#publiclypining

as a young man he got far too into his own head thinking that his isolation and his 'lack of experience' were going to permanently mark him as undesirable to any other queer person (esp. queer men) he actually met. so, in true early-twenties fashion of thinking in extremes, he thought that as long as he was physically desirable, that would be enough to hopefully allow other people to overlook the other parts of himself he hated his coming from an isolated area in a red state. because he's a skinnier guy with (in my head) a voice on the higher side of what's heard as masculine, he equated looking desirable to leaning towards the twink side of the spectrum -- and unfortunately internalized some really unhealthy beauty standards from the early 2000s. (if I had to label him, he's not really a twink, but just more on the effeminate side of things. not quite hairy enough to be an otter, but close-ish? maybe a fox, which is apparently an otter in their 40s, idk. he's a fox to me no matter what though, eyyyy ∠( ᐛ 」∠)_ *ba dum tssh*)

point is, he spent a lot of his early twenties grieving Rora and his mother and missing Hector surviving off black coffee and cigarettes in the mornings and whiskey and cigarettes in the evenings. he'd convinced himself both to abandon his beloved cafe au lait with two sugars (a mistake he will never make again), and that a hollow feeling in his stomach meant he was somehow focused, sharp, disciplined... even when it really just made him irritable and low-energy, like it does with literally everyone. it wasn't quite an ED, but it was dancing very, very close to the edge.

it took him until the end of his Bad Spell to start eating like a normal person again. rebuilding his relationship to food was a big part of his life after giving up on completing his Chain ritual, where (due to events in Oaxaca with Hector that are still not completely clear to me) he had a lightning bolt come-to-reason "I have to change my entire life or I'm going to off myself" epiphany. after he came back to Greymoon and re-opened the mortuary, he had a couple years where he read a lot of books on emotional intelligence and dealing with trauma, picked up cooking again (and remembered how much he loved it), and tried to figure out how to re-enter the community and purposefully set himself apart as someone who wanted to be a contributing member, compared to all of Vincent's hostile bullshit from the previous fifty years. it was truthfully a lot of trial and error, and not everything stuck he also had an approximate two days where he even tried jogging and promptly went "fuck this, actually," and also learned he wasn't great at meditating but he basically tried to build himself a life where, even if he was going to be alone until he died, doing what all the men before him had done for generations, he could stand seeing himself in the mirror every day. he did genuinely take joy and pride in being able to help people navigate the worst days of their lives, and to give back where he could even if it would never undo all the harm he had already done, and he knew it couldn't.

and then you came along, and suddenly everything was beautiful.

he's truly comfortable for the first time in god knows when. maybe ever. he's happy, consistently, day in and day out. he loves you, and somehow you love him too, and he at last has an outlet where he can indulge a lifelong burning desire to love someone through taking care of them, giving them what they need before they realize they need it, being a space of calm consistency and safety. emotionally, despite the looming threat of They Who in the background, he's doing amazing.

his peace with his body is... a little more tentative.

he had at least reached body neutrality before he met you. he was grateful for his hands and what they could do (musically or embalming-wise), he found his eyes and his hair acceptable, and he was most fond of his necromantic powers: the strength they gave him; the fact that he could do removal calls basically alone and do whatever heavy lifting the services needed, short of carrying the casket alone; the way that he never really seemed to get sick (or at least not for very long); the way that his wounds from his remaining night work always seemed to heal enough, if not completely, in time for looking presentable for a 9 AM wake; the extra glow his connection to flesh gave his restorations. his general physicality, he was... fine with. he looked okay. he felt he looked basically like his conception of himself, which was all he could ask, really. would he like to get a little more flamboyant with it, wear eyeliner and dark nail polish more often? yes. was it a little annoying, wanting to keep his hair long-ish but always having to slick it back to meet old-fashioned standards of 'business appropriate'? definitely. was he still very shy about the thick scar tissue on his chest? you betcha. but he figured, everything worked, and he was in good health despite the hell he'd wrought on his system by picking up his dad's bad habits for years, so he was going to be content with it being able to do what he needed it to do.

