is anyone interested in possibly being a beta for my gax fic? i find myself posting and editing and rewriting my ao3 chapters over and over again... so i would really appreciate it!! pls pm me!!
Max can't help himself. He can't even stop himself from catching George.
Max doesn’t understand George. But he can’t stop himself anymore, not from catching him nor from denying him. Especially not after the first run.
The way George’s eyes met his, big and blue, desperate. His pink mouth drawn tighter each time Max refused to bite. Refused to rut. Refused to claim.
It wasn’t lust that drove Max to catch George. Not that it was hard, to outpace the pack of slabbering alphas chasing after George.
All too dull to notice how George’s scent curled in terror, never interest like the omegas he stood next to. How each backward glance carried nothing but fear. Each time George looked over his shoulder, panic sharp in his scent. Every backward glance tugged at Max like a thread, unspooling something primal within: his need to catch, to guard.
The animal inside him refused to let George fall to the pack.
And when Max finally crowded him into the forest floor, he saw the relief on George’s face. Relief it was him and not one of the others. Relief that he wasn’t dragged down and rutted open by one. George’s scent shifted then, to cloyingly sweet with desperation, begging Max to bite, to mark.
Disgust burned through Max. At the thought of George laid open like this for any of them. Any alpha fast enough to pin him first.
Disdain at the way George’s body yielded, desperate and unthinking, ready to belong to anyone. For any smug, slobbering alpha who might have been faster. Who might have been here pressing him down instead.
But beneath it all, arousal coiled hot and sharp around Max. George's pliancy, the wracking tremor in his body, the rapid pulse at his delicate throat and how it tested Max’s restraint until his jaw ached. Still, Max denied it. Denied himself, every time.
He didn’t want to be welcomed by George because of some archaic run. He wanted George to want him when the heat was gone, when reason returned. To need him, not because of instinct, but because he could no longer bear the lack of him.
Once the smoke and frenzy of the run bled out, when Max’s scent finally mellowed on George’s skin, he stood back and watched the others circle again. Watched George stumble through soft deflections and polite smiles, the practiced tilt of his head, the placating warmth he handed out like a perfect omega. Letting them believe he wanted them. That he still welcomed their attention.
As if he hadn’t been pinned down and smothered in Max’s scent days earlier, his scent bleeding relief.
Yet even as George smiled at them, his eyes sought Max. Big, blues restlessly searching and confused, waiting for Max to step forward past all the others. To court, to claim, to touch.
But Max never did.
And, when the next run came, Max caught him again. Dispelling any rumours of last year being a one-off.
By then, George’s stammers had become polished. All smiles, easy laughter and lies: “Maybe you’ll catch me next year.” But even from a distance, Max knew. George’s mouth spoke of interest, but his scent stayed flat.
Max became the big, bad wolf of George’s runs. The shadow in the trees, the press of heat at his back, the weight that dragged him into the dirt before anyone else could lay a hand on him.
A relentless, immovable predator in his life.
And he would keep doing it. Catching him, pinning him, denying him. Again and again. Until George dropped the devout little omega act, the soft deflections, the preens under unwanted hands, the empty promises of next time.
Until George asks.
—-
It's not that George welcomes it, the alpha attention. He doesn’t.
But when the alpha who caught you barely looks affected when you’re wearing his scent, sticky from your drying slick and mind-to-mouth filter still syrupy slow. It’s hard to keep your footing.
So when the first alpha came around, George froze. Unsure of how to act, he looked across to Max, stretched out in the grass, calm. Waited for him to step in. To push the alpha back. To let George act like a caught omega. To be George's alpha.
But he never did.
And when the alpha spoke, something in semblance of desire, George barely processed what was being asked. His lips shaped the same smile and stammered answer he’d come to learn.
Heart racing at what was expected of him to act in this situation, when the alpha who caught you ignores you.
— —
In lecture, a palm lingers heavy in George’s hair, an indulgent, unwelcome pat as the professor slides the paper into George’s hand. “You write as beautifully as you look, George.” George forces a breathy laugh, soft and obliging, even as his heartbeat hammers and his scent spikes with unease. He curls his fingers around the paper like a lifeline.
When he risks a glance toward Max’s row, all he catches is his back. Already leaving.
— —
Between lectures, he's stopped as he makes his way through the courtyard. Every passing pair seems to taunt him, a garden of entwined scents of enamoured alphas and their courted omegas. Everything George thought was promised when you get caught.
A stray breeze lifts the scent clinging to his skin, mocking George with what it would smell like if teeth had actually sunk into his gland. He shivers at the thought, but it does nothing to deter the alphas pressing close. Neither his wobble nor the fading smear of another alpha’s claim across him. He doubts they even notice how often his eyes flick back to the source of it. Max. More than what's polite or acceptable. But George can’t help it.
He glances again. And again. Tree-ground-blink-Max.
Max isn’t looking back, not even a twitch to signal he feels anything about the wall of alphas hemming George in.
It makes the all too familiar irritation flare at Max’s carelessness. As if George is another omega. Not an omega who’s smeared in him, and definitely not one he’s caught twice now. He grinds his teeth together, careful not to drop his smile.
“–arling? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” one of the alphas pressed, his voice cutting through the static in George’s head.
“Yes,” George said, the word falling out too fast, too light, before he even thought to stop it. His lips moved on reflex, shaping the same expression he’d learned to wear.
This time when he looks at Max, he stares back. Clear, blue eyes fixed on his. Steady.
–
And so they went on. Like two bulls with their horns locked, neither yielding or looking away.
-
In the stands at the football game, an alpha leans in, voice smooth with suggestion, always suggestion. Like George’s smiles and well timed hums are anything more than decorum.
But the offending alpha brushes George’s arm as though it already belongs to him. George’s practiced laugh is thin, even to his own ears, his body angled politely even as his eyes search the field. Wishing Max would react. Intervene.
But Max only played. And when his gaze finally landed on them, it wasn’t jealousy George saw. It was boredom.
As if George being pawed at by another alpha wasn’t worth his attention.
The irritation burned beneath George’s skin, hotter than the arm pressed against him
Summary: Max can't help himself, he can't even stop himself from catching George.
Max doesn’t understand George. But he can’t stop himself anymore, not from catching him nor from denying him. Especially not after the first run.
The way George’s eyes met his, big and blue, desperate. His pink mouth drawn tighter each time Max refused to bite. Refused to rut. Refused to claim.
It wasn’t lust that drove Max to catch George. Not that it was hard, to outpace the pack of slavering alphas chasing after George.
All too dull to notice how George’s scent curled in terror, never interest like the omegas he stood next to. How each backward glance carried nothing but fear. Each time George looked over his shoulder, panic sharp in his scent. Every backward glance tugged at Max like a thread, unspooling something primal within: his need to catch, to guard.
The animal inside him refused to let George fall to the pack.
And when Max finally crowded him into the forest floor, he saw the relief on George’s face. Relief it was him and not one of the others. Relief that he wasn’t dragged down and rutted open by one. George’s scent shifted then, to cloyingly sweet with desperation, begging Max to bite, to mark.
Disgust burned through Max. At the thought of George laid open like this for any of them. Any alpha fast enough to pin him first.
Disdain at the way George’s body yielded, desperate and unthinking, ready to belong to anyone. For any smug, slobbering alpha who might have been faster. Who might have been the one pressing him down instead.
But beneath it all, arousal coiled hot and sharp. His pliancy, the tremble in George’s body, the pulse in his throat and how it tested Max’s restraint until his chest ached. Still Max denied it. Denied himself, every time.
He didn’t want to be accepted because of some archaic run. He wanted George to choose him. To need him, not because of instinct, but because he could no longer bear the lack of him.
Once the smoke and frenzy of the run bled out, when Max’s scent finally mellowed on George’s skin, he stood back and watched the others circle again. Watched George stumble through soft deflections and polite smiles, the practiced tilt of his head, the placating warmth he handed out like a perfect omega. Letting them believe he wanted them. That he still welcomed their attention.
As if he hadn’t been pinned down and smothered in Max’s scent days earlier, his own scent bleeding relief. His glances at Max, quick and searching, waiting for him to step forward like all the others. To court, to claim, to touch
But Max never moved. And, when the next run came, Max caught him again.
Dispelled any rumours of last year being a one-off.
By then, George’s stammers had become polished. All smiles, easy laughter and lies: “Maybe you’ll catch me next year.” But even from a distance, Max knew. George’s mouth spoke of interest, but his scent stayed flat.
Max became the big, bad wolf of George’s runs. The shadow in the trees, the press of heat at his back, the weight that dragged him into the dirt before anyone else could lay a hand on him.
A relentless, immovable predator in his life.
And he would keep doing it. Catching him, pinning him, denying him. Again and again. Until George dropped the devout little omega act, the soft deflections, the preens under unwanted hands, the empty promises of next time. Until George asks.
—-
It's not that George welcomes it, the alpha attention. He doesn’t.
But when the alpha who caught you barely looks affected when you’re wearing his scent, sticky from your drying slick and mind-to-mouth filter still syrupy slow. It’s hard to keep your footing.
So when the first alpha came around, George froze. Unsure of how to act, he looked across to Max, stretched out in the grass, calm. Waited for him to step in. To push the alpha back. To let George act like a caught omega. To be George's alpha.
But he didn't.
And when the alpha spoke, something in semblance of desire, George barely processed what was being asked. His lips shaped the same answer anyway, a smile and stammer he’d come to learn.
Heart racing at what was expected of him to act in this situation, when the alpha who caught you ignores you.
-
In lecture, a palm lingers heavy in George’s hair, an indulgent, unwelcome pat as the professor slides the paper into George’s hand. “You write as beautifully as you look, George.” George forces a breathy laugh, soft and obliging, even as his pulse hammers and his scent spikes with unease. He curls his fingers around the paper like a lifeline.
When he risks a glance toward Max’s row, all he catches is his back. Already leaving.
—
Stopped in the courtyard, between lectures. Every passing pair seems to taunt him, a garden of entwined scents of enamoured alphas and their courted omegas. Everything George thought was promised when you get caught.
