#danmaxo

Maximus is elbows deep in SOFIA’s guts, digging and digging and digging for that goddamn loose screw that almost made her blow up into tiny little pieces, when a third hand makes its way in with his own. Fingers skitter along his bare forearm, long and calloused, reach deep, deep, deep, a warm body settles behind him, smelling of mint chocolate chip ice cream and motor oil; then, that hand is retreating, and there is a screw looking at him, held carefully between black-polished fingertips, in front of the grinning face of his husband, his dark brown eyes and too-handsome hooked nose and the slit in his right eyebrow that make him infuriatingly attractive.

“Were you looking for this?” Dan says, and Max feels laughter bubble in his throat even as he reaches to snatch the metal out of Dan’s fingers.

“Yes, yes I was.” He leans forwards for a kiss, and Dan complies, hands flying up to gently pull his shades up on his forehead, and his kiss tastes like coffee and toothpaste, “Good morning, Dan.”

“Good morning, Maximus,” Dan says, and Max always enjoys the way his tongue curls around his name, the weird way he says his A’s. 

They share a few pecks, warm and affectionate.

“Let’s get you out of here, darling. We promised Trump we’d bring him fishing today, didn’t we?” Did they? Max doesn’t remember it. Trump… 

“Where is Trump?” he hears himself say, “I need to tell him good morning, too.” He’s desperate with it. He tucked his baby in yesterday night, kissed his little head and told him a somewhat embellished story about a very powerful demigod, capable of commanding the skies and bringing back the dead.

“He’s waiting for us outside,” Dan says, low and smooth, in that way he knows never fails to settle Max’s nerves, “He didn’t want to track mud in here.”

Makes sense.

Together, they make their way out from SOFIA's little basement, up and up until Max can hear birds chirping and a gentle wind is brushing his cheeks, and the bright midday sun, that paints Dan’s brown hair russet, beats down on them harshly enough that he needs to peel off his coat.

Trump is waiting for them, bent low over a cute little kitten, fur shimmering orange and black in the sunshine. He rises on knobby knees poking out from worn jean shorts, too long and thin and covered in colorful band aids, cradling the little thing in his arms, and his face lightens up as soon as he sees his fathers, and as soon as he has seen him, Maximus finds himself with an armful of baby dragon, and he lifts him up to spin together, once, twice, and Trump is laughing that wheezy, high pitched little thing he does when he's out of breath but wants to keep laughing, and Max can feel the warmth of Dan's hand on Trump's back, and everything is perfect.

"So, what's this I hear about going caving?" He asks, in Spanish. 

"Can we go, Papi, please?" The iridescent scales on Trump's cheeks shimmer in the sunshine as he speaks. "Daddy Dan found the coolest cave! It's so pretty, you need to see it!"

His little mouth works oddly around the shapes of words, in an unfinished, unfamiliar way.

Makes sense.

Maximus looks up at Dan, hoping his face conveys enough bafflement of the "You brought our son caving among monsters and ravines and lava?" sort. Dan just grins at him, shrugs.

"What can I say, darling. I needed zinc, and little buddy here wanted to go creeper-busting for gunpowder; he put on some very convincing puppy eyes."

It takes a moment for the words to materialize in Maxo's brain. He glances up at the translation text boxes, finds them woefully nonsensical and nigh incomprehensible.

"... Creeper-busting." He repeats. "That is…"

Espeluznante, his brain supplies, helpfully. Blood-curling, continues the little part of him that has managed to learn a lick of English, running his hands up and down his son’s legs, pressing down on his torso as if to check for bruised ribs. What if Trump had lost a life? He only has…

Um. 

How many lives does Trump have left?

He tries doing the math; looks up at Dan for help when he realizes he can’t work through it, thoughts thick as molasses. Dan keeps smiling at him, soft, he leans in to kiss him again as if to shut up any further discussion, and this time it’s deep, filthy, the kind of kiss that turns Max’s knees to jelly. Trump has tucked his little head in the nook between his shoulder and neck, nibbling slowly at his turtleneck the way he does when he’s sleepy, and when Dan, regretfully, pulls back from Max’s lips, he buries his hand in their son’s golden cloud of hair again, ruffles it gently.

