Tell me, have you ever wanted someone so much it hurts

by MeOnly

Summary:

When Axel is cast as Lucas in Skam France, he thinks he’s ready—for the lines, the cameras, the chemistry. But as filming progresses and his scenes with Maxence grow more intimate, the boundaries blur. Between character and self. Between performance and something else.

He tells himself it’s just acting. Until it isn’t.

Author’s Note:

I started this story when Skam France was still airing, not knowing what it would become. It was the first thing I wrote that truly mattered—and it taught me more than I can say about writing, rhythm, and character. Coming back now is about doing it justice.

Some chapters and scenes have been reworked or removed, and some beautiful comments once attached to them are now gone.

If you left a comment—thank you.
Your words meant (and still mean) more than I can explain. You were part of why I kept going.

If you like the story now (still a work in progress—because why stop before reaching true literature?), it would mean the world if you left a new one.

This is a fictional story inspired by real events and appearances. The show is real. The romantic relationship? Pure imagination.

Chapter 1: Someone Like Him

xx

To be quite honest,

I really just want to

get to know you better,

that's all

xx 

Axel sits across from David, elbows on the table, fingers around the photo. The room is quiet. Bright.

“This guy could be Eliott,” says David, the director, leaning back in his chair. He taps the photo twice, like he’s sealing the deal.

“We had him in for a reading last week. He was mid-monologue, and someone's phone went off. Everyone in the room flinched. Everyone but him. He just… stopped. Didn’t look up, didn’t make a fuss. Waited until every single person in that room was looking right back at him, holding their breath. Then he delivered the next line as if nothing had happened.”

David leans forward slightly. “The kid doesn’t just command a room; he commands the air in it. He’d be perfect opposite you as Lucas.”

Axel doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the image.

Sharp cheekbones. A mouth held in check. Eyes like glacial water. There’s tension in his face. The kind that draws you in before you think to stop.

Maybe that’s why his fingers tense, just a notch tighter on the photo.

“He’s different,” he says finally, voice a little lower than he meant. “He doesn’t even have to try. He exists — and it works.”

It’s not Axel’s first role — not even in Skam France, where he’s already filmed two seasons. But this season, everything is different. New showrunner, new tone. And this story matters. And so does who plays his love interest.

He sets the photo down.

“But…”

David leans forward, eyebrow raised. “But?”

Axel shrugs. “I just don’t know if I can match him.”

He thinks of his reflection that morning — his short frame, the face that still won’t grow stubble, even at twenty-one. Not ugly, no. Just… the kind of person you’d see on the train and forget before the next stop.

David lets out a short, dry laugh. Not unkind. “Little one,” he says, using the nickname that always makes Axel feel about six years old, “chemistry isn’t about symmetry. It’s about friction.”

Friction.

The word won’t let go. A heaviness gathers under his ribs.

He drops his gaze back to the photo.

“You sure about this?” he asks, uncertain whether he means David or himself.

“Sure as hell,” David says, already rising, his back cracking as he stretches. “With him — you’ll get where you need to be.”

He walks out the door and leaves it ajar behind him.

Axel remains where he is.

The folder is closed beneath his hands now. A question turns in him: how will it feel — to stand across from him?

Chapter 2: I Don't Know Who I Am

The question of how it would feel to stand across from him had followed Axel for months. Now, it was a feeling he knew all too well.

Axel leans against the wooden bench in the rehearsal room, his thumb brushing over the ink heart carved into its surface. Uneven. Faded. Probably someone’s teenage crisis, etched into cheap varnish. His finger keeps circling it.

The room clings to him. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Posters curl at the corners. The smell of stale coffee. They’ve rehearsed here for weeks. Every line, every silence. He’s come to know Lucas inside out. And he loves the way the third season of the web-series is taking shape. But today, the rhythm is off. Like walking with one sock twisted inside the shoe.

The script rests in his lap. Soft-spined, worn. He shifts. It slips from his knees and lands on the floor with a soft sound. He picks it up again.

Across the room, Maxence sits. Elbows on his knees, head bent, one hand at his mouth. Axel watches. The brush of a knuckle across his lip. The angle of his neck. Hair falling loose across his brow.

Something tugs at him, makes him swallow.

His knee bumps the underside of the bench. Not hard—just enough to feel it.

The words are there before he knows he’s speaking.

“Hey, Maxence.”

The sound cuts the room. Maxence lifts his head. Their eyes meet.

Axel clears his throat.

“When we’re acting… does it ever feel… weird… to you?”

The words come out unfiltered. Raw. Startling even to himself.

Maxence doesn’t answer.

His jaw tenses, just slightly. Then he rises, picks up his jacket, and walks—measured—like walking out of a scene that was never meant to be.

At the doorway, Maxence pauses. Then he’s gone.

The pause sticks—an opening.

Axel’s body moves before his mind has time to catch up.

Outside, cold air wraps around him instantly, slipping under his shirt to press against the skin beneath his collarbone.

Maxence stands under the yellow security light, a cigarette glowing between his fingers.

Axel stops a few paces away. He doesn’t speak. Just watches.

Maxence exhales slowly, smoke dissolving into the night. Then he says, without turning, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

The sentence lands clear and heavy, like a stone in water.

Axel blinks. “What do you mean?” His voice lowers, shaped by the stillness around them.

Maxence looks toward the gravel.

Axel watches the slope of his back.

One step forward would knock everything loose.

He stays still.

Maxence stubs out the cigarette on the stone planter. A faint tremble in his hand.

Then turns. Flows past Axel.

His jacket brushes Axel’s sleeve as he moves. A faint trace of citrus follows in his wake—lingering.

Axel’s breath clouds the air. He rubs his palms together, sleeves stiff with cold.

The heart on the bench flashes in his mind again—crooked, unfinished.

He turns toward the door.

Just before stepping inside, he tilts his face up.

The sky stays silent.

Chapter 3: Let It Stay

Before it all started — a meeting. No cameras. No script. He hadn’t known what to expect. Just a drink at a bar in Paris. A face to memorize before they started filming.

They were two strangers cast as lovers. And Axel wasn’t sure if this counted as work, or something else.

The place was dimly lit. Sconces casting soft shadows across the walls as Axel stood near the entrance. A flicker moved through him — half nerves, half anticipation. And when Maxence walked in, his breath caught.

He was tall. And even on crutches, Maxence moved with a rhythm that pulled the eye. Black jeans, crisp white shirt, leather jacket—he made the uneven steps look deliberate.

His gaze swept the room and landed on Axel.

“Axel?” His voice was low, precise.

“That’s me,” Axel said, stepping forward with a smile.

He hesitated before offering his hand, unsure how to navigate the crutches.

Maxence adjusted his stance and shook it—firm grip, warm skin. “Maxence,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling. “Not the most graceful entrance.”

“You pulled it off,” Axel said.

“Good.”

They took a small table near the center of the room. Maxence tucked the crutches under the table.

“So,” Axel said, resting his arms on the surface, “what happened to your leg?”

“Torn ligament. Misjudged a landing. I’ll live.”

“Looks painful.”

“Could be worse. At least I get to skip stairs.”

Axel laughed. “Perks.”

Maxence smiled, then let it fall away slowly. “Tell me about you. What brought you to acting?”

The question was soft, but real. It touched something Axel usually kept tucked away.

He shrugged, buying himself a second.

“It’s always been there, I think. Seeing more of someone else’s life. Feeling deeper.”

Maxence nodded, his gaze catching Axel’s for a moment.

“I get that. I feel it too,” he said, then added, “What is it for you? The pull?”

Axel didn’t answer right away. He let the question settle between them.

“It scares me,” he said finally. “In a way that makes me stay.”

Maxence didn’t look away. “Scares you how?”

Axel looked down at his hands, deciding how much to share. When he met Maxence’s gaze again, it was open. Honest.

“You open yourself up, and… you don’t know what people will see. Or if they’ll like it.”

He shifted slightly, one hand drifting toward his throat without thinking.

Maxence tapped the rim of his glass with his thumb. “But you keep doing it.”

“Yeah,” Axel said. His voice softer now. “I guess I do.”

They kept talking. Film. Theater. How Maxence had been discovered outside Actors Factory, painting a fence, and ended up acting.

Acting was their common ground. But sketching—Axel figured Maxence could keep that to himself.

There was an ease to the way Maxence moved through the conversation. Sharp without trying. Funny without pushing it. He listened with a kind of openness, like he left space for things to unfold without rushing.

The buzz of conversation faded, leaving just the space between them.

“So,” Axel asked, “what made you say yes to this project?”

Maxence looked sideways, toward a couple seated nearby, a man and a woman. Their fingers touched in the middle of the table, absentminded and close.

“For the same reason you’re here,” Maxence said. “Because it matters.”

The words settled between them, real and solid.

Axel looked at him. Light caught on his cheekbone, softening his features. He looked kind.

The thought rose before he could stop it.

I like him.

Axel didn’t try to explain it.

He just let it stay.

Chapter 4: Bring Everything You Are

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

The rehearsal room was bare—white walls, two folding tables, a few chairs. A stack of scripts slumped in the corner.

It was their first time meeting the writer.

Niels stood in the open space, his gaze moving between Axel and Maxence. The space felt narrow today.

“For the next six months, I need you to be in love,” Niels said, unwavering. “I don’t care who you’re dating. What matters is what you bring here.”

Across from him, Maxence shifted. His eyes flicked briefly toward Axel before returning to his script.

“This story isn’t just about romance,” Niels continued. “It’s about honesty. And vulnerability. If you can’t do that… don’t waste your time.”

Axel swallowed. What Niels was asking for was more than performance.

Then, quieter: “I wrote this season because I needed it,” Niels said. “As a teenager. I needed to see myself somewhere. To feel less alone.”

Axel glanced at Maxence again. There was a flicker of tension in Maxence’s jaw.

Axel’s fingers curled against his thigh. 

“I understand,” Axel said, looking at Niels. His voice came low. “It’s not just a role.”

Niels nodded, and his face softened. “Exactly. But it only works if you trust each other enough to mean it.”

Axel nodded, something grounding itself inside him.

A pause stretched between them.

Then, Maxence said, “This story matters…we’ll get it right.”

Their eyes met. Maxence’s face was serious. A breath caught in his throat.

“Yes, we will,” Axel said, nodding again, with all the conviction he could muster.

Niels stepped back, arms folded. “Good,” he said. “Because if you’re willing to give it everything, we might make something that stays with people.”

Axel took a breath. His throat felt dry.

It felt like the start of a project that would change him from the inside — and he wasn’t sure he was ready.

Chapter 5: Trying to Find the Shape of It

Maxence paced in tight, restless circles. The script in his hand was creased at the edges from being held too hard.

Axel stood in the middle of the floor, staring down at his pages.

The scene wasn’t landing, and they all knew it.

David pushed off the wall. His voice cut in. “Stop.”

Both Axel and Maxence froze. Their heads turned toward him. His arms were crossed, gaze sharp.

“You’re saying the words, not living them,” he said, stepping forward.

Axel glanced at Maxence. Their eyes met for a second—a snag between them—before Maxence looked away.

David’s tone dropped a notch—still direct, but gentler now. “Let me ask you something,” he said, turning to Maxence. “Have you ever been in love?”

Maxence hesitated. His lips parted, then closed again. “I thought I was,” he said finally. “Maybe I was. I don’t know.”

David nodded. That was enough. Then he turned to Axel. “And you?”

Axel tensed. Mae’s laugh flickered across his mind. The way she held his hand—easy and sure, like it belonged there.

“I think so,” he said, after a pause. “My girlfriend… she’s… she’s great.”

The words landed flat. His throat felt thick.

David studied him, but didn’t press.

“I’m not sure,” Axel said finally, voice thinning, uneven.

“Good,” David said. “Because Lucas doesn’t know either. He’s trying to find the shape of it. That’s your way in.”

Axel blinked. The words stayed, unsettled.

“Love isn’t just a line,” David continued. “It’s in how you look at someone. In what happens when you get close—or don’t. It’s need. And it hurts. That’s the part you can’t plan.”

David took a step back toward the door, letting the weight of his words hang between them.

Axel looked at Maxence. He could see the slope of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his jaw.

For a moment, it felt like Maxence might be just as shaken as he was.

David’s gaze lingered. “You’re not there yet,” he said. “But you’re close. Sit with it. Then we’ll try again.”

He left the room. His footsteps faded slowly.

The air between them stayed thick.

Axel stared down at the script in his hands. His own words echoed back at him. “She’s great.”

Great was the kind of word you used for group chats, safe dates, vacations that didn’t suck.

Not for the kind of need David was talking about.

His throat closed. A pulse beat low in his belly — thin, unfamiliar.

A thought like a hairline crack spread across the smooth surface of his denial. He tried not to look, afraid of what might break.

Across the room, Maxence had dropped into a chair. He leaned back, his eyes drifting across the ceiling, like he was waiting for something to settle.

Then:

“Do you think he’s right?” Maxence asked, voice low.

Axel looked out the window.

A tree shifted in the breeze, its leaves thick with early summer green.

The world outside moved, but he couldn’t feel it.

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Maxence gave a quiet laugh. “Well. Shit.”

Axel let out a breath that turned into a chuckle. “Pretty much.”

Maxence stood up then, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He walked over to the window, his back to Axel.

"This isn't going to work if we just keep pretending," he said, his voice quiet but clear. He turned around, his gaze direct. "Come to my place tomorrow. We need to try to do this for real."

The lights buzzed overhead.

Axel thought of Mae. Of Lucas. Of what David had said. About how love lived in the pain.

He didn’t know what the feeling was—only that it walked out with him.

Chapter 6: The Window Inside You

The scooter ride to Maxence’s apartment felt strangely disconnected from reality. He didn’t know what to expect, what Maxence meant by “for real,” and the question turned over in his mind, a thought loop that was out of sync with the steady hum of the engine beneath him. The familiar streets of Paris blurred past, but he barely registered them.

After finding the building’s elevator out of order and climbing the seven flights of stairs, he wasn’t sure if the frantic pulse in his throat was from the exertion, or just nerves, as he reached for the buzzer.

But the moment Maxence opened the door and he stepped inside, the tightness in his chest eased.

Barefoot and in a hoodie, Maxence seemed a natural extension of a home that felt nothing like Axel’s. It was barely big enough for the couch, the armchair, and the shelves that bowed under too many books; it wasn’t polished or styled. It was cozy, messy, and immediately welcoming. Sketches were taped to the walls. Chipped mugs littered the table. Stacks of things leaned against each other without any real order.

Whatever Maxence had planned, it felt less intimidating here, in this small, cluttered space that was so unapologetically him.

Axel had claimed the armchair, one leg thrown over the side. Maxence sat cross-legged on the couch, a few pages of script notes in his lap.

Maxence didn’t look up when he asked, "When did you know you were in love?"

Axel blinked. "Okay. Straight in."

Maxence looked at him then. No sarcasm. Just that quiet stillness that seemed to belong to him alone.

Axel shifted, wanting to get it right. "I don’t think there was a moment," he said. "No fireworks. It was more like… small things piling up. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear. The way she laughed when something caught her off guard. And then one day, I realized those were the things I missed."

Maxence didn’t respond right away, but Axel felt his gaze—present.

When he spoke, his voice was softer. "For me, it’s more like a spark," he said. "One second, it’s just a normal day. The next…"

He paused. His fingers pressed slightly into the paper in his lap. Then he lifted his eyes to Axel’s, something unguarded there. His voice dropped.

"…you see them—really see them—and something clicks. Like a window opens inside you. And everything changes."

Axel’s eyes dropped to Maxence’s mouth. The soft pull of lips. That small flick of tongue as he wet them. His breath caught.

He felt his heart thump, hard.

His hand tensed against the armrest as heat rose through him before he could stop it.

He swallowed, wanted to look away. Instead, he leaned in.

Maxence set the notes aside and shifted forward, closing some of the space between them.

A trace of citrus hung in the air.

Maxence’s gaze stayed fixed.

"Did I get it?" he asked—not smug, just… curious.

Axel opened his mouth, then closed it again. A thought stirred—say something—but nothing came.

"Yeah," he said at last. The voice didn’t sound like his own. "You got it."

Their eyes held. Axel stayed a beat too long. And another thought surfaced, quiet and precise:

This is dangerous.

* * *

Driving home from Maxence’s on his scooter, Axel zipped through narrow Paris streets.

The city was still awake around him—café chairs stacked in corners, neon signs buzzing faintly, mopeds weaving lines through the dark.

And Axel wished Maxence had kept it to himself.

Hadn’t talked about windows opening inside you.

Because it had slammed through him—messy, sharp.

A feeling he wasn’t used to. One he didn’t particularly like.

He’d never wanted any windows open.

Windows let in light.

And air so fresh it made you ache for more.

He was more in the business of walls. Solid ones. Walls that kept everything exactly where it was supposed to be.

But as he rattled over the uneven stones toward his apartment, he knew it was already too late.

The words had seeped through anyway.

For the first time since they started this project, Axel understood something he hadn’t wanted to admit.

This wasn’t just going to be difficult.

It was going to be personal.

Chapter 7: Nothing Held Back

Once again, Axel and Maxence sat in Maxence’s apartment, the small, cluttered space feeling strangely intimate.

The lamp in the corner cast soft light across books, sketches, scattered belongings. It was Maxence—unpolished, personal, and alive.

"We should talk about boundaries," Maxence said, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.

Axel looked up, caught off guard. "Boundaries?"

Maxence nodded. "For the show. For us. If we’re going to do this right, we need to be clear. What’s okay, what isn’t."

Axel leaned back, thinking. The roles they were stepping into demanded something that felt true.

"You’re right," he said. "We can’t just wing it."

Maxence kept his eyes on him. "So. What are yours?"

Axel paused. Saying it out loud felt personal. "Honestly," he said. "I don’t want it to feel staged. If we’re going to play this, it should feel real. For us. For the audience."

Maxence nodded. "Okay."

Axel’s voice softened. "What about you? What do you need?"

Maxence inhaled slowly. "To believe it. To lose myself in it."

The truth pushed at him, asking to be said.

Before he could think better of it, Axel breathed, “If you touch me… make it mean something.”

Maxence blinked. His lips twitched—not into a smile, just a flicker of response. His voice came low. “And if I kiss you…?”

Axel’s body reacted first—his stomach clenched—then the words came.

He swallowed. “Like you mean it,” he said, the rest caught behind his breath.

This time, Maxence smiled.

His gaze didn’t waver. “No lines?”

Axel met it. “None.”

A flicker of heat rose in his chest.

Had he meant that? Or just wanted to match Maxence’s courage?

He wasn’t sure. 

But he knew this:

Something real had begun to settle in. 

It had rooted itself inside him, and it wasn’t letting go. 

He could feel it everywhere.

No boundary was going to save him from that.

Chapter 8: For Letting Me In

Axel walked through the park, his Pomeranian, Ouba, trotting beside him with her fluffy tail wagging like she didn’t have a care in the world. Axel envied her for that. His thoughts had been spiraling all morning, and the weight of no boundaries still sat heavy in him, a stone he couldn’t shake loose.