A stray breeze lifts the scent clinging to his skin, mocking George with what it would smell like if teeth had actually sunk into his gland. He shivers at the thought, but it does nothing to deter the alphas pressing close. Neither his wobble nor the fading smear of another alpha’s claim across him. He doubts they even notice how often his eyes flick back to the source of it. Max. More than what's polite or acceptable. But George can’t help it.
He glances again. And again. Tree-ground-blink-Max.
Max isn’t looking back, not even a twitch to signal he feels anything about the wall of alphas hemming George in.
It makes the all too familiar irritation flare at Max’s carelessness. As if George is another omega. Not an omega who’s smeared in him, and definitely not one he’s caught twice now. He grinds his teeth together, careful not to drop his smile.
“–arling? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” one of the alphas pressed, his voice cutting through the static in George’s head.
“Yes,” George said, the word falling out too fast, too light, before he even thought to stop it. His lips moved on reflex, shaping the same expression he’d learned to wear.
This time when he looks at Max, he stares back. Clear, blue eyes fixed on his. Steady.
–
And so it went on.
In the stands at the football game, an alpha leaned in, voice smooth with suggestion, always suggestion. Like George’s smiles and well timed hums are anything more than decorum.
But the offending alpha brushes George’s arm as though it already belongs to him. George’s practiced laugh is thin, his body angled politely even as his eyes searched the field. Wishing Max would react. Intervene.
But Max only played. And when his gaze finally landed on them, it wasn’t jealousy George saw. It was boredom.
As if George being pawed at by another alpha wasn’t worth his attention.
The irritation burned beneath George’s skin, hotter than the arm pressed against him.
Summary: George doesn’t look back. He never does. Doesn’t need to — he knows it’s Max. Same as every year. Same as always.
Author’s Note: I may change this direction but I’ll leave it up for now.
He remembers his first year running at seventeen, freshly presented, the last of his friends to do so. How fast everything changed.
How quickly the alphas in his class stopped seeing him as the awkward gangly pup, and started watching him like an omega. A prize. Something to win, take and keep.
At seventeen, he liked it. The way they circled.
The scented notes stuffed in his locker. The sugar-slick sweets left on his desk, already faintly touched by someone's teeth.
Gifts and touches not just from his year, either, older alphas, already graduated, with names that still made his omega peers shiver.
They wanted to be first. They wanted him.
But more than that, they wanted him marked before the run began. Wanted him to carry their scent into the woods like a flag.
A brush of knuckles at his waist. Fingers grazing his throat. Palms firm on his lower back, possessive in the way only alphas could be. Just enough to leave a mark. Just enough to say he’s mine before the run even started.
He’d liked their possessiveness, their desperation.
Until it started to feel like a frenzy.
Split wide before the chase. Touched in every place they wanted to tear into.
It didn’t feel like flirting anymore. It felt like a feeding.
Then came the run.
He hadn’t known what to expect. He’d been told to run.
Promised chaos. Heat. Teeth. A blur of motion and scent, the forest thick with chasing bodies and tangled intentions.
Alphas shook the ground, as their feet pounded between trees already full of the taste of omega.
He ran hard, breath tight in his chest, scent sharp with panic.
Every rustle behind him felt closer. Every snap of twigs carried the promise of teeth.
George didn’t want to be caught. Not by any of them.
He knew what they wanted. They weren’t chasing to catch. But to drag. To tear. And when his panic crested, when his legs buckled and his scent turned sharp with fear.
The woods went still. No rustling. No footsteps.
He felt a breath against the back of his neck and heat at his spine as an alpha closed in.
Not panting. Not salivating. Not loud. Not one of the alphas who’d flirted with him, fed him sweets, crowded him in the hall.
Max.
Max who had never circled him. Never flirted. Never even looked at him the way the others did.
His body pressed in solid, warm and heavy. Not rough, nor gentle.
George remembers freezing. Feeling Max's chest rise and fall against his back, slow and steady. A measured rhythm pressing into him like a command.
His nose skimming the skin below George’s ear. Dragging along the slope of George’s neck. Breathing him in deep. Rumbling low.
He didn’t bite. He didn’t rut.
He scented. A slow, deliberate smear of alpha, thick and sharp and deep enough to drown in.
Behind George’s ear. Across his jaw. His throat. His shoulders. Down his spine. Lower still.
His hands slipping under his shirt, inching it up. Cool air kissing his skin just before the heat of his mouth.
The weight of him keeping George pinned, every movement full of quiet possession.
When Max rolled him onto his back, George remembers mewling, from the aching relief that it was him. Happy.
Max didn’t pause. He nosed down George’s chest, licked the hollow between each rib, dragged his scent down his belly, the inside of his thighs, his wrists, his ankles.
Like he was mapping him.
Like he was savoring.
George had ached.
His body locking, slick blooming in soft pulses. His thighs shaking with his desire.
He wanted to close them around Max, to trap him, to be consumed.
But Max never reacted. Didn’t grind. Didn’t rut. Just breathed him in. Held him still when he tried to buck up. Rubbed their skin together until George felt drenched in him.
He should’ve been terrified. He was. But his body was begging. Needing. Split between the sharp memory of fear and the curling pleasure of being wanted like this.
The other alphas had vanished, driven off by Max’s scent. While George had waited for more– dizzy, flushed, gasping.
But Max’s claws never cut. He never spoke.
No bite. No knot. No mark.
Just covered him in scent, until George's skin burned with it. And, Max held him until George stopped shaking. Until his body went still.
been itching to write this out, set in the same universe as The Hunt.
Imagine George goes to his first run and Max catches him. But he doesn’t claim, doesn’t court just scents so thoroughly that George is drenched in his scent. And all alphas know he’s spoken for.
At least until the next run.
The next run, Max catches him, again. And it repeats year after year.
George is confused because Max doesn’t approach him, he’s not even actively pursuing him. But every run, he’s the one at George’s back, the one who finds him, and catches him.
It all comes to a point before the 5th run.
“George doesn’t look back. He never does. Doesn’t need to —he knows it’s Max. Same as every year. Same as always.”
The key theme I want to explore is Max’s denial of George, yet possession of him all the same. Why catch an omega if you won’t claim them, if you don’t court outside of it. And George’s own feelings, the rejection and desire of it all. Above all, obsession.
Tell me what you think 🤔
I need some inspo as to the reason behind Maxs action and inaction, so please share your thoughts 🎀
It was too warm, the cooler humming like a tired animal overhead. Logan barely noticed. His fingers moved on autopilot, sorting receipts at the counter, while the table of omegas near the freezer buzzed with excitement.
“He’s already been scenting me in the mornings,” one said, dreamy-eyed. “You know what that means.”
“I heard Daniel’s gonna run after Caden this year. Finally.”
Laughter. Giggling. Squeals muffled into sleeves. The Full Moon Run was less than a week away, and every omega in town was acting like the mating lottery was about to change their life.
Logan didn’t have the heart to roll his eyes. He just kept counting, ignoring the twist in his stomach.
The bell above the door rang.
His body recognized them before his mind could catch up. Every hair on his arm raising.
Lando’s laugh came first, deep and loose, care-free. Oscar’s followed. Quieter.
Always together, like two halves of something hungry. Their proximity set Logan’s teeth on edge. Instead of one pair of eyes, he had to worry about avoiding two.
It was worse at university. In the lecture hall, Logan always sat near the back, hoping to disappear. But sometimes he’d look up and find them already watching. Lando, draped across his seat, careless. Oscar, sitting too still, too sharp, eyes already on Logan. Like he was waiting for him to move so he could tear into him.
Worse during games. Logan tried not to go, his friends dragged him anyway. He swore, during certain plays, they’d both look to the stands. Not scanning. Not curious. Looking. At him.
They never approached. Never spoke on campus. Just that awareness. Pressure without contact.
Logan felt like prey in a set trap, waiting to be eaten.
Their combined scents musk, cedar, and something dense and feral beneath it. Something meant to root into the spine and keep you there.
“Evening, Logan,” Lando said, placing a protein bar on the counter. His grin was lazy, practiced, but his eyes weren’t. They flicked over Logan like a hand pressed too hard against skin.
Oscar didn’t say anything. He stood close. Closer than he needed to. His gaze pinning Logan in place, cold and unblinking.
“Big week,” Lando said, tapping the bar. “Full Moon Run.” His smile sharpened.
Logan opens his mouth but Oscar beats him to it.
“Anyone you’re running from?” His voice low and even, but carrying an edge. Like teeth just beginning to sink in.
It was a typical question for omegas, but the way he said it made Logan’s stomach tighten.
Yeah. You, Logan thought. You, both of you, and whatever the hell you’ve turned me into.
Their stares were different as they waited for his response. Lando’s was hot, slow and rolling, predatory. Oscar’s was colder. Focused. Cutting. But both looked at him like he’d already been caught, and they were just deciding who would taste him first.
Alphas . His inner omega had been preening ever since he first felt their attention. The animal side of him liked this game they started, wanted this. The attention. The chase. The teeth. The promise.
His voice comes out thinner than he likes. “No, just running for the sake of tradition.”
Lando smirks. Oscar nods once, as if something had been confirmed.
Lando's lips curve back, “Run fast.” Too many teeth in that smile. “Wouldn’t want your run to end too soon.”
“Or try to hide,” Oscar adds. Still watching him. Like he could already hear Logan panting in the dark. “Unless some beast claims you first.”
—--
Logan should have taken their conversation as a warning, a prelude to the slow torture they had planned for him. From that day on until the run, they were everywhere and nowhere, shadows slipping just out of reach. It made him feel feverish, strung tight between the hunger clawing up from his inner omega and the cold certainty that he was being hunted.
Each morning, when he runs, it’s as if they’ve already passed through. The scent of vetiver and dark chocolate linger, clinging to the damp earth, wrapping around tree trunks. It coats the air, fills his throat, leaves him dizzy.
Or when he walks between lecture halls, heat presses against the back of his neck, sharp and electric. For a split second, it feels like someone is right behind him, breath hot and full of intent. But when he turns, no one’s there.
And at night, his dreams twist. Hands, rough on his hips. A voice, low and dangerous, whispers in his ear, the two of them tangled into one. He wakes up burning, soaked in sweat, aching in ways he’s only known in heat.
