wasn’t going to mess himself up with those thoughts again. “Missed fucking you.” He breathed as he pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, hand wrapping around the base of Brady’s dick the best he could in this position. “Missed being the one to make you come.” His words were punctuated by his fingers wrapping around Brady’s dick, stroking him almost too slowly. “Missed your cock. Your mouth.” He drawled out, breathing labored. The hand on Brady’s hip raised up to tangle in his hair, tugging his head back enough so he could drag his lips over the back of his neck. He continued to rock into him, his pace steady but threatening to grow reckless at any moment. “Such a good friend.”

Max was downright fucking intoxicating and right now, that was more obnoxious than anything else. Brady couldn’t even be annoyed with him correctly because he drew him right the fuck in. That was pretty clear the moment Brady decided to heighten their argument by kissing him. Could he really be blamed, though? Max was leaning over him and speaking right up against his skin as he fucked him and it was so hot it almost made Brady dizzy. His breathing was shallow as he tried to keep it together. He listened to Max tell him all the things he had missed about him, the same things Brady had just been saying before about Max. For a moment, a perhaps hugely hypocritical part of Brady considered asking ‘That it?’ But he didn’t know what that would prove, wondering if Max had missed more than just the sex at this point since their fallout, or if he would say so like Brady couldn’t. He didn’t know what he would even want to hear either way. So he kept it to himself, instead just giving an appreciative moan in response and letting Max’s hand take over for his. Brady started to slip, letting himself fall completely under Max’s spell as his hand moved in time with his thrusts, lips on his neck, and Brady’s eyes closed. He knew this wasn’t going to last. And then… Brady wasn’t sure exactly what the fuck Max was trying to get at there, but his comment had Brady’s eyes flying back open. He turned his head but couldn’t quite see Max’s face since it was pressed to his neck. “Yeah,” Brady managed to get out, his voice shot to hell at this point. “Damn good friend.” Although he hadn’t been, really, and that was the irony of it.

As soon as Brady started to feel like he might be getting close, he reached for Max’s hand, his own closing tightly around Max’s wrist to pull it away from his cock. “Wait, wait.” He reached back to touch whatever part of Max he could reach from that angle, a signal for him to slow down and listen. “I know you wanted to… fuck, just.” Brady stopped, taking a moment to collect himself with a deep breath and gathering his thoughts through his haze of unbelievable arousal. “I wanna fucking look at you,” he finally said, voice quiet. “When you come. I wanna watch you come for me.” He knew it had something to do with this stubborn thing he had going on, but Brady also just hadn’t gotten to see that expression on Max’s face in too long, so fucking sue him. The newfound part of him also felt like he just wanted Max to look at him when he came, too. “Lemme flip over.”

The phrase damn good friend echoed in his mind as he drew his hips back, snapping forward into Brady with newfound urgency. It was another reminder that Brady was just that, his friend. And while before it had bothered him, right now in this situation it just made him want this more. The sound of Brady’s voice made his whole body feel fucking hot; pleasant chills rolling down his spine as they continued to move together. All he could think was that this was too good, and before Max knew it, his pace became more erratic. He was so so so close, and he increased the pace on Brady’s dick to bring him right along with him. His face was completely buried in his neck, breath coming out in short gasps as he lost himself in the moment. It was only when Brady told him to wait that his trance was broken, and it took every ounce of strength he had to still his hips. Fuck. “What? What’s wrong?” He inhaled as he tried to regain his breath and think clearly, trying to pay attention to what Brady was saying. When the words finally got through to him, Max didn’t move at all for a few brief moments before groaning low in his throat. Bad idea bad idea bad idea. But he didn’t fucking care at this point. He just wanted to come, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like watching Brady as he did too. Max silently withdrew, not even bothering with a verbal answer. His hands slid to Brady’s waist to help him move so that he was facing him.

For the first time, Max got a good look at him. Brady was flushed; the sheen of sweat over his skin and the look on his face just what he remembered from when they’d done this before. But for some reason, right now it stuck out in his mind even more. Max’s eyes flickered to his, and as much as he was trying to focus on the task at hand only, the familiar shade of his eyes made his chest hurt. He didn’t want to keep getting distracted by him, not when they were only here for one thing. But he honestly couldn’t help it, and before he could stop himself, he was muttering out a simple phrase. “Fuck. You’re so goddamn pretty.” And he’d thought it to himself countless times; since before they even started this mess. But vocalizing it was different, and Max quickly realized he should add onto that. Because God knows Brady didn’t like it when he said certain things, and right now they just needed to finish the task at hand. "Look so good. Gonna let me fuck you again?” He waited until Brady was ready before sliding between his legs, supporting himself with a single hand while his other slid down Brady’s torso, down until he reached his dick. His fingertips trailed down the side teasingly, but not for long before Max was dropping his hand to wrap around his own cock. He wasted no time in pressing against him again, eyes finding his face once more while he pushed back into him slowly. But he wasn’t going easy after that. They both wanted it, and he wanted them both to come. He wanted to see it. Max wrapped his hand around Brady again, not wasting any time stroking him while he tried so badly to find their original pace.