which is interesting, given how much he likes a full-figured/fat body on other people. he's always found someone with some extra pounds attractive, because it contrasted so sharply with his own body, and they were just... soft, under his hands or his hip bones, the flesh giving ever so nicely when he thrusts against it, especially the way your stomach jiggles when he's really wrecking you. they were warm in a way he wasn't. there was so much more there that was alive, and he couldn't help but think it was beautiful. if you have stretch marks, his fingers trace them whenever he sees them, almost without realizing it, because he finds them enchanting. they're like lightning. they're evidence of growth, of change. he can't help but find that lovely, given his past. he sometimes wishes his own growth and change was more visible somehow, but all he has is the scar on his chest to tell the story. and full thighs have always been his favorite thing on another person, bar none. Rora and Hex have the typical T&A preferences covered (Rora T/pecs and Hex A, respectively), but you walk out in a pair of shorts, and Maxi's eyes don't stray the entire time you're moving. you're worried about 'thunder thighs?' the man is restraining himself from salivating. there's a reason, when the two of you are naked and alone, he takes his dear sweet time kissing and nipping at the soft inner skin near their apex. it's his version of heaven.

but his own stomach? he cannot figure out for the life of him why you like it so much.

he first started noticing it when he hit his late 30s, and just grumbled about it to himself, figuring it was his metabolism finally slowing down. when the two of you get together, and especially after the October Arc, when he starts eating well again and getting a full night's sleep by your side? his shirts get a little tighter still, and he has to ignore the very loud little voice from his twenties at the back of his brain whispering lies about its 'unsightliness,' that he's getting lax, undisciplined. he makes a point when getting dressed in the morning to not spend too long examining his side profile, or he'll be mentally examining his angles all day when he should be focused on a memorial service or a burial or a restoration. he logically chalks it up to being comfortable in a relationship, and just a part of the privilege of getting older, but still. it bothers him. the rest of his frame isn't rail-skinny, and he wouldn't say it's sharp-angled. it's just sinewy. so his stomach not conforming to that is... frustrating, to say the least.

So when you corner him in his office during a quiet moment on a slow day, which he more than gladly reciprocates, he loses focus on your tongue in his mouth for a second when your palms slide over it through the fabric of his vest and dress shirt. You make quick work of the buttons and pull his undershirt loose to reveal his bare skin, then run your hands up it, your nails moving through the coarse hair to trace the way it curves, and he inhales softly through his teeth --

"Sorry, baby," you mumble, putting just enough space between your lips to speak. Your eyes are half-lidded, and he's cursing himself for distracting you. "Was that too hard?"

"No, not at all." He shakes his head slightly, kissing you again reassuringly. "I'm fine, sugar."

You make a noise of contentment, and the two of you resume: him hastily undoing the fly of your jeans and sliding his hands between your hips and the waistband, your palms sliding again over the globe of his stomach. He assumes they'll move upwards, towards his chest --

Only for you to squeeze gently at the flesh that hangs ever so slightly over his hipbones, your thumbs rolling playfully on either side of his navel.

Without thinking, he takes half a step back towards his desk, warning sounds clanging in his brain that only just register above his massively overwhelming urge to keep kissing you. You misread this in your own enthusiasm and follow his steps to end up pinning him against the furniture with your hips, your nails digging slightly into his stomach again.

"Ugh, I know, I'm sorry," Maxi sighs in frustration --

Right as you murmur against his mouth, "This is so hot."

Both of you freeze, pulling fractionally away from one another to see their full expression, but not enough to break the embrace. There's a beat of silence where each of you is clearly trying to process what you just heard, your expressions mutually confused.

"...What do you mean, 'sorry'?" You frown.

"Wait, what's hot?" Maxi blinks.

You stare at him as if this were obvious. "...You, honey."

Maxi blinks again. "...What, this?" He looks down at where your hips have him pinned against his desk, one thigh ever-so-slightly beginning to push between his, then back up at you. "Hell, I thought we did this all the time, but if this is a Thing, I'm all in. If you give me a sec, I'll clear off the top if you wanna hold me down." He jerks his chin gamely at the papers neatly stacked on said desk next to his work desktop, cursor blinking expectantly in a middle cell of the monthly expenditure spreadsheet you'd clearly interrupted.