The park buzzed with life—kids shouting, bikes rattling by, music drifting from somewhere nearby.

Axel tried to focus on those simple things. But his mind kept looping.

No boundaries.

He looked down at Ouba, who gazed back at him with expectant eyes. “You have no idea how easy you’ve got it, buddy,” Axel muttered. “Our asses are going to be on YouTube. Forever.”

Ouba blinked, unbothered.

“You’re really worried about your ass?” a familiar voice called out.

Axel turned fast. Maxence sat on a nearby bench, one leg stretched out, arms resting casually on the backrest. His face was relaxed, but the curve at his mouth said he’d heard more than he let on.

“Jesus, Maxence,” Axel groaned. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough.” Maxence patted the empty space beside him. “Sit.”

Axel lowered himself onto the bench. Ouba leapt into his lap, settled quickly, like she always had a place there.

“So,” Maxence said, tone light, “what’s actually going on?”

Axel stared ahead, fingers tangled in Ouba’s fur. Ouba shifted slightly in his lap, pressing closer.

“I don’t know,” he said after a beat. “I just… I want this to matter. I want to do it right. But what if I mess it up?”

He paused. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Not like this.”

Maxence studied him. His usual edge softened. “You won’t,” he said. “You care too much.”

Axel huffed. “Caring doesn’t make you good at it. It just…” He swallowed. “It just makes you scared.”

Maxence’s voice dropped a little. “That fear…maybe that’s what makes it worth doing. If it didn’t scare you, it wouldn’t mean anything.”

It felt true—profound, even.

Axel felt himself tense.

He glanced at Maxence.

“You always say things like that,” he said quietly. “Like you already know what I’m trying to figure out.”

Maxence’s smile was small and crooked. “I’ve had practice.”

He looked away briefly, then added, “I worry all the time. About everything. You just don’t always see it.”

Axel blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

“Really?”

Maxence shrugged. “Yeah. Mostly when I pretend I don’t.”

Axel stilled.

The scent of fresh-cut grass lingered in the warm air. Ouba let out a soft, contented sigh.

After a beat, Maxence stood and reached down, palm open.

“Come on. It’s getting late. Therapy session over.”

Axel slid his hand into Maxence’s—big, warm—and let himself be pulled up.

But before he could step away, Maxence’s hand shifted, pressing lightly against Axel’s chest. Just a touch.

“Thank you,” Maxence said, voice low.

Axel’s heart gave a sharp twist.

“For what?”

“For letting me in.”

No one had ever thanked Axel for that before.

Most people barely even looked past the surface.

A lump formed in his throat.

They started walking.

Axel glanced down at Ouba, trying to ease the pull inside him.

“David would’ve loved this,” he said.

“Oh?” Maxence asked, glancing over.

Axel smirked. “He told me to talk to the other naked person. Guess it worked.”

Maxence laughed for real—deep and unfiltered.

The press of it eased away.

They walked in silence after that.

Ouba’s tiny paws tapped lightly against the gravel.

The sunlight dappled across the path, warm against their backs.

Maxence was different, and it scared him in ways he didn’t understand.

But for the first time in weeks, Axel didn’t feel like he was carrying everything alone.

Chapter 9: It Stayed With Me

Axel lay sprawled on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The bedside lamp cast a soft yellow glow. His bedroom was spacious, with tall windows overlooking a quiet stretch of Paris.

Ouba was curled at the foot of the bed, snoring softly.

Rehearsals had been intense. Lines, scenes, retakes—always circling closer. But it wasn’t the script that kept him awake.

His hand drifted up, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt. The spot where Maxence had touched him, briefly, back in the park. Heat still lingered there — faint, but alive. His fingertips slowed, pulse skipping under the skin. Breath thinned.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

Maxence’s bright eyes, that dry, crooked smile. His closeness had filled him with a sudden heat, impossible to shy away from. He felt drawn in, under his gaze, not entirely sure if he was caught or freed. Axel shook his head.

His hand moved absently, lower, slow and unthinking. His breath caught, then slowed, and his fingers slipped just under the waistband of his boxers before he fully registered the thought.

Mae’s face flashed in his mind like a warning label.

His eyes snapped open.

He pulled his hand away as if burned. Turned to the side.

He lay tense, breath uneven.

Something still thrummed, low and stubborn.

“Get it together,” he muttered into the pillow.

Ouba stirred but didn’t wake. Axel reached down to scratch behind her ears, steadying his restless breath.

Anxious to ground himself, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand. His thumb hovered over his messages, then swiped to his photo gallery instead. He needed to see her face.

He scrolled past a dozen recent photos—blurry shots from rehearsals, a screenshot of a map, a picture of Ouba sleeping. Then he found it: a photo of him and Mae from last summer in Italy. They were smiling into the camera, tanned and happy, with the ocean behind them. Mae’s head was resting on his shoulder, her arm slung casually around his waist.

His thumb traced the curve of her smile on the screen. He zoomed in, studying the light in her eyes, then his own. The boy in the photo looked back at him, a stranger with an easy, uncomplicated grin. A hollowness opened up in Axel’s chest. He locked the screen, the image vanishing.

He opened it again, switching to his messages. His chat with Mae was at the top. The last message was from her, a simple heart emoji from that morning. His thumb hovered, then tapped out the words with a stiff, mechanical motion: Thinking of you. The letters stared back at him, hollow and wrong. He deleted them with a single, hard press.

He tried again, typing faster this time, as if to outrun the thought. Miss you. A hot flush of shame washed over him. His jaw tightened. He deleted the words again, the backspace key clicking aggressively under his thumb. The cursor blinked in the empty space, a patient, silent accusation.

With a sharp, frustrated movement, he turned the phone over and placed it face down on the duvet, pressing it into the soft fabric as if to smother it.

The silence that followed was worse. It left a vacuum that was immediately filled by Maxence. Not in flashes, like the manufactured memories of Mae, but as a single, sharp image: his gaze in the park, softened by his quiet confession. The brief, warm weight of his hand against Axel’s chest.

An echo of that heat bloomed under his ribs now. It felt more real than the perfect, smiling boy in the photograph. The realization hit him like a current, pulling him under.

Axel exhaled and looked up at the ornate plasterwork lining the ceiling.

“What the hell is going on with me?” he whispered.

He didn’t look for the answer.

But it crept in anyway.

He could see it now—cracks in his polish. Like he was a china cup: flawless from a distance, but lined with hairline fractures just beneath the glaze.

The image propelled him from the bed, a sudden, urgent need for different air. He crossed to the desk and opened his laptop.

The screen's glow illuminated his face. His fingers found the keyboard. One destination came to mind, a place that represented a younger, simpler version of himself; a life that felt solid under his feet.

He typed it in: Trains to Besançon.

The results loaded. A list of departure times. 06:42. 08:19. The cursor blinked, a patient, waiting pulse. He saw his mother’s face, her easy smile. Heard his father’s laugh. The thought of their solid, predictable world was a painful comfort, a safe harbor.

Then he saw Maxence’s eyes again, pulling him under. He needed air. With a sharp, sudden movement, he clicked. 06:42. One passenger. His hands were clumsy as he typed in his card details, his breath held tight in his chest.

The confirmation page loaded. Your trip is booked.

A breath shuddered out of him, ragged and loud. He slumped forward, forehead resting on the cool metal of the laptop. The relief was a gut-wrenching calm, the feeling of a fever that had finally broken, leaving him weak.

He needed walls, solid ones. And the only way to build them was to put a hundred kilometers of steel track between himself and the man who seemed to shake them to their foundations.

Chapter 10: Where He Used to Fit

It was mid-July, and Paris lay draped in heat.

The kind that slowed everything down. Made the air too thick to move through. Made even the pigeons walk instead of fly.

He took the train south, three days away from the city.

He didn’t tell anyone. Needed to remember who he’d been before all this began.

He brought Ouba with him. She curled beside him the whole ride, her head on his thigh, like a tether.

His parents lived in the outskirts of Besançon. A quiet place. The kind of town where the boulangerie closed for lunch and the neighbors still waved from their windows.

His dad met him at the station, grinning wide, already peeling open a bag of candy. “Strawberry laces,” he said. “Thought you might want one. Or ten.”

Axel laughed and took two. His dad always said sugar made life easier to swallow.

He popped one into his mouth, the familiar plasticky sweetness hitting his tongue.

He used to love them. Now, they just tasted like sugar.

They didn’t linger long.

A short drive later, they pulled up to the house.

It was just as he’d left it. Pale shutters, ivy climbing the side wall, a lavender bush that had grown a little too wild. Inside, it smelled like clean floors and cake.

His mom was in the kitchen, baking a galette comtoise like it was a form of meditation. It felt like stepping into a painting from the past—an exact portrait of Axel’s childhood.

That night, they sat outside under the fig tree.

His dad told a long story about a broken lawnmower.

His mom rolled her eyes and topped off Axel’s wine.

The air buzzed with cicadas.

Everything felt familiar, like an old song.

He laughed when he should. Answered questions and smiled when they teased him about Paris.

For a while, it almost felt easy.

But staying at the table long after the plates were cleared, swapping stories about old neighbors, Axel could barely picture their faces anymore.

Afterward, his mom nudged him toward the old piano by the window. "Play for us," she said, her smile soft.

Axel sat on the worn bench, his fingers finding their old places on the keys. He knew the shape of the first chord before he even touched it. Muscle memory. He pressed down, expecting the familiar melody to flow.

But it didn't.

The notes were hesitant, a single wrong one hanging in the quiet room. He stopped. Tried again. His mind knew where the song was supposed to go, but his hands felt like they belonged to someone else. The connection had frayed.

He let his hands fall from the keys and rest in his lap.

"I forget how it goes," he said, staring at the polished wood. It wasn't true. He remembered exactly how it was supposed to feel. It just wasn't his anymore.

* * *

Later, he lay on the narrow bed in his old room.

The posters were gone, but the ceiling still had that crack shaped like a lightning bolt.

He used to think it meant something. That he was a superhero.

Now, he wondered if it meant he was supposed to be struck open.

And if it would hurt.

He scrolled past Maxence’s name. Once. Twice.

The screen dimmed. His chest stayed tight.

He set the phone down.

He couldn’t explain it—not really. What was shifting inside him.

Only that he felt like a chord stretched taut between two selves—one that might snap if he pulled too hard.

He listened to the distant clink of dishes, the soft creak of floorboards as his parents moved through the house. It should have been comforting, a familiar lullaby from a life he once knew.

But as he closed his eyes, the soft sounds faded, replaced by another.

A faint, imagined hum. The insistent buzz of fluorescent lights in a rehearsal room miles away. He could almost smell the stale coffee.

Ouba shifted in her sleep, pressing against his leg, a warm, solid anchor to a room he was no longer really in.

He didn't open his eyes.

He just listened to the buzzing.

Chapter 11: Things Left Unsaid

His phone buzzed.

Mae.

Again.

He stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering.

Then he answered.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft.

“You disappeared,” she said.

Tired. Not angry—just worn down at the edges, like a sweater stretched thin.

“I needed to get away. It’s been a lot.”

“You could’ve told me.”

He closed his eyes.

His limbs felt thick, like packed sand. The shape of speech resisted him.

“I know.”

Silence followed.

The kind that stretched thin between two people until it almost hurt.

He wished he knew what to say—how to bridge the gap he felt growing between them.

He could see her face behind his closed eyelids.

The dark hair.

The slightly upturned nose.

“I miss you,” she said eventually. “Even when we talk, I feel like you’re somewhere else.”

He pressed his phone against his ear, grounding himself in the pressure.

It didn’t help.

Inside, he felt hollow.

As if something vital had been scooped out without him noticing.

“I know,” he said again.

The words sounded worn out, like an old LP stuck in a loop.

Then, quieter:

“I’ll do better.”

A pause.

Something dark and sour churned in his gut, rising fast until it caught in his throat, like something he couldn’t swallow.

“Can we meet when you’re back?” she asked.

He nodded—then remembered she couldn’t see it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “Take care.”

The line clicked.

He set the phone down. Exhaled.

The air felt dense now, like it had soaked up everything he hadn’t said.

He remembered the feeling of her hand in his, the effortless way their fingers used to lock together.

Now, the memory was like tracing the shape of that hand in cold sand. The outline was there, familiar and correct, but the substance, the warmth, was gone—already washed away by a tide he hadn't seen coming.

Beside him, Ouba sighed, her body warm against his side.

He laid a hand on her back, felt her slow breath, but nothing eased.

He sat there on the narrow bed in his parents’ house, not moving.

He didn’t know what he was doing anymore.

Not with Mae.

Not with himself either.

Chapter 12: Love as Hunger

"Prepare yourself," Maxence had warned as they got off the train, a strange mix of dread and amusement in his eyes. "My mother is... enthusiastic."

Axel had thought he was ready. He wasn't.

The second the front door opened, a woman with bright eyes and a cloud of dark hair swept him into a hug that smelled of coconut and warm spices.

"Axel! Magnifique! You are even more handsome in person. Come in, come in, I've made cake."

An hour later, Axel was wedged onto a plush sofa, a half-eaten slice of coconut cake on a plate in his lap, while Maxence’s mother unveiled the holy grail: a thick, leather-bound baby photo album.

"And this one," she said, tapping a glossy photo with her fingernail, "is the infamous 'bathtub disaster'."

Axel leaned in. On the photo, a very small, very naked Maxence sat in a sea of bubbles, a plastic duck on his head and an expression of pure, unadulterated shock on his face. He met Maxence’s eyes over the top of the album. Maxence was glaring at him, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a failed attempt to look stern.

"He tried to 'swim like the big boys'," his mother explained, her eyes twinkling. "Flooded the entire bathroom. Your father had to replace the floorboards."

A laugh bubbled up in Axel's chest, hot and unstoppable. He tried to stifle it behind his hand, pressing his lips together so hard his cheeks ached.

"Excuse me," he gasped, pushing himself up from the sofa. "I just need to... use the bathroom."

He fled down the hall and shut the door behind him, leaning his back against it as the laughter finally broke free, his shoulders shaking in the quiet, floral-scented room.

When they left the house, Axel smirked, bumping his shoulder lightly against Maxence’s.

“Darling Maxou,” he teased, and Maxence groaned, shoving him off.

“Never again,” Maxence muttered, voice muffled behind one hand.

“Come on,” Axel grinned. “At least you didn’t have a mullet phase.”

Maxence shot him a glare. “No mullet. Ever.”

“Hmm,” Axel mused, grin widening. “We’ll see what your dad pulls out of the attic next time.”

Maxence groaned louder, walking a little faster.

Axel laughed, falling in step beside him.

* * *

They ended the day where they had started so many conversations lately: on the bench at the edge of the park. The light had turned golden, long shadows stretching over the gravel paths. A few kids kicked a ball nearby, their laughter distant.

Ouba was curled under the bench, nose tucked beneath one paw.

Axel leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, still full from coconut cake and a little giddy from the long afternoon.

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Maxence spoke, voice low and unhurried.

“For me,” he said, “love is about being close. Like… really close. It’s how they move. How they taste. You don’t just want to be near them. You want to consume them.”

Axel blinked. A shiver crept up his spine—thin and sudden, like cold air slipping beneath his shirt.

He glanced sideways. Maxence sat easy, open. And he wasn’t joking.

He spoke like someone who’d been burned and would do it again.

Axel looked down at his hands. Let them rest loosely in his lap.

“Okay, well…” He gave a short laugh. “Eat them? That’s… intense.”

Maxence smiled. “Yeah. It is. But it’s real. Love isn’t small. It gets under your skin.”

Mae’s laugh surfaced. Her mouth. Her warmth.

The version of love he’d always trusted. Predictable. Kind.

A life that made sense.

What Maxence described scraped against all that.

Not love as calm.

But as hunger.

It rattled something in him he didn’t know was loose.

He pressed his knees together, hands folded between, trying to still the tremor in his chest.

He hadn’t known it could feel like that.

The last light of the day slid across the gravel, dissolving into dusk.

Chapter 13: The Smallest Touch

The rehearsal room smelled like dust, sweat, and coffee—familiar by now. Posters from old student productions peeled from the walls. A plastic fan leaned tiredly in the corner. The fluorescent lights hummed like background thoughts.

They’d been in this space for weeks. Saying the same lines.

David sat slouched in a chair, a pen tucked between his teeth. He flipped through his script, watching them, then marked something in the margin.

Assa—who plays Imane, Lucas’ sharp-witted and loyal friend—lay on the floor nearby, earbuds in, mouthing her lines under the music like a private mantra.

“All right,” David said. “Scene three. Bus stop. Just the two of you. You’ve seen each other before, but this is the first time you speak. Introduce yourselves.”

Maxence and Axel took their places on the bench someone had dragged into the middle of the room. No props. No sound cues. Just air. And the awareness of someone waiting for you to get it right.

Axel tugged at his hoodie. Maxence rolled his shoulders once, brushing off something invisible.

David gave a nod.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Silence.

Axel let it come to him. That soft build-up. That strange ache of wanting someone you don’t know yet.

Maxence leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a phantom cigarette between his fingers. Then:

“Eliott” he said with a serious gaze. 

Axel looked over. “Lucas.”

Nothing more.

Still—he felt it.

Maxence leaned back, legs open. One knee touched Axel’s.

Neither of them moved.

Axel glanced down. A brush. The smallest fraction.

He knew how the smallest things could speak. 

And the way Maxence looked at him—unblinking—sent Axel’s heart knocking against his ribs.

* * *

Later, as they stepped off the bench, Assa passed by. She bumped Axel lightly with her shoulder. Without looking at him, almost as a thought spoken aloud, she murmured, "Be careful with him."

Her voice was low, carrying no trace of a joke. Then she was gone, leaving the words hanging in the air behind her.

Axel simply nodded once to the empty space where she had been, a small, tight acknowledgement. He knew exactly what she meant.

Her warning had come far too late.

Chapter 14: Cracks In The Glaze

By sunset, they gathered on Léo’s rooftop. Someone had strung a few lights along the railing. The sky still held that late gold that comes with autumn in Paris.

Axel arrived late. A playlist drifted from a speaker — bass low, voices high. He hadn’t planned to stay long. Just show his face, take a beer, leave before it got crowded.

The others were already there — Assa, Marilyn, Léo, Coline, a few more. Not enough chairs. People sat on crates, blankets, along the edge. And Maxence — off in a corner, beer in hand. His hair pushed back roughly. The skin under his eyes drawn thin.

Axel grabbed a beer. Took a place on the blanket between Assa and Marilyn, answering the usual questions with a noncommittal smile.
“Yeah, we’re getting there.”
“Going well.”

His gaze kept drifting to Maxence, who was off in a corner, beer in hand, looking thinner than Axel remembered. He let it drift. Assa, mid-sentence about a terrible audition, trailed off. Axel felt her go quiet beside him and turned his head slightly. She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were on Maxence, then they flicked back to Axel.