“You wanna come for me, Brady?” He managed to say, still looking at him as his thrusts became deeper. He loved this too much; missed the feeling of him too much. He just needed it now. He stroked Brady’s dick a little faster; a little more pressure as he continued to look down at him. And he couldn’t seem to look away. God he wasn’t going to last much longer himself. He could barely talk; barely think. All he could focus on was him and how good this was. “Tell me.”

The second Max looked down at him, watching him with the slightest hint of a look in his eyes Brady recognized from before all this, he realized he had probably fucked up by asking him to do this. Because now he was going to have to avert his eyes away from Max’s. Otherwise… it was gonna fucking hurt and that was some goddamn bullshit. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be and that helped piss Brady off again. That, and what Max said next. Because it hit him hard, made him remember all over again that Max had seen him that way all along and Brady had been using that. “Yeah yeah, I’m beautiful.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. He couldn’t focus on that, needed the subject to change, and maybe being his normal asshole self was the best way to do that. Thankfully Max didn’t hang onto it, and all Brady could do was nod when Max asked about fucking him again. God, it was all he wanted. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so desperate for it.

He hissed as Max pressed into him again, hand right back on Brady’s cock and immediately picking up the pace. Brady had already been getting close and he knew this wasn’t going to take long. He also knew Max was close, and that alone caused Brady to moan and wrap his arms around Max. He pulled him in until he could feel the heat of Max’s skin against his, nails digging into his back in a frantic attempt at keeping him close. Jesus, Brady loved having Max so close to him like this. It set every nerve ending in him on fucking fire, made his heart pound, and really, really turned him on. But it was more than that. It always fucking was, every single time, and Brady mouthed at Max’s neck and let out a shaky breath against his skin. “I fucking miss you so much,” Brady told him, present tense, his voice little more than a choked out whisper against Max’s throat, all while Brady just clung to him and Max caused his body to move with every one of his steady thrusts.

Max’s hand was still wedged between them, bringing Brady right up to the edge in the way he had been craving. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m gonna come.” His chest fucking ached. He was so unbelievably close and could hardly breathe, standing on that same tightrope from the very beginning, the one he had been waiting for Max to shove him off of, and now it was about to snap with both of them on it. And Brady couldn’t look at him. “Oh fuck. Max.” Brady couldn’t help the sharp cry of his name as the tightrope snapped, but he could shut his eyes, and that’s just what he did, even which his forehead now pressing against Max’s shoulder. He only tightened his hold around Max as his hips arched up into Max’s hand and he came really fucking hard, over Max’s hand and his chest and Brady’s own stomach. Brady realized he’d fallen—or they had—when he started to catch his breath. He didn’t open his eyes yet. He dropped his arms down to his side and worked on pulling himself the fuck together.

Max didn’t have time to dwell on the brief, weird moment that was honestly his own doing. When he had time to think about this later, he’d hate himself for how many times he’d slipped up this evening when he was the one who was supposed to be in control for once. But Max didn’t feel in control of even himself right now, especially when Brady was clinging onto him like that. The nails digging into his back had him choking back another groan as he rocked into him with force; body feeling as though it were on fire. He couldn’t talk anymore. Max could barely breathe, he was so wound tight it was painful. Brady was completely surrounding him right now. He could smell him all around him; could feel his breath and tongue and lips against his skin. Could hear his sighs as they both got closer and closer. And he most definitely didn’t miss what he said. He didn’t have time to let that sink in, just react. “God. Brady.” He whispered under his breath, and tried to brace himself with the one hand on the mattress as he chased what was so close now. “I’m right here. Right here.” He managed to get out in return, his own voice a hoarse mess. He wasn’t sure he made sense. “Miss you.” Not much longer after that, they were both so dangerously close. He leaned his head back the second he felt Brady tense, and seeing him completely lose it was the final thing that sent him over the edge. He’d never heard Brady sound like that before, and he’d been the one to bring him to that point.