The dreams make it harder to ignore them, harder to pretend this isn’t what it is. A hunt. He sees them in his periphery, their eyes cutting through everything and locking on him. Their scents easily picked out in a crowd. The two of them taunting him in and out of his dreams.
His skin prickles, with anticipation. Surrounded by two alphas circling closer with every heartbeat, wearing patience like teeth. Waiting for the right moment to strike and claim.
—-
Slipping into the lecture hall on the last day before the run, he’s early enough to claim his usual seat. He hears the quiet scuff of boots, as someone lowers into the seat next to him without a word. Oscar. Casual, as if by coincidence but the air shifts instantly. Logan’s pen trembles as he uncaps it.
His scent moves slowly. Cedar, like someones forced his face against bark. Then vetiver, thick and green. Sage at the edges. It curls into Logan’s throat and stays there.
Oscar leans back. Legs wide. He doesn’t look at Logan. Doesn’t need to. His scent is doing all the work. It spreads, heavy and warm, turning the air damp. Logan’s grip on his pen tightens. His mouth is dry. Then the back of his neck prickles.
Lando.
The creak of the seat as he slides into the row behind. Not a word. Just heat. His scent pours forward. Dark chocolate, bitter and melting. Then musk, thick and carnal. Pepper cuts through it, sharp enough to bite.
Logan closes his eyes for a second. A mistake. His omega stirs, raw and wanting. Body already open to them. Remembering the dreams. Wanting more.
They were bracketing him. Not touching. Watching. Letting their scents soak into his clothes, his skin. Claiming without a word.
The seat creaks again. A boot nudges the back of his chair.
"Convenient view," Lando murmurs. "Easy to keep an eye on things."
Logan’s pen taps once. His heart stutters. He can smell himself now. Not heat. Not quite. But close. Close enough his thighs press together beneath the desk.
Oscar finally turns his head. Just enough.
"You’ll be ready by the time the full moon rises," he says. His smile flashes, all teeth. "I can smell it."
Logan’s pulse skips. He doesn’t respond. Can’t. The words are trapped under the heat rising in him.
Lando lets out a sound, something quiet and dark. Like he was biting back hunger.
—--
The clearing was loud.
Logan stands among the other omegas, breath shallow, heartbeat syncing with the slow throb of ritual drums in the distance. Moonlight spills across the clearing, cold and silver, lighting the trees they are about to disappear into. The air smells thick of earth, pine, and heat—omega heat. Dozens of bodies buzz with nerves and pheromones, shifting, glancing at one another, scenting the air like prey trying to guess who will fall first.
He doesn’t see them.
His eyes scan the alpha line across the field—rows of tall silhouettes, faces half-shrouded in shadow, postures already straining with hunger. Some wear wolfish grins, teeth bared. Others crouch low, vibrating with the need to chase. But Lando and Oscar are not among them.
They haven’t come.
Disappointment coils in his gut. His omega bristles, whining for them. It wants teeth at his heels and breath at his back. It wants to be caught.
But they’re not here.
He swallows hard and stares into the dark. The woods loom dense, root-bound and shadow-choked, filled with the ancient, pulsing rhythm of the Run. This is not his first year, but it feels different now. He has never been hunted before the starting horn. Never been sent into a soft pre-heat days early. Now he has to run and hide for real or risk being taken by someone else.
The horn sounds.
Omegas bolt.
Logan moves on instinct. Legs pumping, lungs burning, he plunges into the trees. Dirt kicks up behind him. His heartbeat roars in his ears.
He does not think. He just runs .
Branches tear at his arms. Ferns slap his thighs. The air is rich with adrenaline and sweat and fear. Behind him—shouts, a whoop, the crash of bodies in the brush.
The chase begins.
Minutes pass. Or seconds. Or hours. Time dissolves. His legs scream. His breath drags rough through his throat. He doesn’t look back.
He thinks he’s alone.
Then the forest goes still.
No snapping branches. No heavy footsteps. No victorious snarls. Quiet. Too quiet.
He leans against a tree, panting, sweat slicking his neck.
Then—snap.
A twig snaps behind him. His body reacts before his mind. He bolts—gut twisting, lungs burning, heart hammering in his throat.
Another step behind him. Closer. Heavier. Controlled.
He veers left, hard, trying to lose whoever has found him. The loam shifts under his feet. His breath catches. He feels it now—heat, breath, presence. Behind him.
The scent hits him first. Wet woods and green sage, and Oscar . Thick. Unmistakable.
A shape flashes in his periphery. He pushes harder, hurtling through a narrow gap in the trees.
It was too late.
A solid chest catches him like a wall. Air explodes from his lungs. A snarl curls in his throat. Rough hands seize him, anchoring him in place.
Lando.
“Got you,” he breathes, low and gloating.
Logan thrashes, but it's useless. Oscar moves in behind him, sealing him between them. Heat rolls off their bodies. Logan’s stomach flips as need surges, sudden and sharp.
“I knew you’d run this way,” Oscar murmurs at his ear. “We’ve been waiting.”
Their bodies cage him. Lando in front, Oscar behind. He can feel them—hard, hungry, breath syncing with his. He pants, half from exertion, half from the pressure building inside him.
“This isn’t fair,” he says, voice ragged.
Lando smiles down at him. “Who said anything about fair?”
Oscar’s voice is barely audible, a whisper at the edge of control. “We told you to run.”
Lando’s hand clamps the back of Logan’s neck. “Or hide.”
Oscar’s grip settles on his hips, strong and steady. “Or some beast would get you. Now you’re caught. By two.”
Logan tries to respond to string words into something sharp and playful. But the game is already ending, and his body has been preparing for this all week. All he can do is dig his hands into Lando’s chest, trembling.
“You ran like you wanted to be chased,” Lando murmurs. His hand tightens on Logan’s neck, fingers digging in, possessive. “You ran because you wanted to be taken down. You wanted teeth at your throat and hands dragging you to the dirt.”
His fingers dig in hard, forcing Logan to hold still as he leans in, breath scalding against his cheek. “You wanted us to eat you alive.”
Oscar’s hands roam lower, nails scoring over Logan’s thigh like he’s already carving a claim. “You were begging for this,” Oscar breathes, voice curling at the edge of cruelty. “Every time we got near, you soaked the air in heat. Could smell it clinging to your skin.”
Logan gasps, the words stripping him down further than their hands.
“Thought we didn’t notice?” Lando growls. “Your scent changed every time. Could smell you getting wet just from hearing our voices.”
Logan’s breath comes sharp, shallow. He squirms, but it only makes them press closer.
“You wanted to be hunted,” Oscar bites out. “Wanted to feel us breathing down your neck while you ran. Wanted to be fucked into the ground and ruined.”
Lando’s thumb slides across Logan’s bottom lip, forcing it open. “You kept giving us excuses to chase you. Letting us soak you in our scent. We saw it. Your body winding tighter every day.”
Logan whimpers, unable to deny it. His body betrays him, arching, grinding, silently begging.
Oscar’s voice drops, low and lethal. “You don’t get to pretend anymore. Not when you’re this close.”
Lando grips Logan’s jaw, turning his face up. “Say it. Say what you’re begging for. Or we’ll keep you right on the edge. Wanting. Needing.”
Oscar presses tighter to his back, his breath a furnace against Logan’s skin. “You don’t even know what to ask for, do you?”
“Unless that’s what you want,” Oscar adds, biting the shell of his ear. “To stay helpless and untouched, too desperate to think.”
“Maybe,” Lando murmurs, brushing a knuckle over Logan’s nipple, “that’s exactly what you want.”
Logan arches helplessly, breath stuttering.
Lando’s voice turns to a growl. “But I don’t think so. I think you want to be used. Fucked. Filled.”
Oscar’s hand wraps around Logan’s throat, not tight, just enough to remind him whose mercy he’s at. “So ask for it. Like a good bunny.”
Author's Note: Wrote this for AO3 first, and had to share on here too. Hope you like!!!
He’s poring over another inventory sheet his dad left him when a soft knock against the cash counter snaps his head up. Max is leaning in, his head tilted in quiet amusement at Logan being so absorbed in the sheet.
Sheepishly, Logan blurts, “Oh, Max! How long have you been standing there?” He can already feel himself blushing, like always, whenever Max is near.
“Hi, Angel. Not long. You looked so focused, I didn’t want to distract you,” Max replies.
“I didn’t even hear the visitor bell. This is why me and inventory are dangerous. What if you were a robber? The store would’ve been empty by now,” Logan complains, glaring at the sheet like it should feel guilty.
Laughing, Max squints at him. “If I were a robber, I think you know what I’m taking.”
Despite the heat flooding his face, Logan can’t help preening at the insinuation. He tries to tease back. “Oh yes, my mom’s sub shelf. I know where your loyalties lie, Maxie.”
Brows quirked in amusement, Max lifts a hand to gently tilt Logan’s chin up to meet his eyes. “And where do my loyalties lie, Angel?”
Hot damn. It’s so unfair for Max to not only look like a walking Calvin Klein ad but to also act exactly like Logan imagines those ads would, if they could talk.
“Th-the boys, of course,” Logan stammers, trying to hold Max’s gaze.
He watches Max’s eyes flick to his lips, then back. “I think you’ve been misinformed, Angel. Do I need to set it straight?” Max smiles as he says it, his thumb now brushing the corner of Logan’s mouth.
“Uhuh” is all Logan can manage, overwhelmed by the closeness, the touch, and the desire rising in him. He wants Max to kiss him, public decorum be damned.
Max’s thumb shifts to Logan’s cheek, brushing so softly that Logan almost misses what comes next, too distracted by the sensation.
“Let me take you out then. Tonight.”
Logan jolts upright like he’s been shocked. “Like a date?” he asks, too eagerly.
“Not like a date, Angel. A date. May I?” Max grins, clearly amused by whatever expression Logan is making—which is probably somewhere between dopey and crazed, knowing himself.
“Yes! I mean, yes, of course,” Logan says, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to yell. I think I had something in my throat.”