A soft laugh escapes you at just how eager he is to furnish a fantasy. The repressed theater kid in your beloved adores the opportunity to set a scene, whether he realizes it or not. "No, that's... not what I meant." You kiss the corner of his mouth. "But thank you, sweetheart."

"Oh?" Maxi glances between the desk and your positions again, clearly trying to figure out what he's missing. He looks back up at you after a moment, thinking he has it. "I could hold you down?" he offers, his signature crooked smile adorably hopeful.

"We'll come back to who's holding whom down, Maxi." You kiss him fully, your hands coming up to cup his face, and for a moment he's distracted again, his hands squeezing your hips and his thumbs brushing through your flesh to find your hipbones underneath. The two of you stay like this for a minute more, lost in the taste of one another, your fingers curling into his hair, before you pull back just enough for him to lean forward and try to chase you.

"Why did you apologize to me in the middle of us making out?" you prompt again, whispering with him only an inch away.

He freezes for a second as he's leaning in to kiss you again, and you watch his eyes move from your lips to meet your gaze, and then quickly elsewhere. The slightest flush creeps into his cheeks.

"Uh. I..." Maxi can't hold your eye contact, which is a sign unto itself. Normally when you're both in the same room, the man stares at you like he thinks you'll disappear as soon as he looks away. This goes double for when he's kissing you; like there's some part of him that still suspects this is all a dream that will end at any moment. "I just. Hm." He swallows audibly, and as he scans the room over your shoulder, you almost feel like he's looking for an explanation.

You let go of his face, one hand coming down to tilt his chin so he's forced to bring his gaze back to you.

His eyelids flutter at this, enjoying being slightly manhandled... until your free hand tentatively rests over the curve of his stomach. The contented look evaporates, and the flush on his face increases. Almost reversing his earlier reaction, he keeps his eyes locked on yours, as if unwilling to look down.

"What's wrong, Maxi?" you half-ask, half-soothe.

His gaze strays again, his lips flattening against each other into a line. "It's nothing," he near-mumbles, the 'g' silenced as always. "At least," he rolls his eyes, exasperated with himself. "It shouldn't be anything."

You try a different tactic. "Normally you like when I touch you, handsome." You tilt your head. "Do you not want me to touch you somewhere...?"

"It's not you," he says immediately, his eyes snapping back to yours. He shakes his head, not enough to unsettle your grasp, but enough that you can tell he's being firm. "Not at all, darlin', I swear."

"Then be honest with me." You demand it in a voice that you know he associates with orders, not requests, your thumb stroking along his jawline where you were holding his chin in place.

He huffs through his nose in amusement. "That's not fair. This is a flagrant misuse of an order." He smirks, still leaning into your touch like a house cat.

"If this is what it takes to get you to communicate a boundary," you continue in said voice, fighting to keep a straight face all the same. "Then I'll use it however I need to."

"Alright, fine. If that's how we're playing now." Maxi's body language shifts abruptly, drawing himself to his full height -- which is definitely taller than you. He gently but firmly grasps the wrist connected to the hand you were using to hold his face, and, with a careful bit of footwork, switches the two of you so you're the one with the backs of your thighs pressed against the antique wood finish, his knee gently parting them enough for you to be aware of it.

He leans down, effectively cornering you with his poker face in place. "Did you finish the whole water bottle that I left on your desk for you this morning? Like you promised?" he asks, in a cold, steely version of his drawl that always sends a shiver down your spine. "Or do I need to spit it into your mouth and make you swallow?"

You repress the sharp stab of want this brings as best you can in this moment, lifting your chin in a challenge. "You're dodging my question." You raise an eyebrow. "Aren't you?"

Maxi's facade flickers, and he traps his lower lip in his teeth just long enough for you to see. "...You staying hydrated is a serious concern of mine," he counters at last, returning to his poised state.

"I'll sit on your face while I chug whatever's left of it, if you tell me what's bothering you," you offer, your voice deadpan.

