Chapter Text
I’ve been hearing this all my life
‘Sorry, sir, this is members only
Could you please make your way outside?'
Twelve
Max is twelve the first time he visits the brothel.
He doesn't go there by himself, obviously; doesn't even know what a brothel is at that age, not really. At the very least he doesn't fully understand the implications of it, even if he does know that even though the place is clean and classy, it’s not really just a bar. He also knows that at the end of the day his father will disappear with a faceless woman for a while, and that when he comes back he’ll be a little less likely to yell at him.
He’s there because of Jos. It’s one of his favorite places for deals, he says, because they're discreet. They take anonymity seriously, Max. That's priceless in our business.
He makes Max tag along. Only Max, never Victoria, and never to the meetings themselves - he sits those out for now -, but to the brothel. To learn by example, to see the kind of place where men like them are supposed to exercise their power. Max is not sure he understands. Maybe when he gets older, he thinks.
But he keeps his mouth shut. That's what works best with Jos, usually.
After a while he grows used to it. They're there once or twice a month, maybe - the receptionist starts recognizing them on the second visit. Probably not a lot of people bring their children in.
So Max gets used to waiting at the bar while his father is busy. There's not a whole lot of things to pass the time with - no TV, no nothing, just boring music and chatter. Max likes to people-watch, trying to guess who the men drinking here might actually be on the outside. It gets boring after a while, though - it’s usually the same type of person, he’ll find out. Married, disloyal, with money to spare. Businessmen, politicians… Those sorts of people.
Sometimes one of the girls will walk by and smile at Max, ask him about school and his friends back home, like he’s a normal kid and not the son of a capo.
Max likes the girls. They smell nice, and the glitter on their skin is pretty. And then one day he sees him.
Max is so bored that he’s started spinning an empty glass of soda over the nice polished wood of the bar, leaving a collection of sugar-sticky rings on the surface of it, when he walks in.
Maybe Max would've taken him for a customer, if it weren't for the way he moves. He’s not like, in a dress or anything, like the girls. No, he’s in slacks and a nice button up shirt, not unlike what anyone at the family would wear under the blazer and the holster. But that's where the similarities end.
The shirt is undone so far that Max can see the beginning of the man’s flat stomach, and the cuffs are folded just over the elbows, exposing a smattering of dark tattoos. There are heavy golden chains around the man’s neck, well past his collarbones. And the worst thing is -
His smile. It’s big and full of teeth, crinkling his mouth at the corners. And the way he’s using it, aiming it at the man next to him with his eyes half-lidded, his face tilted to the side, all of his neck exposed like, like -
At that moment Max understands that the man is also one of the girls. He’s not - he didn't think it was possible, for a guy to do that. But clearly, it is.
He must stare for too long, because one second Max’s eyes are fixed on the hollow of the man’s throat and the next their eyes are meeting.
It’s like Max’s entire world freezes. His fingers feel slippery on the empty glass, his chest goes cold.
It’s not like - the man isn't pretty like the girls. His features are a little mismatched: the nose too big, the teeth crooked. But his eyes are warm, his smile bright. To Max, right there and then, he’s the most beautiful person in the brothel.
The man’s expression falters a little when he sees Max sitting there by himself, nursing his empty soda, but he recovers fast enough. After a beat he’s collecting two drinks from the waiter and leaning back onto his client, letting himself be taken out of the bar and into the dark corridor that Max knows leads to the suites. It’s not until he leaves that Max feels like he can breathe again.
Afterwards he pulls his eyes back to the rings he left on the bar, frowning when he realizes he feels weird. Something is… Warm… Between his legs. He presses a hand tentatively to himself, then takes it off immediately when he finds himself hard.
Max is twelve, and he doesn't quite understand what has happened to him yet. He debates running off to the bathroom to inspect the problem, but then realizes that if his father comes back and doesn't find him at the bar, then -
It’s fine. The shot of fear is enough to calm him down, erasing from his mind everything else, for a little while. But it won't be the last time he thinks of Daniel. Not at all.
—
Thirteen
“What are you doing here, mate?”
It’s the first time Max has heard him speak up close, six months after he started shadowing his father. He’s officially thirteen now.
The man’s got an accent, he realizes. It softens the words around his mouth. It’s lovely.
