Work Text:
"Attention passengers: Would Mr. Liam Lawson please proceed to the service desk at Qantas Gate 47. Mr. Liam Lawson to the service desk at Gate 47, thank you."
Liam shifts in his seat, groggy and tired, the hard plastic of the airport chairs digging into his back.
"Once again, Mr. Liam Lawson, please make your way to the service desk at Qantas Gate 47."
The final repetition feels sharper, impatient to the point of losing polite professionalism. The sound of his own name echoing through London Heathrow's international terminal jolts him upright.
An elderly woman to his right gives him a curious look. He must have startled her. He forces a quick, sheepish smile, but his stomach is already sinking.
Shit.
His feet squeak against the polished floor as he launches himself out of the chair. What starts as a dignified stride, quickly devolving into a half-sprint as he glances at his watch.
His flight started boarding ten minutes ago.
A massive screen looms over the bustling terminal, glowing with red text:
QF 190 – FINAL BOARDING
God, why are airport corridors so bloody long?
He dodges the travelator and weaves through slow-moving families wrangling luggage and small children, his pace abandoning any pretense of airport decorum.
Liam shoulders past a businessman in a full suit, eyes glued to his phone, noise-canceling headphones firmly in place. The impact sends the man stumbling, headphones clattering to the floor, but Liam barely glances back.
"Sorry!" he throws over his shoulder, still running.
By the time he skids to a stop at the service desk, he's out of breath, his shirt damp with sweat, and his curls are a mess.
The Qantas gate agent just stares at him.
"I'm—" He gasps. "Liam—"
"Excuse me?"
"Lawson. You— you called my name."
"Ah, yes, of course." She turns to her computer, typing something in before holding out her hand expectantly.
Liam blinks at it.
"Your passport and boarding pass, please."
"Oh—right." He fumbles them out, handing over his New Zealand passport, a rare sight among the sea of UK and EU ones.
She examines it with careful scrutiny, and for one ridiculous, heart-stopping moment, Liam is convinced she’s going to declare it a fake and have him escorted out. "We’ve had a slight reshuffle in our seating arrangements to make more room in economy for other passengers..."
Her polite tone makes his stomach drop. Oh god, they’ve given his seat away.
"...and due to your loyalty this past month, we’ve upgraded you to First Class for today’s flight."
Wait. What?
“What?” he says, blinking.
"You’ve been upgraded, Mr. Lawson."
She hands back his passport along with a sleek, premium-looking boarding pass. First Class is printed right next to his name in bold, unmistakable letters.
"Do I have to pay for this?" he asks, still a little stunned. Part of him thinks he’s still sleeping, the edges of reality feeling a little too soft around him.
His backpacking trip is at its tail end, and while he’s worked odd jobs in different countries to keep himself afloat, England had drained his funds dry. He’d booked the absolute cheapest ticket he could find, stacking every airline point he had just to make it work.
"No, Mr. Lawson, this is complimentary."
"Oh. Cool."
He stares at the boarding pass like it might vanish if he blinks too hard. The gate agent merely gestures toward the jet bridge.
"Please proceed down this corridor for boarding."
"Thanks."
A bubbling feeling rises in his chest, light and effervescent like champagne fizz. By the time he reaches the gate and hands over his boarding pass, hearing the flight attendant greet him by name, he’s grinning wide and barely containing a laugh.
Then he turns left into First Class.
The seats are massive. There’s legroom. Real legroom. The kind where you don’t have to sit with your knees under your chin or apologise to the stranger next to you every time you shift.
A flight attendant in a crisp uniform offers him a glass of sparkling wine as he slides into the seat, dazed. He takes a sip, sighs, and lets the adrenaline start to drain from his limbs.
Only then does he look up and realise he’s just sat across from someone familiar.
The businessman from earlier. The same one he nearly flattened.
Shit.
Liam hesitates, then lifts a hand in a sheepish wave.
The man studies him for a beat, plush mouth pressed together. A single freckle sits high on the corner of his lip, sharp against his otherwise polished appearance.
Then, just barely, the corner quirks up into the semblance of a smile.
Liam grins. He’ll take that as a small victory.
—
By hour eleven, Liam is starting to get antsy.
Planes, by nature, aren't enjoyable places to be cooped up in, even in First Class. He’s already burned through the two movies he actually wanted to watch, eaten dinner, reclined his chair back and forth a dozen times just to see how far it would go until a passing flight attendant finally paused beside him.
"Would you like some help converting it into a bed for the night, Mr. Lawson?" she asked, her tone polite, professional, but carrying the unmistakable undertone of ‘ please stop playing with the buttons’ .
That was his cue to stop.
Now, staring at the seat controls like they might offer up some fresh entertainment, he decides he needs to move. Stretching his legs has to be better than sitting here, marinating in his own restlessness.
Sliding out of his seat, he wanders toward the back of the First Class cabin, expecting maybe a galley or a lavatory. What he finds instead makes him blink.
A bar.
A fully stocked, beautifully lit bar, with plush stools and a curved counter, manned by a bartender in a crisp uniform. It’s well into the sleeping portion of the flight, so the bar is mostly unoccupied, other than a man half hidden on the otherside by the adjacent curtain.