His cool remove drops immediately at the notion, the tip of his tongue tracing his lips in a way that nearly makes you giggle with how obvious his want is.

While he's thinking this through, you shift your hips so you're sitting on his desk, then reach up and pull him down further by his semi-loosened tie. You trap his leg between your thighs when he stumbles, his hands falling to the desktop on either side of your hips to catch himself.

"But I only do that for nice necromancers--" you begin, reasserting your power.

"I'm nice," Maxi near-pouts, looking up at you through his hair falling over his eyes.

"...Who are upfront with me if we need to change how we play," you finish, giving him a pointed look.

He groans, reaching under his glasses to run a hand over his face before he sets it on the desk again. "It's not a change," he mumbles, looking away. "Hell, it's not even a boundary. Or a yellow light," he adds immediately, as you open your mouth to ask the question. He looks down at his leg trapped in your thighs, and when you run your heel up the back of his calf, tauntingly, he sighs in frustration.

"One more time," you command, watching him look up again. "Why did you apologize to me when you have nothing to apologize for?"

Maxi frowns, choosing his words. "...You're gonna think it's stupid, because it is, and that I'm bein' conceited, because I am," he says at last. "And I fully admit to all of that."

You blink, dropping the play-sternness. "I would never think something that's bothering you is stupid, baby," you say, concerned. You reach over, setting your hand on top of one of his. "Maxi, talk to me."

"But I think it's stupid!" he says, looking back to you with something that's a nervous attempt at a laugh. "I think it's ridiculous. Especially at my age, when I should know better. Hell, when a lot of people should know better. It's very... shallow."

"That doesn't mean it can't still bother you," you say. You tilt your head, catching his eye when he tries to look away again. "You'd never say that about something that was bothering me, would you?"

"That's different," Maxi says, his face suddenly serious.

"To you.” You smile and squeeze his hand in yours. "Everything that bothers me is serious and real to you, because if something's bothering me, you show me you love me by listening to me and wanting to take care of me. Right?"

Maxi eyes you, certain he's about to have this turned back on him somehow in a way that requires him to consider his own needs. Which is his least favorite thing in the entire world, next to listening to Seth Sunday monologue at him. "...Right," he agrees at last, unable to deny it.

"So if you tell me what's going on, I get to listen," you say. "And I get to show you that I love you, even if I can't fix what's bothering you right away. And that's what I want most: to show you I love you." You tilt your head, eyes wide and innocent. "And the love of my life and death would never deny me what I want most. Would you, Maxi?"

Maxi frowns again, caught and he knows it. "...Fine," he sighs.

He gestures politely at your thighs, and you release his leg from their grasp, allowing him to slip around you so he can sit in his desk chair. You turn on the desktop to follow him, careful to avoid knocking anything over.

Maxi folds his arms when he's seated, partially covering his torso. "...I apologized," he begins. "Because your hand was on my stomach." He swallows. "And it just... I don't know. Feels like I have more of one, lately? And I don't." He sighs again, looking askance. "I'm not... fond of... that. And I would hate for you to not be fond of that, either. Which is not a thing I would ever think about you," he says quickly, his eyes finding yours. He moves forward in the desk chair so he's sitting directly in front of your knees, his hands beseeching on your thighs as he looks up at you. "I love yours, gorgeous, you know that. Your body is a goddamn gift; I'll say it until I'm blue in the face, and then I'll reanimate and say it some more. There's not a part of you I can keep my hands off of." His hands stroke upwards as he speaks, eyes fervent, earnest.

You can't completely hide the pleasurable shiver as he does so, parting your knees just enough for him to slide between them. He wastes no time doing so, taking each one reverently in hand and guiding them so they're on either side of his torso, over his open shirt and vest. 

"You're beautiful," he says, a touch of dreaminess to it as he stares up at you. "You're alive, and soft, and exquisite. I love how you look. How you feel.” His hands stroke the backs of your thighs, and you have to try not to squirm as the sensation sends sparks through you.