The fact that he could feel him come between them made it hotter, and he suddenly had no reason to hold himself back anymore. He dropped his hand from Brady’s dick to his hip, holding tight as he rocked his hips once, twice more — and then he stilled completely. “Fuck.” His eyes screwed shut as he dropped his head down, face angled towards Brady’s as a low hiss sounded through his mouth. “Fuck yes.” His hips rocked forward of his own accord as he came, hard. His muscles and shoulders were so tense; his body had ached so much. But it had been so worth it; every muscle in his body now felt like it had been melted. Max stayed slumped over him for a moment, breathing so hard he would have thought he sounded stupid if not for how unreal that all had just been. And neither could deny that they’d liked it. He tried so hard to gain his breath; to regain conscious thought.

A long few moments passed, with them still pressed against each other. It was warm, and familiar, and didn’t feel out of place at all. It was just Brady and him and he wasn’t stressed or worried about anything. He just felt good. But the minute reality began to sink in, and the second he realized he was still inside of him, Max was slowly rolling off of him and to the side. He laid there for another few long moments, silently looking at the ceiling while his heart pounded rather erratically in his chest. “Well.” He finally said, voice feeling shot now. Max licked his lips and sat up slightly. He felt like he was having an outer body experience. But he still did what he needed to do and quickly made work of removing the condom, tying it off and leaning to the side of the bed to toss it away. Usual habit, as was grabbing the tissue box to set it between them. He grabbed a few tissues from the box before nudging it towards Brady. And he was almost afraid to look at him, not knowing exactly why. After wiping his own chest clean and tossing the tissues away, he finally rolled his head over to look at him. And the reality of the situation dawned on him. He’d really just fucked Brady after swearing off of it. All because he let him get under his skin. And now, he wasn’t sure what to do. It’s not like he was going to roll over to him and cuddle with him. That’s not what friends did. So what did they do?

Max swallowed and turned on his side to fully face him. That was intense. To say the least. They’d never been like that, ever. “You good, dude?” He pushed back the need to press himself closer to him, to kiss over his bare skin and just lay there with him and soak in what they just did for real. He forced himself to stay on his side of the bed, hand falling to twist in the blankets as his eyes surveyed him carefully. “Wasn’t too rough, was I?”

Brady was pulled from his trance by Max finally speaking. It was just one word, but it caused Brady to open his eyes and actually try to focus back in on the world around him. He saw Max moving from the corner of his eye and knew what he was doing, but kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling until he had to worry about cleaning up too. But once he’d done that, he lay back again, staring straight up. What the ever loving fuck had he done? Had they done? Well, it was pretty obvious what exactly they had done. But Brady couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he had thought it was a good idea, or why neither of them stopped it. Because now he couldn’t stop thinking about what it meant, and that was entirely out of character for him. Since when had he worried about what the fuck this shit meant? They, or rather he, had really fucked things up.

When Max spoke again, Brady still didn’t dare to move. “Yeah,” he said simply in response. “’M good.” It felt so fucking weird, answering Max in his usual worn out voice but having him on the other side of the bed, not wanting to look over at him, and knowing they couldn’t close the distance this time around. Or just shouldn’t, he supposed. Brady shook his head. “Nah. You were fine.” It was all fine, despite the pit in his stomach and the fact that Brady felt more vulnerable than he had in a long time. He brought his arms up to cross over his chest. Finally, he turned his head so he could look at Max, who was lying on his side. “You good?” It had become second nature to make sure they were both on the same page after the fact, especially when things got a little over the top. It had never been quite like that before, though. Brady had an aching desire to reach out, but it wasn’t like that anymore. And he’d probably end up regretting it in like ten minutes anyway. He needed to remind himself why they were even fucking here in the first place. “Sorry,” Brady mumbled, looking away once again, “for what I said. At the end.” He hadn’t meant to pull that shit. It wasn’t like he’d planned it. Things just slipped out in the heat of the moment. Lord knew they both understood that. He didn’t want Max to feel like he was just trying to fuck with him or something.