Standing there, he almost forgets he’s 35,000 feet in the air.
Liam hesitates, then slides onto an empty stool. The bartender turns to him with a small smile.
"What can I get for you, sir?"
He scans the bottles lining the mirrored shelves, suddenly feeling out of his depth. His usual go-to is beer or a vodka Red Bull since he typically has about a hundred dollars to his name at any given time, but ordering one here feels almost criminal.
"Uh… surprise me?"
The bartender chuckles. "Feeling adventurous, I see."
Liam shrugs. "Yeah, let’s go with that."
The bartender nods and gets to work, moving with smooth efficiency. As Liam waits, he glances around, finally getting a better look at his company for the night.
Dark suit, jacket forgotten, an expensive-looking watch on one wrist, sleeves rolled up just enough to make him look a little less stiff. There’s a glass in front of him, something tall and clear with a lime floating amongst the ice. He’s still scrolling through his phone, seemingly absorbed, until his gaze flicks up, locking onto Liam’s.
A glutton for punishment, instead of looking away and pretending the staring was an accident, Liam scoots across a few stools, leaning in.
"Uh… hi. I, uh—" Liam scratches the back of his neck, ruffling the curls there. "Sorry about earlier. At the gate. I was—"
"In a rush?" the man supplies dryly, arching an eyebrow. His voice is lisping and accented, but Liam can’t place from where.
He winces, leaning back on the escape. "Yeah. Didn’t mean to nearly take you out."
A pause, then the man sighs, setting his phone down. "I’ve had worse airport experiences."
Liam takes that as a good sign. "Drink’s on me?" he offers, tilting his head toward the bartender.
"I do hope you know they’re free."
Liam opens his mouth, then shuts it. Right. First Class.
The bartender slides Liam’s drink across the counter. A sleek, amber-colored cocktail in a crystal tumbler.
"Old Fashioned," he announces. "A classic."
Liam eyes it, feeling decidedly out of his depths. "Fancy?"
"Strong," the businessman corrects, glancing between the glass and Liam as if he can't quite reconcile the two.
Liam takes a sip.
A mistake.
The burn hits immediately, sharp and vicious, and he barely manages to swallow before coughing, sputtering into his sleeve. The bartender conveniently disappears down the galley, but the other man? Oh, he’s laughing.
Not a polite chuckle. But a full-on amused, teeth-showing laughter.
“Fuck,” Liam glares at him, sucking in a breath, trying to east the way his throat still burns. "Glad I could entertain you."
The man smirks, then pushes his own untouched glass toward Liam.
"Here. Try this instead."
Liam hesitates, then takes a cautious sip. It’s crisp, citrusy. Coating his tongue and letting him exhale gratefully. "Oh, thank god. That’s way better. I don’t think Old Fashions are my thing"
"What do you usually drink?" the man asks, not taking his glass back. Liam feels oddly at a loss with it between his hands.
"Uh… honestly? Red Bull." He shrugs, feeling a little self-conscious. Sitting next to the other man who’s at least a foot taller, posture perfect, Liam feels horribly young. He’s hunched down on the stool, feet unable to reach the floor, and acutely aware of how small he must look. His cheeks flush, a soft pink blooming across the freckles on his face, especially under the man’s long, appraising look.
The slight twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth really shouldn’t be as enticing as it is. "That explains a lot."
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," the man says, clearly lying, mirth in the line of his features. He gestures toward the glass in Liam’s hand. "That’s a gin and tonic, by the way. My usual…”
Liam nods, still holding it. The man makes no move to reclaim it. Instead, he leans back against the bar and exhales slowly.
Despite himself, Liam has to drag his eyes back to his face, too easily drawn in by the long line of his legs, hugged by the perfectly tailored cut of his trousers, and the way his shirt pulls against his chest as he rests his elbows on the bar top.
"I probably shouldn’t be drinking at all," he admits, rubbing his eyes. "I’m three sleeping pills deep, and sleep refuses to cooperate."
"Rough night?" Liam asks.
"Rough life." There’s no bitterness in the words, just dry amusement. Then, as if remembering his manners, the man straightens and extends a hand. “Max.”
He says it like Marx , the r flicking sharply off his tongue, pushed out between his teeth.
"Oh." Liam quickly wipes his palm against his jeans before clasping it. The guy’s grip is firm, fingers warm and eclipsing his own.
“Liam,” he offers.
Max’s lips curve slightly. "I know."
Liam blinks. "You—?"
Max tilts his head. “Your name was announced over the airport PA. Three times. Hard to miss.”
Liam groans and drops his forehead into his free hand. “Right. Yeah. That was, uh—”
"Amusing," Max supplies, clearly enjoying this.
“I’m not exactly used to being hailed by airports, you know?” Liam mutters, eyes fixed on his drink. He rubs his thumb over the slick condensation trailing down the side of the glass, bristling as the sting of embarrassment clings to him like humidity.