Max looks unconvinced but doesn’t call him out. Instead, he gently brushes a piece of hair from Logan’s face. “Okay, Angel. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“I’ll be ready,” Logan replies, quieter this time.
“Perfect. Bye, Angel.” Max gives his cheek one last soft stroke before turning and striding out.
By the time the door clicks shut behind him, Logan realizes Max didn’t buy a single thing. And, he has a date.
His dad needs to cover his shift.
—-——-
“So he came into the store and asked if he could take you?” is Oscar’s bewildered question after Logan recounts his morning.
“He asked to take me out , not to take me ,” Logan says, exasperated.
“I bet you’d like that too, wouldn’t you, princess? You dirty, dirty boy, in your father’s store too!” Alex chips in, placing his hands on his chest in mock scandal.
Ignoring them, Logan continues buttoning up his shirt, only for Oscar to slap his hand away as he reaches for the last three buttons.
“Ow! I’m going to a restaurant, Osc, not the beach.”
“Leave those. Entice the imagination a little. He’s not taking you to church,” Oscar replies without missing a beat.
“I bet I know something Logan would love to worship if Max did take him to church,” Alex adds with a triumphant grin.
Logan groans, throwing a towel at Alex’s face. “Is this fun for you? You’re supposed to help me. Why did I even tell you guys?”
“Because you love us,” Alex sing-songs from behind the towel.
Oscar just grins, crossing his arms. “And because you need our help not to button yourself into celibacy.”
Before Logan can retort, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the room.
His eyes go wide. As he checks his reflection one last time, Alex pats him on the shoulder. “You look good, Logs. Like an angel if he was from Florida.”
Oscar nods behind him. “Just make sure to eat slow, chew. It’d be a mood killer to choke in the middle of dinner.”
Groaning, Logan says, “Oh my god, that was one time .”
“Logs, that was two months ago,” is Oscar’s deadpan reply.
Before Logan can argue, Alex is already pushing him out of his door. “Either way, seduce him and don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!” is all he’s told before he’s shoved right into Max.
Max steadies him easily. Logan turns to glare back at his friends, who give him a finger wave.
“Bring him back in one piece, please,” Oscar calls sweetly before shutting the door in both their faces.
Max’s quiet chuckles pull Logan’s attention back to him, in time to realize his sudden collision had crushed the bouquet Max was holding.
“Oh my god, Max, I’m so sorry,” Logan says, frantic, as he tries to smooth out the crinkled brown paper.
Max's hand stops him, gentle and soothing. “It’s okay, Angel. They’re for you. You can do whatever you want to them.”
Looking up from his fussing, Logan blushes. “You got me flowers. Oh my god, they’re gorgeous!” He admires the arrangement of peonies and now-crushed lilies. “I love them, Max. I can’t believe they’re ruined,” he adds, still trying to reassemble a flattened lily into something resembling a flower.
Max takes Logan’s hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles with a soft chuckle. “It’s okay, Angel. I’ll buy you more. Don’t look so sad. Now,” he pulls back to look him over, eyes warm, “you look very pretty, baby. Let’s go so I can show everyone my pretty baby.”
“Okay,” is Logan’s shy reply as he clutches the bouquet close to his side with his free hand.
Max walks him to the car, their hands still joined. He’s pretty sure anyone looking can see heart emotes floating all around him.
At the passenger side, Max lets go of his hand and opens the door. “Your chariot, Angel.”
Logan slides in, heart fluttering. “Thank you.” He almost thinks Max is leaning in for a kiss, only to realize he’s reaching in to help with the seatbelt.
But Max is close. Too close. Logan can smell his cologne–warm and clean, with something darker underneath. His fingers graze Logan’s waist as he clicks the buckle into place.
“There,” Max murmurs, not moving back right away.
Their eyes meet. For a second too long.
Then Max exhales, smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and gently shuts the door.
Logan stares straight ahead, cheeks burning, bouquet still clutched tight in his lap.
God help him. This was going to be a long night.
Logan would love to say he was normal for the rest of the car ride, but that would be a Sunday sin.
Max’s quiet focus, the sharp cut of his profile framed by the evening sun, and the weight of his palm resting casually on Logan’s knee—
It’s a miracle Logan didn’t melt into a puddle right there in the seat.
So the journey from the car to their private booth and even ordering is a bit of a haze, as Logan tries his best not to do something wildly out of social decorum.
The food arrives, and Logan pretends he cares more about his fish than the way Max’s knees keep brushing his like it’s nothing.
He gets a few bites in while Max slices his steak with casual elegance. Everything about him is so composed. Logan wants to mess him up just a little.
“How’s your fish, Angel?” Max asks around a small smile.
“Do you want to try?” Logan offers, partly because he wants to see Max’s mouth do something other than smile like he knows all of Logan’s secrets. Partly because he's a brat.
Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve barely had two bites.”
Logan flushes, eyes darting down to his neglected meal. “It’s good,” he mumbles, then stabs a piece of fish and holds it out.
To his surprise, Max leans in without hesitation and takes it from the fork, lips brushing it just slightly. His eyes stay on Logan as he chews, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“You’re right. That is good.” His voice is smooth, rich, amused.
Logan’s about to respond, but Max is already picking up his own fork. “Your turn, Angel.”
Before Logan can protest, Max is holding out a piece of steak, glistening with juice and perfectly sliced.
“I can feed myself,” Logan says, but his voice is weak, teasing at best.
“I know you can,” Max replies, coaxing the bite closer. “But I want to.”
Logan hesitates only a second before leaning in and taking the bite.
It’s delicious. But it’s not the food that makes him dizzy. It’s the way Max watches him while he chews, like he’s cataloguing every expression. Like he’s learning him.
Another bite follows. Then another. Both of them trade bites, Logan lost entirely in the soft curl of Max’s smile and the warming silence between them.
Then Max sets his utensils down.
His gaze lingers on Logan’s mouth a moment too long.
He reaches over and brushes sauce from the corner of Logan’s lip. “You always make the sweetest sounds when you like something, huh?” he murmurs, thumb trailing to his own lips without thinking.
Logan’s pulse skips.
Just then, the waiter swoops in, clearing their plates with practiced efficiency. Another places a pair of dessert menus on the table with a polite smile.
Max picks one up, studying it. Logan does the same, though there’s nothing on the menu he wants more than Max again.
“See anything you want for dessert, Angel?” Max asks quietly from behind the menu.
“Nothing they can offer,” Logan replies, looking at Max.
Max’s brows lift, amused. “No?”
Logan shakes his head in agreement and leans in just a little, voice soft. “I want something else.”
It earns him a squeeze to his thigh and a slow, knowing look from Max.
“Are you sure, Angel? Not even an espresso?” Max teases, their faces close now.
Logan’s eyes drop to his mouth, then back up again. He clutches at the hand on his thigh. “Yes. Now take me home, Maxie.”
Max, calm as ever, closes the menu and signals for the check.
“Okay, Angel. Let’s go.”
The car ride is quiet, but the air between them thrums. Logan’s hand rests in Max’s, his thumb moving slow, deliberate. Neither of them says much. They don’t need to.
------------
Max’s place is dim and clean, all sharp edges and soft light. He doesn’t waste time, pressing Logan back into the door.
“Angel,” he murmurs, lips brushing near his temple. “Thought I’d have to suffer through dessert before I could taste you.”
Logan’s fingers curl into Max’s shirt, dragging him closer.
Max kisses him, firm and focused. Logan melts into it, hands in his hair, heart racing. Max slots a thigh between Logan’s legs, holding him there. The friction is instant, Logan gasps. Max deepens the kiss.
He tilts Logan’s head, tongue sliding deeper as his thigh presses up again. Logan groans, hips grinding down with a soft, desperate noise.They move together, slow and close. Logan is hard now, grinding against the press of Max’s thigh, every drag making him breathless.
Max finally pulls back, just slightly. “Want me to take care of you, Angel?” he asks, voice thick with heat.
Logan glares, flushed and panting. “I should’ve let you suffer through dessert if you’re just going to tease me.”
Max smiles, unexpectedly soft. There’s a flicker of something boyish in the way he looks at Logan, the way his hand comes up to stroke his cheek.
He brushes a strand of hair away from Logan’s forehead, gaze lingering on the flush in his cheeks, the way he’s pressed up against him.
“I’m not teasing, Angel,” he murmurs, voice low but sincere. “I want to take care of you. In my bed.”
Logan’s breath catches. That look, steady and wanting, makes something in him twist. He nods, the tension in his glare giving way to something else entirely.
“Do it then,” he says, just loud enough for Max to hear.
Max leans in for another kiss, slower this time, lips dragging just enough to make Logan shiver. Then he takes his hand and leads him through the apartment, guiding him down the hall with practiced ease and barely leashed hunger.
Logan barely registers entering the bedroom. He’s watching Max instead. The way he moves. The way he turns to face him, thumb still tracing his knuckles like he can’t stop touching him.
Max tugs him in close again. “Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmurs. “Anything at all. I need to hear you say it, Angel.”
Logan nods, breath catching. “I will.”
Max brushes their noses together. “You have a safeword?”
His voice is warm, careful. One hand cups Logan’s jaw, thumb stroking gently as he waits.
Logan’s voice is quiet. “Dolphins.”
Max kisses him again, slower this time, with a tenderness that makes Logan shiver. “Good.”
He undresses him without hurry, piece by piece, like he’s unwrapping something he’s wanted for a long time. His lips graze warm skin; his fingers leave deliberate trails down Logan’s arms, across his waist, the curve of his back.
When Logan’s finally bare on the sheets, flushed and watching him with wide eyes, Max just looks. For a long moment, he takes him in, every inch, spread out for him.
Then he moves closer, crawling over him, gaze heavy and dark.
Logan shivers, feeling his skin break into gooseflesh in anticipation.
Keening softly, the sound catching in his throat before it escapes. He reaches for Max to pull him in. Max follows easily, swallowing Logan’s keen with a kiss, slow and deep, his weight pressing Logan into the sheets.
Max fits between his thighs easily, broad and solid in a way that makes Logan feel spread open, filled out just from the way they slot together. Logan curls his legs around Max’s hips, arching up to meet the heat of him as his hands go to his neck.