“I’m waiting”.
The man smiles and Max holds his breath. “Good, I sure hope you’re not booking. Bit too young for that”. He slides onto the stool next to Max’s, leaning his elbow on the bar and his head on his hand. His shirt is open again. Max doesn't look. “Are you waiting for daddy?”
Max frowns. “How do you know that?”
“It’s usually dads, around here. We don't cater to a lot of moms”, he says. “What's your name?”
“I’m Max”. Probably Max shouldn't have said. Anonymity, his father insisted.
Unconsciously, Max’s body tenses, preparing for the sky to fall, for the pain to come. But all the man does is hold out his hand to Max. “Hi Max, nice to meet you. I’m Daniel”.
Max shapes his lips around the name, trying the sounds out. Daniel. Then he remembers to take the hand that’s been offered to him.
Daniel shakes it twice, big and showy, before disengaging. His palm is warm.
“So, Max. Can I buy you a drink?”
Max stammers, feeling himself blush. It’s not - why does that make him feel embarrassed? “I - I’m fine. I had a coke”.
Daniel looks at Max’s empty glass, the ice melted into a brownish muddy liquid at the bottom of it. Then he smiles at Max again. “It’s on the house, yes? Don't sweat it”.
He waves the waiter down and chats with him for a second, all friendly and bubbly, and orders two Coca-Colas. They're placed in front of them after a minute, the glasses garnished with lemon slices. Max takes a sip as soon as he can, trying to hold the weight of Daniel’s stare. It’s fizzy on his tongue.
“I like your…”, Max tries, gesturing towards his own eyes. Daniel’s are a pretty shade of brown and have make up on them, like the girls’, but more subtle. A little black on the edge of the eyelid, something sparkly and glittery coated on top.
“Thank you”. The corners of Daniel’s mouth crinkle as he smiles. “Would you like me to teach you how to do it?”
“Uhm. No, thank you”, Max replies, and Daniel laughs. It’s a bright sound. Loud. A few heads turn towards them.
“No need to look so disgusted, mate. Oh my god, your face”.
It’s not that - It looks good on Daniel. Pretty. But Max could never show himself like that in public, and if his dad saw him -
“You’re young”, he says instead, trying to change the topic, and Daniel’s eyebrow quirks up.
“Well that's rich coming from you, mate”, he replies, but he's smiling again, like Max is worth talking to. “Alright, here's a fun little game for you. Guess how old I am”.
Max takes another sip of his soda, taking the opportunity to look at Daniel free of guilt.
“I don't know. Twenty-five?”
Daniel’s mouth purses into a cringe. “Yikes. Do I look that old?”
“You don't. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-one. And you must be like, eight”.
“I’m thirteen!”
“All I’m hearing is ‘I’m a baby’”.
Max frowns, irritated. He’s not a baby. It’s true that he’s not allowed into his father's meetings yet, yes, but -
Suddenly Daniel’s hand is on Max’s head, ruffling his hair once, then twice. He’s smiling again.
“Don't get angry, I’m kidding. You look very grown up. An adult already, practically”. One of his fingers settles on Max’s frown, smoothing it out. Max’s skin follows suit. “That's better”.
Max is opening his mouth again to -
“Max!” Oh, it’s his father. Max turns around, making Daniel’s finger fall away with the movement. His father is entering the bar, followed by an attendant in a well-pressed suit. Jos’ tie is crooked, like he rushed when he made the knot.
“Max”, his father calls again before turning to speak to the attendant, and the tone he’s using is not good. Irritated.
Max gets up and jumps off the stool. “I’m sorry. I have to go”.
Daniel’s face has flattened a little, Max notices, although the smile comes back when he looks back at Max. “No problem, kid. It was nice meeting you”, he says, and then he leans forward a bit. Max’s chest does something weird. “You can always ask for me, alright? If you need anything around here”.
Years later Max will understand that Daniel had been worried about him, when he found out who his father was and what he liked doing to the girls. That he wanted to keep an eye on him, at least, because Max was still a kid back then. At thirteen, however, Max is just happy to get a scrap of Daniel’s attention.
“Max!”
“I’ve gotta go, I -”
Daniel smiles.
Afterwards, in the car, Max will feel his father's silence like a tangible weight on his shoulders.
