#anyway. enjoyyyy bon appetit LMAO

[gokartkid]

smth smth maxiel the bear au (post hookup!)

The morning after they have sex, Max wakes up to the sun blazing on his face and car horns wailing outside the window. If he strains his ears, he can hear people shouting down on the street. The air is hot and crisp on his skin as he stretches, catlike in the warm patch of sunlight on the bed. His muscles feel languid and soft; well-fucked.

His hand splays out across the sheets beside him. The empty sheets. His stomach tightens.

He sits up, quick. The other side of the bed is cool, already devoid of any lingering warmth. It’s almost impressive how quickly his stomach drops from fluttering warmth to swirling nausea. The worst thing is how clearly he can see it in his brain: Daniel, creeping out of bed in the early hours of the morning; Daniel picking up his clothes off the floor and getting dressed as quietly as he can while Max lies prone in the bed; Daniel letting himself out the door with a soft click because he’d rather leave and be cold in just a shirt than lie in bed with Max—

It’s not the first time he’s had a hookup leave in the middle of the night. It’s just that, that isn’t what he’s really upset about. It’s just that after so many evenings stuck in a hot burning kitchen together, backs against the wall and feeling like they were moving completely in sync, them against the world that was packed into the front of their small Chicago diner— well. Max would be lying if he said his world didn’t revolve around Daniel a little, at this point.

Maybe it was a bad decision after all, staring at Daniel’s hands as he gestured into the cold dark air of the alleyway behind the kitchen, already tipsy from just a few drinks after their shift, burning orange tip of his cigarette lighting up his face, the acrid, warm smell of his breath as he leaned in close to Max to make a joke, one eye winking shut; Max leaning into his orbit, and in, and in, and in—

A clatter from the kitchen, then off pitch humming. 

Max jumps, startled out of his thoughts; he’d been planning on lounging pitifully in bed for at least another hour. 

It’s too early to have hope but it’s difficult to dampen the sputtering match in his chest, still so small. 

He can’t find his underwear on the floor and has to settle for track-pants instead before peaking out of his bedroom door around the corner, hope beyond words.

Daniel, curly hair a mess on top of his head, has his back turned to Max. He’s all warm tanned skin, the wide expanse of his back and muscles shifting as he leans over a pan on the stove. He’s humming something, occasional incomprehensible words that descend into what can only be described as scatting. 

He’s wearing boxers, loose and twice folded over, sitting low across his hips and— Max’s brain stutters here, looking at the distinct spatula pattern that his old college roommate had gotten him as a gag gift one holiday season. 

He must make a sound then because Daniel is turning, bright smile and all. 

“Maxy! Good morning. What are you, sleeping beauty? Makes sense you’d wake up now that I’ve made this whole spread, huh?”

The spread in question is a plate of toasted sourdough, yellow pools of butter already melting into the crevices, hash browns on the side with warm golden brown crusts, gooey insides threatening to escape and steam rising into the air from mugs of coffee. Max watches as Daniel expertly swoops his spatula one last time around the pan to release the mass of soft scrambled eggs, fatty and just the right amount of under-done. 

“I—“ he stops, starts again; it’s difficult to find the words when he feels as if he’s experienced the full span of human emotions in the short time since he’s been awake, “wow. Big breakfast.” 

“Yeah well,” Daniel sets down the pan and circles the counter to come closer; still almost naked, still only wearing Max’s boxers, “thought I’d do something nice, yeah? Spent enough time in this kitchen to know where all your stuff is.”

All the days they’d spent together testing menu item after menu item, things that were too salty, too sweet, plated expertly onto Max’s mismatching plates and cutlery, trying to clean as they went in Max’s — comparative to an industrial kitchen — tiny sink. 

“It would make sense if you didn’t remember, old man,” Max’s mouth makes the joke easily, slipping into the age old pattern as Daniel gasps, putting a hand over his heart, big eyes remarkably sincere. 

“Max! After I’ve just done this nice thing for you!”

“Sure, sure,” he puts his hand over Daniel’s and in a pique of bravery— certainly braver than he feels — he leans up and kisses him, light, just a brush of lips against lips. He tries not to blush but can already feel his ears heating up. It’s alright though, because Daniel looks equally struck dumb.

He turns away, quickly, back to the plate. 

“Better eat before this gets cold,” does his voice sound higher? He can’t be sure. “Come on!”