Max is still dressed, every single part of Logan’s body feels like a live wire as he feels Max trail his hands from his face to his sides, stroking soothingly, before he brushes against the red head of Logan’s cock before he lowers his lips to take a nipple in the heat of his mouth.
Logan gasps, hands coming to clutch at Max’s head. “No Maxie. Wan– need you inside this time please.”
One of Logan’s hands slides down, trying to guide Max where he wants him.
“Need me inside, Angel?” Max murmurs, voice thick against his mouth.
Logan nods, barely able to form words. “Yeah. I—God, yeah.”
Max’s thumb brushes across the tight ring of muscle, slow and deliberate, pushing just enough to make Logan gasp, head falling back.
Every nerve feels lit, his body aching in anticipation, in want.
“Tell me what you need, Angel,” Max says lowly, his hand dragging down Logan’s thigh to keep him open.
Logan breathes out a soft whimper. “You. Just—your fingers, you inside, please.”
Max reaches across him to the bedside, grabbing lube and a condom with practiced ease. Logan watches, breath catching, his thighs still parted around Max’s hips.
Max slicks his fingers, eyes flicking up to Logan’s face. “Breathe for me, Angel.”
Logan nods shakily, his chest rising with each quick inhale. “Hurry, please.”
Max’s fingers are there just one circling, teasing. His other hand holds Logan’s hips, keeping him still, the touch feeling like a red-hot brand. Max leans down, kissing and nipping at Logan’s neck.
His mouth moves down Logan’s chest, sucking, biting, before latching onto his nipple, lavishing it with his tongue and teeth. He switches to the other nipple, repeating the process, all the while Logan writhes beneath him, whimpering, begging.
Logan’s body strains, the only thing he can move is his chest, pushing into Max’s waiting mouth, as Max holds him down with deliberate pressure.
Max’s fingers tug at the ring of muscle, making Logan gasp in relief before resuming their slow, teasing motion. Frustrated, Logan pleads, “Please, Maxie just one finger, please.”
Logan finally feels the finger push in, he moans as his body clenches, already trying to pull Max deeper. “Fuck–Max. More, more more please I can take it.” The feeling of Max’s finger is thicker than Logan’s own, and Logan bites down on his fingers to quiet himself, trying to hold back the desperate sounds.
“You’re doing so good, Angel” Max murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Are you going to keep being good for me?”
Logan nods, and a second finger follows, easing in beside the first. Logan arches, biting down on his fingers to stifle the loud moans spilling. Max works him open carefully, his free hand smoothing over Logan’s hip, grounding him.
Then, a third finger slides in, and Max curls them just right as he licks up Logan’s neck, biting at his earlobe. “Maxie! Maxie, Maxie,” Logan chants, his breath hot against Max’s skin
He continues to brush Logan’s prostate, as he spreads his fingers, stretching him out. Logan feels himself get strung tighter and tighter with each brush, each deliberate press against it “Maxie—God, I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop!” Logan pleads.
“Want to see you fall apart on my fingers Angel,” Max breathes, voice caught somewhere between reverent and wrecked. “Want you to take me so well.” Suddenly, he’s coming untouched as Max watches eyes hungry as Logan clings to him and thrashes trying to get away from the continuous massage.
“Safeword?” Max asks, fingers stilling.
“No—no, don’t stop, I like it,” Logan pleads, teetering on the edge of overstimulation and slipping headfirst into another orgasm as he moans through it.
When Max finally pulls his fingers out, Logan whines at the loss.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Max murmurs, “I’m gonna give you something better.”
He pulls off his shirt, and though Logan is boneless from the back-to-back orgasms, he still reaches up to try and unbutton Max’s jeans. His fingers fumble, uncoordinated, but eager.
Max chuckles at the effort, covering Logan’s hands with his own to help guide them through the buttons before pushing his pants down.
Then, with surprising gentleness, he grabs his discarded T-shirt and uses it to wipe Logan’s chest clean.
Logan moans, hips jumping as the shirt brushes his spent cock. “I’m ready, Maxie, I am—please.”
Max kisses him once more, deep and hot, before reaching for the condom. “Keep those legs around me, Angel.”
Logan obeys, desperate and trembling, as Max rolls the condom on and slicks himself up.
Logan watches, eyes wide, drinking in the sight of Max’s cock—girthy in a way that suddenly makes sense of how long he spent stretching him open.
Then Max lines himself up, gaze locked with Logan’s, waiting.
“Still want it, Angel?”
Logan nods, pupils blown, lips parted. “Yeah. Want you.”Max presses in slowly, inch by inch. Logan’s breath stutters, hands gripping Max’s shoulders like he might break apart from the stretch and heat. He forces himself to breathe.
Max kisses him, then trails lower, sucking and biting love bites down his neck as his fingers brush over Logan’s already sensitive nipples. That touch makes Logan finally relax, and when Max bottoms out, they both moan—Max buried to the hilt, Logan trembling beneath him.
“Fuck,” Logan whispers. “You feel... so deep, Maxie. Feel you in my throat.”
Max leans down, voice rough against his ear. “You’re taking me so well, Angel. My perfect fucking fit.”
Logan brings a hand to his stomach, brushing over the skin where he can feel the pressure of Max buried so deep inside him. His fingers tremble where they rest on his stomach, overwhelmed by the fullness, the stretch, the raw intimacy of it all. Max is everywhere: inside him, over him, around him, and Logan feels like he’s coming undone at the seams.
Max begins to move, slow at first, pulling out just enough before pressing back in with a grind that makes Logan gasp.
“Fuck, Max,” he whimpers, hands clawing at his back now, legs tightening around his waist.
Max keeps his slow pace. He shifts just slightly, and Logan cries out, arching up with a sob, that spot inside him lit up like a live wire.
“There?” Max asks, smug.
Logan nods furiously, fingers digging into Max’s back. “There, Maxie, right there, don’t stop.”
“You’re doing so good, baby boy,” Max murmurs against his throat, voice thick and reverent. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”
Logan tilts his head back, giving Max more skin to mark, and Max doesn’t waste the invitation. His mouth finds the curve of Logan’s jaw, biting just hard enough to make him cry out, hips stuttering up to meet Max’s thrusts.
They find a rhythm: deep, slow, relentless, and Logan clings to him like he’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Every drag of Max’s cock hits his prostate, making stars burst behind Logan’s eyes. He can’t stop the sounds spilling from his lips—moans, gasps, broken whimpers of Maxie and please and don’t stop.
He’s so close. Logan reaches down to stroke his cock, only to find his wrists pinned above his head in Max’s grip.
“No, Angel,” Max says, voice dark and low. “want to see how many times you can come just from my cock.”
He punctuates the words with a sharp grind against Logan’s already abused prostate, making him moan, the sound high and helpless.
It doesn’t take much after that. Logan’s coming for the third time that night, spilling across both their chests, body tightening around Max as the orgasm rips through him.
He’s still shaking when Max pulls out, only to flip him over and press back in. Logan feels his eyes roll back at the continued onslaught of pleasure as Max pulls him up against his chest.
Supported by Max’s body, thighs spread wide over his, Logan lets his head fall back against Max’s shoulder. Max’s hands grip his waist, lifting and lowering him onto his cock in slow, deep thrusts.
Logan feels delirious. He just came, and yet another orgasm is already building low in his gut. His hands claw behind him for purchase, scrabbling at Max’s arms, his thighs, anything solid.
The only sounds in the room are the wet slap of skin and Logan’s soft, punched-out moans each time Max drives up into him, unrelenting.
Logan's moans are ragged now, each one torn from his throat as Max holds him steady and thrusts up, deep and deliberate. He’s trembling in Max’s grip, thighs quivering with overstimulation, but he doesn’t want it to stop, can’t even imagine wanting anything else.
“Fuck, Angel,” Max groans into his neck, biting down gently before kissing over the mark. “You’re so good. Look at you, taking it like you were made for me.”
Logan whimpers, too far gone to respond with anything but a choked moan. His body is burning, buzzing, barely holding together, but the way Max is fucking him, slow, hungry, reverent it grounds him through the haze.
Then Max shifts his angle, and Logan screams, back arching as his prostate gets hit dead-on again and again. His hands claw down Max’s thighs, anchoring himself against the brutal wave rolling through him.
“Maxie, I—” His voice breaks. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m coming again, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, Angel. Give it to me,” Max pants, sweat-slicked chest pressing to Logan’s back as he rocks up harder, faster, relentless. “Come on, baby, one more for me. Just one more.”
It crashes over him with no warning—Logan cries out, body locking up tight around Max as he comes again barely a squirt, untouched, ruined, and shaking.
Max curses under his breath, hips stuttering. “Fuck —Logan—Angel, fuck, you feel so good—”
With a low groan, Max buries himself to the hilt and spills into the condom, his grip tightening around Logan’s hips hard enough Logan hopes they bruise. Max rides it out in short, shallow thrusts, his body trembling just as much as Logan’s.
For a long moment, the only sound is their heavy breathing.
Then Max presses a kiss to the top of Logan’s shoulder, voice hoarse but tender. “You okay, Angel?”
Logan, wrecked and floating, nods slowly and hums. “Yeah,” he whispers, letting his head fall back against Max’s shoulder. “Think you broke me. In a good way.”
“Good because, your mine. Angel”
Max holds him close, neither of them moving for a while. The rise and fall of their chests start to sync, Logan still trembling faintly in Max’s lap, every nerve ending spent.
“You did so good,” Max murmurs, kissing Logan’s shoulder again, then trailing soft kisses down his spine. “So good for me.”
Logan smiles, eyes still closed, letting himself melt against Max’s chest. “You always talk like that after you ruin people?” he says, voice sleepy, teasing.
“Only when I like them,” Max replies, nuzzling into the curve of Logan’s neck.
Eventually, Max shifts gently, easing Logan off his lap and onto the bed. Logan lets out a soft whine as he slips out, and Max chuckles under his breath.
“I know, baby. Let me take care of you.”
He pads off to the bathroom and returns a minute later with a warm, damp cloth. Logan watches him, chest aching a little in the best way. Max moves carefully, cleaning him up with gentle strokes, murmuring soft things under his breath that make Logan’s heart flutter more than the mind-blowing sex did.