She didn't smile. Didn't raise an eyebrow. She just held his gaze for a second, a silent, knowing look that said more than any question could. I see you.

Axel’s throat tightened. He looked away quickly, back toward Maxence, feeling suddenly exposed.

Maxence climbed onto a crate, telling some story — ponies, a fence, a broken tooth. The others laughed. Axel laughed too, a little too loud.

But something in Maxence’s voice snagged. Sharp at the edges.

A tightness caught beneath Axel’s breastbone. He set the bottle down. Went inside. The weight carried him.

His feet felt heavy on the floor. His shoulders tight, mouth clenched without knowing.

Later, when they ended up by the edge of the roof, Maxence stood with a cigarette between two fingers. The tremor in his hand clear.

Axel came closer. Reached out — hand landing on Maxence’s shoulder.

A flinch ran through him. Axel’s breath caught.
He drew the hand back. The heat of skin under his palm — then gone.

“You alright?” Voice rougher than he meant.

“Didn’t sleep.” A pull on the cigarette. “Couldn’t stop thinking.”

Axel watched the way his throat moved. The hard swallow. The set of his jaw.

A faint, crooked smile. “Hard to be perfect.”

The words landed. Axel felt them low in his chest — sharp and bare.

Axel remembered them on the park bench. Talking about boundaries. Maxence had told him about his fears. He could see them now.

A drift of smoke. Maxence’s fingers brushing the railing.

Axel looked out across the lights, blurred in the dark. A thought stirred:

Two cracked china cups. Could they hold anything together?

As the party subsided and the late evening turned into night, the thought stayed with him.

Chapter 15: Brian Apologizes Too

Axel had just started to relax on Maxence’s sofa, half-focused on Breaking Bad playing on Netflix, when Maxence said, “Brian needs some air.”

“What?”

Maxence was already lifting the terrarium lid.

A flick of movement — then cold weight against Axel’s chest.

His breath caught sharp. His body jerked — arms flailing, legs kicking free — before he even registered the shape: sleek, scaled, alive.

“What the fuck, Maxence?!” His voice broke as he scrambled upright, breath fast and shallow.

Maxence, gripping the snake’s tail, froze mid-motion. “I—I thought you’d like him!”

Axel stood rigid, heart hammering. “Like him?? He’s a snake.”

Brian flicked his tongue.

Maxence began laughing — but stopped when Axel’s glare hit him.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” he said quickly, one hand lifted, the other still holding Brian. “I didn’t know you were scared of snakes.”

“Who isn’t?!” Axel snapped, already storming toward the door. He snatched up his jacket and keys, muttering, “Tell Brian he’d better sleep with one eye open.”

“Axel, wait!” Maxence called, hurrying after him, the snake draped across his arm. “I didn’t mean to make you upset! Please—don’t leave like this.”

He reached out — maybe to stop him, maybe just to touch his arm — but Axel flinched before he could tell which.

He was halfway down the stairs, jaw clenched, chest tight, pulse still hammering.

He needed air. Space. Though it wasn’t only fear that pushed at his ribs. It was heat, confusion — thick and tangled.

What the hell is happening to me?

His heart pounded harder, as if trying to say something he refused to hear.

He glanced back once. “Keep your weird snake hobbies to yourself, Maxou.”

By the time he reached his scooter, the adrenaline still hadn’t settled.

And Maxence’s face — barefoot in the hallway, snake in hand — stayed with him.

* * *

The next day, when Axel came back for the jacket he’d left, a note was taped to the door:

Brian apologizes too.

Beneath: a rough doodle of a snake with a small, sad frown.

He felt the anger warring with a reluctant smile. The smile won.

The door opened.

Maxence stood barefoot in the doorway, hoodie rumpled, sleeves shoved up. His gaze flicked over Axel’s face, waiting for the laugh to fade before speaking.

“I made cookies,” he said, lifting a plate. “Brian’s behind glass. Swore he’d behave.”

Axel stepped in, shaking his head. “If I see him again, you’re sleeping in the terrarium.”

Maxence grinned. “Fair.”

They moved into the kitchen. Sat. Ate. Some dumb show played low behind them. Ouba snored under the table.

Between bites, Axel glanced up.

Maxence looked pressed down — like sleep had barely touched him, like something tight sat behind the eyes, in the jaw.

Axel’s hand stilled around the half-eaten cookie.

“You good?” His voice came quieter than planned.

Maxence didn’t answer at once. Then: “I thought I’d lost you.”

No lead-in. Just that. Laid bare.

Axel leaned back, shoulder blades meeting the wood.

He hadn’t let himself name that fear. But it had been there — low, knotted.

For a second, he wondered if it might have been simpler not to come back at all.

“I wasn’t walking away,” he said. Tried for calm. But his voice caught.

“I didn’t know that,” Maxence said, almost a whisper.

Silence lingered.

Then Maxence nudged the plate toward him — another cookie, without a word.

Axel took it. Bit down. Chewed slow.

Watching Maxence’s hands — brushing crumbs from the table, fingers with the faintest tremble underneath. As if something had yet to settle. Or had already begun to unravel.

They didn’t bring it up again.

But between them, something stayed open.

And neither of them reached to close it.

Chapter 16: Just a Scene

He hadn’t meant to speak when he leaned against the wooden bench in the rehearsal room, fingers tracing an ink heart carved into the surface.

The words had surfaced on their own.

“When we’re acting… does it ever feel weird to you?”

A tightness, low in his chest. He hadn’t meant it to sound that bare.

Maxence got up. No frown. No pause. Just took his jacket and left. His steps struck the linoleum, sharp as punctuation.

Axel didn’t move at first. But the space Maxence left behind didn’t close. It stayed open.

He followed.

Outside, the cold reached under his collar. The night felt thin, holding its breath.

Maxence leaned beneath the yellow security light, a cigarette burning between his fingers. One hand in his pocket. Head turned slightly, but not away.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Maxence said. Even. Plain. Like he’d just named a street.

Axel blinked.

“What do you mean?”

No answer. Just one last drag. Then Maxence crushed the cigarette in the planter. He passed by. The sleeve of his jacket brushed Axel’s arm—light, barely there.

The cold grazed Axel’s wrists. His breath rose, slow.

He let him go. This time.

* * *

Hours later, Axel lies awake in bed. The rehearsal ended. People left. The space emptied like any other evening. But something stayed. That one line, dropped like a match.

Axel plays it back again. Not for meaning. For tone. For weight. The ceiling stares back. The sheets lie still. His skin alert.

Tomorrow, they film. Real takes. Real Lucas. Real Eliott. He should care about that. He does. But his body won’t settle. His heart kept to its own script.

It isn’t the shoot keeping him awake. It’s the way Maxence didn’t wait. The way he stubbed the cigarette like it mattered. The way Axel stayed quiet.

He doesn’t know what he wants to ask. Only that he can’t let it sit. Not like this.

12:47 a.m.

He gets up. Hoodie. Keys. Breath catching high in his chest.

A few minutes later, he’s riding through the city. No cars. Just wind.

He rings the buzzer.

* * *

Maxence’s apartment is quiet. The soft kitchen light draws faint shapes across the walls. Axel holds the mug Maxence gave him. The ceramic presses warm into his palms.

Maxence sits opposite, watching.

“I didn’t plan on coming,” Axel says. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about… earlier.”

Maxence nods. “The garden.”

“Yeah.” Axel shifts a little in the chair. “And tomorrow. First day of filming.”

He doesn’t add with you. The words are already there, just beneath the surface.

“It’s a lot,” he says, voice low. “Everything’s changing, and I don’t know what to do with it.”

Maxence doesn’t speak at once. His thumb moves along the rim of his mug. Then: “Same.”

The word lands soft.

Maxence leans back. “You want to try the scene?”

His tone stays easy.

Axel looks up. “Now?”

His chest tightens. The air between them feels close.

Maxence shrugs. “Might be simpler. No cameras. No one else.”

Axel leans back a little. He knows the lines. The cues.

But this isn’t rehearsal.

It’s the way Lucas leans in. The way Eliott doesn’t pull away. The kiss.

He watches Maxence — the stillness, the way he holds the pause like it matters. Like the offer was never about the script.

Axel swallows. His pulse presses at the base of his throat.

He wants to ask why. Why tonight. Why like this.

He doesn’t.

His hand shifts on the table. A breath slips loose.

Something in him has already answered.

His voice follows.

“Okay.”

* * *

Maxence doesn’t move right away.

He stands, walks to the counter, switches off the overhead light. The kitchen lamp stays on—soft, golden, enough to see each other clearly, but not too clearly.

Then he turns back to Axel.

No lines. No cue.

Only the sound between them.

He steps in, slow, hands lifting to Axel’s shoulders. Checking if Axel will pull away.

He doesn’t.

Axel feels the warmth through his hoodie. The weight of being touched.

Maxence leans in.

Measured. Careful.

And then: lips against lips.

Light. Barely a press. But something in Axel stutters.

His eyes stay open a breath too long, then close. Maxence’s scent folds around him—warm, close. Lemon.

The second kiss comes without space between. Enough weight to shift the balance. Maxence’s thumbs brush under Axel’s jaw, and something in him yields.

His hands find Maxence’s waist. Unsure. Resting more than holding.

There’s heat now. Alive. Coiling low.

It’s there you are.

He leans in again. Lips parting. Maxence meets him—easy, certain. Lips seal over his, and there’s tongue now.

And Axel feels it—like something cracking open, letting something real slip through. Something that might not close again.

He doesn’t know what it means. Only that he wants it to keep going.

A sound slips from him—low, a gasp. His hips tilt forward without thought, small, and when Maxence responds—presses back, sure—he feels it everywhere.

He stays with it. Lets it happen.

Axel forgets the room. The scene. The show.

He only knows he’s being kissed by someone who knows how to kiss. Who knows how to see him while doing it.

And that’s scary enough to feel like falling.

When they part, it’s slow. Like neither of them really wanted to stop, but knew they had to.

Maxence’s hands fall away. Axel’s arms loosen.

He opens his eyes.

Maxence watches him. Waiting.

Axel’s breath is uneven. He blinks once.

Then lets out a shaky laugh. “Right.”

That’s all he can manage.

Maxence smiles. Small. Real.

And in the quiet, Axel feels everything. The shiver in his body. The pulse in his throat. The warmth that lingers in his heart.

He doesn’t know what it means yet. But he knows what it’s not:

Just a scene.

* * *

They don’t talk about it.

Maxence moves quietly, rinses their mugs in the sink, flicks off the kitchen light. Axel follows without needing a word.

In the hallway, Maxence pauses. “You can take the bed,” he says.

Axel stands still for a second. Then: “Only if you take the other half.”

Maxence turns, meets his eyes. “Deal.”

They step into the small bedroom. One nightstand between the bed and the wall. A low pile of books on the floor. Axel kicks off his shoes, folds his hoodie, sets it aside. Maxence changes into a T-shirt, lifts the blanket, climbs in like it’s any night.

They lie back. Axel on the left. Maxence on the right. A quiet stretch of mattress between them.

Axel’s breath has slowed, but the feeling from before lingers — on his lips, behind his ribs, low in the belly.

He turns his head. “This was new,” he says.

Maxence doesn’t open his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curves. “Strangely cool,” he murmurs.

Axel lets out a soft sound — half laugh, half breath. “Yeah.”

Silence gathers.

Then Maxence shifts, one knee brushing Axel’s under the blanket.

Axel stays.

A breath catches. Heat stirs beneath the skin.

He closes his eyes. Tells himself it’s part of the scene. That Lucas would feel this. That the kiss, the weight of Maxence’s hand — those moments belong to someone else.

But warmth moves through him. Not as memory. As current.

He tries to focus on the script for tomorrow. On Lucas. The lines slip through his mind.

And when Maxence’s breathing deepens beside him, Axel feels no sleep coming.

Something circles close.

His pulse ticks under the jaw.

He wants to shift away. He wants to turn in. He does neither.

He stays. The words repeating:

Just a scene.

Just a bed.

Just a friend.

He once knew the rules. Where the lines went. What stayed inside the frame.

Now? It’s all slipping. Like ink in water.

Chapter 17: Let Them See You

The sharp trill of Maxence’s alarm breaks through the quiet, pulling Axel out of sleep like a splash of cold water.

His eyes blink open. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. The bed’s too soft, the scent in the air unfamiliar — warm skin, cotton, something he can’t name. Then it clicks: Maxence’s apartment.

He shifts under the blanket. Turns. Maxence is awake, stretched out beside him with one arm tossed over his head, his hair a little messy, his mouth curved into something amused.

For a moment, Axel doesn’t think. He just feels. The warmth between them. The sound of Maxence’s breath. The closeness. It settles in his chest, slow and full.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Maxence murmurs, voice still scratchy. He reaches out and ruffles Axel’s hair.

Axel’s brain catches up. He groans, swatting at him halfheartedly. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” Maxence says, stretching like a cat. “But we’ve got to get up. Coffee?”

* * *

In the kitchen, Axel leans against the counter, cradling his mug.

Maxence moves through the space with that loose, sleepy ease — barefoot, T-shirt askew.

Then, mid-yawn, Maxence says, “You know what’s hardest about love?”

Axel blinks. “Wow. Philosophical crisis before coffee?”

Maxence smirks. “You have to let them see you. All of you.”

He thinks of Mae's easy smile, and a sudden, sharp pang of guilt tightens in his chest. He never lets her see the cracks. He isn't sure he was even aware of the cracks himself.

His smile fades.

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess that’s something I’ll have to learn.”

The words surprise him. More true than he meant them to be.

He drinks. The heat from the mug presses into his hands. The words from Maxence press somewhere else.

* * *

They part briefly — Axel heads home, changes clothes, stares at himself in the mirror longer than planned.

Later, they walk toward set through the crisp October morning. The air smells of wet leaves. Clouds low, trees edged in orange.

Axel falls half a step behind. His gaze drifts to the slope of Maxence’s shoulders. The jacket feels too tight across his chest. Breath light. He calls it nerves.

Maxence glances sideways. “You’re staring.”

Axel startles. Heat creeps up his throat. “I’m not.”

Maxence’s mouth tilts. “Hmm.”

Axel clears his throat. “You ready for this?”

“For what?”

Maxence gestures ahead. “The ride. First day. Changing the world, one angsty teen drama at a time.”

Axel lets out a breath. “Yeah. Let’s hope.”

Their arms brush — light. It tugs deep in Axel’s belly. He shifts his weight, gaze fixed forward. Focus, he tells himself. Think of the lines. The role.

* * *

The coloc apartment is alive. Lights warming. Cables curled across the floor. Walkie-talkies, call sheets, voices cutting in and out.

David swoops in. “There you are! My little ones.”

Axel lets the fast hug land.

David’s grin sharpens. “Let’s roll you first. Show them how it’s done.”

When it’s time to shoot, Axel paces. Breath caught high.

He scans the room — then finds Maxence. Arms folded. Half a smile.

Maxence steps in close. Voice quiet. “You good?”

Axel nods, too fast. “First-day stuff.”

Maxence holds his gaze. “You’ll be fine.”

It steadies him more than he expected it to.

“Thanks,” Axel says.

He steps into place. One breath. Then another.

The lights come on.

The camera rolls.

And for the first time that day, he lets go of Axel.

He’s Lucas.

Chapter 18: Not Mine to Miss

It makes sense, Axel thinks — Lucas, sixteen, learned early that jokes were safer than truth. If you made them laugh, they didn’t ask too many questions.

Growing up with a mother whose illness bent the air around her, and a father who mostly looked away — that kind of life would shape someone.

That’s in his mind when:

“Ouch!” — Maxence yelps, jerking back, hand flying to his nose.

“Shit — sorry!” Axel pushes himself up from the mattress, heat rising in his face. His hand lifts on reflex. “Are you okay? Did I break something?”

Maxence bats his hand away with a grin. “Relax. My nose is tougher than it looks.”

David groans from his chair. “It’s a kissing scene, not a boxing match.”

Assa, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed — her eyes catch the light as laughter spills out of her.

David claps his hands. “Focus, people.”

Axel draws a breath. Lets the part settle again.

Moving into the coloc must have felt like a beginning for Lucas. A bed, a desk, a place of his own. Then Manon came back, and it was back to the pull-out sofa, in the middle of everyone else’s lives.

And then Eliott.

A boy who saw him. Heard what he didn’t say. Noticed the cracks — and stayed.

Lucas wanted that. Needed it. First love — deep, bigger than the chest it landed in.

Axel can feel it now. That first wild beat, rising.

The next take begins.

Axel leans in.

Eliott meeting him halfway.

The kiss deepens — closer, warmer, with that pull that catches low in the body.

And then — caught in it — Axel’s arm clips the lamp. It teeters. Tips. Clatters to the floor.

Assa breaks first.

“You two are killing me,” she calls, laughing. “And not in the good way.”

“Cut,” David groans. “Assa, you’re supposed to be reacting as Imane.”

“Sorry,” she manages, shoulders shaking.

Axel drops his head in his hands. Heat flares in his face.

Maxence, sitting back on his heels, nudges his shoulder. “Lucas: serial lamp killer. It works.”

The crew breaks again. Even Axel can’t help but huff a laugh.

David claps. “Again.”

* * *

By the time they wrap for the day, Axel and Maxence stand side by side at the tram stop, the evening folding in around them.

“So,” Maxence says, voice easy, “how’d you feel about today?”

Axel rubs the back of his neck. “Fine, I guess. Aside from my lamp-murdering tendencies.”

Maxence chuckles. “You’ll be remembered for that.”

Axel huffs. “Great. Clumsy and destructive.”

Maxence grins. “Adds character.”

The tram pulls up with a low metallic sigh. Maxence steps on first, then glances back over his shoulder.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home. My girlfriend’s waiting.”

For a second, Axel thinks he’s joking. Then he isn’t so sure.

Something lands off-centre. Tight in the chest.

He follows.

The tram lights sting a little as he steps inside.

Maxence walks toward an empty row. Axel hesitates. He should sit beside him.

Instead, he drops into a seat a few rows behind. His leg bounces. Breath thin.

It’s not jealousy. Not exactly.

More like the sick realisation that he doesn’t know where he stands.

That maybe he was never standing anywhere at all.

Maxence glances back. A quick look. Axel meets it. Nods once.

Then looks away.

Outside, the tram slides through the city.

Inside, Axel watches the blur of his reflection in the glass.

It doesn’t feel like him.

Chapter 19: Like He Mattered

xx

It's crazy, because I don't 

even know when you became 

so important to me. 

It's like watching a snowstorm.

You see that flakes falling, but

you don't realize how they're

adding up. Then suddenly,

your whole lawn is covered.

All these little things have 

added up, and you're my

snowstorm, baby

xx

Axel:

do you ever feel self-conscious?