“He’s tired,” he says, low, “Let’s get him to bed.”

Bed?

Maximus looks around. The air around them is painted in golds and reds and purples of the setting sun, the sky above them is starting to darken, pinpricked with stars.

Makes sense.

They start walking back to their house, and Trump is so light that Maxo can hold him up with one hand, reach for Dan with the other to interlock their fingers. They walk, and walk, and walk, sharing companionable silence, they walk until the sun has dipped under the horizon and they’re shadowed in moonlight, and Max just lets himself enjoy the calloused warmth of his husband’s hand, the body  pressed at his side, his low low voice in his ear as he goes on and on about his latest mechanical wonders making the hair on his nape stand on end, until they’re in front of the cabin door again.

Funny.

It sure took them a while to take those ten or so yards that separated the edge of the woods from their front door.

He busies himself with getting a better grip on their son as Dan opens the door, hands tightening on too-bony little thighs. Mental note: Find avocados to plant in the garden. They slip in, gentle torchlight and silvery moonlight painting the three of them in dreamlike sepias. They tiptoe in Trump’s room, put him in his little pajamas—though his little sleeping form isn’t very helpful—and tuck him into bed, and both men lay a soft kiss on his forehead. When Dan tries to pull away, Trump waves his arms upwards to wrap around his neck, and Dan laughs, tucks him in his arms to pepper soft kisses all over his chubby cheeks and his nose, muttering low nonsense in English until their baby is relaxed enough to let go of him and fall back on the pillow. Max’s heart does a flip, and another. This, he’s pretty sure, is what perfection is, his husband and their son and perfect moonlight and the little ember of a night light in the shape of an airplane Dan had built for Trump and domesticity and so much affection his heart is going to burst. Dan is looking at him, from his place perching on Trump’s too small bed, a hand—bare—on their baby’s slowly moving chest, and his too-bright blue eyes keep him pinned in place. 

He squirms, brings his hands up on his forehead to look for his shades, finds them gone, and then Dan is on him, so much taller than him, he’s being caged in against the door frame and then they’re kissing, kissing, kissing and the tongue in his mouth tastes like black tea and in a rush they’re back in their bedroom, tumbling on their bed, and when did they get naked?

“I missed you, sweetheart,” Dan murmurs on his mouth, pressing him into the soft duvets, and then he goes lower to bite at his throat. 

They went to sleep together yesterday night, Max is pretty sure, but his husband’s mouth on him feels like the first touch of water after years on the desert, he gasps at the first touch of fingers on his skin, circling his chest to settle over his heart, just to scratch at the little dragon in a propeller hat curled around his nipple, the one he got to commemorate Trump’s death, wait, what?, reaches a hand in Dan’s blue hair to pull him up and kiss at his left temple, over the slit in his eyebrow, and kiss kiss kiss all over his face, even as fingers fumble with the barbells on his clit and oh God when did he grow this wet, fuck, “Dan,” he rasps out, “Dan, Dan, please, I–I missed you so bad.”

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” Dan replies in Spanish, easily, and Max didn’t know he needed to hear his tongue in Dan’s mouth so desperately, “I miss you so much, and our baby misses you too, come with us, we miss you, join us,” There are lips on his swallowing any noise.

Then, a hand around his neck, tight, too tight, and scorching hardness poking him in the thigh, and he can’t breathe but it doesn’t matter because he’s enveloped by Dan, who smells of gunpowder and strawberry ice cream, and he can’t breathe, and he can’t breathe—

------

There is a beam of sunshine in his eyes, slipping through the blinds on his window.

Slowly, Maximus opens his eyes, feels his breath heavier than usual. He rises from the bed, and a hand on the pillow reveals it drenched in sweat. His hair is in a similar state, and he cringes at himself. 

He needs a shower.

He reaches for the dark bottle on his bedside table. It’s open; there is maybe a sip of wine left in it. He lifts it to his lips to swallow down the last of it, too warm and definitely not great after having sat the whole night uncorked.