But then his gaze drops back to himself, and the smile extinguishes. “…Mine just reminds me I'm about to be firmly middle-aged, datin' someone a decade younger, and hopin' they're still, you know. Into it, when we're both growin' old together. Some of us faster than others," he tries to joke, but he says it with an undeniable grimace. "And that the twink death that I spent twenty years avoidin' just snuck up on me anyway." He looks up at you, spreading his fingers and giving you half-hearted jazz hands. "See? I told you it was ridiculous. And vain." He looks impatient with himself again. "But that's the truth. It has nothin’ to do with you, I promise. Okay?”

You watch his hands fall back to his lap with a defeated air. "Put your hands back up," you order, the voice back in place.

Maxi looks up at you, blinking bemusedly at this switch, but lifts them to about shoulder-level as he's told.

You move from the desk to standing in front of his chair, finishing his earlier work of sliding your jeans off your hips and down, then shedding your shirt so you're just in your underwear and your binder. When you look back to Maxi, his hands are right where you told them to be, but his slightly parted lips and the way his fingers flex against his palms give away how he's having to restrain himself from reaching out to touch you.

A smile cracks through your facade at the sight, and you move carefully, straddling his lap in his office chair. Maxi makes a soft noise of delight, supporting your hips with an iron grip to keep you safely against him.

You position yourself so he has to look up into your face, and he does so. "You're right," you agree, putting your hands to either side of his head against the leather. "That was ridiculous. To me," you add. “Your feelings about your body are your own, baby. I don’t want to disrespect them.” You lean down to kiss one cheek, then another. “But I was specifically saying your stomach hot to begin with."

Maxi balks slightly. "You... were?"

You bite your lip, nodding. "Oh, yes." You settle back so your hips are lined up with his, and as he traces his hands up and down your sides, you feel him getting hard underneath you. When you grind experimentally against the beginning of his bulge, he muffles a moan as his cheeks flush.

"...You don't mind?" he says when he trusts his voice again. It’s quiet, as if afraid he'll be wrong if he says it at a normal volume.

"Why on earth would I mind?" You slide his dress shirt and vest off his shoulders to the floor, then pull at the hem of his undershirt. He only lifts his hands from you to let you take it off him entirely, so his torso is bare at last. You run your fingers down the soft flesh, rocking your hips again as you do.

Maxi swallows audibly, his arms encircling your waist. "Because I didn't... Have as much of one, when you met me," he says slowly. When your nails dig slightly into his stomach, scraping down towards his belt, his grip on your hips threatens to bruise.

"Like I'm really going to get turned off by the physical evidence my partner is comfortable?" You roll your hips once more, and the friction even through the fabric between you sparks at your clit. "That he's happy with me, in the life we're building together?"

Maxi's breathing is shallowing out, his pupils dilating as he pushes back against you and causes your breath to hitch. "Yeah?"

“Of course, baby.” You reach between the two of you, undoing the fly of his suit trousers. Carefully, you shift his cock through his underwear so it rests against his stomach, and he shivers as you touch him, gasping softly. 

When you rock again against it, your cunt beginning to soak through your own underwear, you achieve your goal of grinding against his stomach as well. Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling until he moans. “Why wouldn’t I love what makes me feel at home?” You ask innocently, and you can feel him throb underneath you.

"Fuck, sugar," he hisses through his teeth, and while you see him cast the briefest glance towards his office door - did either of you remember to lock it? - you roll your hips again and he bites his own lip, the thought quickly forgotten.

"You think I’d be put off by the proof of us surviving together?” You pick up your pace, your nails leaving marks on his bare shoulders where you’re gripping to stay steady. You can’t help but smile as his eyes roll back, pulling you harder against him rather than his hands simply resting on your hips . “After everything we’ve lived through? Everything we’ve done?” You put your mouth next to his ear, kissing the skin just before it. “I’ve spilled blood for you, remember?” you whisper.

Maxi’s cock twitches as he moans, his hips bucking with a new sort of desperation at the reminder.

You drop your hands from Maxi’s shoulders to his stomach, your nails scraping down the soft flesh and through the hair down towards his hip bones, and he writhes underneath you. You can’t be sure whether it’s your slick or his pre having soaked through his boxers, but searing fluid glistens on the skin of his abdomen. 