“How did the meeting go?”
Jos huffs. “Bunch of useless fags. They wouldn't be able to find their own dicks if you asked them to”. Not good, then. Max shuffles a little in his seat, the leather squeaking as he does so.
Jos is losing power in the syndicate. Max would be able to tell even if Jos didn't keep him around so much. The angry phone calls in the early hours of the morning, the yelling behind closed doors…
The tense lines of the attendant’s face as they leave the brothel.
“And you. Don't talk to the whores. They don't get paid for talking”.
Max nods, silently.
Later, when he’s by himself in his room, Max will press his own thumb to the space between his eyebrows. It won't feel the same.
—
Sixteen
“What did you just say?”
Max is shaking. It’s probably not noticeable from the outside, but he can feel it - the barely-contained rage in his muscles, the tightness in his right fist, the anger in his chest aching to spill out. Kvyat is on the couch opposite him, sitting back and sipping his vodka like he doesn't have a fucking care in the world.
He underestimates Max, that much is clear. Max is only sixteen, too young still to be taken seriously in the family. But he has taken over his father's duties now, and that is something the syndicates are going to have to understand sooner rather than later. Before Max comes for them.
He considers, for a moment - the bodyguards are outside the club. He’s alone in here.
And Max wants to be a good leader. He wants to make connections, to be respected, to -
“I said, get your skinny baby ass out of here and go make your demands somewhere else”.
Max is not a baby.
Before he knows it his fist is connecting with the left side of Kvyat’s face, and he swears he can feel something crack underneath his knuckles. Good. That’s good. Satisfying.
By the time security busts the door open Max has taken a fist to the eye, but in return Kvyat’s got shattered ribs and more than a concussion, possibly a broken nose too. There's blood all over his face, and also on Max’s fingers.
“Take the message back to your boss, yeah? This is Bull territory”. Max manages to spit next to where Kvyat is almost passed out on the floor, before two men three times his size are dragging him out by the shoulders.
They walk by a couple of the girls on their way out and they all take a step back when they see Max. For a moment he wonders what he must look like, like this - if he looks just crazy, out of control. Weirdly enough, he doesn’t feel it.
“Not in the club, boy. You wanna kill each other, you do it outside. This place is for drinking and fucking only”.
They're almost to the back door when Daniel sees them.
“Jesus Christ, what - Hey!”, he calls, and then he’s running towards them. “What the fuck happened?”, he asks, even though it must be obvious. Max’s eye is probably darkening by the second.
And that's how Max ends up in Daniel’s room. Or dressing room, maybe, Max is not sure what to call it.
There's heaps of clothes everywhere, even on the floor and covering the couch. Some are normal street clothes, some… Not so much. They're for work, Max realizes with a flash of - something. Half embarrassment, half desire. He wants to press his face to the clothes and inhale the scent like a man drowning, lick Daniel’s taste off of them. He doesn't.
A quick look reveals that the main features of the room are a vanity with makeup piled next to the mirror, and, most surprisingly, a framed poster of a racing car. There's an adjacent bathroom too, the door half closed. No windows.
Daniel removes some of the clothes from the couch, freeing space for Max to sit on.
“Here. Wait a second”, he says, then Max watches as he walks into the bathroom and retrieves a first-aid kit and a wet towel. For a moment Max’s brain wonders how Daniel might get ready for work in the bathroom, and then he has to stop the train of thought.
He sits on the couch.
“That was very stupid what you just did, you know”, Daniel says, sitting next to Max. Max can almost feel the warmth of him. “Let me see your eye”. Max obliges, turning his head a little so Daniel can inspect him better. He tries to stay still for Daniel as he’s prodded at. “Yikes, that’s gotta sting. We’ll get some ice from the bar, yeah?”.
“Okay, Daniel”.
“Now your hands”.
As it turns out not all of the blood is Kvyat’s - Max actually managed to tear open the skin of his right knuckles. Daniel takes his hand with careful fingers and sighs, then starts methodically cleaning the wound. Max can feel every single brush of their skin like an electric current shooting up his arm.
Daniel’s movements are sure, while cleaning and dressing. The bandage is tight but not too much, when Max opens and closes his fist slowly.
“I’m serious, you know. You could've killed him, Max”.