Max had never felt quite this awkward around Brady before. It felt wrong; weird to feel like a stranger all of a sudden. Especially after being such close friends for as long as they had, and after what they just did together. It was the same feeling of detachment he’d experienced over these past few weeks, but right now it somehow felt even worse. This was never supposed to be like this. He never wanted to lose his friendship with Brady, or even risk it. If he’d just put his curiosity out of his head and hadn’t have kissed Brady in the first place all those months ago, none of this would have happened. But now it had, and they were used to gravitating towards each other physically now. And it was all wrong, because Max couldn’t get his fucking brain and heart and body on the same page. What they just did was new, and he knew that Brady maybe wasn’t used to not being completely in control. So it felt really bad to just act unaffected afterwards. He was glad to hear Brady was good, but was no more relieved or comforted by it. “Yeah, man. All good.” He dropped his gaze to the bed, away from Brady and half-smiled, although there was nothing behind it. It just felt empty, until Brady spoke again. And that emptiness gave way to the hurt he’d been trying not to feel this whole time. For a second, it kind of kicked him in the chest, making him feel short of breath. Brady was sorry for what he said. And Max would have maybe pretended to forget about it had Brady not pointed it out; made it worse by making it clear he hadn’t meant them. His lips stretched into a line as he rolled back over on his back, eyes flickering up to the ceiling for a moment.

And once again, he just felt so stupid. He was never like this over anybody. If they didn’t want him, he’d let them go. No questions asked. But Brady kept accidentally pulling him back in somehow, even if he didn’t mean to. Tonight, Max hadn’t expected this all to happen, although he was fully aware of what he was getting himself into when he’d grabbed Brady. At the time, though, he didn’t want to get ahead of himself again and let his weird out of place feelings get in the way. But apparently he couldn’t do that. “It’s fine, Brady.” He said, making sure his voice sounded steady, but he felt a little nauseous. He didn’t want to have to apologize for what he said too, because he’d meant it. And it felt wrong to just take things back, even if he blurted them out in the middle of sex. “It happens, right?” Max finally sat up, gaze ahead of him as he shrugged. “Didn’t mean anything.” That shouldn’t have hurt him as much to say out loud as it did. Max’s resolve began to harden at that moment. He really needed to snap himself out of this. As much as he wanted to stay; to repeat the past and roll up next to him, he knew he couldn’t. “Okay, dude.“ He sighed. "I don’t wanna take up your space for too long.” He tried to regain a semblance of his normal teasing tone, and it might have even worked. Max slid to the edge of his bed, feet planted on the ground as his body slumped forward, not leaving just yet. Something in him was still tugging at him to stay. But he knew if he listened, he’d probably just be making another mistake. “I should go check on the puppy anyway, you know? She gets lonely if she’s by herself for too long.”

Brady wanted to say that he hadn’t thought he was going to feel so off after the fact. The truth, though, was that he hadn’t actually thought about it at all. He had first kissed Max because he was annoyed and tired of playing games, and he knew all throughout it wasn’t a good idea. But he hadn’t stopped to wonder how he would feel when it was over. And he still couldn’t quite pinpoint what this was — whatever he was feeling now. Sleeping with Max had become such a natural thing in large part because of how comforting it was. It felt safe, being with his best friend, knowing they would enjoy each other’s presence afterward and make it clear all was well. They didn’t have that now. Brady still felt secure, because he knew Max was literally never gonna judge him or anything like that. But he had opened up in a way he hadn’t before and now he was all tense, not being able to just relax with Max’s head on his chest, or to talk about what had just happened. Which… he could do that, except for the fact that he was Brady, and he most certainly could not, realistically.

Brady wondered just how monumentally he had fucked everything up when Max let him know it was all good, it didn’t mean anything. He sounded sure of it. Like he knew Brady was telling the truth about not meaning it, even if that was twisted as fuck, because it wasn’t the truth. It made Brady feel really shitty. He’d thought that was what he wanted, for Max to believe the sex didn’t mean anything so they wouldn’t have to deal with any feelings. But after Max opened up to him and subsequently called Brady out on his bullshit, the thought of Max actually starting to believe it because Brady’s bullshit carried on sucked more than it probably should. Deep down he knew he should say something. It could be his chance to speak up and help Max understand why he couldn’t be what he wanted. But Brady just… couldn’t. “Yeah.” He didn’t know what the fuck else to say when Max said he was going to leave. Brady knew he wasn’t going to stay, and maybe he didn’t even want him to at this point. Brady sat up to get the fleece blanket bunched up at the end of his bed to pull it over himself and lie on his side, facing away from Max. He reached for his phone on the bedside table, where he’d left it charging before going into the kitchen earlier. And he was even hungrier now, but fuck if he was gonna get up with the mood he was in now. “Go for it.” This fucking sucked. He didn’t know how long he and Max were going to be mad at each other for, but he had no doubt this had changed things, and he wasn’t totally sure how. It just… was not for the better.

#CANON #safety blanket #current verse #010

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