Work Text:
The office still smells like gun smoke from their most recent escapade.
The sunlight bleeding through the windows of the dimly-lit office heats up the dust littering the worn floorboards, warming up the office past the usual for mid-to-late spring.
Forgotten paperwork litters the floor, old ink making it's scent known throughout the musty air.
The lagamorph sits ontop of Sam's desk, fiddling with his hands and trying to distract himself from an ever-growing distraction.
It could be the warm weather, or maybe it's from the boredom and lingering taste of metal in his mouth.
Either way, he's feeling awfully stuffy in this empty office.
He thumps a foot steadily against the side of the desk, the sunlight filtered through the windows making already warm skin feel warmer.
It's silent in the office, except for the usual bustle of the city and the distinct sound of an old, creaking building, just barely standing on it's almost ancient foundations.
Max is feeling awfully... restless. If that's the right word for it; restless and warm, like every beam of sunlight filtered through the old windows sparks the growing heat pooling in his middle.
Maybe he's just lazy, but he doesn't wanna deal with it. He'd been trying to will away the growing heat for awhile now, the smell of old wood grain and worn leather still lingering on the surface of his fur from when Sam had left, ruffling his fur before heading out the door with a quick goodbye.
The guy said he didn't know exactly how long he'd be out, just that he'd be back early evening, most likely. Glancing at the clock, the existence of mid-afternoon still hangs heavy on his mind. It's nowhere near time for Sam to be back from his monthly bout of errand-running. There's hours and hours left before there's even a chance of him coming home. Always had a hell of a lot to do, on days like these ones. Various things like grocery shopping, dropping off seldom completed paperwork, maybe stopping by to talk business with potential clients-- all tedious tasks Max absolutely loathed, if he had to put a word to it.
So he'd elected to stay home, watch over the office and sort through various clients that came their way. Unfortunately, it's one hell of a bore, especially when not one person has stopped by for the usual casual burglary attempt or case consultation. It's not like he expected many visitors, but without the distraction, time's seeming to pass by dreadfully slow.
Maybe it's the pollen in the springtime air, or maybe it's the rampant boredom, but he's got this steady, thrumming ache deep down and it's becoming increasingly hard not to give into it. He thought he could just ignore it, simply will the swarming warmth away, but it doesn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.
I mean, wouldn't it be twisted? Just to sit here, watching the idle door, and take care of it? Especially considering just who is on his mind.
It's gone from a slight distraction to a full-on ache that has him unable to think about much else besides the glowering stiffness between his legs.
Heck, just admitting to himself that he's absolutely aching for it is humiliating enough. The fact that Sam's pretty face is what's caused it? That makes it even worse.
Sam's always so kind, though, like the guy just doesn't have a malicious bone in his body. He doesn't think Sam could even make fun of him for it if he tried, and the thought of meeting his naive partner at the door with only one thought on his mind sure has his stomach doing flips.
The thought alone of Sam's sweet yet unmistakeably rough voice after being told that his partner is absolutely aching for it, stammering and flustered, has him dizzy.
He's so kind, so much so that Max is damn near impressed with the guys unwavering patience. No matter what he does, Sam's always soft, and Max has never once before had such an affinity for softness.
Come to think of it, there wasn't even necessarily one specific moment in time that he fell for the guy. Just kinda woke up one day, looking at him from above on their rickety old bunk bed, thinking how much he wished for the moment to never end, just the two of them amongst the sleepy stillness of early morning light. Then after, immediately realizing how uncharacteristically sentimental the thought was, and how disgusting and gooey love felt.
It's almost nauseating, just how mushy Sam makes him feel. Romance as a whole used to make him want to puke, with it's overdone tropes and sickly sweet sentiments. But with Sam? Suddenly it didn't sound so bad.
He always knew the guy was attractive, tall and soft and just his type. Never thought it went beyond that, though he supposes he kind of refused to even acknowledge the impossible notion that maybe he felt a little bit more than natural, platonic attraction to the poor guy.
Hell, maybe he always had...
But that's not the point, the point is that Sam and his stupidly pretty face has him reconsidering everything he once thought he knew. He can't even be mad at him for it, and he's utterly helpless because of it.