Maxence:

what now? ☺

Axel:

they want my “beautiful” chest on camera tomorrow. i feel weird

Maxence:

i’ve seen your chest. it’s a small six-pack. you’ll survive!

besides, i’m seriously self-conscious too. i have complicated feelings about my nose. and my teeth

Axel:

why??

Maxence:

when i was 12, someone at the bakery called me “miss” because of my long hair

i still remember it. it wrecked me

Axel:

oh no!

Maxence:

oh yes. twelve-year-old me took it personally

Axel:

haha, i bet

see you tomorrow

Maxence:

see you, beautiful

 

”Cut!”

David throws his hands in the air, his voice full of theatrical agony. “Guys, more connection. I want to feel something!”

Axel and Maxence stand frozen in the coloc kitchen, still close, still flushed. They exchange a glance—part laughter, part dread.

Axel is shirtless. His purple shorts hang low on his hips. Maxence wears only boxers and an open hoodie, the zipper shifting slightly with each breath. The scent of coffee lingers, blending with the crisp trace of autumn drifting in through the cracked window.

Years from now, Axel won’t remember what scene this was. He won’t remember the order they filmed it in, or how many takes they did.

But he’ll remember the coloc kitchen. The bland overhead light. The scuffed floor under bare feet.

And he’ll remember the weight of Maxence’s hand at his back. The way Maxence looked at him—like he mattered. 

Like he was enough.

And for once, in that moment, he liked who he was.

He didn’t know what it meant, not then. He told himself it was just the role. Just Lucas and Eliott, bleeding through the lines.

But it wasn’t.

It was love.

Chapter 20: Feel This

The following morning, Axel steps into Maxence’s apartment. The door is ajar.

Inside: chaos.

From the massive black speakers in the living room, a piercing rock anthem screams—

Won’t you die tonight for love

Baby, join me in death…

The sound claws at the air. Axel flinches, instinctively covers his ears.

Something coils tight in his gut. Not logic. Instinct. Dread.

“Maxence!” he shouts. His voice is too small, swallowed by the music.

He stumbles forward—through the living room, past the kitchen. The hallway spins. His heart hammers against his ribs.

Then—

The open window in the bedroom.

Curtains pulled by the wind.

Cold air against his face.

His stomach lurches.

The record ends. The needle scratches.

Silence.

Not the safe kind.

He stands still. A sound.

A small, shredded breath.

Behind the bathroom door.

* * *

He doesn’t knock. Just throws it open.

Maxence is crumpled on the tiles, wedged between the toilet and the bathtub. The shower curtain lies twisted across the floor like a discarded skin.

His chest jerks with each breath. Fast. Shallow. His fingers dig into the tile like he’s trying to hold on to something solid.

His face is wet. His eyes glassy. Wide.

“Maxence.” Axel drops to his knees. The floor bites into his bones, but he doesn’t feel it. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

Maxence doesn’t answer. But his gaze shifts. Finds Axel’s.

There’s no role there. Just fear.

Axel reaches out. His hand meets damp skin, twitching muscles.

He lifts Maxence’s hand. Places it against his own chest.

“Here,” he says, voice low. “Feel this.”

Then covers it with his own.

“Breathe with me.”

His chest rises.

And again.

Maxence’s breath stutters. Catches. Follows.

The rhythm comes slowly, but it comes.

One breath. Then another.

Their bodies sync.

Tears still track Maxence’s cheeks. But his fingers unclench. His back softens.

* * *

Time folds.

They sit tangled on the bathroom floor. Maxence against Axel’s chest. Axel’s arms around him.

Their skin sticks slightly.

They don’t speak. Not right away.

Then:

“What happened?” Axel asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Maxence exhales. The sound is thin.

“I don’t know. Sometimes it builds. I bent down to grab my shoes and it all tilted. I tied them anyway. Thought I could leave. But the music got inside me. And I couldn’t move.”

His eyes flick to the sneakers still on his feet.

Axel doesn’t let go.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” he says. He feels it with everything in him. He wants to be here. Needs to.

Maxence’s hand finds his wrist. Presses gently. “I try so hard to seem okay.”

“I know.” Axel presses his cheek against Maxence’s shoulder. “I can see that now.”

* * *

Eventually, they rise. Axel’s legs are stiff. His palms red from the tile.

Maxence moves slowly. Shoulders slumped, hoodie clinging to his back.

Axel’s phone buzzes. A long list of missed calls.

“I’ll call David,” he says. “Let him know we’re still breathing.”

Maxence nods. His voice dry. “Tell him the shower curtain fought back.”

Axel laughs.

They leave the bathroom together.

Chapter 21: What Bleeds Through

The thing about Maxence’s anxiety is that it spills. It reaches places it was never meant to go. Into scenes. Into pauses. Into Axel.

“I don’t know how to control it, and it’s killing me,” Eliott says. His voice barely holds. His shoulders curl slightly inward. His gaze lands on Lucas—but it’s Axel who feels it in his gut.

“I mean, I’ll make you live a living hell. I’ll shout at you, I’ll just get the hell out. I’ll blame you for nothing.”

They stand in the coloc living room. Cameras working in the background.

Axel is supposed to be Lucas. He’s supposed to return after a fight. But there’s no “supposed to” anymore. The words land too right.

It’s yesterday, pressed into the frame. The shaking hands. The shower curtain on the floor. The music like a scream in the walls.

“I don’t want to hurt you or scare you,” Eliott continues. “I don’t want you to suffer because of me. It will change, and it will be because of me. I don’t want that. I feel good with you…”

Axel’s throat tightens. His mouth feels dry.

“So do I. I’m not flawless either.” He says the line, but it feels like the words step out of him. His chest lifts and sinks. “I’ll get out sometimes too. I’ll shut you out. I’ll be upset. But I’d rather be upset because of you than not be with you at all.”

It feels like confession.

He reaches up. His fingers brush Eliott’s cheek. They tremble at the edges.

Maxence blinks, once. The muscles near his eyes soften. His lower lip catches slightly on an exhale.

A knot loosens in Axel’s chest, sudden and full. He lifts Maxence’s chin with two fingers.

“It starts now.”

Their mouths meet. A breath against breath. A kiss that melts.

And then, when they part, he murmurs—

“You look beautiful when you smile.”

He can feel Maxence shiver.

The words weren’t in the script.

* * *

He doesn't remember the ride home. The city is a blur of meaningless light against the dark. The words are the only real thing, echoing in the hollow space behind his ribs: You look beautiful when you smile.

Sleep, when it comes, offers no escape. It simply continues the conversation his body has been having all day.

He sinks beneath the blanket, fabric pressed firm against his chest, skin still damp from a shower he barely recalls. He keeps his eyes closed, but a familiar weight is already pulling him under. It isn't sleep. It's a current, a tide of memory and want, and he is already sinking.

It isn’t Mae's hands. Not the softness he knows. This is something else entirely. Hands that hold, that catch against skin. A body drawn to his.

The weight behind him in the dream is different. Denser. Warmer. A thigh pushing in, not by accident. A chest at his back. Breath against his neck.

His hips move slightly, an unconscious answer. He breathes in through his nose, and the image sharpens, lingers. His hand drifts lower, over the curve of his stomach. Not a decision. Just a response. A continuation of a touch that began hours ago, under studio lights.

He touches himself with the same stillness that lived in Maxence’s voice, as if the motion speaks its own language.

When release comes, it isn’t a release at all. It’s an impact.

His heart thuds into the void. His fingers lie loose against the sheets. His eyes snap open, staring at the ceiling, at the familiar cracks that suddenly look like a map to a place he never knew existed.

It wasn’t Lucas.

It wasn’t fiction.

It was Maxence.

And his body carries the truth of it now.

Chapter 22: For Me, It’s You

“You said no boundaries,” Maxence grins, leaning in close. “That might include inconvenient body reactions.”

They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the plastic floor of the school corridor, backs against a faded yellow wall. Around them, the set moves—footsteps, voices, the clatter of equipment. But the sounds stay at the edges.

Because yesterday, there was this:

A close-up scene. Just eye contact. Barely ten lines of dialogue.

Maxence had looked at him like there was nothing else in the world.

And Axel’s body had answered before his brain had.

The heat had come fast. Pressing hard against his zipper while the camera rolled.

He’d panicked. Shifted position. Thought about grocery lists. David’s sneakers. Literally anything.

It didn’t help.

And talking to Maxence about it had felt only slightly less humiliating than humping his leg like a dog in heat in one of the upcoming scenes.

“Let’s just go for it. Go with the flow, Axel,” Maxence adds, chin tilted, grin widening. His eyes glint with mischief, but underneath, Axel can see the comfort.

Axel huffs a small laugh, eyes down. The laugh is dry, humorless. A bitter irony settles in his chest. He remembers David, back in that bright, quiet room, talking about ‘friction’. Axel's biggest fear then had been that he wouldn't be enough, that he'd be a blank space next to Maxence's fire.

He’d wanted friction. Now he has it—a raw, undeniable current that pays no attention to cameras or crew. The problem isn’t a lack of chemistry. The problem is that the chemistry might be the only real thing left.

“Yeah, well… if it were just you," Axel says. "But there’s an entire crew watching.” His voice dips slightly. “You’re right. But talking about being brave was easier before we actually had to live it.”

Maxence’s smile softens. “I know,” he says. “But we’re in it together, right? Just tell me if anything feels off.”

He slings one long arm around Axel’s shoulders, fingers grazing the curve of his neck. Pulls him into a half-hug.

“And for the record—you’re the perfect size to cuddle.”

Axel’s heart picks up, but he shakes it off and rolls his eyes. “You’re so cheesy.”

“I know,” Maxence says, deadpan. “But I’m sweet.”

Axel shakes his head, mock-exasperated.

Maxence glances sideways, softer now. “Wanna bring your overthinking to my couch tonight? We’ll feed it popcorn.”

Something in his chest tells him to say no. But the truth is—it’s impossible to resist the charm of someone who makes you feel like you matter.

Axel glances at him. “Yeah,” he says, voice low.

“Okay.”

* * *

Later, in Axel’s dimly lit living room, Maxence stretches out on the sofa, his legs resting in Axel’s lap.

The soft glow from the TV flickers across the room. An empty popcorn bowl sits on the coffee table, forgotten.

“I think I’m putting too much pressure on myself,” Maxence says. His voice is quiet, tentative. “I just… want it to be perfect.”

“There’s no such thing as perfect,” Axel replies, gentle. His hands rest lightly on Maxence’s legs, fingers brushing the frayed edges of ripped denim. He wants to touch the bare skin above Maxence’s knee—but he doesn’t.

Maxence shifts, just enough to meet his eyes. “So many people have told me I was the problem. Too sensitive. Too idealistic. Like feeling too much made me wrong. Like the only way to be was cold.”

The words come quicker now. “And sometimes I wonder—do I have to lose myself to move forward? Do I have to become someone else just to survive? Just to not get left behind?”

Axel watches him, feeling the ache behind every word. He places a hand on Maxence’s knee. “Amen,” he says, with a small smile. Then softer: “Neil Young said it—better to burn out than fade away. Bit dramatic, but still.”

Maxence breathes out slowly. The fire in his eyes settles, but stays lit.

“Is that why Eliott matters so much?” Axel asks.

Maxence nods. “I hate how much I feel. How visible it is. But it’s mine. And it’s hard. Violent, sometimes.”

Axel moves his fingers slightly over Maxence’s skin. “It’s not a weakness,” he says. That depth—that way it lives in you—that’s your strength. You can use it. In acting. In life.”

Maxence holds his gaze, serious. Then he leans back again.

Axel’s hand stays where it is.

The TV flickers on in front of them—voices, motion—but nothing breaks through.

* * *

Later, in Maxence’s bedroom, the November dark leans against the windows. The sheets stay cool beneath their backs.

They lie side by side under the duvet, both in boxers. Shoulders close. Almost touching.

“The thing about anxiety,” Maxence whispers, “is that you can bottle it up for a while. But then the pressure builds. And eventually… the lid flies off. Inward. Or out.”

Axel turns his head slightly. Just enough to catch his profile in the dim light.

“This is why Eliott matters,” Maxence says, voice rough at the edges. “I just— I hope everyone has someone for their personal shit. Someone to carry it with… to carry them.”

He pauses. Swallows.

Then:

“For Eliott, it’s Lucas. But for me…”

His voice drops even lower.

“For me, it’s you.”

Maxence lifts a hand and covers his face, sobs slipping through his fingers.

Axel blinks. Once. His breath catches high in his chest.

He doesn’t say anything.

But he shifts. Slides closer. Wraps an arm around Maxence’s waist. His face finds the hollow of Maxence’s neck.

He breathes him in.

Citrus. Soap. Skin.

Maxence’s body loosens. His breath steadies.

Axel closes his eyes.

His throat stings.

Chapter 23: The Space Between

Morning slides in soft across Axel’s bed, warm against bare skin.

Maxence lies on his side, fingers resting at the nape of Axel’s neck. His hand moves just slightly—fingertips brushing hair, a slow and absentminded touch.

Axel stays still. He lets his breath follow Maxence’s, eyelids lowering again just to stretch the moment. The closeness between them.

“You’re awake,” Maxence murmurs, voice thick from sleep. His fingers remain in Axel’s hair.

“I am,” Axel says, turning toward him.

Their eyes meet. And Axel feels it—the pull. The softness in Maxence’s gaze, still fogged by sleep. A kind of gentleness that settles in his chest like pressure and ease all at once.

He lifts his hand. Brushes a thumb along Maxence’s jaw, then his chin.

Just then, a phone buzzes on the nightstand. A soft, insistent vibration against the wood. Maxence’s phone.

His eyes flick toward the sound. The screen lights up with the preview of a message. 

The softness in Maxence’s expression vanishes, like a shutter coming down. His eyes shift away from Axel, back to the ceiling.

Then:

“I think we’ve got what we need for the next scene.”

His voice is low. Measured. 

He moves. Sits up, spine angled away from Axel, reaching for his shirt.

The air changes—sinks. It’s like his warmth gets pulled out of the sheets, and with it, something in Axel too.

The bedsheets cool where his body had just been.

Axel stays where he is. One hand tugs slightly at the fabric. His chest tightens. He keeps his eyes on Maxence’s shoulder.

The scent of his skin still lingers in the pillow. Axel draws it in.

And beneath it, something presses harder than it did the night before:

I wish it wasn’t just that.

* * *

“We’ll get married?” Lucas asks, his voice colored by disbelief. He shifts under the beige sheets, propped on one elbow.

“Well, yeah. You don’t want to get married?” Eliott says from the edge of the bed, a slice of ham in hand. Casual tone. Watchful eyes.

Lucas frowns, slightly.

“Think about it,” Eliott continues, faster now. “There’ll be potato chips and ham. Just that.”

“You don’t want people to eat good food?” Lucas asks.

“Nope. Because our wedding will be so amazing, everyone will want chips and ham at their weddings too. Then every caterer will go bankrupt, and Trump will declare war on Russia over a ham monopoly.”

Eliott’s laugh bursts out—too sharp, too loud. His black eyes flash—sharp, frantic.

“You know what they’ll call it? Ham’s Cold War. And us? We’ll travel the world by boat. Never touch land again. Except in Alaska, because you’ll get seasick. Trump’ll catch us, throw us in Guantanamo. But we’ll escape. Our drug lord friend will help us. We’ll deliver coke to luxury islands.”

His voice races. Words spiral. Lucas watches him closely. Sees it.

The mask. The edge.

Something is slipping.

Eliott’s eyes are alive with something that isn’t joy. Lucas feels it hit—low in his gut.

He’s disappearing. Right in front of me.

* * *

Axel sits on the bed, watching Maxence replay the scene again and again. Ham. Jokes. Desperation.

Maxence chews slowly between takes, eyes clouded. Eliott’s panic seeps through every movement.

The ache in Axel’s chest pulses with each repeated line. This isn’t acting.

When Eliott bolts into the night, manic and barefoot, and Lucas wakes alone on the houseboat—Axel follows him onto the deck. Into the dark.

He hears his own voice breaking as he calls out, heart hammering: Eliott.

Axel weeps into his hands. For Lucas. But mostly for Maxence.

* * *

And then: the love scene.

Axel breathes through nerves. Not about nudity—but what’s about to come up from under the surface.

The beige sheets are warm against his back. Maxence leans over him.

Their legs tangle. Their skin sticks.

Maxence’s hands move with intention. Along Axel’s chest. Across his ribs. Fingertips tracing the faint lines of tension. He finds Axel’s nipples.

Every stroke lands like fire.

Maxence kisses along Axel’s collarbone, his chest, the center of his stomach—his mouth soft, firm, deliberate.

Axel bites back a sound. His body arcs. He grips Maxence’s waist, his fingers brushing bare skin and muscle, finding the curve of his hip.

They press together, groins meeting. The heat between them sparks sharp and immediate.

Axel’s heart pounds. His skin flushes.

And when their eyes lock, it’s no longer Lucas and Eliott.

It’s Maxence.

And Axel.

And the way Maxence touches him, holds him, sees him—

It’s real.

* * *

Later, as Axel steps onto the narrow ledge between the barge and solid ground, David’s voice calls out from behind him.

“Hey, little one, how’s the piano playing going?”

Axel halts mid-step. The words land sharp between his shoulder blades. His stomach tightens.

“Eh… fine, I guess,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the path ahead. He doesn’t turn. Just walks.

Each step feels light, like the ground won’t quite hold him. The boards shift under his feet, and something in his chest follows—off balance.

He shoves his hands into his pockets.

The warmth of Maxence’s skin still clings to his own. A ghost of a touch.

What am I doing?

The question rises sharp, too fast to catch.

His mouth tastes dry. The air around him thins.

The barge narrows behind him. The water waits.

And somewhere between boat and land, between what just happened and what comes next—something slips.

A little more of him gone with it.

Chapter 24: Running Out of Myself

Morning light spills across the bed, pale and quiet.

Axel lies on his back, eyes open, chest tight. The sheets are tangled around his legs. One arm rests across his stomach. Even that feels like too much.

His mouth tastes dry. His jaw aches from being clenched too long.

Maxence’s face won’t leave him. The trace of a touch. That softness behind his eyes. The way Axel had to swallow the pull—over and over again—just to stay inside the scene.

He shifts. Swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet touch the parquet.

For a second, he stays like that.

Mae’s laugh flickers at the edge of his mind—distant.

He reaches for his phone.

His hand shakes slightly as he unlocks the screen.

Calling: Mae.

The line rings. Once. Twice.

“Hey,” he says when she answers, his voice low. “Can we meet?”

* * *

It’s just hard to hold onto the character when I’m around people who aren’t part of it.” Axel says, his words tumbling out. He clutches the warm coffee cup between his hands like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

They sit at a tiny café table. Rain streaks the windows, blurring the world outside. Inside, it’s chaos.

Mae sits across from him, gaze questioning. Her hair is still damp from the rain, her posture straight. She looks older than him today—composed, clear-eyed.

“I understand that, Axel,” she says, her voice firm but not unkind. “But I’m your girlfriend. You can’t expect me to wait for you for months, hanging in limbo, every time you’re shooting.”

