omegaverse maxiel for anonstie who asked for role reversal dead heat!
Daniel’s blowing a bubblegum bubble and everything about it looks off. The candied colour is more purple than pink. The stretch is too deep, the membrane too translucent, like it should have already burst. His lips look soft, not puckered enough to hold it. He says, “Earth to Macks,” and he says it like that, like the x is three distinct letters, triple lip shapes.
“What—yes.” The gum is gone now, tucked somewhere behind Daniel’s big grin, his white teeth.
“You good, homie?”
“Yes,” Max repeats. He thinks if the bubblegum would taste like bubblegum or if the bubblegum would taste like grape. He imagines the imprints of Daniel’s teeth in it.
“Yeah, nah, you don’t look so good.”
“Yes. No. I’m next week supposed to.”
“To…” Daniel glances over at Max because he’s driving, because they’re in a car. Maybe it’s the dash lights making his bubblegum grape instead. “Max, are you pre-rutting in my whip?” He laughs as he says it, rolling down a window and waving a hand in front of his face like there’s a stinky smell, but Max gets injections in his armpits every four weeks so he won’t smell like anything. Daniel reaches over and digs blindly through the glovebox, elbow close to Max’s knees. He says, “Catch,” and flicks a bottle in his lap. Max drops it twice.
It’s alpha-branded scent blocker. It’s stupid, because regular scent blocker works on everyone, so this kind is half effective as normal. It probably costs double. It’s stupid that Daniel buys it. Max puts it on anyway, rolling the cold metal ball over the pulse of his wrist. He drops the little cap somewhere, gone forever.
The car is red because the traffic light is red and Daniel is frowning now. “What are your rut plans, Max? Reckon it’s come early, yeah? The hotel?”
There’s only one cycle hotel in Monaco. Daniel doesn’t go there. He told Max once that he has an arrangement and that he’s exposed to heaps of bed bugs too much as it is. Max doesn’t know if his arrangement is a person. Max’s arrangement is a person.
“Jamie.”
“Jamie,” Daniel repeats raunchily. “Jamantha. Jamiella. Jamigail.”
Max says, “What.”
“Text her and I’ll help get you in, hey? I’ll be, like, your bellhop. Ding ding.”
Ding ding. Luggage in the boot because they’re driving from the airport in Nice. Max didn’t feel good on the plane.
He texts Jamie, Starting early can you come? But it makes less sense because there are more mistakes and incorrect corrections. Jamie heart reacts which means yes.
The indicator pop-click-pops.
Max asks Daniel, “Did you spit it out?”
Daniel says, “Huh?”
Max imagines the grape bubblegum in a foil wrapper somewhere, soft but saving the shape.
“Are you—” Daniel breaks off into a high laugh. “Like, do you have an omega scent aid or something?”
“What?”
“Did you open a bag of Jamie’s clothes or…?”
Max frowns. “I don’t have his clothes.”
Daniel gawks at Max instead of looking at the road, dangerous. “Jamie is a guy?”
Max frowns double. He can’t keep track if this was one of the things he should not say while also keeping track of potential foil glitters in the car. It’s probably fine. “Yes.”
Daniel rolls down both of their windows. Max thinks the bubblegum is back again—grape grape grape—but Daniel’s only holding his breath, cheeks puffed up. His fingertips are indenting the steering wheel. Max imagines the leather bruising grape-purple over all the prints.
They get back to their apartment building and Daniel carries all their things, balancing the curve of Max’s helmet bag on the jut of his hip, the least alpha thing about him. People say he has omega hips and he’s flattered, brags about it. It’s stupid because Max knows he wouldn’t be like that if he were an omega for real.
Jamie opens the door as Max is still fumbling at the keypad, Daniel’s hand gripping the back of his sweaty shirt as he sways. Max remembers, belatedly, that Jamie smells like an alpha and looks like Daniel.
Daniel says, “Oh, hey—um. Ha. What?”
Jamie ignores Daniel. He looks Max up and down and says, sympathetically, “Fuck dude,” spreading his arms wide where they’re extra alpha-smelling like he’s been to the gym.
Daniel’s hand fists the material of Max’s shirt. When Max tries to step forward, he gets pulled back.
“Sorry,” Daniel says. “Sorry, sorry.” But he doesn’t let go. “Sorry.” After a suspended moment, each of his fingers release the bunched cotton sequentially, number 3 pinky the last.
Jamie gives Daniel a judgmental look and shuts the door on his face.
But Daniel doesn’t leave. Max knows because he can feel it in the memory of his gripped back still, can sense it through the wood between them as Jamie strips him down and gets him off because he’s too far gone to wait. He comes harder than he has maybe ever and Daniel punches the wall behind him—yelling into something, maybe his own fist—and then walks too quickly away.