When he's done, Max tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed, pulling Logan into his arms. Logan nestles in without hesitation, tucking his face into Max’s chest and sighing as the warmth of his body settles around him.
“Comfortable?” Max asks, stroking his back.
“Mmhmm. Best pillow in the world.”
Max tilts his head down and kisses his temple. “Good. Want you comfortable”
Logan hums again,. “You’re soft after sex. I like it. Does this mean you’re my boyfriend now?” Logan asks eyes peaking up at Max.
“I just made you cum four times in my bed,” Max says with a low laugh. “Yes Angel, this means I’m your boyfriend and you’re mine. ”
Logan flushes, hiding his face. “Don’t bully me when I’m fragile. Just had to confirm.”
“I would never Angel,” Max says, smiling into his hair.
-----------------
Author's Note: I'm sorry for the 5 month wait. But this universe is not over! on AO3 im gonna continue writing little blurbs for it. I love the way everyone's character kind of came to be as I was writing.
anyways thank u so much for the love!!!!
i have not heavily edited fair warning i just wanted to put it out there for you.
They promised it would only be seven days apart, but Max knows how easily Carlos gets in his own head. He wonders if seeing him will be enough for Carlos to let go of the hesitation, the second-guessing.
Note: Writing this chapter and honestly every chapter of Over and Over, The Marias is always playing. In particular for this chapter - Sienna. So please play it while reading. 🎀
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ─────୨ৎ─
The lead-up to the first race weekend after summer break always feels like a false start. Everyone’s already off the line before the lights even go out. Max hates it. He doesn’t get the rush.
The car is good, has been good, should perform well. He doesn’t understand the nervous anticipation. Not for this.
When he imagines Carlos coming, he feels steady. But when he slips to the other side of it, wondering if Carlos will actually show, something cold and deep opens up under him, like standing in a pool where his toes can’t find the bottom. That anticipation, he understands.
They promised it would only be seven days apart, but Max knows how easily Carlos gets in his own head. A gnawing feeling settles in his stomach when he wonders if seeing him will be enough for Carlos to let go of the hesitation, the second-guessing.
Carlos hasn’t texted yet, so Max tries to relax.
Carlos agreed to the driver picking him up from the airport and the access card waiting at reception. That should mean something. Should.
Between running over data, Max checks his phone. Again. And again.
Mid-afternoon relief washes over him when Carlos’s message lights up the screen:
I’m here. I’ll wait for you, Maxie.
Max hovers over what to type back, his thumbs frozen. He exhales slowly, starts to type, erases it, starts again.
An engineer calls his name, snapping him back into the moment.
By the time the day finishes up, he quickly showers the day off in his driver’s room and debriefs with the team. The sun’s already set.
His drive to the hotel feels both like a minute and an hour, anticipation heavy on his chest. He steps out, the cool evening air hitting him, it does nothing to calm the pulse that’s been steadily picking up in his chest.
He’s not nervous about whether Carlos is there – about whether he’s not. If the message was some small mercy so he didn’t worry, mess up his first day back on track.
Max enters the hotel and heads for the elevator, the hallway stretching out in front of him.
He can’t help but hope he’s there behind his door. Please. Please.
When he reaches his suite, he swipes his card and steps inside.
Thinks its too quiet for a suite meant to hold two.
He catches himself from tripping over sneakers left by the door with no sign of their owner.
He moves through the dark suite and pushes open the bedroom door.
Carlos is there.
Sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, his hair a mess against the pillow. Carlos is here.
Max sags against the doorframe, the tension slipping out of him all at once. His head tips back lightly against it. A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding leaves him in a rush. He stays there for a moment, just looking, just letting it sink in.
Max lingers there, counting the soft rise and fall of Carlos’s chest, each breath an affirmation of his reality, before he quietly approaches, careful not to wake its occupant. Kneeling by the side of the bed, the soft scent of Carlos’s cologne mixing with the faint musk of sleep, Max gazes at Carlos’s face, half hidden in the pillow Max had used the night before. His lips form their ever-present pout, his face slack in a way Max has come to memorize from their days by the beach.
Max gently brushes a strand of hair from Carlos’s forehead, his fingers reverent in their soft touch. The warmth of him, the silkiness of his hair, and the soft rise and fall of his chest ground Max in a way nothing else ever has.
He wonders if GP will kill him if he falls asleep like this, kneeling by the bed – gazing. If he can explain it, or if GP will understand the mere sight of Carlos does to him is something no thousand race wins can ever give him.
He traces the line of his jaw with his thumb.
“Thank you for coming Carlos,” Max murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. He’s not sure if Carlos can hear him, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to say it.
Carlos stirs again, his eyelids fluttering open slowly, his gaze meeting Max’s. There’s a moment of sleepiness, but then recognition. And then, a small smile, slow to form, but all the more genuine for it.
“Max,” Carlos breathes, his voice hoarse from sleep. “You’re here.”
Max can’t resist. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Carlos’s forehead, the warmth of him enveloping Max like a balm. “Yeah. I’m here.”
Carlos pulls him closer, shifting in the bed, and Max lies down beside him, Carlos sleepily tucking himself into his side. Max rests his head against the pillow, his arms wrapped gently around Carlos.
For a moment, they lie there in comfortable silence, the only sound is the soft rhythm of their breathing. Max feels the weight of the day slip away, the rush of the track and the demands of his team fading into the background.
Carlos shifts slightly, nestling deeper into Max’s chest, his hand coming to rest over Max’s heart.
Max wonders if Carlos can feel the steady beat beneath his ribs, finally calming from the rattled pace it had set earlier.
"I missed you," Carlos murmurs against his chest, his voice still thick with sleep.
Max smiles, fingers brushing through Carlos’s hair. "I missed you too," he replies quietly, his voice low, as if speaking any louder would break this scene.
Max watches as Carlos’s hand tightens slightly over Max’s chest, his eyes closing again as he settles deeper into the warmth between them. His breathing evens out again as he drifts.
Max feels a calm wash over him, the one he only gets when Carlos is close.
When Max wakes, dawn is just starting to seep through the thin curtains, soft and slow, painting everything in faded golds and quiet blues.
He watches the way the light catches on Carlos’s hair, how his lashes fan out against his cheeks, his breath a steady whisper against his skin.
Max presses another kiss into Carlos’s hair, breathing him in, savoring this stolen piece of morning before the world can creep back in. Before he has to head out.
Carlos shifts again, snuggling closer, his fingers bunching in the fabric of Max’s shirt like he is making sure Max will not slip away.
Then suddenly Carlos stirs harder, his head lifting, panic flashing across his face even through the fog of sleep.
"Max," he says, voice frantic, like he's breathless.
Max strokes his hair, cradles the back of his head, pulling him in close. "Shh" he murmurs against his temple. "We have time. I am still here. It’s only five."
"I missed you," Carlos mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, the words rumbling against Max’s chest.
Max squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, overwhelmed, before pulling him even closer, tucking Carlos’s head under his chin and lets his hands roam slow and careful down his back
"I missed you too," he whispers. "More than you know."
He wonders why he ever worried so much about whether he would be enough, when all Carlos has done, at every moment of consciousness, is reach for him and whisper that he missed him.
Carlos only sighs, nuzzling deeper against him, already half-asleep again.
Max stays awake long after Carlos drifts off, his fingers brushing lazy circles over his back, watching the slow stretch of morning light creep across the room.
Eventually, the soft light grows stronger, and Max knows he’s running out of time. The team will expect him. His trainor will start calling, loud and relentless.
He lets his fingers trace the familiar dip of Carlos’s spine, the soft curve of his shoulder blades under the worn fabric of his t-shirt. He presses a final kiss to Carlos’s hair and carefully starts to shift, untangling their limbs as gently as he can manage. Carlos stirs almost immediately, his brow furrowing, a soft sound of protest slipping from him.
“Max?” Carlos murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. He blinks a few times, his eyes squinting against the soft light spilling into the room. “Are you leaving already?”
“Yeah,” Max says softly, barely above a whisper. “I have to go to the paddock soon.”
Carlos’s hand twists just slightly around Max’s shirt, his eyes still half-lidded as he gazes up at him. “I’ll be here when you get back,” Carlos says, though there’s a faint trace of sadness in his voice.
Max swallows, running his thumb over Carlos’s cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.” He shifts slightly, trying not to jostle Carlos too much as he starts to untangle himself from the sheets, but Carlos’s arm stays wrapped around him, pulling him back in for a brief moment.
“Hope you get pole,” Carlos murmurs, nuzzling into Max’s chest again, like he’s trying to soak up the warmth, as if afraid of the cold that’ll creep in once Max slips away.
Max laughs softly, pressing a kiss to Carlos’s forehead, his fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “You think I can put it on pole?” he asks gently.
Carlos gives a small nod, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “Of course, Maxie,” he whispers. He shifts to sit up, his face a little scrunched from sleep, but he smiles softly at Max. “Go on then. Go get podium. I’ll be here.”
Max looks at him for a moment, taking in the way his hair falls over his forehead, the soft expression on his face. A wave of affection washes over him, stronger than anything else. Carlos’s unwavering belief in him, from the very beginning, is something Max can’t shake.
“Alright,” Max says, his voice thick with emotion he doesn’t know how to name. He stands and starts to pull on his clothes, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him. The quiet between them is comfortable, familiar.
But there’s a shift in the air now, a subtle tension.
Max finishes dressing, adjusting the collar of his jacket as he looks back at Carlos, still propped up on the bed, his eyes following Max’s every movement.
“Do well, Maxie. I’ll be watching,” Carlos says softly, his voice hoarse but full of that same care and tenderness Max has come to name.
Max nods, pulling on his shoes and grabbing his phone. “I’ll do my best.” He hesitates at the bedroom door, looking back at Carlos. For a brief moment, he wants to say something that would make Carlos understand just how much he means to him, how much he matters. But words don’t feel enough when all he wants is to kiss Carlos again. So he just looks back one last time.