It’d probably be in poor form to down the drink in one go and flag down the bartender for something stronger, just to cope with being in Max’s proximity. But the thought is incredibly tempting.
For a long moment, Max says nothing. He just watches him, elbows propped casually on the bar, his gaze steady and unreadable .There’s something studied and patient in the way he holds Liam in his gaze, like he’s figuring out which chapter he’s landed in without having read the beginning of the book.
Liam only realises Max is standing when it hits him that, even bent slightly over the bar, he’s still eye level with him.
“How old are you?” Max asks, seemingly out of nowhere.
Liam startles, blinking at the sudden question. His throat tightens under the scrutiny, Max’s attention like a spotlight dissecting him, reading every freckle and the distinct lack of wrinkles on his face. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of how soft his jawline is and the fact that he still gets ID’d for energy drinks. “Twenty fo— three?”
Max lifts an eyebrow. “You can’t even rent a car.”
Liam huffs, arching a brow in return. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing, I guess.” He says it in a way that feels like he actually means it’s everything. Then Max presses his lips together, plush and just slightly dry at the centre, and Liam’s thoughts scatter.
“I’ve been backpacking,” Liam offers, like a too-eager olive branch. He shifts his weight on the stool, feet kicking in the air, trying to appear casual but mostly just trying to keep Max interested . “Two years. This is the first time I’ve been back home.”
“You live in Perth?”
“Uh, no. I’m from Pukekohe.” He hesitates at Max’s furrowed brows and quickly adds, “New Zealand. Small town. South of Auckland.”
Max nods, his expression unreadable. “You’re transferring after this?”
“I actually… didn’t have enough,” Liam admits, scratching the back of his neck. “For the, uh, final leg to Auckland. I’m gonna work it out.”
“You’re flying all the way home,” Max says slowly, “and you didn’t buy the full ticket?”
Liam shrugs, trying to play it off with a crooked smile, even though the tips of his ears are burning. “I figured I’d… you know. Figure it out when I got there. Hitch a ride. Call in a favour. Sleep in the terminal, maybe.”
Max doesn't immediately respond. He just watches him with that same faint frown, the kind people wear when they’re trying not to let concern show on their face. Liam knows it well. Jack had worn it the night before he left New Zealand, talking about how people meant well but the world didn’t always cooperate.
Max’s silence stretches just a little too long.
He finally speaks, voice soft, but with a thread of dry humour. “Most people settle for instant noodles and bad tattoos. You’re out here winging international flights on blind faith.”
“Yeah, well,” Liam mutters, a little defensive, “some of us don’t have backup plans and gold cards in our back pockets.”
That gets a reaction. A subtle clench of Max’s jaw, just a tightening under the cheekbone, like his teeth had clicked together a little too hard. It’s enough. Liam knows the look. Knows what it means when someone is holding back words that might hurt if they let them out the wrong way.
For a beat, his pulse spikes, some buried fight-or-flight instinct flaring to life before Max exhales and steps back from the bar with a slow stretch, lifting his arms overhead until his shirt rides up just slightly at the waist.
“No. I guess not.”
It doesn’t sound like what he meant to say. It lands too quiet, too final. But it’s all Liam gets before Max offers him a nod and disappears back down the corridor.
—
The rest of the flight goes by slowly, dragging on like only red-eyes can. He and Max orbit each other in a way that feels accidental, or at least carefully unintentional. They cross paths more times than seems plausible: waiting outside the restroom at the same moment, reaching for bottled water at the bar, or brushing past one another during the sporadic need to stretch their legs in the narrow aisles.
Each interaction is brief, glancing, just a beat too long to ignore but too short to mean anything outside of Liam’s overactive imagination.
Around breakfast time, Liam devours the contents of his tray with quiet determination. He’s not used to aeroplane eggs actually being borderline edible, but the food disappears a little too quickly.
Quick enough, that when his plate is empty, he finds himself idly picking up every tiny crumb left from his croissant with the pad of his finger; hunger still gnawing quietly at the edges of his stomach. He knows he could ask for more, but he isn’t used to this level of abundance or the access to it. The idea of asking for more feels indulgent, almost shameful. He's spent too long making do.
He glances up to see Max passing by, barefoot now in fluffy socks the airline had given them, a travel pillow looped around his neck. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even meet Liam’s eyes, but as he walks past, he drops two wrapped pastries onto Liam’s tray with practiced nonchalance; a pain au chocolat and a banana muffin.
Then he keeps walking, disappearing down the aisle toward the bar again without a word.
Liam blinks, staring down at the pastries with a twisting feeling like bats in his stomach; their beating too hard for the innocence of butterflies. He unwraps the pain au chocolat first, the buttery layers warm and flaky in his hands. Fresh from the galley.
He’s still chewing when he realises he’s smiling.
—
Liam loses sight of Max in the bustle of disembarking. His passport streamlines him through Australia's notoriously strict customs. When he reaches baggage claim, he spots his bag already unloaded, waiting for him, a fancy first class priority tag tacked to the side of his oversized, beaten up and fraying backpack.
