#moscar

Eventually Max manages to coax him out of bed and they make their way into Oscar’s small little kitchen. It’s different from the one in Max’s apartment. That one is big, empty, soulless. Oscar’s kitchen might be small, but it’s clearly very lived in. There’s a bowl of fruit on the kitchen island, a crate of onions on a little shelf, some dirty dishes still in the sink. This is a kitchen that gets used, that gets loved. It feels homey, cozy. Max finds himself thinking he wouldn’t mind spending more time here.

Oscar starts messing around with the coffee machine the second he steps into the kitchen and Max pulls a face. “I uh, I don’t really. I don’t like coffee,” he says. “Or tea, actually.”

“Oh, I know,” Oscar says. He’s not looking at Max, still fiddling with the machine. “But I do. There’s Red Bull in the fridge.” And that’s. He says it very casually, like it’s normal for him to have Red Bull in the fridge. But Max can see the tight line of his shoulders, the slightly pink tint to the tips of his ears,  and he knows for a fact Oscar absolutely hates the taste of Red Bull.

“Oh,” Max says, because, well. It feels like a confession, amidst this fragile little thing they have. Oscar remembered Max didn’t like coffee. Oscar went out of his way to get him a drink he does like. He feels the urge to kiss him, suddenly. Press him against the counter and show him how much that really means to him.

Figuring there’s literally nothing stopping him he reaches forward, tugging at Oscar’s arm until he turns around, and then crowds him into the counter. Oscar lets out a surprised little noise but lets himself be pressed against the marble of the counter tops, lets Max take his face in his hands, lets him kiss him, soft and sweet and a little desperate all at once.

“Thanks,” Max says, when he pulls away.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Oscar says, eyes soft, crinkling at the edges as he smiles at Max. “I could have gotten you the blue one.”