#spoopygoof

             “So, what I want to know is, if my dad’s a prince, why do I have to learn algebra? What use does finding the slope have when you’re going to be ruling a country someday?”

( holy damn this is amazing babe )

               ' hey. hey, max. important question. ’ 

                         score rolls over to face max, making a desperate effort to not fall asleep                          before he reaches the end of his important question. max, apparently not                          having any qualms about doing just that, requires a few nudges before he                          jolts back to life. score situates himself in the crook of max’s arm to talk. 

I WANT THE K. 11: COLLARBONE KISS.

               football. score suggests they go out as a legitimate couple for once (not just                make out in the back hallway of a frat) and max takes him to watch football.                score wonders if maybe they should just talk more, because he can’t recall                ever showing an interest in football-- and he can’t even remember if max                likes it. clearly he does, but seriously-- football. they’re going to a football                game. well, it’s definitely a change of pace. 

               the game is very, very loud and score doesn’t understand much besides                when their team is on the offensive. max points out as much as he can, but                it’s pretty obvious to both of them score isn’t going to catch on completely.                or, really, at all. he spends more time paying attention to the other school’s                marching band than to the score. 

               when it’s over-- following a spectacular win score is actually invested in--                max doesn’t head back to the dorms as score expects. instead they end up                on the shores of the school’s lake, blessedly empty as the rest of campus                celebrates the victory. 

                        ’ so, what? are you going to wash off the face paint now? ’ 

               score means it as a joke, which max picks up on, but of course he pouts                anyway, blue and gold cheeks stretching into a frown. 

                        ’ you don’t like it? aw, blondie, where’s your school spirit? ’                                  ’ buried deep, deep down inside, apparently. ’                        ’ well, at least you have the right color scarf. it’s a start. ’                                  ’ a start? ’                        ’ you could use some face paint yourself. ’ 

               and then max is on him, apparently trying to make as much contact with                score’s face as is humanly possible. score anchors a hand on the back of               max’s neck, attempting to keep everything but max’s lips off his face. it                doesn’t work; max breaks free, rubbing his cheeks on score’s and laughing                like the giant jerk he is. every time he catches a glimpse of max, his paint                is smeared a bit more. and then, just when score thinks it can’t get worse,                max starts unraveling his scarf, sliding down score’s neck, undoubtedly                smearing score’s whole throat with paint. as the scarf finally hits the ground                max wrenches score’s shirt to the side, essentially mauling score’s collarbone                just because he knows score’s scarves will cover it. score can’t do much                but whimper until max finally relents. he pulls back, face a blue-yellow-green               mess (score’s sure he looks no better). even his lips are turquoise. 

                         ’ max, is this paint nontoxic? ’                                  ’ yeah, why? ’ 

NONSEXUAL ACTS OF INTIMACY.

               really, his husband should know by now that leaving score alone is just an                invitation for him to occupy himself in any way. most of the time, it’s not                even an issue; when max goes to work, score does too. 

               but today score is stuck home with the worst cold of his life, stumbling from                room to room wrapped in their comforter. he’s too tired to do much of anything,                aside from make toast and empty their water pitcher and watch every musical                on netflix. 

               by the end of the day, though, score feels a little better. better enough to stun                max, at least. when max walks into the living room, he’s confronted by a huge                monstrosity of guest room sheets and christmas lights and every chair in the                dining room. score calls to him from inside, where he’s eating tomato soup                straight from the pot. 

               max quirks an eyebrow, squatting in the entrance while he takes in the mess               that is score. he’s wrapped in blankets from the waist down, but his shirt is half                off– not to mention his rat’s nest of hair. by way of explanation, score says, ’ fever. ’ 

               it must be acceptable, because in the next moment max is sprawled out next                to him. he’s got the soup spoon before score can tell him not to use his, and                just like that they know max is going to have to call in sick tomorrow. 

               they spend the entire night in score’s little tent; score buries himself in max’s                arms whenever he’s cold and sprawls across him, half-asleep, whenever he                gets hot. as the night progresses max starts sneezing, and score lets him do                it right into his shoulder. 

100 WAYS TO SAY ‘ I LOVE YOU. ‘

                                                          i don’t know what it is.