Her words land sharp. True.

Axel nods, eyes fixed on the cup. The coffee has cooled. He hasn’t taken a single sip.

Later, as he trudges toward the bus stop, the rain soaks through his coat, his jeans, the collar of his shirt.

But it’s not the cold that’s making his chest ache.

Mae is slipping through his fingers.

And all he can do is watch.

* * *

The next morning, they shoot another intimate scene.

Lucas’s bed is soaked in early sunlight.

Axel lies cocooned under Maxence’s weight, pulse thrumming beneath his skin. The mattress dips beneath them. Maxence’s fingers trail gently over Axel’s neck—like a feather. A sweep that stops just under the jaw.

“Are you my first guy?” Maxence asks, voice barely above a whisper. It hangs there, suspended between them. Eliott’s line—but it lands too close.

Axel swallows hard. Draws his thumb in small, thoughtless loops against Maxence’s skin.

He wants to say yes.

Yes, you are.

Yes, I want it.

More touches.

More bright mornings.

More of this—whatever it is.

But instead, he blinks once. And channels Lucas.

“I think I’m surfing in Bali in one universe,” he murmurs, “and in another, I’m signing million-euro contracts in Manhattan.”

Maxence listens. His breath a ghost on Axel’s face.

Another reality. One where this is easy—for Lucas and Eliott.

But for Axel?

It seems impossible in every universe.

So he lets the silence close in again.

And the cameras keep rolling.

* * *

That night, Axel crawls into bed next to Mae.

She falls asleep quickly, her breath slow.

Axel blinks into the dark. Heart loud in his chest.

When sleep finally comes, it brings dreams.

A laugh, low and close to his ear.

Rough hands under his shirt.

The brush of lips across his collarbone.

Axel jolts awake before dawn, skin flushed, want clear in his gut.

The dream clings to him—like sweat that won’t dry.

And with it, shame.

He tries to blink it away. 

He should talk to Maxence. They’ve untangled knots before. They’ve always found their way through.

But now?

He picks up his phone, thumb hovering over Maxence's name.

We need to talk. He types, then stares at the words.

Talk about what? The dreams? The morning? The fact that he is breaking apart?

He deletes the message. It's easier to drown.

Chapter 25: When You See Me

Fuck, we need to change the record,” Eliott says lazily, a joint between his fingers as he leans his head back against the wall. He’s slouched on the sofa, jeans rumpled, black T-shirt soft with wear.

They’re filming the piano scene today. This is Eliott’s place—an apartment he used to share with his girlfriend. Above them hangs an ink drawing Maxence made himself—its sharp lines an understated detail in the frame.

Axel sits beside him. Nerves flicker under his skin.

He slides off the couch, crosses the room. With a quick glance at Maxence, he switches off the turntable and sets the vinyl aside—carelessly, on top of a stack of books. Then he moves to the upright piano by the wall.

“Can I try?” he asks quietly.

“Mhm.”

Lucas sits on the bench. His hands hover. He’s run this moment in his head for weeks. Still, the first notes stumble out—fragile, unsure.

“I have a triangle too, if you want,” Eliott calls, a smile in his voice.

Axel exhales. Lets his hands fall into place.

He begins to play.

I Love You, by Riopy. His choice. One he’s practiced in secret. He’s never made it through clean.

But this time—his fingers move like they remember more than he does.

The melody flows. Soft. Deliberate.

His shoulders loosen. His chest settles. The music carries itself.

The air changes.

As the final note lingers, Axel turns.

Looks over his shoulder.

Maxence hasn’t moved. Just watches.

His eyes are bright.

Like he’s forgotten the camera.

Like he’s forgotten the world.

Like he sees Axel, instead.

“No Star Wars,” Axel mutters, the corners of his mouth twitching.

He needed to take the edge off.

“You’re surprising,” Maxence says, quietly.

And Axel knows:

That was not acting. 

Chapter 26: Where I Fall

”Honestly, do you like it? Or are you afraid?” Eliott asks, his voice low, echoing off the graffiti-covered walls of the dark, empty tunnel. The flashlight in his hand casts shadows that dance across the concrete.

They’re filming the tunnel scene in a raging storm. The tunnel where Lucas later found Eliott—manic and scared out of his mind.

Lucas steps further inside, his sneakers scuffing the ground.

“Me, afraid?” he says, voice laced with mock confidence. “Not afraid.”

Eliott turns, a smirk tugging at his lips as he points the flashlight at Lucas, the beam briefly catching him in the eyes.

Axel—just beneath the surface—feels the weight of the moment. This tunnel isn’t just a location. It’s Eliott’s place. His hideout. A space no one else has been invited into before. Lucas is here. And Axel is too.

Something coils in his chest.

* * *

Without hesitation, Eliott walks out of the tunnel and into the storm, letting himself get drenched.

Rain pours down in sheets, thunder rumbling overhead. Lightning flashes across the sky.

Axel watches him. The way he lets it hit. Bare skin, wide open.

And what coils turns into pressure—tight and persistent.

“What, are you afraid of rain too?” Eliott calls, turning back toward Lucas.

Axel stands still for half a second, chest tight.

He follows.

The cold rain hits him instantly, soaking through his clothes.

They stop close, rain slicking their faces. Lucas lifts his hands, water running between his fingers.

They hover—alone in the air, waiting.

Axel feels like if he moves wrong, he might splinter.

Eliott lifts his too. Fingers thread between Lucas’s, palms meeting in the space between them.

And something gives way.

They crash together.

Just a breath—

and then nothing but mouth and skin and soaked clothes and the desperate grip of two bodies pulling each other close.

Axel’s fingers twist in Maxence’s jacket, anchoring.

Maxence’s hands frame Axel’s face, holding him like he might vanish.

The kiss tumbles out of them. Rain hits hard against their backs. Mud slicks beneath their feet. They slide, stumble—but neither lets go.

It’s wild. Raw. A fall with no landing.

And inside it—clarity.

Not splintering.

Not breaking.

The pieces don’t scatter. They shift. Find their way back. It’s mending.

When the kiss finally slows, their foreheads meet, breath tangled between them.

Axel wants to speak.

But the words are stuck in his chest.

Maxence leans in, voice just above the storm. He presses his forehead harder against Axel's.

"I felt that," he says, and his thumb traces the line of Axel's jaw, as if confirming he's real.

Axel doesn’t move.

But inside him, something answers.

A yes.

Chapter 27: Pretending Is Easier

They’re on the plastic floor of the school—the one that belongs to Lucas and Eliott. The murmur of the crew folds around them: cables dragging, lights shifting, voices overlapping. No camera’s rolling yet.

Maxence sits hunched over, one hand shielding half his face. His breath is shallow. When he looks up, his eyes are wide, as though caught in the light of something he can’t outrun. He reaches, fingertips brushing Axel’s knee—barely a touch.

The touch lands like a jolt. Heat surges up Axel’s neck, behind his ears. His chest tightens. His pulse trips over itself.

He pulls back, sharp, the scrape of his shoe loud on the floor.

“Don’t,” he says. His voice slices the space between them. “Please.”

Maxence freezes. His hand hovers—then withdraws, slow, like the air between them is thick. His fingers fall to his lap. He turns his head, stares at the floor.

Axel can’t breathe right. His pulse hammers at his throat.

“I don’t get why this—” Axel starts. His tongue feels wrong, too big for his mouth. He swallows. The words don’t come.

What roars inside stays caged. The ache beneath his ribs. The way his hands twitch, wanting to close the space.

He presses it down. Past ribs, past lungs. Into bone.

Because if he lets it surface—even for a second—

he won’t stop.

* * *

Later, they’re filming in the corridor.

David’s voice floats through the set:

“Action.”

Lucas looks Eliott in the eyes and says, “I don’t need crazy people in my life.”

Eliott steps forward. Gently rests a hand behind Lucas’s neck. Presses a kiss to his forehead.

Then he turns. And walks away.

Axel stays frozen on his mark. The soft press of lips lingers—unexpected, unrehearsed, and far too kind for the line that came before. And suddenly, he understands.

It wasn't forgiveness. It was pity. And that feels so much worse.

He watches Maxence retreat. The posture is Eliott's, but the silence—that belongs to Maxence. And Axel knows. The line hit. He aimed to wound—and did.

His chest tightens. He meant to create distance—but what rushes in to fill it is loss. 

For one second—just one—he wants to move. Wants to follow. Wants to say: That wasn't about us.

But he doesn't.

David calls cut. The crew resets.

That night, back in his apartment, Axel can’t sit still. The silence is too loud. He finds himself by his laptop, a knot tightening in his stomach. His fingers hover over the keyboard, then type before he can stop them.

Axel Auriant Maxence Danet-Fauvel rumors

The search results load instantly. His breath catches. Fan forums, gossip blogs, Twitter threads filled with screenshots. His eyes scan the headlines: “The chemistry is too real,” “Are they dating IRL? An investigation,” “Body language analysis: More than co-stars.”

He clicks on one. A fan has compiled a video montage: every lingering glance, every time their hands brushed, every interview where they sat a little too close. Underneath, the comments section is a war zone. “Let them be happy!” next to “He has a girlfriend, leave them alone!” and, worse, “She’s obviously a cover. It’s so sad.”

He feels sick. He slams the laptop shut, pushing it away as if it’s radioactive. He stands, pacing the length of his living room, his heart hammering against his ribs.

This is what it looks like. Losing control of the story. People calling him unprofessional. Unstable. A liar.

He stops in front of the window, staring at his own faint reflection in the dark glass. The image of the life he always thought he’d have—a kind, soft girl, a house, the easy comfort of belonging—seems to shatter right in front of him. He’s never pictured this. Never pictured the whispers, the judgment. Never pictured a man with rough hands and the scent of sweat, whose presence could shake the very ground he stood on.

It’s too much. So he does what fear always teaches you to do. He shoves it down. Pretends he never looked.

But denial isn’t a cure.

He dreams about Maxence.

Wakes in the dark—breath shallow, skin damp, sheets tangled tight around his legs like restraints. The dreams are vivid. Relentless.

A thumb dragging across his ribs. A breath against his neck. The shape of a mouth he knows too well.

The ache settles low. Deep. A need that doesn’t fade.

Axel presses his hand to his chest, fingers splayed like they might hold something in place. His heartbeat stutters beneath them—wild, uneven.

He tries to chase the images out. To push them down, where they won’t reach daylight.

But they stay.

Maxence stays.

Even in the dark, he's there.

Chapter 28: What Isn't There

The silence from Maxence is a weight. The online rumors are a weight. The dreams are a weight. The only way to keep from drowning, Axel decides, is to become lighter than air. To become chaos itself.

“You’re crazy!” Maxence exclaims, arms flailing. His eyes widen—equal parts amused and exasperated. “You’re lucky I’m mature enough to say no to ninety percent of your wild ideas.”

Axel grins, unapologetic. “Come on, you love it.”

Maxence narrows his eyes. Tries to look stern. Fails. The corner of his mouth twitches.

Once a season, the cast steps into character off-script—Instagram posts for Lucas and Eliott. Transmedia Day. A cornerstone of the show’s magic: making the characters feel real, alive, touchable. Today, it’s just the two of them and a tired cameraman, let loose in Paris with a list of prompts from the writers and twenty-four hours to deliver.

“Listen,” Maxence says, lying back on a worn sofa— in some random corner of the city, location unclear —his head cradled in Axel’s lap. He tries for calm. “I know Lucas chewed hay in a story post last season, but we need to be adults about this. We can’t just—”

“I’m in control of the chaos,” Axel cuts in, eyes lit, already chasing the next five ideas.

Maxence sighs, his chest lifting under the soft cotton of his shirt. “You’re not in control, Axel. Your finger is in my nose.”

Axel looks down, unbothered. “Correction. Just beside it.”

* * *

The chaos of Transmedia Day subsides, leaving behind a trail of captured moments: Axel and Maxence wandering through museums, goofing around in a photo booth, sharing a pair of headphones in the library—his shoulder brushing Maxence’s, their heads bent close enough to touch while listening to RIOPY’s I Love You —and curling up together on a sofa like an impossibly photogenic couple.

It’s all for the fans. But the closeness lingers.

Axel feels it hours later—still humming beneath his skin, like the warmth of hands that let go but didn’t quite leave.

When the filming schedule shifts back to scenes with the broader cast, Axel tries to find his footing again. Shooting with the others—whether Lucas is helping the girls plan a party, having lunch with the boys and talking about girls, sexuality, or bipolarity, or just hanging out during breaks—should feel natural. It always has before.

The cast has always been like family. A rhythm. A kind of home.

But now?

Something’s off.

It’s not that he doesn’t love them. He does. He admires their talent. Finds their banter hilarious. But when the camera rolls, the current isn’t there.

Not like it is with Maxence.

Axel feels it in every take, every glance, every improvised beat. It’s like leaving home without his wallet. Realizing too late that his keys are gone. He moves through the motions, says the lines, but something in him keeps reaching for what isn’t there.

And he can’t fake his way around it.

* * *

The void follows him home at night.

Whether he’s out with friends, crashing at Mae’s, or alone in his apartment, the silence feels sharper than it used to. Like it’s trying to say something.

Ouba pads quietly behind him wherever he goes—small, alert, always present. The moment he drops onto the couch, she jumps up beside him, curling into the curve of his body like she knows exactly where to land.

He strokes her fur absentmindedly, eyes fixed on his phone screen.

Every few minutes, he unlocks it. Just a glance.

Nothing.

He’s not waiting for anything specific. Not really…

Just something. A sign. A message. Anything that says Maxence hasn’t completely disappeared.

Ouba lets out a small whine. Presses in tighter. Her small weight grounding.

Axel scratches behind her ear, breath catching on the way out—a sigh shaped like a laugh.

“At least you don’t ignore me,” he murmurs.

She nestles deeper into him.

Outside, the city shifts—windows flicker, cars pass, and the light spills softly into the room.

Inside, everything is quiet.

Except for the ache.

The questions.

And the memory of Maxence’s gaze— unreadable—just before he kissed Axel on the forehead and walked off set.

Chapter 29: The Need To Do Something

Another scene.

The candlelight flickers against the vaulted stone walls.

Lucas sits stiffly beside his mother in the pew, the Christmas sermon murmuring in the background.

Then:

A buzz.

His phone lights up.

“He’s gone. We can’t reach him. I think he’s manic.”

No hesitation.

Lucas rises.

Axel rises.

He’s out of the church. Out of the warmth.

Doors slam behind him. The winter air bites instantly at his face, but he doesn’t notice.

His feet hit the asphalt.

He runs.

Black coat flapping. Shoes slamming pavement. Cold slicing his throat.

The streets are empty. Lamp posts stretch their yellow light across slick, wet road.

Someone shouts after him—maybe David, maybe no one.

But he runs.

To Eliott.

To the body that might lie alone.

To the scream he’s terrified he’s already too late to stop.

Axel’s breath rips through him.

His ribs ache.

His vision narrows.

There’s no room for thought.

Just the pulse in his ears.

The pounding of his heart.

The raw fear that this—this moment—might be the last chance.

Not for Lucas.

For Axel.

For Maxence.

For…

A breath, like grief.

The realization hits him like a freight train: I need to do something.

Chapter 30: You’ve Still Got Some Paint

After the run from the church, a silent truce settles between them. The week unfolds as a landscape of careful distances and sideways glances, a world held together by silence. Until the mural.

You’re still covered in paint,” Maxence says, voice teasing.

He’s standing just outside the shower, water running in thin rivulets down his chest. The colors—blue, green, yellow—melt together on his skin, pooling at his feet. His hair clings to his forehead. His eyes are sharp, searching.

Axel glances down. Red and orange streak his arms. His chest, his thighs, even his knees—every part of him is stained. The water splashing from the showerhead barely makes a difference.

“You’re not much better,” he mutters, nodding toward the green smudge still on Maxence’s jaw.

Maxence steps closer. Steam curls between them.

“Can I…wash your hair?”

Axel meets his gaze. Something in Maxence’s voice catches him off guard.

He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Maxence moves in behind him. Axel feels the shift in the air as their bodies almost touch. He hears the soft press of soap into hands, the rhythm of water on tile.

Then fingers—careful—find the back of his head.

Axel closes his eyes. The warmth lands first. Then the way Maxence’s fingers move—firm enough to clean, slow enough to stay. Axel exhales, his shoulders dipping under the touch.

He sees it again—yellow streaked across his vision. Maxence’s brush against his nose. His own laughter, surprised. The blur of limbs, the press of paint-slicked skin. Their kiss, unstoppable. That moment on the floor when all he felt was Maxence.

“They cried when they clapped,” he says after a while, his voice low as if he’s finding his voice.

“Did you see that?”

Maxence doesn’t stop. “I saw.”

Axel turns to face him. Water runs down his face, catches at his lips, his collarbones. Maxence is watching him.

“It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever…” Axel says, unable to continue.

“The scene?” Maxence asks.

“Yeah.”

For a second, Maxence says nothing. His lips part slightly, like he might respond—but he doesn’t. His hands fall to his sides, the water streaming between them. He just stays there, eyes locked on Axel’s.

Eventually Maxence reaches out—fingertips grazing Axel’s shoulder.

“Turn around.”

Axel does.

Maxence’s hands return, slower now. Fingers card through his hair, the lather thickening. Axel feels the brush of knuckles along his scalp. Maxence stands firm behind him.

The water runs warm down both their backs.

Paint, memory, skin. Everything bleeding together.

Axel closes his eyes again. Lets the hands stay.

And this time, he lets it matter.

* * *

Axel leans against the railing, city lights flickering in the distance. The party hums behind the glass door—muffled.

He’s been out here a while. The cold air bites at his skin. He presses his hands against the metal, steadying whatever is moving around inside him.

He doesn’t know what he wants to say. Not exactly.

Just that he should say something.

Painting the mural. The kiss. What came after.

Maybe it’s already too late.

Maybe it never even began.

But if he doesn’t try now, he knows he won’t.

The door clicks open behind him.

Maxence steps out. Beer in hand. Shoulders relaxed. His eyes find Axel’s, and he lifts a hand—brushes a thumb gently along his ear.

“You’ve still got some paint,” he says, smiling.

Axel’s chest tightens. “Guess I missed a spot.”

Maxence chuckles. Takes a sip. Eyes on the view.

Axel swallows.

“Can I just—” he begins.

But the phone buzzes.

Maxence checks it. “Sorry,” he says, already answering.

“Hey, babe.”

His voice shifts. Softer. Familiar. He turns slightly away.

Axel stays still.

The conversation is short. Low. Intimate.

When Maxence pockets the phone again, he looks back, smile faint.

“She and I are planning a trip to Budapest this spring. But—what were you going to say?”

Axel meets his eyes. Shakes his head.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

His voice holds. But just barely.

Maxence nods. “Alright.”

Then he opens the door. Slips back inside.

Axel stays.

Fingers curl tighter around the railing.