Max looks at Daniel, finding worried lines on his face. That's no good, no - Daniel was made for smiling.
“I had no choice”.
“He’s got more broken ribs than whole”.
“I need them to take me seriously, Daniel. To take us seriously”, Max insists. Maybe Daniel doesn't know what being in a family entails. Max will try his best to explain if he wants to find out, but the point is he’s never minded a little blood. His father made sure of that. “This will send a message”.
Daniel sighs again. It’s a small sound, but there. “Well, at least do it outside the club, yeah? I’m pretty sure Christian is gonna bust my ass for bringing you up here already”. Right, because Max is not a customer. Because he’s not paying for Daniel’s time.
Max hesitates. “If you need to be somewhere else and I’m keeping you…”
But Daniel waves him away. “Don't worry, kid. You’re good”.
“I’m not a kid”. The words are out of Max’s mouth before he’s thought them through, an involuntary response, an automatic trigger.
Daniel looks at him, and then his face tries to form a smile. It comes out a little sad. “No, I guess you're not”.
Max feels like he’s fucked up. He scrambles for something to say as Daniel puts the first aid kit back together, looking for something to bring the smile back to his face.
His eyes settle back onto the poster. “You like NASCAR?”
Daniel’s face is tinted with surprise when he looks at Max. The good kind of surprise, the unexpected but delighted type.
“I do, as a matter of fact. Do you follow the races?”
Max shrugs. “I’m more of a Formula 1 guy, myself”.
“Also good, but like. NASCAR. What's more therapeutic than watching cars run in literal circles?”. Max laughs and Daniel’s smile comes back full force. The real one.
But of course Max can’t go without fucking up for long. “We could watch a race sometime”, he says, and he can tell that the comment misses again when Daniel’s expression stutters. A swing and a miss. A fucking minefield.
“If I had known you liked it when you were little I would've played races for you, while you waited at the bar”, Daniel says, sounding apologetic. “Shame”.
Right. Yeah. They can't - Max can't have Daniel.
He stays on the couch, feeling the texture of it with his good hand. For an instant he wonders if he could manage to feel the imprint of Daniel’s body on the fake leather of it, if he touched it enough.
“You're good at this”.
Daniel comes out of the bathroom, still holding the wet rag he used to wipe the blood off of Max’s fingers. It’s pink now. “What, making a mess?”
“No, treating wounds”.
Daniel’s mouth flattens into a grimace. “Well, you know, you learn some things working in a place like this. Even if this is better than most other… Establishments, out there”.
Max gets up. The thought of someone hurting Daniel, it’s making his blood boil, it’s -
“No one should hurt you”, he says, and he means it. The words come out stilted, because they had trouble passing through Max’s throat.
“I don't want them to, Max. But sometimes it happens anyway”. Like your father and the girls, Daniel doesn't say, even if they both think about it.
“I wouldn't let them hurt you”.
“Oh”, Daniel says, then smiles, “You're sweet, Maxy”.
Max steps closer. Daniel doesn't step back.
“What would I have to do?”
“For what?”
“To book you”.
He hates the apologetic face Daniel makes. It - it makes him feel like a kid. “Max, love, you can't. You're too young”, and Max already knew, he knows the club’s rules by fucking heart, has been thinking about them for a while.
“You could make an exception. I wouldn't - I wouldn't force you to do anything”, he says, and he hates how rushed he sounds. “You could use me to cover for bad clients. I’d pay still”.
“I wouldn't take you, Max”.
Max wants to groan. He wants to shout, wants to kiss Daniel so bad he doesn't know what to do with himself. “Why?”
It’s another sad smile that Daniel gives him. His hand reaches out like it wants to hold Max’s jaw, then drops back to his own side. Max wants to rip his own hair out.
In the end, what Daniel says is: “You deserve something better”.
Max doesn't think he does. He wants Daniel. And he’s not stupid, he knows he could never have someone normal - not in his line of work.
“I want you. You're the best”, Max says, because Daniel is. He’s fun, and kind, and smart, and beautiful, and Max likes him. Saw him once and could never get him out of his head.
Daniel’s eyes get a little lidded when he smiles. “How about this: ask me again, when the time comes, yeah?”
“Okay”, Max says.