Your hips pick up their pace, your skin impossibly warm as you chase what’s coiling tighter at the center of you. When Maxi leans in to kiss you, it’s open mouthed and messy, his hand gripping the back of your neck as you feel the head of his cock catch against your clit through your underwear. At the friction, you bite back a gasp, and he makes a sound of audible frustration.

“I want you,” he moans into your mouth, and the way you can feel him positively throbbing makes your face flush with renewed heat. “Please, baby, just let me do this properly, come on—”

“Aren’t you still on the clock?” you tease, but he rattles this as his other hand pushes against your back until you’re arching against him. “I-ah. I was trying to keep you semi-decent—”

Maxi pulls back to look at you, pupils blown and lips slightly swollen, his hair a mess from your hands, and the skeptical look he gives you makes you burst into giggles.

“The fuck you were,” he mutters, smirking. He wraps an arm around your waist, trapping you against him, and the way he thrusts up makes your laughter turn into a gasp. “You come in here,” he drawls, punctuating with another roll of his hips that makes your veins go electric. “Get me all distracted.” Another, and your breathing shallows into panting. “Look so sweet like this.” One more, and you’re whining, perilously close to an edge. “And you want to tell me there’s anything decent about it?”

“More.” The word escapes you before you’re even really conscious of it. Any wherewithal to tease him is gone; all you can think about is how close he has you, your insides pulled taut and your thighs beginning to shake slightly. “Maxi, please, I wanna—”

The smirk disappears as soon as you plead, his eyes sharpening with purpose. “I got you.” He squeezes the back of your neck, manhandling you somewhat so your clit is perfectly aligned with the head of his cock. “I got you, baby.” His free hand moves to your hips, pulling yours against him as he rocks into you. “C’mere, let me take care of you.”

Your hands slide down to his stomach, your nails clawing lightly over his skin again as he grinds against you, determined. You feel his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, pulling it downwards so with each thrust, your cunt is more exposed, thoroughly soaking his underwear and the soft underside of his stomach.

When he pushes against you, the warm flesh causing your clit to catch on his leaking head, you come with a senseless plea of his name that echos off the office walls.

In the midst of your high, you bite your lip because you can’t get yourself to stop whining as you rut mindlessly against him. As soon your eyes meet his, desperation etched all over your face, he moans low in his chest, and you feel the molten bloom of heat as he comes in his boxers.

“F-Fuck,” he chokes, his face pinking up in embarrassment, and his cock spasms against your folds, still coming. He pulls you against his bare torso, biting down at the junction between your neck and your shoulder to muffle a whine of his own, and you feel him shudder for what feels like ages against your oversensitive, still-sparking clit until he’s totally spent.

You both eventually still, intertwined, trying to catch your respective breath. You run one hand through his hair, and the other scrapes your nails feather-light down the back of his neck. “God damn,” you pant softly, as soon as you’re capable of speech. “Thank you, Maxi.” You kiss his temple, then nuzzle into his hair with the tip of your nose.

“Of course, angel,” he answers, still not sitting up from your shoulder. You can feel just how unusually warm for him his face still is, how hard he must be blushing.

You muffle a laugh, stroking his hair still. “You okay, handsome?”

“Fabulous,” he deadpans against your skin, and you finally crack, giggling.

“Maxi,” you coo, kissing his temple, his ear, whatever you can reach. “What’s wrong? Why are you hiding?”

Maxi groans in frustration, his breath a hot puff against your skin. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I came in my own pants?” He sits up just enough for you to see his eyes glinting through is hair, and you can only giggle more at what you can make out of his annoyed expression. “In my own office, no less?” He makes a noise of disgust, nuzzling back into your shoulder. “I live here now,” he announces, his voice muffled by your collarbone. “Just for a couple months, until I can look you in the eye again.”

“Honey, what do you have to be embarrassed about?” You slide your arms under his to encircle his torso, leaning your cheek on his shoulder in turn. “It’s just me. You know I love you.”