The city stretches wide below, lights pulsing in patterns he can’t read. He tilts his head up.

No stars.

Just cloud.

Chapter 31: The Boy Who Almost Said It

He digs his nails into his palms. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Axel sits on the edge of his unmade bed. Elbows on knees, hands dangling between them. His fingers twitch. The skin around his nails is red and raw—he’s bitten too deep again. The sting is sharp. Something he can control.

Sleep never came.

He spent the night chasing a moment already gone—rewinding, replaying, hoping it might land differently the fiftieth time.

The balcony.

The words he never got to say.

The sound of Maxence’s voice saying “Hey babe” like it was nothing.

He presses both palms into his face. Hard. Like pressure could force the memory out.

Budapest.

The word keeps echoing.

It’s not just that Maxence is going there.

It’s that he smiled when he said it.

That his voice softened.

That he didn’t even flinch.

Right as Axel was about to speak.

Right as he was about to crack himself open.

He should’ve known better.

He does know better.

He walked home with fists shoved deep in his coat pockets. The wind bit at his cheeks, sharp and punishing. Christmas lights blinked in the shop windows—plastic reindeer, glittering garlands, red-cheeked Santas smiling like they meant it.

Each window felt like mockery.

* * *

”What’s the problem?”

Yann leans against the fridge, voice gentle but firm.

On camera, it’s Lucas he’s talking to. But in Axel’s chest, the words hit hard.

“There’s no problem,” Lucas replies—clipped, shoulders curled in, voice brittle.

Axel feels the tension deep in his gut. Like a string pulled too tight. His mouth says the lines, but they don’t feel like acting. They feel like a lie.

He wants to say, Yann, you don’t understand.

He wants to say, Yann, I ruined it. And I don’t even know how.

He wants to say, Yann, I don’t know how to stop hurting.

Instead, he lets the scene play.

The crew watches. He doesn’t meet their eyes.

He wonders how many of them have noticed. How different he’s been. Not just distant—but dimmed. Like something inside him has stepped out of frame.

And he doesn’t know how to follow.

* * *

The music’s loud. Glasses clink. Someone laughs.

Then—

“You’re GAY, Lucas!”

Chloé’s voice slices through the party like a knife.

Axel flinches. His stomach knots.

For a second, he doesn’t know whose name she said—Lucas, or his.

The music stutters. The people freeze.

The silence is sharp, and all he can hear is Mae’s voice.

Soft. Warm. Hopeful.

He thinks of her hands, her lips.

The way she looks at him.

Like he’s kind.

Safe.

Someone real.

And he wants to scream.

He wants to scream I’m sorry.

I tried.

You deserve someone who doesn’t flinch when he’s touched.

The guilt is a bitter taste in his throat.

The shame makes his skin itch.

So then he runs.

Out of the apartment, down wet streets that shimmer with light.

Through puddles and wind and crowds.

He runs like he can shake it off.

Like he can outrun the truth.

His breath comes in sharp bursts, but it doesn’t help.

It doesn’t clear anything.

It only stirs the storm inside.

He punches the iron gate.

The pain is instant. White-hot. He can feel the bones break.

He slides to the pavement. Back against the wall.

Hand bleeding.

And this time, he lets himself cry.

Not like Lucas.

Not like a scene.

Like Axel.

He cries for Mae.

For Maxence.

For himself.

For the boy who almost said it.

And the man who still can’t.

* * *

”Cut.”

Axel doesn’t move.

His back stays pressed against the wall, breath still ragged.

The scene might be over, but whatever cracked open in him hasn’t closed.

Footsteps.

Then David crouches beside him—elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits.

After a while, he glances over.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly.

Axel doesn’t answer.

His gaze stays fixed on the street.

Someone laughs across the road.

The city hums in the distance.

Axel exhales. Voice low.

“When did this get so difficult?”

David waits a beat.

Then:

“When it got personal.”

Axel closes his eyes. He doesn’t reply.

But David stays.

Chapter 32: The Long String of Almosts

One might think that hearing Maxence say I love you would be everything Axel ever wanted.

And maybe it was.

Once.

But now, standing at the edge of the moment, all Axel feels is tired. Tired in a way that sinks into bone.

The sun is high, sharp overhead, casting shadows that cut across the pavement. A hot gold settles over the scene—their final one. Lucas in Eliott’s arms. A farewell without fireworks.

Maxence cradles him gently, their foreheads pressed together.

“I’m not leaving you,” he says, thumbs brushing Axel’s cheeks. “I’m just going home. I haven’t been in a week.”

Axel nods.

His mouth forms the words: “I know.”

But something inside him catches. Like fabric snagging on rusted wire.

Maxence kisses him.

A ghost of a kiss that should feel like a beginning.

Instead, it feels like an end.

The bus arrives. Its engine hums low—a quiet punctuation mark.

Maxence climbs the steps. Pauses at the top. Turns. Looks at him.

“Lucas,” he says. “I love you.”

The line is clean. Delivered like dialogue. And Axel doesn’t feel like the one being spoken to.

Axel says nothing. 

And all he can think about is the long string of almosts.

The kitchen.

The shower.

The piano.

The storm.

For me, it’s you.

All of it presses just behind his ribs. Tight. Like holding breath for too long.

And then the door closes.

Through the glass, Maxence smiles. That familiar, half-crooked smile.

The bus pulls away.

His foot lifts, a ghost of a step forward, before planting itself firmly back on the pavement. Nailed to the spot.

It feels like a memory from someone else’s story.

He watches until the taillights vanish.

It’s over.

Not just Lucas and Eliott.

Not just the series.

Maybe Maxence too.

One shallow breath. Then another.

Someone calls wrap. Someone cheers. He doesn’t join.

His fingers tap lightly against his thigh, as if tracing the keys.

The music is playing in his head: I love you.

Chapter 33: Where Fiction Ends

xx

The world was on fire

and no one could save me but you.

It’s strange what desire

could make foolish people do.

I never dreamed that I’d love

somebody like you.

I never dreamed I’d lose

somebody like you.

xx

Heavy sobs crackle through the phone line, distorting the words into a broken mess.

“She wrote… she wrote that she… came out because…”

The sentence collapses, swallowed by more crying.

“What did she say?” Axel presses the phone tighter to his ear, as if that could help. His bare feet shift restlessly across the parquet floor. “Max, what did she say?”

“SHE CAME OUT TO HER PARENTS BECAUSE OF US!”

Maxence’s voice bursts through—raw, breathless, shaking.

“Oh.” Axel barely gets the word out. His throat locks around it.

“After years of depression and self-harm,” Maxence adds, quieter now. “She said that we… our scenes from the show, gave her the courage.”

The words slam into Axel like a punch to the chest. He lets the tears fall, sliding down the wall until the floor meets him. The phone is still warm against his palm, a conduit for a life he never means to touch so deeply.

And he knows the tears aren't just for the girl. They are for the sheer, terrifying size of it.

This story they tell, this small, fragile thing they've built in bright rooms under hot lights, is thrown out into the world. And it lands with the force of a tectonic plate, shifting the ground under a stranger's feet hundreds of miles away.

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth. What are they supposed to do with that? This power? It feels like standing on one side of a chasm, throwing a lifeline across, only to realize he has no idea how to pull it in.

* * *

They had wrapped the final scenes of the series the week before Christmas. A strange kind of relief—sharp and soft at once. Axel had felt like two people walking side by side.

Three months of long shoots. Constant pressure. He had been exhausted. His body had ached for stillness.

But also—
He already missed it.

The script, the prep, the feeling alive—and Maxence. A once-in-a-lifetime thing. Like Cinderella’s ball.

And that doesn’t come often.

* * *

Christmas had brought quiet. Axel spent it in the countryside with his grandmother, surrounded by loud cousins and too much food. Roast capon, mashed potatoes, peas.

And maybe that was the gift. Even though Maxence kept flickering through the quiet. A back at the Christmas markets. An odd scent among pine and cinnamon.

By New Year’s Eve, back in Paris, the tightness in his chest had eased a little. He had celebrated with Mae and their friends. Fireworks exploding over the rooftops. Champagne spilling on someone’s carpet. For a moment, he had believed it: Maxence was just a character. Lucas, not real.

I’ll get back to normal now.

* * *

But as January crept in, the pressure built again. The premiere loomed. His chest tightened a little more each day.

When the first clip from season three dropped, Axel had barely breathed.

It began.

And nothing could have prepared him for the storm.

* * *

“They all say there must be something between you two,” Mae says.

She holds Ouba against her chest like a shield, her fingers buried in fur. Her voice trembles.

Axel sits beside her on the sofa, heart sinking. He stares straight ahead. Doesn’t dare meet her eyes. Swallows hard.

He hears the question she doesn’t ask.

It’s early February. The second episode has just aired.

Axel doesn’t need her to explain. He knows exactly what she means. And the answer would unravel everything he’s tried to hold together.

Chapter 34: A Little Bit of Madness

The nail clipper isn’t cutting it. Literally.

Axel squints down at the cardboard box in front of him, sealed with enough tape to suggest it contains military secrets—or possibly a demon.

He tries peeling it open with his fingers. Fails. Bites down on a corner. The glue sticks to his lips. A sharp scent of synthetic perfume wafts up, stinging his nose.

“Who perfumes a cardboard box?” he mutters, spitting out a strip of tape on the parquet floor.

* * *

Earlier that morning, he’d gone to UBBA Agency to pick up the latest batch of fan mail. His scooter had refused to cooperate—rightly so. The volume had reached absurd levels.

In the mailroom, Axel had walked into what could only be described as a scene from a romantic comedy gone completely off-script. Boxes stacked like Jenga towers, envelopes flooding the floor, scent clouds colliding mid-air in an olfactory explosion.

The receptionist had blinked at him and whispered, “We might need a bigger room.”

“Or a warehouse,” Axel had replied, equal parts dazed and amused.

* * *

Now, cross-legged on the living room floor, he finally breaks the box open.

“Come, Ouba. Witness the madness,” he says, glancing at his Pomeranian, who’s flopped on the sofa like a velvet cushion with attitude.

Ouba lifts her head. Looks. Not food. Goes back to sleep.

“Unimpressed as always,” Axel sighs.

He pulls out the first item: a stuffed hedgehog with glittery eyes. Lucas, obviously.

Next: a raccoon in a cape. Eliott.

He carries them over to Ouba’s dog bed, where they join a growing army of animal mascots.

Her life is a plush zoo.

* * *

Digging deeper, Axel finds a bag of multicolored hard candy. Definitely for Dad—who once ate an entire tin of durian toffees on a dare.

And at the bottom, a pink letter. Twelve handwritten pages. In Korean.

He raises an eyebrow. It’s not the first one, but still—twelve pages?

He folds it carefully. “More baskets,” he mutters. “I need more baskets.”

* * *

Before he can even stand up, his phone buzzes. Notification from Skam France.

New clip just dropped.

He unlocks the phone. Freezes.

338 unread Instagram DMs. From fans. In the last two hours.

He laughs, a real, breathless laugh that shakes his shoulders.

But underneath the absurdity, an old ache stirs.

This joyous, terrifying, utterly insane thing... no one else would get it. Not Mae. Not his parents.

His thumb hovers over the contacts list, past names that feel like they belong to a different life, and lands on the only one that feels like it belongs in this one.

For a split second, he sees Maxence’s face—eyes smiling. 

He taps it. The tone goes through. A flicker of fear. 

They’ll probably laugh. Maybe cry. Probably both. 

“Then,” Axel says out loud, to Ouba, to the raccoons, to the buzzing phone in his palm, “maybe I’ll actually watch the clip.”

Chapter 35: Fame in Their Pockets

They sit tucked away in the far corner of a café, hidden from the Saturday crowd.

The fans are everywhere now.

Stepping into any public space is like being swept into a glitter-storm of perfume, phones and open hearts.

“What have we done?” Maxence gasps, nearly choking on his pastry. His blue eyes are gleaming.

Ever since the piano scene dropped, it’s been a different world.

Or maybe the same world—just louder.

Axel, when it aired: perched on the toilet lid at Mae’s parents’ house, pretending to wash his hands.

He’d watched himself—Lucas—play I Love You on the piano.

Watched Maxence—Eliott—look at him with something in his eyes that didn’t feel like acting.

It had felt like standing on a cliff edge in a high wind, caught between the terrifying urge to jump and the exhilarating feeling of being about to fly. Both felt like falling.

Now, across the café table, he throws his head back and laughs—clear and bright—as he watches Maxence gesture dramatically with his croissant.

“I don’t know! Ouba? She’s gotten so many outfits from fans she’s basically the best-dressed dog in Paris. She’d make the Habib sisters jealous.”

Maxence snorts, nearly inhaling pastry, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What even is our life?” he laughs. “How did we end up here?”

Axel bites his lip as the laughter settles into something quieter.

“That’s actually a good question,” he says. “We must have hit a nerve. Maybe this story… does matter.”

* * *

“I’m going to have to move,” Maxence declares later, arms spread wide like a prophet of doom.

They’re standing in the middle of his apartment.

“Or rent a storage unit. What the fuck am I supposed to do with all this stuff?”

Axel surveys the space, careful not to trip over a leaning tower of fan mail. The only clear floor patch is the one they’re both standing in—and even that feels temporary.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his temples. “This is… a lot.”

The apartment looks like a surreal art exhibit curated by a sugar-high fanbase.

Paintings and sketches cover the walls and floor. There are framed photos of the two of them, jewelry shaped like snakes, hats in the form of chickens and raccoons, T-shirts printed with scene stills, and enough stuffed hedgehogs and raccoons to start a wildlife rescue.

Boxes of food—most from countries they’ve never visited—are stacked like a Tetris game gone wrong.

The scent of perfume clings to everything.

Maxence holds up a certificate, brows furrowed.

“Someone named a star after me,” he says, somewhere between touched and horrified. “And apparently, I’m now the proud adoptive parent of a koala in Australia. They even sent a photo.”

Axel doubles over with laughter. He has to grab the edge of the sofa to stay upright.

Maxence waves the certificate like a white flag.

“It’s sweet,” he concedes, still grinning. “But what the hell am I supposed to do with a koala bear?”

“Send it a fruit basket?” Axel suggests, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

* * *

”Let’s go buy you some boxes,” Axel says, wiping the corners of his eyes.

“And a decent pair of scissors. I saw that YouTube video of you chewing through your packages like some kind of wild animal.”

Maxence groans. “I was desperate, okay?”

Axel shrugs. “I get it. I chewed through a box last week. Glue tastes like regret.”

Maxence turns to him, mock horrified. “No.”

“Like… lemon-scented regret.”

They both crack up.

As they step out into the hallway, Axel glances back at the chaos.

“You know,” he says, “the raccoon hats might actually be a hit at the Actors Factory. They made you, didn’t they?”

He grins, then adds with a wink, “Let them reap what they sowed.”

Maxence laughs so hard he almost drops his keys.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all week,” he says, locking the door behind them.

They head down the street, still laughing.

Fame in their pockets, glitter on their shoulders.

Chapter 36: Something To Stay In

It’s not all laughter and light.

A girl from Finland wrote Axel last week.

Said the series saved her—from the kind of silence that burrows deep into your skin. The kind that makes you forget what it’s like to want anything at all.

And yesterday, Coline had collapsed into his arms. Her whole body shaking.

Earlier that day, she’d opened an old message from a young fan. A girl who, weeks ago, had written to thank her. Said the show gave her courage. Said she’d come out to her parents. Said she finally felt seen.

But that morning, someone else had written. To say she was gone.

Axel can still feel Coline’s sobs against his chest. The terror in her breath. The way her fists clutched his hoodie like she was drowning.

He hadn’t known what to say. 

He still doesn’t.

Fame isn’t supposed to come with grief. Or guilt. Or the terrifying weight of responsibility.

He thinks back to drama school—the hours spent learning to break down a scene, to fake a cry, to stay open in close-up. But no one ever taught him how to answer a message like that. No one ever said what to do when someone writes, “You saved me.”

And then later—“I’m scared.”

He should talk to Mae about it. Mae, who has to share him with the world. (With Maxence.) But the truth is—

the only one he wants to talk to is Maxence.

Since they started seeing each other again, it’s been like a bruise just under the skin—tender every time he moves.

He is hurting.

* * *

”AXEEL!”

Maxence’s voice booms through the screen, full of mock indignation. Axel smirks, leaning back on his sofa as he watches the live video feed.

“Hello, get naked,” Axel had typed into the scrolling comments, knowing it would make Maxence laugh.

Onscreen, Maxence rolls his eyes and grins—his whole face lighting up. He’s sitting cross-legged on his tiny sofa, surrounded by chaos: stuffed raccoons, oddly shaped hats, postcards from strangers, glitter pens, handwritten notes—and a pillbox promising eternal health.

“I’m not taking that, damn it!” he mutters, waving the pillbox like it’s cursed. “I want to live, not spontaneously combust.”

Axel chuckles.

Maxence is blunt. It’s part of his charm—cutting through awkwardness with dry wit and no filter.

But Axel also knows this isn’t easy for him.

Livestreams—attention—it takes something out of Maxence. The coffee cup keeps being refilled. The cigarette smoke coils endlessly just out of frame. Axel can see his hands trembling.

And still, he does it. Like it’s his way of saying thank you—for being loved.

Watching him—flushed—Axel feels something tug in his chest.

He knows that feeling by now. A warmth, growing into flames.

He types a quick goodbye in the chat. Closes the app. Lies down on the sofa.

His insides are a mess. Tight. Swirling.

The image flashes: Bellatrix Lestrange stirring a cauldron, wild-eyed and grinning—waiting for something to explode.

He knows how to calm it.

Gets up. Pads barefoot to the antique CD player. Presses play.

That’s it.

The sound—the familiar jingle—wraps around his ribs like a second skin. Soothing.

He lies down again. Eyes closed. 

* * *

The next thing Axel knows, he’s waking up to the sound of a rough voice.

“What the fuck are you watching, man?”

He jerks upright on the sofa, blinking hard.

Maxence is standing between him and the TV. Arms crossed. Watching the screen with a mix of confusion and barely concealed amusement.

On the TV, a wooden cartoon boy waves cheerfully. Bright colors. Unsettlingly chipper music.

“It’s Oui Oui,” Axel mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “My all-time favorite show.”

Maxence raises an eyebrow. “Do I need to worry about you?”

Axel lets out a snort—then a full laugh, head tipping back against the cushion. The sound shakes loose whatever fog still clings to his chest.

“Probably,” he says, eyes shining now. “But not because of Oui Oui.”

Maxence chuckles, kicking off his shoes like he owns the place. “Scoot.”

Axel shifts, lifting his legs so Maxence can slide in beside him.

Maxence settles with a sigh, reaching for the remote. “So this is what fame does to you. Regression.”

Axel grins. “Not regression. Restoration.”

Maxence scoffs, but he doesn’t change the channel.

* * *

”What if we’re making it worse? What if we’re making people…” Axel swallows. “Hurt themselves?”