Slinging the bag onto his back, he catches the baggage attendant giving him a slow, deliberate once-over, eyes lingering just a moment too long. Liam feels the familiar spike of irritation and has to bite back the urge to flip him off. Instead, he offers a tight-lipped smile and strides past.
The arrivals gate is bursting with families waiting for loved ones. He scoots by too many teary eyed mothers, trying hard to block out the wave of loneliness threatening to pull him under. Eventually he ends up pausing to look at his phone, seeing whether an Uber to the nearest hostel is likely to cripple him.
When $25 dollars pings up on his screen, he blanches, feeling green around the gills and thinks that maybe he wasn’t exaggerating to Max about having to sleep in the terminal after all.
A chauffeur with the name ‘Verstappan’ written on the board in his hand, scoots by him, and he barely notices, eyes stinging as he stares down at his phone.
“Hey…” A hand lands gently on his shoulder, and Liam jumps, spinning around dazed.
“Woah, hey.” It’s Max, looking down at him with that level of pity that makes Liam feel about ten inches tall. “Liam, you alright, mate?”
“I—uh…” His voice trails off as he glances at his phone screen. Max’s eyes flick down to the glowing display, then back up, piecing together the story that’s stuck like glue on Liam’s tongue.
“How about you ride with me? Come back to my hotel—you can figure things out from there.” The offer isn’t really a question.
Liam just nods, moving almost mechanically. He doesn’t feel like he deserves this kind of kindness. The thought lodges itself somewhere between his mouth and his brain, stuck and choking him. He wants to argue, to insist he’s fine on his own. But he likes Max—he’s kind, friendly, and clearly wants something from Liam. And he’s sure it boils down to the one thing he really has left: himself.
He can’t find it in himself to see it as a bad thing.
—
“So… what do you do?” Liam asks, shifting uncomfortably on the fine leather seat of the, honest to god, Mercedes E-Class that Max had all but bundled him into. It had felt almost sacrilegious to put his battered backpack in the pristine boot, and now his dusty shoes are scuffing up the immaculate floor mats. He’s about five minutes away from taking them off and chucking them out the window just to stop ruining things by merely existing .
Beside him, Max doesn’t look up from his phone. “I’m in logistics,” he says, far too casually.
Liam side-eyes him, suspicion flickering to life. Between the secrecy, the apparent wealth, and what he’s assuming is some underhanded solicitation involving free pastries and private cars, there’s only one explanation that makes any real sense.
“So what, you’re like…” Liam glances around theatrically before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice like they’re conspiring. “In the drug trade?”
Max finally looks up, one eyebrow raised. There’s a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. “You think I’m dealing drugs?”
“Why else would you be all secretive about it.”
Max exhales sharply, teetering on the edge of a sigh. His fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s fighting off a migraine. “For fuck— I’m the Vice President of Operations at Redbull.”
Liam blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth opens. Closes. Honestly, if Max had said he was in the drug trade, it might’ve floored him less .
“That’s why you laughed about the Red Bull thing?” he manages eventually, his voice a little hoarse from embarrassment.
Max smirks, finally tucking his phone away. “To be fair,” he says, clearly relishing every second of Liam squirming, “you’d be perfect for marketing. You’ve already got the brand loyalty down.”
Liam groans and thunks his head against the back of the seat. “Kill me.”
“No need,” Max replies smoothly. “Just drink three more cans and wait.”
—
Like a baby duckling, Liam trails after Max from the private car into the gleaming lobby of a luxury hotel nestled in the heart of Perth’s CBD. The polished marble floors reflect the chandeliers overhead, and the whole place smells faintly of lemon polish and expensive cologne.
He shuffles behind Max, doing his best impression of someone invisible, shoulders drawn in and head down, trying to look small and unimportant. His scuffed backpack vanishes with the bellhop, whisked away alongside Max’s pristine hard-shell suitcase.
The bellhop doesn’t so much as glance at Liam before rolling both bags away like luggage inequality is standard procedure.
Max is arguing with the receptionist about room logistics, but Liam is a few steps too far away to really pick up what they’re saying. He’s too busy being looked at like gum stuck to the bottom of a rich man’s shoe. He resists the urge to tuck his greasy hair under his hoodie.
Maybe if he stood still long enough, he’d melt into the floor.
Eventually Max’s hand folds around his elbow and tugs him towards the elevator. He seems on edge, so Liam doesn’t chance it by actually saying anything. Just lets himself be guided, like luggage with legs.
The room is a suite, grandiose and sleek and containing a single, king-sized bed planted like a monument in the middle of the room.
Liam stares at it.
Max, for his part, clearly tries not to. He busies himself with setting down the keycard and taking off his jacket with a little more force than necessary. There’s a beat of silence.
“You should have a shower,” Max says finally, voice gentler now. “Clean up a bit.”
Liam blinks at him, caught off guard by the softness. He nods, automatic. “Yeah. Sure. That makes sense.”
Because it does . He smells like recycled plane air and sweat, his hair is greasy and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t actually groomed any part of himself in… a month. Maybe more. He's certainly not up to Max’s standards, if everything he’s witnessed is anything to go by.