Carlos watches him with quiet eyes, his hand still loosely gripping the blanket, as if holding himself back like he knows Max is. “Bye, Maxie,” he says softly.
Max smiles at the sight of him. “Watch my podium then. It’ll be for you,” he promises, and walks out the door, the soft click of it behind him.
–
When Max gets into position, he barely knows what’s happening.
All he can see is the last image of Carlos: rumpled with sleep, stretched out on the bed, smiling at him like he always does.
"Do well, Maxie. I'll be watching."It loops behind Max’s eyes, steady as his heartbeat.
He barely hears the radio. He feels like he’s living up to his nickname for the first time, Mad Max, wild and burning. He’s not racing the others; he’s chasing the clock, chasing the seconds, racing his way back to Carlos.
Suddenly, the words cut through.
"Third place, Max. Podium finish."He blinks, disoriented, and a laugh bubbles up in his chest, giddy and weightless. A podium, just like he promised.
In parc fermé, he hauls himself out of the car. The camera finds him, but all he can think about is Carlos, in his hotel bed, watching, waiting. He points and kisses his index finger, sending it out into the world, hoping it will find him.
I did it. I did it for you.
This time, when he begs off the celebration, saying he needs to focus for the next race, everything blurs around him. The drive, the hallway, the elevator. All of it just a flickering background until he’s standing at his suite door.
The door swings open before he can even swipe his card.
Carlos is standing there, smiling easy, but there’s something in his eyes that Max doesn’t miss. Something tentative, something eager.
Like he didn’t leave Max standing barefoot on a moonlit beach a week ago, a kiss still lingering on his lips. Like he didn’t send him off that morning with a casual go get podium, as if sending him on an errand.
“Hi, Max,” Carlos says, his name warm and soft on his lips. It pulls Max in all the same.
Max doesn’t answer right away.
He steps forward, tugged by something invisible, crossing the threshold as Carlos steps back to let him in. The door clicks shut quietly behind them.
The hotel room is dimly lit, calm and still compared to the buzz outside.
Max closes the space between them, wrapping Carlos up in a hug. A laugh bubbles out of both of them.
He thinks of all the times they were teammates, Carlos’s quiet encouragement, steady and certain.
“See? I told you you’d put it on pole,” Carlos says into the fabric of Max’s shirt, still sticky with the scent of champagne.
Max slowly lets Carlos down, just enough to look at him.
His gaze lingers on Carlos’s face. He is not sure what he is searching for, but it is there.
In the way Carlos’s lips curl into a small, almost nervous smile.
In the way his eyes find him and stay, open, warm, longing.
He doesn’t let the moment slip away this time. He steps in closer, feeling Carlos sway into him naturally, like he had been waiting too.
“Seven days,” Max murmurs, stepping closer.
Carlos nods, his breath catching slightly. “Feels like longer.”
Max’s hand finds Carlos’s arm, his thumb brushing over the fabric of his sleeve. Then, instinctively, he reaches up to brush a lock of Carlos’s hair from his face, fingers lingering in the softness of it. He can’t help but caress the strands, smoothing them back like he’s trying to erase the space between them—the distance of the last seven days.
Carlos leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second, a small breath escaping him, like the gesture is the only thing keeping him grounded. Max’s fingers trace the curve of his jaw. Finally, Max breathes. You’re here.
Max’s gaze drops to Carlos’s lips, the corner of his mouth curling into the softest smile as he leans in. He brushes his lips gently over Carlos’s in a slow, deliberate kiss that deepens as soon as he feels Carlos’s breath hitch. His hand slides to the back of Carlos’s neck, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.
The kiss isn’t rushed, there’s no urgency to it. Just the slow, warm connection. The reassurance Max needed all week, filling him now in Carlos’s presence. He feels the way Carlos melts into him, whatever hesitation they had slipping away with every touch, every soft press of lips.
When they pull apart, it’s just enough to breathe. Max’s forehead rests against Carlos’s, both of them silent, savoring the quiet.
“I’ve missed you,” Max whispers.
Carlos’s eyes are soft when they meet his. “Missed you too,” he says, his voice a little rough, like the words themselves are as much of a relief as the kiss.
Max smiles, his thumb tracing over Carlos’s lips before he kisses him again this time deeper, more certain.
When they pull apart, Carlos lands one last peck on his lips, then says, “Come on my race winner. Tell me about the race.” Carlos grins as he tugs him gently toward the bed.
Max lets himself follow, he’ll shower later. For now he wants to see Carlos as long as he has him.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪🎀 ⋆˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆౨ৎ˚
Sometimes all we need from the ones we love is to be seen, held and celebrated. Hope this chapter showed that with these two.
Chapter 6 of Over and Over coming very soon! here's a little sneak peak
Max finishes dressing, adjusting the collar of his jacket as he looks back at Carlos, still propped up on the bed, his eyes following Max’s every movement.
“Do well, Maxie. I’ll be watching,” Carlos says softly, his voice hoarse but full of that same care and tenderness Max has come to rely on.
Max nods, grabbing his phone. He hesitates at the door, looking back at Carlos. For a brief moment, he wants to say something that would make Carlos understand just how much he means to him, how much he matters. But the words feel too heavy to say out loud, so he just looks back one last time.
Carlos watches him with quiet eyes, his hand still loosely gripping the blanket, as if holding onto the moment before Max leaves.
“Bye, Maxie,” he says softly.
Max turns back to him.
“Watch my podium then,” he promises.
“It’ll be for you.”
Carlos no longer races and Max is a world championship contender.
The TV blares with the current F1 race. Carlos shuts it off before he sees anyone he knows. He exhales as he sinks back into the couch. Racing feels both like a minute ago and a lifetime away. He had done it for so long that, no matter how much time passed, it was always there in his rearview mirror, looming like a mountain.
Sometimes he thinks about going back, hoping to ease the ache that settled in him when he walked away. But he knows better. It is not the racing he misses. It’s someone.
He still can’t make sense of it. They were teammates once, competitors more than friends. They were never meant to be friends; their fathers had ensured that. And yet, their last season together, what happened between them, hurt Carlos in a way that went beyond rivalry, beyond anything he had the words for.
He couldn’t stand being apart when the ripples of Marko’s decision reached the garage, but he couldn’t bear to look at him either. The hallways stretched like endless miles between them, though they were only a meter apart. The ache of distance became something like punishment, a lesson to himself for believing it was ever more than what it was.
Now the ache is constant. What was once a punishment has become a quiet reminder, a wound refusing to close.
–
He travels for a while after he leaves. Goes around Asia with friends. When he throws up daily because the ache has become all-consuming, they assume it’s food poisoning.
Through Europe, he smiles and flirts with the people his friends expect him to. He mimes and pretends his way across the continent.
In Brazil, they laugh when an old woman on the beach grabs his arm. Her fingers, knotted with age, tighten around his wrist, surprising him with their strength. Her voice low, reverent.
"You are a halved soul, niño. Keep running, and the fates will find you first."
Her breath smells of salt and something sweet. Her eyes, too knowing, too sharp, hold him in place. The words settle like heat in his chest, lingering long after she releases him. He stumbles back when she lets go, feeling found in a place where he thought he was hidden.
That night, when his friends head to the street party, he stays behind, feigning sickness. He lies back on the grass by the outdoor pool, gazing at the moon, turning her words over in his head.
A halved soul.
He wonders if he should believe it. If it could explain why the pain in his chest has never faded, why it settled there the day he walked away.
If he’s right about who holds his other half.
Carlos no longer races and Max is a world championship contender.
Their worlds are apart now. However brief their time together was, it’s over.
He tells himself that’s how it will continue to be. And the ache will dull, eventually. He almost believes it.
__
He’s in Mallorca, at a beach club, when he feels it.
It starts as a flicker, a shift in the air, a pull deep in his chest. A familiar sensation he has spent the last year and a half trying to ignore. He grips his beer and takes a slow sip, anything to stop himself from looking around. There is only one reason his body would sing into awareness like this after so long.
He keeps his eyes on the bottles lined up behind the bar, reading each label like they might tell him something new. Anything to keep himself still. Anything to keep his hands from trembling.
Then it happens again. The weight of someone standing behind him. The quiet charge of familiarity pressing into his skin.
Carlos exhales, but it does nothing to steady him. His body betrays him, muscles tensing like a wire pulled too tight. He tells himself not to turn too quickly, not to give himself away, not to hope.
And then, the one thing he has both denied and craved for months.
“Carlos.”
His name, said like a confession.
Carlos shuts his eyes for half a second, as if that might stop this from happening. As if he can erase the shudder that runs through him at the sound. Exhaling, he sets his beer down carefully, needing control over something, anything, and turns.
“Max.”
It's the first time he's said his name aloud in months, and he wishes it tasted bitter on his tongue. But all he tastes is relief.
It has been almost a year and a half since he last saw him in person and not through a TV screen. A year and a half since they stood face to face. Yet somehow, it’s like no time at all. Carlos takes him in, the sharper edges of his face and the broader set of his shoulders. He looks different, older, heavier with something Carlos doesn't name.
He swallows hard, a lump forming in his throat. The ache stilling for once.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Max says. His voice is quieter than Carlos remembers.
Carlos shrugs, his gaze flicking away. “My family owns a home here.”
He catches the subtle shuffle of Max’s feet. When Carlos finally looks up, he sees Max glance at the bar, then back at him, like he's unsure of his next move. It's strange on him. Max has never been unsure, never hesitant.
And yet, here he is, standing in front of Carlos like he does not know what to do with himself.
“Where did you go?” Max finally asks.
“Away. I don’t think I was quite cut out for racing.” Carlos chuckles, a hollow sound.
He wonders if this is real. If his mind has finally cracked under the weight of missing him. If this is what the old woman meant when she spoke of fate intervening, to drive him mad.
Max watches him, the weight of his stare heavier than Carlos remembers. Maybe he had forgotten what it felt like to be seen by Max like this, like he could peel him apart with nothing but silence.
Carlos clears his throat, reaching for his beer again just to have something to do with his hands. He takes a sip, but it tastes off now, bitter in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“I thought you loved it,” Max says eventually.
Carlos looks away, out toward the beach where the sun is bleeding into the horizon. The sky is pink and orange, waves rolling in slow.