He’s sitting next to Maxence on the sofa. Close enough to catch his scent—citrus, smoke, and the faint trace of sweat. His voice is low, words barely making it past the knot in his throat.

Maxence looks at him. Serious. Silent. His silence is a space to think, and Axel's thoughts drift, unwanted, to the person who opened the door only an hour ago. To the reason Maxence is even here.

It had been Mae who let Maxence in—she’d found Axel asleep on the sofa, hadn’t wanted to wake him. She’d left again, back to her parents’ place.

He feels a pang of guilt. Mae, ever the kind one, let in the very man who was the source of their undoing. He hasn't even had the chance to thank her, or to see the look in her eyes. She simply removed herself from the equation, leaving him with the problem she could no longer solve.

Axel presses his palms to his knees. “What if the show is pushing people to come out… before they have the tools to handle it?”

Maxence nods slowly. “Yeah. It sure ain’t no picnic coming out of the closet.” He exhales. “I worry too.”

Axel rubs his hands together. Keeps his eyes on them.

“They need…” he stumbles, voice fraying. “I don’t have what they need.”

He swallows again. The sting behind his eyes is growing. His breath hitches.

“Hey…” Maxence’s voice softens. He reaches out. “Come here.”

Axel lets himself be pulled in—face tucked to Maxence’s neck, arms wrapped around his waist. Maxence holds him close, one hand moving slowly across his back.

Axel’s body begins to ease. Shoulders drop. Breath slows. He sinks into the heat of Maxence’s chest.

He smells so good. Familiar. Like something Axel wants to stay in.

He closes his eyes. Nuzzles closer, nose brushing warm skin. His fingers crumble the soft fabric of Maxence’s T-shirt.

Maxence’s touch is gentle, tracing slow circles across Axel’s back. Over fabric. Over skin. Axel shivers.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Maxence asks, voice low, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. His hand stays in place.

They’re breathing the same air. Axel’s breath catches. He tries to shake it off.

“Yeah. Let’s.” He wipes his cheek. Tries a smile.

“Oui Oui?” Maxence asks, grin crooked.

“I don’t want to make you suffer.”

“Axel,” Maxence murmurs, gaze steady, “I’m not suffering.”

Chapter 37: The One That Matters

”I wake up every morning wondering when the bubble will burst,” Axel says. “When everyone will figure out I’m not as good as they thought.”

They’re still on the sofa. Outside, the sky is ink-black. Inside, the flicker from the TV casts soft shadows across the room. Maxence is leaned back on the cushions, legs draped over Axel’s lap. Axel’s hands rest absently on his jeans—one on his knee, one on his thigh. It feels like a lifeline.

His body, his brain, is calmer than it has been in weeks.

“You really shouldn’t worry about that,” Maxence says, voice low, eyes honest. “You’re already established. And honestly? You’re the best actor I’ve ever met.”

He shrugs. “This wave we’re riding… it won’t last forever. But you will.”

Something warm floods through Axel’s chest.

He exhales. Not sure he believes it, but still—it’s the kind of thing he wants to wrap around himself and stay inside. Like Maxence’s voice. Or the way he looks at him when he says things like that.

“Yeah. Maybe. It just gets mixed up sometimes—the pressure, the noise, the way fans build these impossible versions of me in their heads.”

Maxence shifts slightly, head resting back, one arm curled behind his neck.

“With me,” he says softly, “you don’t have to pretend to be happy. You know that, right?”

Axel pauses. His chest tightens.

He doesn’t know what to do with the sentence, so he dodges.

“I make jokes to hide how I’m feeling,” he says, quietly. “It’s… stupid. I know.”

He looks down at his hands. They’re still resting on Maxence’s thighs. The denim is warm.

Maxence doesn’t answer. Just watches him.

So Axel asks—trying to move away from himself: “What about you? How are you doing in all this?”

Maxence hesitates. Like he’s weighing whether to say it.

Then: “I miss you.”

Axel glances at him, unsure. Surprised. “You mean Lucas?”

“No.” A breath. “You.”

Axel’s heart does something weird. Like missing a step on the stairs. Maxence stares at him.

“What about you?” Maxence asks, quiet.

Axel feels the pulse in his wrists. His neck. The blood moving too fast. His fingers twitch against the denim.

“Ever since I met you,” he says, voice ringing sharp in his ears, “you’re the only one that matters.”

He meets Maxence’s eyes. His gaze holds.

Maxence's breath hitches, a tiny, sharp intake of air. His hand, resting on the back of the sofa, tightens for a fraction of a second, knuckles whitening, before relaxing again. He knows the line from the show.

And he knows what it costs to say it.

Something is split open in the air between them.

Maxence's eyes drop to Axel’s mouth. Then back up. 

Axel’s tongue flicks out.

And then—

* * *

—they’re kissing.

He doesn’t know who moved first. Only that Maxence is on top of him now, and everything is heat and limbs and breath. They’re tangled together on the sofa, half-falling off it, mouths crashing.

It’s not like before. Not soft. Not careful.

This is desperate.

Teeth. Tongue. Maxence, kissing him like he’s starving—like Axel is the first taste of air after years underwater.

Axel clutches at his neck, digs his fingers into his hair. Hot. His whole body is trembling.

Maxence slides a hand up under his t-shirt, palm warm against the bare skin of his back.

Axel moans. Can’t help it. It escapes him, raw and high and too loud.

It breaks something.

Like glass shattering.

Mae.

He pulls back, gasping. His lips are wet, his chest rising and falling.

“Fuck,” he says, voice wrecked. “What are we doing?”

Maxence freezes. Still hovering above him, arms braced on either side of Axel’s head.

He looks confused. And flushed. Beautiful.

Axel’s heart is a war drum in his throat.

“This isn’t working,” he blurts.

The words land hard.

Maxence blinks. Eyes like a light that turns off. Then moves—abruptly—rolling off the sofa, hitting the floor with a thud.

“I should go,” he says. Already rising, fast, clumsy.

He stumbles to the hallway. Doesn’t look back.

The door clicks shut.

Axel lies there, breath stuck somewhere high in his chest.

His fingers still curled, like Maxence’s weight never left.

He presses a hand over his mouth.

What the fuck did I just do?

Chapter 38: Too Much to Hold

He finds her outside the arcade. The neon sign flickers above them in a rhythm that doesn’t match his heartbeat. She stands on the pavement with her phone clutched in one hand, arms tight across her chest. Her lips tremble before she speaks.

“It’s all over Instagram, Axel. Everyone wants you to be with him.”

She spits the words out like they taste wrong. Her voice wavers on the last syllable.

Axel takes a step closer. He planned for this. He rehearsed every word—some kind of explanation, something that would make her understand. But nothing in her face matches the version he practiced against.

Mae’s hand shoots up, phone screen blazing. “They cut clips from every interview. Every scene. You look at him like—” Her voice breaks.

Tears fall without sound. Her shoulders hunch forward.

Axel moves a little closer. He lifts a hand, unsure of what he’s offering. Her pain vibrates like a blade in the air between them.

“I didn’t want—”

But a voice cuts in. Young. Nervous.

“Excuse me… I’m sorry… could I have your autograph?”

They both turn. A girl in the street—barely a teenager—holds out a pen and a napkin. Her eyes flick between them, confused by the tension she walked into.

Axel blinks. The sting in his chest burns. He looks at the pen. At Mae’s red face. At the girl’s hopeful smile.

His voice comes unfiltered, raw.

“Leave me alone!”

The girl jerks back. Mae turns her face away, hand pressed to her mouth.

Axel walks. Fast. No direction. Just away.

* * *

The apartment feels quiet. A void. His body carries the heat of anger and the sting of Mae’s tears like residue under the skin.

He shrugs off his jacket, kicks his shoes aside. Ouba pads into the hallway, tail wagging, head tilted. Her eyes meet his like she’s searching for something familiar in his face.

He walks past her without a word. The bathroom light stings his eyes. He strips quickly—t-shirt, jeans, underwear—everything in a pile by the sink.

He steps into the shower and turns the water up high. Steam climbs the walls in seconds.

At first, he just stands there. Arms at his sides. Chin tipped down. The water burns across his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. His skin reddens, but he doesn’t move.

His breath hiccups once. Then again. A sound escapes his chest, thin and sharp.

Tears break loose without warning. He presses his forehead to the tile, elbows braced against the wall, hands clenched. The sobs come uneven, shallow, drawn from somewhere low in his stomach.

He cries hard. Tears run down his face, mix with water, spiral down the drain. His body shakes with each breath.

He didn’t say anything to Mae about the kiss. About his feelings. Didn’t know what to say.

Still doesn’t.

He turns off the water when his fingers go numb.

Steps out.

The mirror fogs around his face. His eyes are red. His hair dripping.

He wraps a towel around his waist, barely notices it when Ouba trots after him into the hallway.

She sniffs his foot. Noses his big toe and nips gently, like she’s trying to pull him back to earth.

He bends down and lifts her. Her body folds into his chest. Warm.

He adjusts the towel. Wraps it wider. Folds it around both of them.

He presses his face into her fur. Breathes her in.

She smells like soft grass. Like whatever is left that’s safe.

He didn’t lie to Mae.

That feels like the only true thing he’s done in a long time.

Chapter 39: You’re Not the Mistake

Axel:

will you be at the event tomorrow?

Axel:

please talk to me, Max

No answer.

He stares at the screen. Leaves it face down on the table. Doesn’t touch it again that evening.

* * *

They’re lined up on stage. Hot lights in their eyes. A sea of faces in front of them. Maxence stands so close their arms almost touch.

Axel keeps his gaze forward, but he can feel him. Every shift. Every breath.

A man in the audience lifts the mic. His voice is shaking.

“Every teenager out there is so lucky,” he says. “Because when I was seventeen, my story was like Lucas’. I didn’t know how to come out of the closet. I was completely desperate.”

Axel blinks hard.

The man pauses, then goes on.

“When I came home, there was not a single show on TV that defended this. Nothing that told me I wasn’t crazy.”

Something pulls tight across Axel’s chest. His fingers curl against his thigh. He keeps his eyes forward. Doesn’t look at Maxence. 

“It’s beautiful what you’re doing,” the man says, voice thick now. “Because it will help millions of teenagers—boys and girls, straight and gay—to respect each other.”

The crowd erupts. Someone shouts their names. A flash goes off.

Axel keeps his hands clasped. Forces a smile.

He wants to reach for Maxence. Just touch his hand. Just once.

But he doesn’t.

* * *

Outside, the air is warm and close. People press in from every direction, phones out, voices high, stories pouring over him in fragments.

He listens. Looks them in the eyes. Signs papers, accepts gifts. Hugs the ones who ask.

Somewhere to his left, Maxence stands still. Watching.

Their eyes meet.

Then Maxence turns and walks away.

Axel pushes through the crowd after the event. Checks backstage, the lobby, the street outside.

Maxence is gone.

* * *

The apartment feels too small.

Axel paces between the windows and the kitchen. Ouba follows him at first, then gives up and curls into a ball under the table.

It’s past nine. He hasn’t eaten. His stomach grumbles, but the thought of food makes him sick.

He’s walked her five times today. Just to be outside. To move.

Now he stands in the middle of the living room, staring at the door like it might open.

His helmet lies on the floor from earlier. He kicks it once.

He’s not sure what he’s doing.

He has no idea what he wants.

That’s not true.

He's aching to see Maxence.

But the thought of going there makes his mouth dry. What if Maxence tells him to leave? What if he doesn’t?

Axel runs a hand through his hair. He winces. Then looks at Ouba.

She lifts her head.

He kicks the helmet. Ouba winces. It spins across the parquet floor. He stares at the empty space where it stops.

His hands clench. His lungs feel tight.

A single image burns behind his eyes: Maxence's face, wide-eyed outside the theater.

It isn't a thought. It's a physical pull, a current dragging him out the door.

“Okay,” he says, under his breath. “Fuck it.” The words tasting like surrender."

He grabs the helmet. Pulls on a jacket. Doesn’t think past the next ten minutes.

* * *

Maxence’s face goes pale when he opens the door.

Axel stands there, helmet in hand, breath coming too fast. He doesn’t wait.

“Why the fuck are you avoiding me?”

Maxence blinks. “Axel—” His voice catches. “What—what are you—”

“Why did you leave?” Axel steps in, voice sharp. “At the theater. At my place. Every fucking time—what is this?”

Maxence opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“You could’ve just said you weren’t interested,” Axel says. His voice cracks near the end. “Would’ve saved me a hell of a lot of—”

He cuts himself off. His hands tremble. His throat burns.

Maxence doesn’t move.

They stare at each other in the hallway, breathing hard.

Maxence’s voice is low. Barely there.

“You said it wasn’t working. I thought… it was a mistake.”

The way he says it—quiet—pulls the fight out of Axel. He exhales. Swallows.

“You’re not the mistake,” he says.

Something flickers in Maxence’s eyes.

He steps forward. Just once.

Stares at Axel.

“Get the fuck over here,” he says. Voice raw.

Axel drops the helmet.

It hits the floor with a hollow clang.

Chapter 40: Remember That Feeling

The helmet hits the floor with a hollow clang.

Axel barely registers it. They’ve already met in the middle of the hallway—an embrace so tight it knocks the air from his lungs. Maxence’s mouth finds his. Tongue, teeth, spit.

A bruising kiss.

Hands in hair. Maxence kicks the door shut, presses Axel back against it. Their hips grind—hard. Axel gasps into his mouth. Maxence catches it, swallows it.

They kiss like they’re still angry. Like they’re starving.

Axel fists Maxence’s shirt. Yanks. It stretches—maybe tears. Doesn’t matter. They stumble down the hallway, bumping into walls. Axel’s spine knocks against the doorframe. Maxence bites his lip, licks it better. Their breath is ragged now, matching pace with their hands. Everywhere at once.

The bedroom is dark, lit only by the orange spill of streetlight. They don’t reach for the lamp.

Maxence peels Axel’s t-shirt off. It sticks to his skin. They laugh—breathless, high. Then Maxence tosses it away. Axel stands still. Lets him look.

Maxence’s eyes move over him slowly. Not just watching. Taking him in. Like he’s memorizing every line.

Then, quietly—

“Can I touch you?”

Axel shivers. Nods.

“Anywhere.”

Maxence steps in. His palm lands on Axel’s chest—warm, slightly rough. His thumb grazes a nipple. Axel jolts. The touch travels like static.

Maxence leans in. Kisses under his collarbone. Then lower. His mouth opens against Axel’s skin—soft, wet heat. His tongue slides over the ridge of a rib.

Axel moans quietly. His hands slip under Maxence’s shirt, palms flat along his back. The muscles twitch beneath his touch. Nails drag lightly down his spine. Maxence shudders.

They undress the rest of the way, slower now. Curious hands. Then bare.

Boxers on the floor.

Maxence guides Axel onto the bed. Follows. Their skin meets again, electric. Their mouths connect—no hesitation. The kiss is open, messy, full of breath and want. Hands skimming flanks, hips, the curve of a thigh.

Axel wraps his legs around Maxence’s. Tilts his hips up. They slide together. The friction stuns him. He gasps, digs his fingers into Maxence’s shoulder.

They move. Hips grinding, hands gripping, mouths everywhere. Maxence kisses his chest, the side of his neck, bites gently down his arm. Axel moans, head thrown back, breath hot and uneven.

Maxence reaches between them. Wraps his hand around both of them—slow stroke, slick with sweat and skin.

Axel trembles. His body arches. His voice breaks on a whisper.

“Maxe—”

Something in him breaks open. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything.

They fall apart together—hips jerking, breath punched out of their lungs, pleasure crashing through them in waves that leave them shaking.

Afterward, they lie tangled—sticky, breathless. Axel’s fingers are curled in Maxence’s hair. Maxence presses his face to Axel’s neck.

Neither of them speaks.

They just hold on.

Like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore—in a world where nothing else does.

* * *

Axel traces lazy circles over Maxence’s arm. Morning light slips through the blinds. Their legs are tangled under the sheet, skin warm from sex and sweat and sleep.

It felt incredible. And now, he doesn’t know where to put all that heat.

His stomach growls.

Maxence chuckles, low in his throat.

Axel sits up. Crosses his legs. Looks down at the face he’s been kissing for hours.

“What does this even mean?” he asks, because he has to.

Maxence blinks. “What does?”

“This.” Axel gestures between them. “Are we, like… gay now? Bi? What the fuck is this?”

Maxence pulls the sheet up to his waist. Apparently, awkward conversations call for modesty. “Does it matter?” 

“I mean—no? Yes? I don’t know.” Axel exhales. “Isn’t it human nature to want to know who you are?”

Maxence watches him.

“I’ve never looked at a guy twice. Never wanted to kiss one,” Axel says. “And now I’ve got your cum on my tongue.”

Maxence raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t like it?”

Axel hears the uncertain hitch in his voice. Reaches out, brushes his fingers over Maxence’s collarbone like he’s grounding the truth.

“I loved it.”

Maxence’s shoulders soften. The confession hangs in the air between them, warm and real.

“But that’s not the point,” Axel adds, the words rushing out before he can stop them. “It’s not about what we call it. It’s what people will call it. What they’ll make of it.”

A beat of silence stretches between them.

“Oh, right,” Maxence says, his voice flat. “People.”

Axel’s breath catches in his throat. He watches as Maxence eases back into the pillows, the slight movement creating a distance between them on the sheets.

Maxence doesn’t say anything more. He just looks up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the faint cracks in the plaster, as if searching for a pattern that isn’t there.

* * *

Later, they eat pizza on the floor. One slice left in the box. The lamp in the corner throws soft light over bare feet and rumpled napkins.

Maxence licks grease from his thumb. Doesn’t meet his eyes when he asks:

“What do you think your parents would say?”

Axel chews slower. Swallows. He doesn’t know the right answer—just the honest one.

“They’d support me. They always have. They backed me through acting school… as long as I took the bac first.”

Maxence smiles. Barely.

“They’ll support me now too,” Axel says, voice firmer than he feels.

Then, quieter: “But I don’t think they’d be happy about it.”

Maxence pauses. “Why not?”

Axel shrugs. “They want what’s best for me.”

Silence.

“And I’m not?” Maxence asks. Straightforward. 

Axel’s chest tightens. “It’s not about you,” he says quickly. “It’s about… not making life harder than it already is.”

He rubs the back of his neck. Doesn’t know if he’s voicing his parents’ fears or his own.

“They just want me to have an easy life,” he says.

Maxence looks down at the floor. Then up again. Something distant in his eyes.

“Does that exist? An easy life?”

Axel breathes in. Breathes out.

“No. But maybe that’s why they’re scared.” He hesitates. “Maybe that’s why I’m scared too.”

Maxence nods. Then stands. Gathers the boxes. “I’ll get these to the kitchen.”

Axel watches him walk away. And it hits him—hard.

Fuck.

He follows after a beat. Finds Maxence at the window, hands braced on the counter.

The moon is up.