Liam riffles through his bag, grabs his toiletries and ducks into the bathroom without another word, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
—
The hotel soaps smell like bergamot and lavender. He uses them instead of his usual cheap 3-in-1.
He starts with his hair, scrubbing into the roots of it before conditioning the ends. His hair has always mattered to him—more than he usually admits. Back home, he’d had a whole shelf covered in curl creams, scalp oils, and deep-conditioning masks. But when you’re living out of a backpack, priorities shift.
The all-in-one drugstore stuff had left his hair dry and straw-like. It's almost a relief to feel the stands come back, silky smooth under his finger tips.
There’s no loofah in the shoulder, probably something to do with hygiene, but now that he’s under the hot water, steam curling around his face, he’s not about to go rummaging through drawers stark naked just to find one. So he uses his hands instead, rubbing the lavender-scented body wash into his skin. It bubbles beneath his fingers, slipping over his chest, his stomach, before falling away in foamy spirals down the drain.
He closes his eyes, just for a moment, letting the water hammer against the back of his neck.
Faintly, Liam can hear Max’s voice through the walls, muffled and indistinct. It anchors him. Or maybe it unnerves him. Either way, he lets his hands trail downward.
His cock is semi-hard against his thigh, waiting impatiently for his attention. Unfortunately, getting off isn’t the goal.
Not exactly.
He curls his fingers around himself, briefly, just enough to ease the ache building low in his belly, before reaching for the one thing he had bothered to bring into the shower. His grip slips a little on the cap, slick with soap and water, and he nearly fumbles it. Swearing softly, he manages to squeeze a clear dollop onto his fingers before it can spill down the drain.
Bracing one arm against the cool tile of the wall, Liam lets his forehead rest there for a beat. The shower stall is obscenely big, really, the kind found only in suites like this, and for a moment it makes him feel very small, very young , in a way that sticks in his throat. The overripe feeling of not belonging.
Then he exhales again, slower this time, and reaches back.
His slick fingers slip between the cheeks of his ass, finding the tight ring of muscle there. He takes his time. Goes gentle with it in a way he’s rarely allowed for late night club hookups.
When he works two fingers in, the longer push of his middle brushing up against his prostate, he gets hit with a whine, high in the back of his throat. It comes out before he can stifle it, and he wonders if the walls are thin enough for Max to hear. He half hopes he does. Then wonders if that hope makes him pathetic. There’s something quietly humiliating about it, about all of it.
Liam curls his bottom lip up to bite, cutting off the rest of his moans.
—
When Liam gets out of the bathroom, he finds Max standing in the middle of the room on his phone. He’s still in his shirt from earlier, though the buttons have come undone, revealing a crisp white undershirt beneath. His shoes are off, socked toes curling into the thick, plush carpet.
He looks at ease in luxury. Comfortable in a way Liam isn’t. The thought makes his cheeks heat, sudden and sharp.
“I booked you a flight to Auckland for tomorrow,” Max says without looking up.
Liam blinks.
Then blinks again, slower this time, as if he’s misheard.
“What?”
Max glances up at him then, his expression carefully casual, but there’s a thread of hesitance in his voice now. “I didn’t want to overstep. But… I figured I had the ability to do it. So I did.”
Liam doesn’t move at first. Then he takes a step forward. And another.
He’s suddenly, acutely aware that he’s still only wearing a towel, the fabric slung dangerously low on his narrow hips. Water drips from his hair down his neck, trailing along his collarbone, and then dropping further into the steep v of his hips.
Max seems to notice too. His eyes flick downward, following the droplet until it sinks into the towel. He lingers for just a second too long, his fingers twitching by his side as colour creeps into his cheeks, then spreads, pinking his neck and the tips of his ears. He clears his throat, gaze snapping back to somewhere just over Liam’s left shoulder.
Liam’s heart thuds heavily in his chest. This is the moment, isn’t it? The quiet transaction under all the kind words.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Liam says slowly, tilting his head back into Max’s sight. “The flight, I mean.”
Max shrugs, noncommittal. “Didn’t seem right leaving you stranded.”
Liam chews his lip. “I’ve got nothing to give you in return, you know.”
Max looks confused. “That’s not—”
“I can , though,” Liam cuts in, stepping closer. The space between them narrows until the damp warmth of his bare chest hovers just inches from Max’s pressed shirt. His voice is quiet now, low and unsure. “If you want.”
Max stiffens, eyes searching his. “Liam…”
But Liam closes the distance anyway. Pushes himself up onto his toes to drag Max down with him. The kiss is a hesitation at first. Max doesn’t move, and for one awful heartbeat Liam believes that he’s inescapably fucked up.
Until Max’s hands, his broad, wide, big hands, cup his face and he kisses back. Dominating and delicious, his tongue pressing in between Liam’s teeth with a speed that speaks of impatient desire. Liam’s breath stutters through his nose, and Max pulls away just enough to search his face again.
“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little rough.
Liam nods, a shaky breath escaping him. “Yeah.” His thoughts are slower now, a little muzzy, like they’ve fallen a few steps behind his heartbeat.