He’ll be someone by then, he knows. He has to. So Daniel will have him.
—
Eighteen
When Max asks, he gets rejected.
“I’m afraid Daniel isn't available, sir, I’m terribly sorry”. The attendant's voice is staticky through the phone, and maybe it is better, that they're not face to face. Max could kill him.
“Then make him available. I want him”, he insists. The man on the other side of the line knows who he is - when the boss of the Bulls asks for something directly in this city, you listen. You obey. Or else.
The voice wavers like he knows he’s treading on dangerous territory here, and he is.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Daniel has been booked by a VIP client, exclusively. I’m afraid the services have been paid upfront. We cannot clear his schedule right now”.
“How long is he booked for?”
“Permanently, sir”.
Max’s knuckles go white. “Permanently? What do you mean permanently?”
“I mean, sir, that Daniel is booked indefinitely. He can't see any other clients”.
Max sees red.
When he steps into Christian’s office he takes two thugs with him, for muscle, and leaves them outside the door. They’ve got orders to enter if they hear anything even remotely suspicious, or if he takes more than twenty minutes to come out. Intimidation 101, a classic in the family’s books. Christian stares at them with an arched eyebrow, then leans back in his chair.
“I’m sorry, but he’s just not available”.
“Who’s the client?”
Christian gives him a stare. “You know as much as I do that I can't tell you that, Max”. Max doesn't like being addressed by his first name. Not by just anyone.
“What do you want, Christian?”
“Nothing. As I said, he’s already been paid for. But we can discuss other options that would be just as good, I reckon, if not better”, he says, pulling out a portfolio from one of the desk drawers. Max wants to tear it in half.
He ends up booking someone else, the most expensive girl they have that he doesn't recognize even after years of visiting. He doesn't register her name, even though he reads it. It’s got to be a woman - he can't even stomach the thought of getting some other man that isn't Daniel.
But he needs an excuse to keep coming here. To talk to Daniel.
It’s Max’s first time in one of the suites. He knows each one follows a different theme, Daniel had told him once. But that's the decor - the basics of them are all the same.
Max walks into a room with a huge double bed and a wall to wall mirror opposite it. Music equipment, air con, adjustable lights. There's a bathroom attached as well, with a huge shower. Condoms and lube, sleek-looking toys. Everything is thought out to engineer and facilitate sex.
When the girl walks in, Max knows she's objectively beautiful. She’s got long blonde hair, a little wavy too, all the way past her shoulders. She’s wearing a tight dress, but it keeps everything tastefully covered.
Curvy, filled out in the right places, green eyes and a convincing smile. Max looks at her and feels nothing.
They haven't discussed anything beforehand, so Max is not sure what to expect. The only thing he did was leaf through the list of things she was willing to do and the ones she wasn't, neatly written down in Christian’s portfolio. The first column was a lot longer than the second.
“We can do anything you want”, she says, standing close in front of Max and running her fingers over his tie. Her nails are done red. “Just ask first. This is for you”.
Max looks at her, following the delicate curve of her eyeliner. He doesn't touch her. “What's your name?”
She smiles. “Layla”.
“Is that your real name?”, Max asks, and she laughs.
She ends up blowing him, Max sitting on the bed and her kneeling on a cushion on the floor. She politely asks him to use a condom, and yeah, of course.
It takes a while. Max’s head keeps focusing everywhere except for the heat of her mouth.
Maybe this is boring for her. Or perhaps she likes that best, an easy client. Maybe if Max could actually get hard he could be an easy client.
Eventually she eases off of him. It’s awkward. It’s embarrassing.
“You can close your eyes, if you want to. Pretend I’m someone else. I don't mind”. So Max does: he shuts his eyes and pictures Daniel kneeling on the floor between his legs, one hand wrapped around Max’s dick. The skin of his fingers dark against Max’s, the ink of his tattoos.
When Layla goes down on him a second time, Max comes thinking of the scrape of Daniel’s beard against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, the knots in his curls if Max buried his hand in them, pulling. It’s better like this - better than when it’s just Max’s fist.
When it’s done he clears his throat, asks, “Do you want me to?...”, and makes a vague gesture towards Layla’s knees and what’s between them.
