i can't take it, that boy drives me so damn crazy
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It probably wasn’t the greatest of bases for a relationship, Daniil reflected. He was seated on the floor as usual, with his back against the wall and a compile error on his laptop screen, also as usual. He had always been a floor kind of guy: he floored the gas when he drove, he did his homework sitting or lying on the floor, he was floored when a partner—he guessed that was what Magnus was by now, or more accurately someone who barged into his life and made himself far too at home inside it—decided to stick around. It was probably even more surprising than the fact that Daniil himself had chosen, consciously or unconsciously, to stick around.
In which they meet at a bar, head over to Magnus' place, and Daniil kind of just never leaves. And they never, ever, ever talk.
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Magnus Carlsen was a man accustomed to power. It was why they had fought. And like most men accustomed to power, he was not terribly acquainted with being sweet.
But he could be sweet.
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