Max seems to take that at the surface value — consent, as fragile and trembling as it is— and moves to pull the shirt from his back.
For a moment, all Liam can do is stare.
Max isn’t ripped , not in that chiseled, gym-hard kind of way. But he’s solid . Broad through the shoulders, strong in a way that speaks of steadiness more than vanity. His pecs are full, soft-looking in a way that makes Liam’s mouth water. He wants to sink his teeth into them, to leave marks. The ache of it pulses behind his teeth.
Max steps closer, crowds into his space, until Liam is forced back, spine meeting the cool glass of the window. The city twinkles over his shoulder, but Liam doesn’t care to look at it. Because Max is looking at him, like Liam is something to be devoured.
The movement dislodges the towel at Liam’s waist, and it slips off silently, pooling around his ankles. The sudden chill of the glass against his bare ass sends a shudder down his spine.
“This doesn’t feel fair,” Liam breathes, not quite sure if he’s teasing or trembling.
“Then make it fair,” Max breathes, into his neck, running his tongue along a bead of water that trails from Liam’s collarbone to just beneath his ear.
He whines, high in his throat, his hands shaking as he fumbles with Max’s belt. The buckle clatters to the floor, a metallic punctuation mark that sends Max into action to pop the button on his trousers. They fall in one smooth motion, dragging down with them a pair of Armani briefs that Liam absolutely pretends not to clock.
“Jesus Christ,” Liam breathes, not even bothering to hide the awe in his voice. Because what he does clock is Max’s cock, looking thick and heavy, already hard nestled between his legs. It presses insistently against Liam’s hip as Max surges forward to kiss him, mouth open and hungry.
He chuckles against his lips but doesn’t mention the reaction. Kind of him, really. Letting Liam keep what’s left of his dignity.
Instead, he uses Liam’s distraction to haul him up, gripping under his thighs like Liam weighs nothing more than a duffel bag. Liam wraps around him instinctively, arms winding around Max’s shoulders, breath stuttering as Max palms his ass, eliciting a light slap that makes Liam gasp and tug at the back of Max’s hair.
Max groans, low and rough, and then his fingers dip lower. Sliding into the cleft of Liam’s ass without resistance.
He stills.
Liam watches the change in his expression, the slight parting of his lips, the dilation of already-dark eyes until there’s barely any blue left at all.
“You prepped for me?” Max’s voice cracks halfway through, sounding wrecked for it.
Liam nods, cheeks burning as his head tips back against the glass, eyes fluttering closed. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat of quiet, like Max is turning it over in his head, before he leans in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Good boy.”
Like electricity to his veins, Liam moans at the praise, keening in Max’s arms. Max punctuates it with the press of his thick fingers into Liam’s tight hole, testing the stretch, opening him up even further. It burns in that delicious way that gets Liam’s mouth watering.
He’s not sure why he’s been so worked up about this. Max handles him like he knows him, like he knows exactly how to take him apart and is savouring every second. Holding him one-handed, while the other reaches to the desk for something. Liam hears the quiet zip of the toiletry bag, the soft clink of a bottle, and then he’s being shifted, placed carefully onto the sleek glass surface beside it.
The desk is unforgivingly cool under Liam’s sweaty skin, and it makes him gasp—just a little—but Max doesn’t miss it.
“Cold?” Max murmurs, as he slicks his hand with lube, spreading it slow and deliberate over his cock.
“No,” Liam breathes, eyes locked on the movement. “Just… fuck.”
For a second, Liam thinks he could be happy for Max to stay exactly like that: looming above him, fucking into his own hand until he comes all over Liam’s stomach. His brain feels distant, edged out of his body entirely, hijacked by the slick, unbearable heat pooling in his stomach.
Max leans over him, caging Liam’s head between his forearms. The head of his cock grazes over the swell of Liam’s ass, making him shiver. Liam tilts his hips, trying to draw him in.
“You’re going to take every inch of me,” Max murmurs, his accent thicker now. The plush curve of his lips brushes along Liam’s jaw as he speaks. “On every surface of this room.”
He says it with such blind certainty that Liam forgets how to form words. Instead, he hooks one leg high around Max’s waist, locking him in, desperate. He doesn’t want to be teased; he wants to be ruined.
When Max lines himself up, and fucks into him, one agonisingly slow inch at a time, Liam moans into the line of Max’s neck, blunted fingernails scratching divots into the swath of his broad shoulders.
“Fuck, fuck…” It’s a little mantra on his lips, and Max shushes him, presses their lips together soundly. The hands’ on Liam’s face tremble, a struggle for control.
“Max,” Liam pants, voice wrecked. “Just fuck me.”
He won’t break. Or at least, he doesn’t think he will. He’s never taken someone as big as Max before, but he’s not a fucking amateur. And Max treating him like he might shatter under the pressure is driving him insane.
Max grunts, low and guttural, and lifts him without warning. Liam sucks in a breath, limbs tightening instinctively as he feels himself hoisted, half-seated, cock still buried deep. There’s a split second of vertigo, of being utterly exposed and off-balance, before he’s pressed down into sheets soft enough to suffocate.