“You can, if you want to”, she says, but Max is pretty sure she can tell his heart isn't in it. “But you don't need to, sweetheart”.
She gets up and moves to the bathroom. Max can hear the tap start and close, while he discards the used condom and wipes himself off with the corner of the bedspread. It looks clean enough for his dick.
He’s already tucked in when she walks back out, and doesn't make a move towards the door. Right, he paid for Layla’s time, not just to come.
There's a beat of awkward silence in which Max tries to figure out what to do next, when she beats him to it and says: “I can try to get you to talk to him, if you want to”.
“Christian?”. Max frowns. “Did I do something wrong? If I hurt you -”
“No. No, no, you’re fine, don't worry”, she says, and Max breathes out a tension he didn't know he was holding. He doesn't want to be like - “I meant Daniel”.
“Oh”. Max takes his eyes off Layla’s face, focusing on the carpet instead. It’s quite thick. Maybe Layla didn't need the cushion after all. “Does everyone know?”
“Only those of us that have been working here for a while”, she replies, not unkindly. She leans against the mirror, facing the bed. “Dan has always been fond of you, I think”.
There’s noise in Max’s head, a terrible choir of sounds and images and thoughts that he can’t quite stop. It feels a whole lot like anxiety, and a mob boss can't afford that. “Can I see him?”
“I can't bring you up to the dressing rooms. There's security there”. For the workers’ safety. Someone would see and report back to Christian. “But maybe I could get him down here”.
“Why would you do that?”, Max asks, and Layla shrugs.
“I like Daniel, and you’re less scary than I thought”. She pushes off the mirror and looks towards the clock on the wall. “It’s almost time. Book me again, yes?”, she asks, walking over to kiss Max on the cheek. She smells good, sweet.
Max swallows. If he could see Daniel, if they could be together in a room again, alone - “Okay”.
Christian is pleased when Max requests another appointment with Layla immediately after walking out of the first one, looking at Max like he’s got him all figured out. Meanwhile Max thinks about tearing this whole place down, about offering the people here another job in the family, if they wanted it.
Daniel wouldn't have to work at all. He could spend all of his time following NASCAR, or just being warm under the sun. Max could take him to the races. He would make do with seeing Daniel from time to time, if Daniel didn't want to stay.
He gives himself a week for the sake of appearances, but it’s a hard thing to do. He’s snappy, he knows, tense. When he hears the Arrows have stolen one of their trucks at gunpoint and killed their driver, he takes it upon himself to dish some payback out, even though he’s got people for that now. Instead, they break into one of their hideouts and steal half a million worth of cocaine from right under their noses. Max goes in with the rest of the squad for fun, puts a bat to someone's knees before they have time to draw a gun.
He shouldn't be doing this kind of stuff, possibly - his father would advise against it. He’s the boss now, he’s supposed to be above everything, untouchable, not getting his hands dirty and himself in danger.
But Max likes the nitty gritty, he’s good at it. And if that means that he earns the respect of the lower ranks, then it’s a risk he’s willing to take.
When the day comes, he’s buzzing as he walks into the suite, opening the door with mechanical precision.
Daniel is not there.
“I’m sorry”, Layla says, eyebrows creased. “They requested him. I haven't - He hasn't been back in two days”.
“He’s not here?”, Max asks, stomach twisting. Layla shakes her head. “Christian is letting him work outside the club?”
“As an escort, yes. Sometimes he’s gone for days at a time. I’m sorry. I’ll keep trying”.
She doesn't blow him this time. Doesn't do anything at all, actually - mostly they just talk. Max stays quiet for stretches at a time, holding in the desire to break the bedpost. He books Layla again as soon as he walks out of the suite.
A few days later one of their own up and disappears without saying a word to anyone else from the family. He was pretty low in the grand scheme of things, no one essential. But Max can't tolerate it, not when they’re supposed to trust each other. You don't get to just leave the family like that.
They find him running with the Arrows, sharing information about their delivery routes, the warehouses, the shipments. Max is the one to put a bullet through his head, as it should be.
The third time he opens the door to the suite at the club, there’s someone sitting on the bed. It’s not Layla.
“Daniel”.
“Heya, Max”, he says, getting up from the bed. He looks - fine. Tired, maybe, but intact. Max realizes with only a little shock that Daniel is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and it’s the first time Max has seen him without his work clothes on. No makeup either. Maybe that's why he looks a little more tired than usual.
