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Socks shuffle across creaky floorboards as early sunrise red stains and pools in the corners of the kitchen. The smell of breakfast crackles and pops from the pan. Max scrubs a hand down his face, pulling at his eyes and grumbling as he half-stumbles across the tiles and bumps into Richie, arms immediately curling around his waist and a hand wiggling its way between his belt and skin.
“Good morning,” Richie hums, tilting his head up as Max thumps his chin on the top of his head, nuzzling downwards to take a breath of his shampoo.
He scrunches his nose up, pulling back and glaring back down at him, grumbling “You used my shampoo.”
Richie huffs out a laugh, crows feet curling beside his eyes, “Yeah, we were out of mine.”
“Mine’s expensive,” he pouts, puffing his cheeks out as he shoves his face back into the barely tamed hair, taking a deep breath. “What’re you cooking?”
“Open your eyes and maybe you’ll see?”
Max grumbles, nuzzling his face further into the soft hair. “Nno, ‘s too bright.”
Richie rolls his eyes, cutting the side of an egg with the spatula corner so it doesn’t invade the bacon’s space. “If you’ve kept your eyes closed, how'd you find me?”
“You smell,” he mumbles into his hair, moving his free hand to play with his belt buckle, undoing it and redoing it a few times, satisfied by the click and pull of it.
He hums, listening to the clicking of his belt. “Not as bad as you.”
Max leans back, stops his fidgeting, and lets his hand wrap around the leather. “You said you loved how I smell.” He frowns, his lip sticking out in a pout as he feigns offense.
“Yeah, when you smell like grass from the field, not sweat and man musk.” Richie snorts, turning his head to eye Max who slowly starts fidgeting again - but otherwise keeps his mouth pouty and shut.
Slowly, he settles down again, resting his chin on Richie’s shoulder and letting out a sigh, letting his hand slip between the belt again to play with Richie’s happy trail, his other fingers tapping on his side.
“Tired?”
He moves his head, his shoulder resting on his forehead as he looks down at the smaller’s back. “No,” he mumbles, clears his throat, and taps on his skin. “Do you—” he rocks his head a bit, stopping his tapping and instead rubbing his thumb up and down. “Do you think I’ll be able to go back? Will they want me?”
Richie pauses, turning the stove down and moving to turn to face Max. But the jock tenses, wrapping his hand around his waist and making it hard to turn. So instead, Richie just stays facing the pan, turning his head a bit and tilting to see the messy bed head of the man hiding in his shoulder. “To football? Aren’t they already begging you to come back?”
He shoves his head up a bit, his eyes pressing hard into his shoulder, his brow furrowing. “I embarrassed myself. What idiot slams head first into someone else and breaks their neck?”
He shrugs with only one shoulder, letting the taller hide his face in the other. “My idiot. And you barely *just* got the brace off, you still have a week until they X-ray again and you’re cleared.”
Max doesn’t answer, instead moving his hands and holding either side of Richie’s waist.
“Are you scared?”
He’s silent, takes a moment to answer, and when he does, his voice is quiet, low, and has an edge to it. “I’ve come back from worse.”
Richie takes a breath, turning the stove back up and prods the bacon, watching grease spit at him and wishing he’d poured it out before he added more to the pan. “Giant.” He hums, tilting his head back and scrunching his nose up at the jock, trying to redirect the conversation to earlier.
His mood turns around quickly, pushing emotions away and lifting his head. He shifts the weight of his body, clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders, allowing his head to rest on Richie’s again and squishing his cheek into the top of it. “It’s not my fault you are rat-sized.”
“Do you hit your head on doorframes? Poor baby.” He coos.
He half chokes on a laugh, moving his hand below the belt again and gently digging his nails in. “What’s it like being dick-eating height?” He grins, pressed a kiss under his ear.
A second of silence passes between, the only sound being the crackle of food on the stove and the quiet tapping of Max’s fingers, head resting on his shoulder again with a lingering grin.
“I’m going to kick you in the balls,” Richie grins, abandoning the spatula and reaching his arms up to grab either side of Max’s face.
The jock twists his face in feigned disgust, “You couldn’t reach them if you jumped,” he grins, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his nose. Richie leans up and does the same—and Max jerks backwards. “Ech! Uh uh!”
The nerd’s fingers dig into his face, reaching up on his tiptoes as Max leans back with a shitty grin plastered across his face, pretending to be revolted.
“Give me a proper one!” Richie barks, and Max chokes on a laugh as he takes a few steps back and Richie comes with him, nearly laying down if it weren’t for his hands on the smaller’s back holding him up.
“You’re gross—desperate much?” He grins, head tilted and teeth biting the inside of his lip and pulling it up in a half-smile as he leans down and presses a proper one to his upside-down lips.
Richie hums, satisfied, letting Max’s face go and leaning back to the food, spatula quickly in hand to lift up the edge of the eggs.
Max presses his eyes closed again, slipping his hands back against his abdomen where they belong and letting his head rest in his hair.
“They’re going to love you back, Jägerman.”
And suddenly everything jerks back. He can feel Max’s eyes press together hard, and his wandering hand stops, slides back up and wraps around his waist.
Fuck his mind shoots, fumbling with words. “Are you hungry?”
No one answers except the shaking of Max’s forearm around Richie’s stomach. And he turns the stove down again once more, letting his free hand slide between his fingers, white-knuckled and death gripped. It’s tight, shaky, and he can feel the rise of the chest pressed against his back shudder for a second.
It’s choked, forced, honest,
“I’m—”
He tries to clear his throat, but it still comes tumbling out, whined through tight vocal cords and years of pushing down and putting up.
”I’m scared.”