Liam’s leg’s get hiked up and folded over Max’s shoulders, before he thrusts forward in one smooth, devastating motion, bottoming out inside him.
Liam forgets how to breathe. His mouth drops open in a soundless cry as his whole body clenches around the stretch. Max doesn’t even move for a beat, just holds him there, hips flush, cock buried to the hilt, until Liam pulses around him and whines.
His head falls back into the mattress, lips working around that same frantic mantra. He’s not even sure if he’s saying it aloud anymore, or just thinking it — fuck, fuck, fuck — the only coherent thought he can grasp between the burn and the obscene drag of Max inside him. How he glances over his prostate on the end of each thrust.
Just as Liam’s getting used to the weight of Max’s breadth folding him over, he shifts again, sits back on his heels without even slipping out. Liam’s legs fall, end up slung over his thighs, and one of Max’s hands drops beneath him, cupping under his ass to lift him. He doesn’t reach for a pillow, because why would he? When he has the sheer strength to hold Liam there, suspended, entirely at his mercy.
Max keeps fucking him throughout. Never breaking rhythm. Not even faltering.
Shifting to hold him one-handed, Max uses the other hand to press against Liam’s lower belly.
“You feel that?” he asks, voice rough with strain. His palm is firm, grounding. “That’s me.”
And Liam can feel it. The thick pressure deep inside, the obscene fullness pressing back against Max’s hand from the inside out. His whole body clenches again, involuntarily, and Max groans like it’s been punched out of him.
“Jesus, you take me so fucking well,” he grits out, and then he’s fucking Liam harder. Just the slick, punishing rhythm of hips slamming into him and the thick stretch of cock dragging over every nerve inside him like fire.
Liam can’t keep quiet anymore. The moans tear from his throat, wrecked and needy, punched out of him on every thrust. He’s unraveling, the tension in him stretched to a breaking point.
“Max—” he gasps, eyes squeezed shut, “I’m—fuck, I’m—”
He doesn’t get to finish. Max angles his hips just right, hits his prostate dead on and then doesn’t let up. Liam breaks with it, comes with a choked cry, white heat flashing behind his eyelids as he spills between them, his cock untouched. His whole body spasms, milking Max through the aftershocks.
Max followers, hips stuttering. He curls inwards, until Liam can feel his breath along the line of his shoulder and the press of his teeth as he groans and spills inside him. The hot, full feeling hits Liam like a wall, and he blinks up at the ceiling, breath caught, heart hammering.
They’d forgotten a condom.
The thought drops like a stone in his stomach, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s no point now, not when Max is still buried inside him, arms wrapped tight around Liam’s torso like he’s anchoring himself to shore.
The realisation settles in any way. He won’t just be feeling Max for hours, but for days. His body will carry the echo of soreness blooming in his hips, the phantom grip of Max’s hands still mapped on his skin. And if he doesn’t wash it away, he’ll have the evidence of it slicking down his thigh by morning.
Liam swallows hard, forehead pressed to Max’s throat.
“Next time,” he rasps, choosing the safe option instead of all the other things clawing at his chest, “you don’t get to hold back.”
Max huffs a weak laugh, lips brushing Liam’s temple.
“Let me know how you feel about that in ten minutes,” he murmurs, just before dragging his lips down the curve of Liam’s throat, over his collarbone, and lower still.
Max makes good on his promise.
He presses Liam to every surface of the hotel room, the back of the velvet couch, against the cool windowpane, the bathroom counter still fogged from the shower, until Liam is trembling with the effort of holding himself together.
Afterward, when Liam’s body is sated and sweat-slicked, he waits.
Waits for the moment it feels transactional. For the part where Max demands something, or names a price.
But it never comes.
—
In the early hours of the morning, as the sky begins to pale with the first hints of dawn, Liam realises how foolish he’s been.
He slips out from beneath Max’s arm with practised quiet, barely disturbing the covers as he eases himself free. For a moment, Liam lingers, letting his gaze trace the now familiar slope of Max’s bare shoulder, the soft rise and fall of his breath.
Then he turns away.
In the bathroom, he fumbles for his clothes in the half-dark, blinking against the pale, unkind glow of the vanity light. His reflection catches him off guard. His curls are soft again, curling loose and wild in every direction, but it’s not what draws his eye.
Bruises are blooming on his hips, faint purple marks in the shape of fingertips. There’s a hickey darkening on his collarbone, just above the neckline of his shirt, one his jacket might barely hide, if he pulls it closed and keeps it that way.
His throat tightens around a lump he didn’t know was there. He swallows it back, bile rising in its place. He feels sick.
He shouldn't care that he’s leaving. Max won’t. He got what he wanted, and now Liam is taking his payment. Maybe if he stuck around, Max would buy him breakfast, keep up the charade, maybe even get him a car to the airport.
But Liam wants to spare himself the indignity of pretending. He knows this script by heart. Nothing is new, just another man who used him for what he wanted. The only difference is that this time, the man has money. A lot of it.