“You are never ‘just’ to me,” he mumbles, shifting so his forehead is resting against your collarbone. “I’ve gone my whole life managing to avoid makin’ a mess of myself in front of anyone, least of all the person I love most. I thought I could keep it together, but then you…” he trails off. “And you looked so…” His voice strains a little, and he leaves a biting kiss in your collarbone, like he can’t help but want a taste. “I couldn’t help it,” he adds under his breath, a vulnerability to it.

Your face heats, and you’re suddenly too aware of how you’re still straddling his lap. “First of all, that’s only the most flattering thing anyone’s ever told me.” You kiss his shoulder, then sit up, gently prying the two of you apart enough that you can lean to meet his eye. “Second of all…” you coo, waiting for him to meet your eye. When he finally looks up, you smirk. “I thought that was hot.”

He blinks behind his glasses, still a touch fogged from your activities. “For real?” His brow furrows. “That?”

“I think all of you is hot, remember?” Your hands slide again to his stomach, lovingly tracing the red marks already starting to bloom from your nails. “But the person I love most, ruining his clothes because he loves how I look when he makes me come?” They slide lower still, finding where you’d soaked the lower portion of the hair trailing down into his waistband, and you see Maxi’s stomach twitch as his breath hitches. When you look back up at him, his eyes are wide, slightly dazed. “Yeah. Hot.” You grin.

“…Noted,” he says, just a little bit of lag to it, and you can practically hear his brain whirring like an overheated laptop. His hand finds your hip, fingers somewhat apologetically rubbing where there will be some mild bruises tomorrow. “…Thank you, baby,” he says at last.

You blink in turn. “Sure.” You shift in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “…For what again?”

He chuckles. “Just… for gettin’ me out of my head.” He slides his hands from your hips to your waist, hugging it. “Remindin’ me that you’re…” He hesitates, choosing his words. “More real,” he says at last. Off your confused look, he gestures vaguely with one hand, trying to explain. “You’ve always been able to love the parts of me I don’t like,” he says quietly. “Even when that’s all I can see.” He kisses your forehead, and there’s something almost shy to it. “You’re more real than the voice in my brain that won’t let me focus on anything else. Does that make sense?”

You blink again, about to melt. “Maxi. Baby.” You lean up, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’m never not going to love all of you, okay? No matter how old we’re both lucky enough to get, or however else we change.” You intertwine your hand with one of his, squeezing. “Because I know you feel the same way about me. I’m as certain of that as I am my own death.” You smile at how soft his gaze becomes. “There’s nothing you ever have to feel embarrassed about with me, because I know you’d never let me feel that way. Okay?”

Maxi smiles, and brings the back of your hand to his lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

A knocking at the office door makes you both jump.

“Guëy, there’s a guest upstairs,” Hector says, sounding bored. “Some guy walking in for a pre-need. It’s all you.”

“Shit.” Maxi looks from the door to you, then down at what few clothes he’s still wearing. “Uh, I’ll be right there, just, uh— tell ‘em it’ll be a minute?” He looks at you again, his face a silent plea as he nods towards the little closet at the far side of the room.

You nod and slide off his lap, trying to cross the room on silent but swift feet.

“…Dude, you okay?” Hector’s voice is actually a little concerned. “You sound weird.”

The doorknob only has to turn a fraction for you and Maxi to let out a joint yelp: “No!”

“Okay, damn, I’ll go fuck mys—” Hector stops mid-sentence, as if realizing what he heard. “…Final?” he asks, as though not sure he wants the answer.

You look at Maxi, unsure, only for him to shrug, also not sure what would be worse.

“…Hey Hex,” you say at last, trying to sound casual. “We’ll. Uh. Be out in a sec?”

There’s a brief pause. 

“…Y’all are some freaks,” Hector sighs at last. “But I knew that.”

His footsteps retreat, across the embalming room and then back up the stairs, and you and Maxi both let out a sigh of relief.

After he ends up going upstairs in his spare suit, you sneak into the kitchen only after the agreed-upon amount of time, both your soiled clothes wrapped in his embalming scrubs for you to smuggle into the laundry room.

You both start keeping a spare outfit in the office closet after that. Maxi is much less critical of his side profile whenever he changes.