Max glances back up to the clock hanging above the door, cursing inwardly when he realizes it's going to be a hell of a lot longer that he first thought. Nothing to distract himself from the ache, nor from the butterflies disgustingly apparent in his stomach when he thinks of him. Sam's only been gone near an hour or two now, time creeping by with an agonizing slowness. Somehow that makes it even worse, makes the persistent ache deepen.
"Shit," He murmers to the air, hands clenched tight together as he dangles his one thumping foot off of the edge of the desk, the other pulled up at his side as he tries in vain to keep still.
Even though he saw the guy only hours before, he's all he can think about, like some yearning dame missing her lover that's gone off to war, or something equally as sappy. The phantom scent of his downy fur's still lingering on his own, all dark and brooding, thick tobacco smoke and age-old ink, comforting in it's familiarity but tantilizing all the same
The paperwork he works on, all day at times, leaves the heady scent of paper and ink abiding in the humid air, but he doesn't know about the other one. Hell, Sam doesn't even smoke, Max likes to think he just lets tobacco burn to achieve the noir-ish vibe.
It's all he can think about, and his body's real fast to catch up to his increasingly amourous thoughts.
Something about getting off in the empty office, only the heavy air to hear him, has his stomach fluttering. Either it's nerves or excitement, he's not too sure which, and he's not all too sure that he even cares. The thought of it certianly has him flushing, though, butterflies kicking up a notch.
Maybe if he were decent he'd think about moving to somewhere more secluded, like their bedroom or maybe even the bathroom if he's desperate enough; but something about sitting front and center ontop of his partner's rickety old desk makes the feeling in his stomach grow more intense, and the heat underneath his fur grow more distinct. Maybe it's the thought that Sam could come home any minute, and he'd have absolutely no way to hid his shame if he did. Or maybe he's just a bit of a voyeurist, either way it's real tempting.
He glances towards the clock, the time displayed of mid-afternoon only cementing the fact that he'll be alone for hours. Getting caught with his metaphorical pants down would be one hell of a thing to explain to his innocence-ridden partner. I mean, how can he excuse something like that? What kinda white lie could he pull to explain himself if Sam happened to walk through that door? He sure as hell can't think of one.
The tense lagomorph finally stops tapping his foot, pressing his knees tight together and biting back an embarassing sound at the spark the slight friction sends through him.
They're way too far up for anyone to get a show from down on the streets below, and the neighborhood is looking familiarly empty anyhow.
Besides, it's not going to go away on it's own, is it?
He's familiar with the distinct heat, the noticeable ache hot between folded legs that mere stubbornness alone can't seem to get rid of.
The lagomorph can feel his fur bristle, warmth radiating from underneath when he flushes pink and trails a hand down his stomach. Already shaking, he steadily pulls his thighs apart, braced against the old woodgrain underneath his shivering paws. He grabs himself with a shaky hand, steeling himself against the desk and shutting his eyes tight to focus on the all-consuming feeling.
He's never been great with being particularly intuitive, and that's especially the case now when he's already making quiet noises under his breath, thinking of someone who most definitely should not be on his mind in a moment like this one.
But he is, he's all he can think about.
Despite the heat in his stomach becoming more and more tolerable by the second, he still misses him.
The memory of him speaking so low in his ear, even just saying the most innocent of things, still has him yearning with such an unwavering desperation that he's embarassed at the thought alone.
He just wants to hear his voice, and it takes him an almost embarassing amount of time to realize that's actually a possibility...
With fumbling paws, he's reaching underneath the desk and searching for the age-old artifact.
He picks up the old rotary phone, setting it ontop of the desk with a resounding thud, and with slightly shaking hands, he dials Sam's number.
After only two rings, his partner picks up.
"Hello? Max? That you, little buddy?"
He gulps hard, almost choking when he tries to swallow down his nerves. "Heyyy, Sam!" He drawls, wincing at the hilt in his voice, trying to sound casual and not like he's in the middle of doing what he's doing.
"Hey, little buddy!" He can hear the smile in his voice, and tries to ignore the little excited flutter in his stomach. "Everything goin' alright? What's up?"
Shit, he didn't think this through. Why would he be calling Sam just an hour or so after he left? "Just uh," He fumbles, tone going soft and meek against his will when he blurts out the truth. "Just missed ya, is all."
He hears a certain interference, like Sam's shifting the phone from one hand to the other. "Awhh, that's sweet, little pal. So uh, how's it goin'? Place still standing?"
