silverhammer | (no subject)

It's bullshit, basically.

When he'd moved to New York with Jude, it'd taken him less than a week to get a job as a cabbie. He's been to five places now, since he actually started looking for work again, and has come up with absolutely nothing.

We regret to inform you...

We appreciate you thinking of us, but unfortunately...

Max is starting to wonder whether or not he should go back to Little Yellow Cab, groveling back to his old boss. Maybe he made some mistakes, and maybe he totaled a cab because of his Army uniform showing up out of fucking nowhere, but at the end of the day, he thinks he was a decent cabbie. He brought in a lot of money.

But that guy was kind of a dick, and Max isn't sure he wants to give him the satisfaction.

Headed home from yet another failed job interview, Max is loosening his tie, about to take the subway home, when he decides on a detour. He doesn't fucking know why he does it, but the next thing he knows, he finds himself outside of Brian's new apartment. It's both late enough and early enough that he thinks he'll catch Brian while he's in.

Max knocks on the door, really hoping he remembered the apartment number right.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Hey, you get free wine for showing up sometimes, so it's got that going for it," Max says, tone light, and he doesn't glance down to watch his belt hit the floor, instead dropping his own hands to the button of Brian's pants.

His own family, despite all of their Cleaverness hadn't ever been too much of a church family. At least, not in the Same way Brian talks about his mom.

"If that's the top incentive, I think I'll pass," Brian said, pulling open the waistband of Max's dress pants and making quick work of pushing them down to pool around Max's ankles. His underwear weren't far behind, and then framing Max's narrow hips in both hands, Brian steered him toward the bed.

It wasn't the raised altar that his bed had been back in Pittsburgh, but it was huge and somehow both spartan and luxurious. The pillows, comforter and sheets were all the same neutral, dark grey, but were made from an insanely high thread count and a plush, down/synthetic blend. He spent enough time in the thing, it was definitely worth the investment, and he sure as hell hadn't had any complaints.

"We working under a deadline here?" Max asks, mostly because of the quick work Brian makes of both his pants and his underwear, and he steps out of both as he backs toward the bed. It's half a joke, half an honest question because the nanny's got the night off and Brian's kid isn't going to sleep forever.

Not that they've ever particularly been about taking their time.

"I've got a seven-month-old. Everything's a deadline," Brian smirked, slipping the monitor out of his pocket and putting it on the bedside table.

"I'm giving it an hour."

The nanny had Gus on a schedule almost like clockwork, and usually, the kid set off like an alarm clock. But kids were unpredictable, and Brian wasn't going to push his luck.

"A lot you can do in an hour," Max says, and he's undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt to shrug out of it as Brian sets the monitor on the nightstand. It's not but a second after that before he's back to Brian's pants, his fingers sliding under the waistband to tug them down.

Not that he was planning on doing much else with his afternoon, and if there's only about an hour to make up for the shitty morning he's had, he can't see the point in wasting time.