“Maybe,” he admits with a shrug. “When I was young.”
Max tilts his head, considering, measuring the words like he always does, needing to understand before he can accept. Carlos used to find that look infuriating. Now, he just feels tired.
“I asked about you,” Max says, softer this time.
Carlos looks at him then, his chest tightening, something flickering in his eyes. “Seriously?”
Max nods. “Every race.”
Something tightens in Carlos’s chest and stays. He doesn’t know what to do with Max's admission.
He doesn’t know what to do with Max standing in front of him, talking like this, looking at him like this. Like it wasn’t only Carlos who lived with this ache. Like it is their first season all over again, like nothing has changed.
But everything has.
“Why?” Carlos asks, barely above a whisper.
Max opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it again. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he is resisting the urge to reach for something.
For Carlos.
Carlos swallows, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” Max exhales, glancing at the bar, then back at him. His voice is careful now, deliberate. “But I miss you.”
Carlos looks down, fingers pressing into the wood of his stool. The words take a second to settle, to root in his chest. Me too, he wants to say.
Instead, he doesn’t look up when he answers, his voice quiet, frayed. “How long are you here?”
“A week,” Max replies. “Maybe more, it’s summer break.” His eyes are open, searching.
Carlos meets his gaze, letting the words sink in.
“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll see you then.”
He slides off the stool, and for a moment, he and Max are a hair’s breadth from each other. The air between them hums with something unspoken, some invisible thing.
“I’ll find you,” Max replies, blue eyes bright with a joke only he knows.
Carlos hums before taking slow, certain steps away. He makes his way down the beach toward home, the sand cool beneath his feet and the tide rolling in steady.
For the first time in months, he breathes easy.
—- --
True to his word, Max finds him. They move through the market in easy silence. Both know there is no need for words, not yet.
Carlos drifts from vendor to vendor, inspecting produce with practiced ease, while Max lingers beside him, arms steadily filling with his growing purchases.
The sun rises higher, warming their skin past the pleasant balm of morning. When the weight in Max’s arms grows substantial, Carlos finally decides he has everything he needs for the week and steers them toward his car.
“They only have a market on Saturday mornings, so I buy everything ahead,” Carlos explains, the first words either of them have spoken all morning.
Max hums in acknowledgment, shifting the bags in his arms. “I get that, but you bought four kilos of tomatoes, Carlos. Will you really finish that in a week?”
His tone is light, teasing. Carlos huffs, shaking his head as he unlocks the car.
“It’s summer! I can make Gazpacho as much as I want.” Carlos says.
“Perfect, my favourite.” Max replies cheekily.
Carlos meets his eyes as he opens the trunk. Max’s eyes are almost teal in the sunlight, scrunched from the big smile on his face. Carlos can’t help it, he smiles in return.
Easy.
—- ----
As he and Max carry in the groceries. He puts them away as Max follows him and does the same with the bags he has. They move in easy silence around each other.
Carlos wonders why he ever thought it’d be any different.
He sets up a pot of water to boil, as he readies some tomatoes to go in. He gets his ice bath ready, moving quietly around the kitchen as Max stands nearby watching him work.
“You’re actually making it?” Max teases.
“Well, I was going to make it for myself anyway, unless you don’t want any?” Carlos teases back, an eyebrow arched in question.
“I’d love some. Might even have the whole pot to myself,” Max responds, matching his response a cheeky smile joining his words.
— -------
The morning blends into the afternoon, and soon, the evening. Seamlessly, their days pass by, one after the other, orbiting each other.
Carlos slices fruit under the afternoon sun, Max leaning against the counter, flipping through an old recipe book he has no real interest in. Later, they drift through the water, lazy strokes cutting through the heat, shoulders brushing with every turn. By dusk, Sangria in hand, they stretch out on the grass, the sky dimming to violet as the island breathes around them.
Days so simple.
For the first time since they met, they live outside the long shadows of their fathers.
Carlos thinks about that. About how easy it is. Being around Max is simple in a way nothing else has ever been. There is no pretense of being someone he is not. No pressure to perform.
It makes a part of him wonder how many more days like this they can have.
Max will be here for the rest of the break. Carlos knows that much.
But when the market closes for the fall, when the summer fruit is gone, and the sand cools beneath their feet at night, will Max still be here? Or will Mallorca become just another memory, its warmth fading like the last light of the season?
Or maybe he’ll stay. And they’ll see if the distance between them can stretch without breaking, if they can keep orbiting each other, held by the same quiet pull.
He lies back on the grass, his Sangria finished long ago. He folds his hands on his stomach and turns to look at Max.
Reclined back, face bathed in moonlight, Max looks weightless. The heavy set of his shoulders from the beach club seems lighter now.
Carlos wonders if the same ache he carried in his chest is one that weighed down Max’s shoulders.
As if he can hear Carlos’s thoughts, Max lays back as well until they are gazing at each other.
“You’re thinking again,” Max says, a hint of amusement in his voice, but his eyes are soft.
Carlos exhales, a shy, small smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, but I am always thinking,” he admits.
Max hums, as though he already knew that. “What is it this time?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.
Carlos shrugs, looking up at the sky instead of Max. “Nothing,” he says, but it’s not quite the truth.
Max watches him for a moment, then shifts closer, propping himself up on one elbow. “Liar.”
Carlos huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s stupid.”
Max nudges his arm, light and teasing. “So, how will I know if it’s really stupid if you don’t share it with me?”
Carlos glances at him, and for a second, he thinks about saying it out loud. About telling Max that this—today, tonight, all of it—feels like something he wants to hold onto. That he’s not sure how many days like this they can have, but he knows he wants more.
Instead, he just sighs, rolling onto his side to face Max properly. His affection colors his gaze as he looks at him.
“You can’t tease me. I’m older than you,” Carlos settles on instead.
Max grins, lazy and knowing. “Yeah. But then I’d be bored while you’re in your head, thinking.”
Carlos doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He huffs, moving his hand to meet Max’s where it rests between them, then says, “Fine, I’ll think about telling you them later. Better?”
Max laughs, head thrown back, the sound warming the air between them, filling it with something comfortable and sweet. He pulls Carlos closer by the hand, a subtle tug that feels more like an invitation than a movement.
The cicadas hum along with him, the sea murmurs in the distance, and Mallorca surrounds them like a precious bloom, unfolding slowly.
——-
In the last few days before Max’s break is over, they spend their evenings out more, seeing the friends Max came on vacation with.
They’re back at the same beach bar where they met all those days ago, cheeks warm from the drinks the group has steadily consumed since sunset. It’s his last night here, and Carlos feels put out, sad that this might be the last time he sees Max for a long while. He tries to think of anything else, knowing how easily Max reads him, especially after all the time they’ve spent together this week and a half.
But when he brings his attention back to the table, he can feel Max’s gaze on him, steady and knowing. It’s like always, a comforting blanket over his loud mind.
When Carlos meets his eyes, Max quirks a smile and nods toward the beach, a silent question.
Carlos smiles and nods, getting up.
The sand crunches beneath their feet, leaving faint footprints along the shore. The waves lap at their ankles, and the moon, big and bright, lights their steps. They walk quietly side by side for a while, neither knowing how to break the silence.
Carlos’s mind swirls with a repeating mantra of I’ll miss you, miss you, miss you. From the way Max’s brow is slightly furrowed, he thinks Max’s thoughts aren’t any different.
So Carlos breaks it, thinks he’ll answer the confession Max uttered that first day with one of his own.
“Me too,” he says softly.
Max turns to look at him, his lips quirking with amusement. “Me too, what, Carlito?”
Carlos laughs, shaking his head before his gaze drops to the sand. “I missed you too. And I’ll miss you when you go.” His eyes find Max’s as he says the last part.
“I’m only going back to the season, Carlos. This doesn’t have to be goodbye. I don’t want it to be.” Max’s voice is soft, but there’s a quiet conviction in his words.
They’ve stopped walking now. Carlos digs his toes into the cool sand, scrunching it absentmindedly. He feels like he should be the one saying this, the older one, acting like it, but it’s Max who always seems to have the right words. Words that make Carlos feel like he fits in his own skin.
He feels Max’s palm on his cheek, guiding him to look at him. The days they’ve spent together have drawn their bodies closer. Knees bumping under the table, fingers brushing the curve of Carlos’s wrist as he takes a plate, a warm palm on the small of his back as Max passes. But they’ve never crossed the boundary of subtle affection. It simmers though, and Carlos feels it spill over now as he wishes for something more.
Carlos thinks his eyes must look pleading because Max’s own are open, worried.
“We don’t have to meet at the paddock, Carlos. It can be anywhere else,” Max says.
Carlos’s head buzzes with the pressure of wanting Max to kiss him and the unanswered question of why Max knows his worries like his own, how he can read his mind like it’s his own. Max’s hand brushes through Carlos’s hair, making him shiver.
A halved soul.
Carlos’s own hand goes to where Max’s is cradling his face again. “Anywhere? Even China, Maxie?” he jokes, trying to calm his racing mind.
“You don’t have to miss me for more than a week if you choose, Carlos.”
He turns his face into Max’s palm, whispering his answer, shy to say it aloud. “Okay, only a week, Max.” His smile lingers as he finishes.
Max’s response is to pull him close, closer than they’ve been all week long, breaths mingling and soft puffs of warmth brushing each other's faces.
Carlos’s eyes drop to Max’s lips before flicking back up to meet his gaze. Max’s thumb strokes the corner of his eye, brushing against his eyelashes, the touch so light it makes him sigh.
Carlos leans in, the warmth of Max’s breath steady against his skin. The days they’ve spent together linger between them, every glance and touch catching up to this moment.
“Max,” Carlos whispers. Silently pleads, as the words a halved soul circle around, hold me, console me, complete me.
Max kisses him, gentle and certain. His hand stays on Carlos’s face, grounding him. Carlos’s fingers curl at Max’s waist, holding him close. The waves lap softly at their feet, the night air thick with salt and warmth.
When they part, Max stays close, their foreheads brushing. Neither of them speaks, but Carlos feels the promise settle between them.
“A week,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
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