It's sick, ain't it? Getting off on the scent of his partner still lingering on his fur, the sound of that hoarse, gravel-like voice in his ear.
"Heh, ya have that much faith in me, Sam?"
He hears a rough laugh on the other end of the line, one that sends a shiver through his spine.
"Fair point, Max. Well, how's your day been? Since I left, anyways."
His almost hesitant hand shakes when he finally grabs himself again, exhaling with a shaky gasp and praying to a higher power that Sam didn't hear it. "Uh, good, good! Kinda borin' without ya, though."
Ain't that the truth...
"Ain't that sweet."
His stomach flips at the softness coloring his tone. "Do you," He starts, paw quick to muffle the little groan he makes under his breath. "Do you think you'll be back soon?"
He gets a quick reply, tinted with worry. "Why? Somethin' the matter?"
"Nah, just uh, bored without ya I guess."
He hears his partner hum on the other end. "I'll bring ya along next time, pal." A little laugh comes from the other end. "Miss you, too."
He muffles a whimpered curse with his paw, embrassingly shrill and wavering as a shiver runs straight through his core.
It ain't his fault he's in love with his best friend, and it ain't his fault that hearing the guy say something as simple as 'miss you' has him harder than he's been in weeks.
When he realizes it's been silent on the other end for longer than casual, he's rushing a reply. Anything to get him to keep talking.
"E-errands goin' okay?" He chokes out, stroking himself steadily with a clumsy paw.
"Oh! Yeah, had a sale on cheeses, too. Picked up what may just possibly be too many but uh, it was a hell of deal."
Before he can respond, Sam's filling the space.
"You sure everything's okay, pal? You're bein' kinda quiet."
Quiet? That's one hell of a relief.
"Yeah! Yeah just uh," He bites back a resounding cry. Quite literally, too, as he bites into his hand almost hard enough to bleed, just to stop Sam from hearing him on the other end. "Don't know why I called ya, Sam. Don't have a thing new to talk about just," He blames the way he flushes hot on the fact that he's getting off, not on something as mundane as telling him the sappy truth. It's stupid, and damn unfair how lovesick and mushy he makes him feel. "Missed your voice, I guess."
There's a brief quiet on the end of the line, and Max is immediately cursing inwardly at how desperate and sickly sweet that sounded. "That's awful cute, little buddy." He hears a chuckle, and a good part of him doubts that Sam actually believes him. Still, though, Sam calling him 'cute' has him nearing a lot closer to the edge than he'd ever like to admit. "So uh... nothin' good on TV?"
He gnaws at his lip, trying not to whine when he picks up his pace, thighs spreading to either side when he willessly bucks himself into his hand. There's a familiar, seering heat building and coiling low in his stomach, adjoined with the twisting flutter that has him gasping behind his paw. "N-never is, Sam, and it's a hellavu lot more quiet here without ya."
"Yeah? Well I'll be home as soon as I can, little buddy. Wouldn't wanna leave ya alone for too long."
Fuck; he knows it's just because he's got his dick in his hand, but the way he says something as platonic as that still has him groaning, vision spotting and middle burning hot.
He hears a quiet curse on the other end. "Shoot, pal. Phone's dyin'. Uh, be home soon! Try not t' burn the place down! Miss you!" There's a small sound on the other end and then silence, but he's already so close that the small utterance has him coming undone completely.
"Ahh, fuck! Sam!" He cries loud into the still air, vision blurring when he cums.
He's almost positive that he blacks out for a second, gasping and trying to catch his breath when he comes down from it. "Awh, shit," He murmers, holding his face in his hands when he realizes just what he's said after Sam hung up. "Fuuuck me," He groans into his hand. "Why've ya gotta be so sweet, Sammy?" Heck, he's the one who made Max fall for him, and he can't do a thing about it.
He's completely hopeless ain't he?
When he finally gets over the seedy feeling of slight humiliation at his poor life choices, he's rubbing at his face and eyeing the floor, stained with the unmentionable.
He hops off of the desk, almost tilting over on unsteady legs, heading off to grab a rag or something when he hears the phone chime audibly, a telltale sign someone just hung up on the other end.
He freezes in place, eyes widening when he realizes that sound certainly hadn't been there before when Sam first said goodbye. The line had just been quiet, but he hadn't bothered to put the damn thing back in it's receiver.
Sam just hung up.
Shit.