Max doesn't quite know what to do with his body. He feels stiff all of the sudden. Daniel saves them from the silence. “How have you been?”
“Good”, Max says, even though the newspapers would say the opposite. The Bulls are busy, these days. “You?”
“Good, good”, he says, wringing his hands together. Max wants to go on his knees, suck his fingers into his mouth. “So, uhm. Layla will be here in like, five minutes. She said you’ve been booking her?”
Distraught, Max nods. His mouth hangs open - he doesn't want Daniel to think that he wants Layla, he would -
“Christian is very happy about it, apparently, so that's good”, Daniel says. He’s smiling, but it doesn't quite look right.
“I asked for you. Like we said”. Years ago, when you said I could.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. There's - there's nothing I can do about it, believe it or not. I’m stuck here. Christian’s got me stuck with this contract”. Daniel’s shoulders are drawn up so high they could maybe reach his ears, with a little bit of effort. “Did Layla treat you right?”
Not like you would treat me. “I only booked her because I needed an excuse to keep coming here”.
Daniel’s smile dims. Max watches as he deflates, slowly, shoulders finally sagging. “Okay. Okay, Max”, he says, and then, “I’m sorry. I can't”.
Max almost misses the next words, because he was about to speak again, but he’s lucky enough to hear them. There’s barely any strength in them, like Daniel had meant them for himself only.
“No matter how much I might want to”.
Max crowds against him.
He can't help himself. He wants Daniel so much, fuck, he can’t.
Daniel doesn't step back as Max stops himself just short of pressing against him, so close that he can feel the warmth radiating from Daniel, can almost breathe the same air. They’re basically the same height. If Max pressed forward a little, just a little, their mouths would brush together.
He doesn't. He can't - he could get Daniel in trouble. Just him being here, when Max is not paying for him, is bad enough.
Instead they stand there, on the edge of something, but not quite.
“I can get you out of here, Daniel”, he says, his voice lower than before. But Daniel shakes his head.
“I like it here. I’m good at it”.
“Do you want to keep the contract?”, Max asks, and Daniel stays quiet for this one. Max hates it, doesn't understand why Daniel is not taking action, why he’s not letting Max take action for him.
“At least tell me who it is, then”.
Max can feel the air moving as Daniel speaks. “What will you do if I say?”
“Whatever I need”, Max says, and he means it. Anything. Beg, cheat, steal, hurt, kill. For Daniel. Everything wouldn't be enough.
“What does that mean, Max?”, Daniel says, and Max’s breath has quickened without him realizing. “What are you gonna do? Kill him?”
Max should, for touching Daniel. Christian too, for forcing him into a deal he doesn't want. For keeping Daniel away from Max. “Would you like me to?”, he asks, and Daniel gasps.
He looks down at Max’s lips.
Behind Max, the door opens.
“Guys”. It’s Layla. Max had forgotten about her. “I’m sorry, but Daniel, you have to go. Before security comes back”.
Reluctantly, Max takes a step back, even though his eyes never leave Daniel’s. They're dark and dilated, like -
“Give me a name, Daniel”. In front of him, Daniel swallows. He doesn't say anything.
“Guys. Please, Daniel, or they'll see you and Christian will find out”.
“Daniel”.
He seems to snap out of it, blinking like he’s waking from a dream. Max watches as his lips open, a little dry. Max wants to wet them with his tongue.
“It’s Lewis”, he says, and Max blanks out.
His chest feels cold for a moment, then angry hot, like it took a little reboot in order for it to process Max’s emotions. To realize that, of all people, the one monopolizing Daniel is Lewis fucking Hamilton.
He doesn't even realize that Layla has walked right next to them, that she's pulling on Daniel’s arm, until she tries to get them to listen again. Meanwhile Daniel, who's still there, is staring at Max like he also can't bring himself to leave.
“I’ll get him”. Finally, Max says. “I’ll get him, and you’ll be free”.
Daniel’s pinky brushes Max’s own hand as Layla pushes him away. The touch burns. “I’ll be waiting”, he says, right before being walked out the door.
And so fate is sealed. Max will burn the Arrows to the ground.