Justforfanfic

Daniel glances down at his hand like he’s forgotten it’s injured. 

“If I tell you,” he says, “I don’t think you’ll let me in your apartment.” Then he laughs, awkward and high-pitched. “Not like–that makes me sound like a serial killer. I, ah. Punched a wall.” 

“Goodbye, Daniel,“ says Max, starting to close the door. He’ll have to remember to tell Lorenzo at the front desk that Daniel’s not welcome here anymore.  

“Wait—“ says Daniel frantically, reaching out a hand in a jerky, aborted movement, like he thought about grabbing the door and then thought better of it. He starts babbling. “Max, please, I didn’t want—I should’ve never—”

“If I want to speak to you,” interrupts Max, “I will message you on the app like you said.” 

Daniel shuts up. It sounds wrong—Daniel is never supposed to shut up. Daniel is supposed to fill all the silences; he is supposed to pry things out of Max; he is supposed to know what to say. He is supposed to smooth over the things that Max leaves rough. He is not supposed to punch walls. 

Maybe Max didn’t know Daniel at all. He had thought—

He had meant it, when he said he wanted Daniel to move in with him, that day at the Soapbox Race, before Daniel had ruined everything and Scotty had helped. It makes Max feel itchy and stupid to think about it, like he’s a little kid who said the wrong thing and no one told him until later, once it was too late to explain himself. 

Daniel swallows. “Okay. That’s fair. I’m really sorry, Max. I’m sorry for everything.” 

“Me too,” says Max, because he is. 

Daniel looks like he wants to say something, and Max wishes he would. He doesn’t know what he wants him to say, but he wishes Daniel was the same Daniel he thought he was, who would say the perfect thing, except this time he would mean it. 

It’s Max’s fault, really. He’s too literal; he believes what people say. Even when Daniel was telling him, in so many little ways, that he shouldn’t. But sometimes Max’s want outgrows his logic. He believes in things so much that he expects them to be true, which is an essential part of being a champion, but not very good for relationships. 

“Goodbye, Daniel,” Max says again, this time more gently, and Daniel nods. 

“Bye, Max,” he says, and Max lets himself pretend his voice sounds a little cloudy, that he really misses Max like Max misses him. 

Like he loves Max. Like Max loves him. 

Max closes the door. 

There’s only silence for a moment, and then he hears Daniel’s footsteps recede, the elevator button dinging. 

Daniel glances down at his hand like he’s forgotten it’s injured. 

“If I tell you,” he says, “I don’t think you’ll let me in your apartment.” Then he laughs, awkward and high-pitched. “Not like–that makes me sound like a serial killer. I, ah. Punched a wall.” 

“Goodbye, Daniel,“ says Max, starting to close the door. He’ll have to remember to tell Lorenzo at the front desk that Daniel’s not welcome here anymore.  

“Wait—“ says Daniel frantically, reaching out a hand in a jerky, aborted movement, like he thought about grabbing the door and then thought better of it. He starts babbling. “Max, please, I didn’t want—I should’ve never—”

“If I want to speak to you,” interrupts Max, “I will message you on the app like you said.” 

Daniel shuts up. It sounds wrong—Daniel is never supposed to shut up. Daniel is supposed to fill all the silences; he is supposed to pry things out of Max; he is supposed to know what to say. He is supposed to smooth over the things that Max leaves rough. He is not supposed to punch walls. 

Maybe Max didn’t know Daniel at all. He had thought—

He had meant it, when he said he wanted Daniel to move in with him, that day at the Soapbox Race, before Daniel had ruined everything and Scotty had helped. It makes Max feel itchy and stupid to think about it, like he’s a little kid who said the wrong thing and no one told him until later, once it was too late to explain himself. 

Daniel swallows. “Okay. That’s fair. I’m really sorry, Max. I’m sorry for everything.” 

“Me too,” says Max, because he is. 

Daniel looks like he wants to say something, and Max wishes he would. He doesn’t know what he wants him to say, but he wishes Daniel was the same Daniel he thought he was, who would say the perfect thing, except this time he would mean it. 

It’s Max’s fault, really. He’s too literal; he believes what people say. Even when Daniel was telling him, in so many little ways, that he shouldn’t. But sometimes Max’s want outgrows his logic. He believes in things so much that he expects them to be true, which is an essential part of being a champion, but not very good for relationships. 

“Goodbye, Daniel,” Max says again, this time more gently, and Daniel nods. 

“Bye, Max,” he says, and Max lets himself pretend his voice sounds a little cloudy, that he really misses Max like Max misses him. 

Like he loves Max. Like Max loves him. 

Max closes the door. 

There’s only silence for a moment, and then he hears Daniel’s footsteps recede, the elevator button dinging. 

“Look,” says Daniel gently, running his hand through Max’s hair. “I care about you. Like, as a person. I don’t want you spending this much on me just because you think you’re obligated to—”

Max gets pink in the face. Outrage, this time, even though he turns pink for almost any reason. “I of course do not think I am obligated to buy you nice things, Daniel,” he says. “I know that is what—that is what the money is for. I want to buy you nice things because also I care about you as a person as well. And I buy nice things for people I care about. As people.”

Daniel looks at the necklace. He would wear it, is the thing—it's beautiful. Max has thought about this. Daniel hooks a finger under the chain and it spills across his skin, decadent and gorgeous, like it’s made up of tiny stars.

“How about—you keep it, for a little bit,” says Daniel. Max opens his mouth to object, and Daniel silences him with a kiss. “But,” he says, mouth still close to Max’s, “you can put it on me when I’m here. Or—when we’re together.”

Max’s eyes grow wide and hot as he considers the implications. “When we fuck,” he clarifies, leaning in to kiss Daniel again. “You will wear it when we fuck?”

Daniel nods. “Just the necklace you bought me and nothing else. How’s that sound, baby?"

Max wraps his arms around Daniel’s waist, presses his face into his neck, overcome. “Good, Daniel,” he says. “It sounds very good to me.” He bites Daniel’s shoulder, his neck. “Can I put it on you now, then, please?”

Daniel tries not to preen, but not very hard. “So polite. Yeah, baby. Put it on me.”

He sits back, handing Max the box. Max picks up the necklace and leans in, kissing Daniel’s jaw, his throat, his collarbone. And then he slips the necklace on.

Daniel knows he’s hot. Even before becoming an escort, he’d known. But there’s something about the way Max looks at him as he pulls off his shirt, kissing his chest, that makes Daniel feel—precious, maybe. Something to be savored, treasured.

That night, without even really talking about it, Max fucks him, lying back on the sheets so Daniel can straddle his waist, the diamonds sparkling against his collarbone. Max holds him there, pinned by his hands, and looks up at him like—

Like maybe he might—

—