Whether or not Max would ever admit it was a transaction doesn’t matter. Liam knows better than to wait around for the other shoe to drop. He’s not about to stand in that room when Max’s expression shifts from soft to cold, from tenderness to calculation, like he’s assigning value to Liam’s body and weighing it against services rendered.
Liam thinks if he had to see that look, after Max had spent the night pressing soft kisses into every inch of his body with the gentle reverence of an actual lover, it would break him.
So he leaves.
He doesn’t have a dollar to his name. He doesn’t even check the bedside table or Max’s wallet for cash, he’s many things but not a thief. He just pulls on his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and takes the ten flights of stairs down to the lobby, one aching step at a time.
The hotel doors hiss closed behind him as he steps out into the cool light of dawn
—
It takes Liam longer to walk to the airport than he expects. His legs ache from the hours he’s spent on them, and the strap of his bag keeps slipping off his shoulder. The early morning air is already warming up, thick with humidity and exhaust, and by the time he finally steps through the automatic doors into the terminal, his shirt is damp with sweat and the clock reads 9:48.
He approaches the check-in desk, where the airline attendant gives him a quick once-over and then turns to the woman standing beside her. They murmur to each other for a moment, not unkindly, before proceeding with the usual check-in routine.
Liam hands over his passport, barely listening as she confirms his flight, and that yes, he hasn’t missed it but it was already boarding. He’s so focused on keeping his breathing steady, on not thinking about what’s coming next, that he doesn’t notice at first when someone approaches from behind.
By the time he turns around, Max is standing there.
The other attendant gives Max a small, knowing smile before quietly stepping away.
Max doesn’t move closer. He just stares at him, searching his face, waiting.
"How did you find me?" Liam asks, voice low.
“I booked the flight, I knew where you were going.” Max’s voice is even, but there’s a tightness beneath it. He’s standing in the middle of the terminal like he hasn’t slept. Liam feels a sharp twist of guilt low in his gut. He did that. He left him like that.
Max doesn’t move closer, just stares at him like he’s waiting for something. “Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”
He can’t meet his eyes, he settles for staring just over Max's shoulder, over at the departures board, where the flight he's supposed to be on is inching closer to final boarding.
“I figured… I thought you’d want me gone. That you…” His throat tightens around the words, and they come out rough, unfinished.
Max’s voice softens. “That I what, Li?”
Liam still can’t meet his eyes. He looks past him, at the board, at the travellers, anywhere but at Max. “You booked me a flight. Took me to your hotel. Told me to shower. I figured…”
“That I just expected sex?” Max finishes, and the disbelief in his voice lands with a dull thud between them.
Liam’s stomach twists again, tighter this time. He takes a step back, arms curling protectively around his midsection. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Something like that.”
Max exhales, hard. “Liam,” he says, and there’s no anger in it. “I didn’t help you so I could sleep with you. I helped you because I saw someone who needed help. That’s it.”
“Like charity.”
“No,” Max says immediately. “Because I cared.”
Liam winces. The words don’t hurt—but the kindness in them does.
“You still did, though,” he says quietly.
“I did,” Max admits. “But only because you wanted to. Or at least, I thought you did.”
“I didn’t know how else to say thank you,” Liam whispers. The admission feels like peeling off skin. “I did… I wanted it, but…”
Max’s gaze softens, but his tone stays firm. “You never had to repay kindness with your body, Liam. You’re allowed to accept help without a cost. That’s not how this works.”
Liam presses his lips together, hard. The final boarding call echoes through the terminal, but neither of them moves.
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to be safe,” Max admits, “I want you to be happy.”
Liam licks over his lips. The temptation stands to stay here, to let the final boarding call come and go. To ignore the ache in his chest and let himself fall back into whatever has been simmering between them since last night.
But it’s not that simple. There's a tangle of thorns wrapped tight around his ribs, a sharp reminder that he can’t just unlearn the things that taught him to run, to expect the worst, to survive by disappearing before someone tells him to leave.
He draws in a shallow breath. “I have to catch this flight.”
“I know.”
There’s a beat of silence. Liam doesn’t know what he wants from Max. Permission, maybe. Or just something soft to hold onto when he’s alone again.
“You could…” he begins, faltering. “You could visit sometime. If you wanted.”
Max's expression doesn't shift, but he smiles, a barely there upturn to the side of his mouth. “Only if you want me to.”
Liam looks down at his feet, then back up. “Maybe,” he says quietly. “Some day.”
He takes a step back, the first move toward leaving, but before he can get far, Max is suddenly there; hands warm and firm on either side of Liam’s face.
The kiss is quick, a goodbye on his lips, and when Max lets him go, he slips a piece of paper into his hand and then turns. He walks away without another word, without looking back.
Like if he does, he wouldn’t be able to let go.
The paper is warm in Liam's palm. He unfolds it slowly. Max’s full name. His phone number. Nothing else.
Liam clutches the paper to his chest for a moment, breathing through the rattle of his heart. Then, without looking back, he turns sharply and bolts down the corridor. His name rings out over the airport intercom, calling him to a flight he’s already late for.
Maybe, this time, he’s not late for everything.