“I’m sorry,” Axel says. Wraps his arms around him from behind. Presses his nose into the cotton of Maxence’s shirt.

Maxence answers without turning. “It is what it is.”

He doesn’t meet his eyes.

* * *

At the door, Axel shrugs on his jacket. Maxence stands still. Arms crossed. Lips pressed together.

Before he steps out, Maxence’s hands slide down Axel’s back. Over his buttocks. He grips, firm.

A jolt sparks under Axel’s skin—sharp, wanting.

“You said I could touch you anywhere,” he murmurs. A flicker of something in his voice. Maybe a smile. Maybe sadness.

Axel bites the inside of his cheek. “I did.”

His stomach twists.

Maxence leans in. Kisses the bridge of his nose.

”Remember that feeling,” he says — and opens the door.

Axel wants to turn. Wants to pull him in. Kiss him again and make it last.

But he doesn’t.

He walks down the stairs. Pulls on the helmet. Straddles the scooter.

Glances up at the window. Just once.

The kitchen light is still on. Pale against the dark.

It feels like goodbye.

Chapter 41: A Silence I Chose

The thing about choices—you always know what you have. But never what you might lose. Or gain.

Leaving Maxence’s apartment, riding home on his scooter, Axel knows one thing for sure:

They didn’t make promises. No definitions. No plans.

All the doors are still open, and both of them have things to figure out.

Axel, for one, doesn’t even know where to start.

Back home, he sits on the edge of his bed. His fingers drum against the blanket. His heart races. Limbs tense. Skin too tight.

He picks up his phone. His thumb hovers over Mae’s name, her picture smiling back at him—from that trip to the coast last summer. He remembers the warmth of the sun, the salt on her skin.

His finger moves to the call button. He can almost hear the first ring, her voice answering, unsuspecting.

Then the image in his head shifts. Her smile doesn't just fade. It cracks. Shatters. He sees her face crumble, and he can practically feel the gut-punch of her silent, wounded stare.

He snatches his hand back from the phone as if he’s been burned, throwing it onto the blanket beside him. He stands, pacing, a sudden pressure in his chest making the air in the room feel too thin to breathe.

There’s no script for this. No gentle entry point. How do you tell someone you’re supposed to love that not only do you want out—you’ve already betrayed her? And that the person you fell for is a man. The thought of the story getting out, twisted, before he’s even learned how to hold it, makes him feel sick.

His chest tightens—like the air around him has thickened, pressing in from every side.

It’s not shame. Not really.

He’s talked about love. About freedom. Said the right things in interviews. And meant them.

But this—

This is his name.

His body.

His life.

He pulls a hoodie over his head and grabs Ouba’s leash.

Outside, the night air is warm. Too warm for how his skin prickles.

He walks fast. Faster. Trying to outrun the feeling in his chest. The unease. The fear. The weight of what comes next.

He thinks of the stories he’s heard. People threatened. Hurt. Killed. Sometimes just for holding someone’s hand. For looking wrong. For being seen.

And he knows himself. He wouldn’t walk away. Wouldn’t stay quiet. Loving someone like Maxence would mean defending him—with his whole body if needed. He’d end up in a fight. Maybe more than one.

And he’s not sure he’d win.

By the time he gets home, his shirt is soaked. His hands won’t stop shaking. He climbs into bed without brushing his teeth, pulls the blanket over his head like it might block the world out.

Ouba curls against his chest, warm and quiet.

Axel stares into the dark.

He needs to talk to someone.

Just… not tonight.

* * *

Dinners at his parents’ house are usually safe.

Comfortable. Predictable.

Beef Bourguignon on the stove. His mom humming something half-remembered from the radio.

He came home to see them. Her.

His dad’s away on a business trip.

But this time, Axel isn’t here for the food.

He needs to talk to someone.

And who better than his mother?

She’s sharp. Kind. Knows when to push and when to just listen.

And eventually, she’ll have to know.

Still—he can’t find the words.

His foot taps against the floor under the table.

His heart feels lodged too high in his chest.

Everything inside him is wound tight. Braced for impact.

“People keep asking if there’s something between me and Maxence,” he says—carefully, like he’s testing thin ice.

His mom doesn’t look at him. But her shoulders stiffen.

“And what does Mae say about that?” she asks.

Her voice quick.

She stirs the pot like it demands her full attention.

“I…” Axel starts. But the words collapse before they land.

“Take care of her,” she says. “She’s stood by you. Through everything.”

Axel nods.

She’s not wrong.

Still—guilt swells. Breath-stealing.

Like he’s drowning in a silence he chose.

He watches her.

Takes the spoon she offers.

Lets it sit in his hand a second before lifting it to taste.

She keeps moving around the kitchen.

He doesn’t say it’s not about Mae.

He just eats the stew.

And wonders—

Would she still hum, if she saw what he was carrying inside?

Chapter 42: More Than a Co-Star

Axel doesn’t know what kind of tree this is. It’s not even a tree, really—more like a hostile, overgrown bush that someone forgot to trim since 1997. It’s prickly in a deeply personal way, and a small branch has worked itself down the back of his collar like a passive-aggressive insect. He groans, trying to wiggle it loose without elbowing Maxence in the face.

“No—” Maxence protests, voice rough with desperation. “You come back here!”

Axel detaches from his mouth just long enough to pull out the offending twig. “You are quite literally inside my shirt,” he mutters, wrestling the branch out of his jacket like it’s made of barbed wire. “I need to survive this encounter.”

“Your shirt is overrated,” Maxence replies, already trying to kiss him again. “Shut up and be molested.”

“Romantic,” Axel deadpans—then promptly forgets everything, because Maxence’s hands are back on his body, and they are not playing fair.

A second later, Axel is on his toes, their mouths sliding together again—open, messy, impatient. His crotch slams into Maxence’s with a force that should require a license. The bush shudders in protest. Axel wonders, briefly, if this counts as illegal deforestation. He figures he could die here. Wouldn’t even be mad about it.

Maxence’s hand travels down, pressing over the front of Axel’s jeans. He fumbles with the button like he’s diffusing a bomb with no training and too many emotions. Axel gasps, biting Maxence’s bottom lip by accident.

It doesn’t matter that he probably stepped in dog shit twenty seconds ago. He’s almost positive that happened during the dramatic shove off the gravel path, when Maxence had grabbed both sides of his jacket like a man possessed and launched him into the nearest shrubbery. For a man who preaches patience in interviews, Maxence has no chill. And Axel is into it. Disgustingly into it. His fingers are buried in Maxence’s hair, his back is scratched to hell by a thousand leaves, and he wouldn’t trade this for all the clean sidewalks in Paris.

That is—until—

“Maman?” a small voice calls, about one metre to the left of their orgy-fern. “Where are you?”

Axel’s soul leaves his body. He freezes. His fly is open. Maxence is hovering. Somewhere very close to his zipper.

“Fuck,” Axel hisses, grabbing Maxence by the shoulders. “There are children here.”

Maxence blinks, looks up, and then immediately gets tangled in the bush. “We—eh—wait—” he mutters, trying to reverse himself out of the branches. “I’m stuck. Jesus. My shoelace. I can’t get out. I think I’ve fused with the ecosystem.”

“Oh my God,” Axel groans, buttoning his jeans like it’s the final round of a very undignified escape room. “We’re going to die in here.”

“I think I’m allergic to pine,” Maxence adds helpfully, pulling a leaf out of his mouth.

Axel doesn’t answer. He’s busy trying to extract his foot, which appears to be glued to the ground via dog shit and shame.

This was not the legacy Lucas had in mind.

* * *

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

They had rules. Boundaries. Schedules. This wasn’t on it.

But somewhere between the front steps of SOS Homophobie and the park bench where Axel is currently scraping needles out of his shirt, his self-restraint packed its bags and eloped from Paris.

The day had started innocently enough. A polite production team. A camera. The quiet space of an NGO office filled with posters about visibility and rights. They were there to talk about impact. The power of representation. What the show had meant for queer youth in France.

Axel had done this before. He and Maxence had sat side by side in a hundred interviews. They knew how to answer with warmth and clarity. But this one felt more difficult. Closer to something that mattered in a way that hurt.

The journalists were sharp, but it was the questions from teenagers that caught in his throat.

What do I do if my parents say they’ll disown me?

What if I never feel safe enough to be honest?

Does it really get better?

Axel answered with his usual fluency. His mouth moved the way it always did—confident, articulate, a little too fast. But a part of him stayed clenched.

Not because he didn’t care. Because he did.

And because this time, the questions weren’t theoretical anymore. Not with Maxence sitting beside him, so close their knees brushed when they shifted.

Not when everything they were saying—about freedom, about honesty—was starting to sound like something else entirely.

Like confessions.

“At the beginning,” Maxence said, his voice drawing Axel back, “we told each other that if we could help even one young person be proud of who they are, it would be enough.”

Axel nodded. “And now we get hundreds of messages.”

“Every day,” Maxence added. “From young queer people who found the courage to come out. From straight viewers who say they finally understand their friends. Their families. Their kids.”

Axel looked over. “It’s overwhelming. But it means something. I know I’m speaking for both of us—”

“You are,” Maxence said softly, his eyes flicking toward him. “We share a voice in this.”

Something shifted between them. In the space where the words had just been.

Axel should’ve looked away. Should’ve focused on the next question.

But he didn’t. He just kept looking.

And Maxence’s face changed. Tender. Like he’d seen something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to reach for.

Axel’s chest ached.

And suddenly, the camera didn’t matter. The mission, the message, the movement—they blurred. All Axel could hear was Maxence’s voice. All he could see was the way his jaw tensed when emotion crept up and he tried to swallow it down.

“They write us letters,” Maxence said, voice faltering now. “Stories. Some of them are violent—I mean, not violent. Just… intense. Real. Moving.”

Axel leaned in, adding. “Special.”

Maxence looked at him. Eyes shining. “Yes,” he whispered. “Special.”

And that was the moment Axel knew.

He was completely, irreversibly fucked.

Because instead of concentrating on his answer, he was wondering what Maxence tasted like when he cried.

* * *

Now they’re sitting stiffly on a park bench, freshly untangled. Two kids are playing nearby. One of them might have seen everything. Axel is not emotionally ready to unpack that.

“We need,” he says, eyes fixed forward, “to find some fucking self-control.”

Maxence leans back, legs spread, hair full of needles. “You looked at me like that again. What was I supposed to do?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m more than a co-star.”

And just like that, Axel’s stomach drops. Heat crawls up his spine. His mouth goes dry. Because what Maxence is almost saying—the thing Axel can’t even name—is the thing that scares him more than anything.

“I think I got a twig in my ass,” Maxence says, shifting.

Axel laughs. Loud. Sudden. Startled. And for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel like he’s about to combust.

But the fire’s still there. 

* * *

Walking toward the bus station, Axel thinks about everything they’ve done. Everything they’ve said. The interviews. The events. The fans who’ve called them brave. And the truth is, he can say all the right things. Talk about freedom, about love. Tell strangers to be proud. Cheer others for coming out.

And still, he can’t do it himself.

Shouldn’t it be easier by now?

He feels like a fraud.

He knows he’s living a lie.

And he fucking hates it.

A sharp needle digs into his heel. He stops, leans against a lamppost, and shakes his sneaker over the asphalt until it finally gives.

Well, he thinks, we sure as hell can’t keep doing this.

Chapter 43: The Best Thing

The lights are brutal. Bright panels hanging from metal rigs, heat pushing against Axel’s skin. The studio smells faintly of hairspray and cables.

He’s wired for sound, earpiece in place, jacket too stiff from the steamer. The crew has been doing interviews all day, feeding the fans’ endless hunger for content.

“Okay,” the producer says, glancing at her clipboard. “Last segment—this is for the fan-cut. Little bonus content. Fun stuff.”

Axel nods. The red light is on.

The host grins. “Alright, Axel. Final question. Quick answer. What’s the best thing about working with Maxence?”

He glances toward Maxence, just off-camera, leaning against a wall near the crew. Shoulder relaxed. Head tipped back. Arms crossed over his chest.

He looks so good it’s annoying.

Beside him is Assa, her smile just wide enough to be a warning.

Axel turns back to the lens.

It’s a simple question. He could say anything.
His instinct goes tender.

He thinks:

His focus. The way he listens. His hands. The way he always knows what I need before I do.

But something clamps shut in his chest.

There’s a pause.

The crew waits.

And then Axel flashes his grin and leans in slightly.

He hears himself say—

“His bathroom rug.”

The room goes quiet for half a beat. Then the laughter explodes.

The segment wraps. The red light clicks off.

He exhales slowly.

As the crew shifts—chairs scrape, someone starts packing a boom pole—Axel turns his head just enough to see—

Maxence.

Still by the wall. Face unreadable.

Axel thinks he sees it: a flicker of hurt in his eyes, there and gone in a flash. But what stays is the almost imperceptible straightening of his posture, a subtle armor sliding into place.

It tugs inside him. Then he shakes it off.

He stands, stretching his legs.

“Lunch?” someone calls.

He walks off set.

At the crowded table minutes later, he feels Assa’s gaze on him. He doesn’t look up from his plate, but the silence from her side of the table is so sharp it’s practically a sound. When he finally risks a glance, her eyes are fixed on him, her fork and knife held perfectly still. She doesn't look angry. Just… disappointed.

And the quiet, unwavering weight of her judgment feels worse than any argument ever could.

Chapter 44: No Choice Made

Axel leans against the kitchen counter, breath catching in his throat. The paper towel scrapes against his skin as he wipes himself clean. His fingers tremble. His heart pounds.

Across from him, Maxence stands still, a balled-up tissue in his fist. His chest rises and falls beneath a thin white shirt, damp with sweat.

Axel’s eyes trace the curve of his collarbone, the flush on his cheeks, the hard line of his jaw.

They’d barely made it through the door before grabbing at each other—urgent, messy, overwhelming. Now, they’re both stained by cum.

“This probably wasn’t what I meant by self-control,” Axel says, trying to force a laugh. He gestures vaguely toward the pile of tissues.

Maxence doesn’t laugh. His gaze sharpens.

“No?” he says flatly. “It seems to be working just fine.”

Axel blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Maxence turns and throws the tissue into the bin. “I heard you,” he says, voice low. “Great to know the highlight of me is my fucking bathroom rug.”

The blood rushes to Axel’s face. His neck burns. The memory hits fast. Bright lights. An easy question. A cheap joke. His mouth moving before his brain caught up.

“It was just a joke,” Axel snaps, sharper than he means to be.

Maxence meets his eyes. “Yeah. Hilarious.” His voice drops. “I just thought maybe—just once—you’d be real.”

Axel flinches. The words hit raw. Honest.

He wants to step closer, to say something that matters. But instead, he straightens his spine like armor and keeps his distance.

“You know that’s not what I think.”

“Then what do you think?” Maxence’s voice rises, his shoulders tense. “Because right now, Axel, I honestly don’t know.”

Axel shakes his head. “I think—” The words collapse before they form. His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

Maxence looks away. His jaw twitches. “A choice is not being made,” he says quietly. Bitter.

Axel’s pulse spikes. Anger sparks in his chest.

“Have you?” he fires back. “Made some grand decision I don’t know about?”

Maxence's expression doesn't just go cold. It goes blank. He gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head, not in denial, but in dismissal.

As if the question itself is no longer worth answering.

It scares Axel.

But instead of facing the pain, he turns his face away and says—

“You know what? I’m done.”

He grabs his shirt and jacket off the chair, heart pounding, breath uneven.

He brushes past Maxence without another word. Their shoulders bump—quick, jarring.

Then he’s down the hallway, out the door, on his scooter.

He drives fast. Like it might outrun the silence that followed him home.

It’s only hours later, lying alone in the dark, that he realizes—

Maxence didn’t stop him.

He let him go.

Chapter 45: Underwater

The indoor pool is nearly empty. Pale tiles. Chlorine hangs in the air, heavy like sun on a joyless day.

Axel walks to the edge, takes a breath, and dives into the water.

It’s warmer than he thought it would be. He slips under, eyes open, the blur of blue and green folding around him.

Then he sinks.

He lets himself slide all the way down, body folding at the knees until he’s seated on the pool floor. Arms loose by his sides. Face turned up toward the shimmer above.

The sound disappears.

No voices. No thoughts. Just the muffled hum of water pressing against his ears like silence with weight.

He sits.

One second. Two. Ten.

His lungs start to ache, and for a moment, he wonders if he’ll stay. Just let it end here. Let the world keep moving above him while he stops breathing.

But his body decides before he does.

A twitch. A jolt. He kicks off from the floor.

Breaks the surface, gasping.

The ceiling swims above him. Harsh lights. Faint laughs from the kids farther away. He blinks hard.

The tiles are stained. The air smells of chemicals and mildew. But he knows—

He doesn’t want to die.

He just doesn’t know how to live like this.

* * *

Assa opens the door without asking questions.

He steps inside. She doesn’t say a word. Just moves into the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

They sit across from each other at the small table. Axel’s shirt is damp at the collar.

Steam rises between them.

They say nothing.

When he stands to leave, he hesitates. Looks at her.

She sees it.

“Do you want me to say something?”

He nods.

She studies him.

Then: “What happens if you don’t do anything about this?”

He exhales. Looks down. The answer comes before he can think.

“Then I’m not living my life.”

The truth cracks open something in his chest. He feels it bloom—sharp, irreversible.

He walks home, damp towel in his backpack.

The night smells like cooling pavement and something ending.

Budapest echoes in his mind like a door he might already be too late to knock on.

Chapter 46: Nine Days at Sea

He’d taken the job. Got on the ship. Nine days at sea. A world contained.

Each night, Axel performs Une Vie sur mesure. He pours himself into the role, letting the velvet curtains, the spotlights, the applause, wash over him. By day, he walks the deck alone. The wind whips salt against his cheeks, but he feels nothing. He films the endless, flat line where the grey water meets the grey sky. Back in the recycled air of his cabin, the low hum of the ship’s engine is a constant reminder that he is moving, but going nowhere.

For the first two days, he doesn't check his phone. He lets the notifications pile up, unanswered. He pretends he is a person who doesn’t wait for anything.

On the third day, he gives in.

He opens Instagram. A video from Maxence, posted yesterday. The caption reads: Budapest Day 2.

“Pffft—”

Axel bends over his phone, brow furrowed.

“Pfft… pffffft… pfff.”

His stomach tenses.

He’s filming his girlfriend as she pushes her fingers into green slime. His laugh, from behind the camera, is full and bright. Easy.

Axel’s gut twists. The sound of the laugh is a physical blow. He watches it three times, then presses the phone to his chest as if he could quiet the frantic beat of his own heart.

That could have been me. The thought is sharp, selfish. A jolt of regret, cold and electric, shoots through him.

On the fifth day, shame starts to curdle the regret. He scrolls again, past the Budapest video, into the chaotic world of the fandom.

He sees the fan fiction, the memes, the thousands of comments. Some adore him. Others claw at Mae—call her rich, call her fake, call her the wrong one. They tag him in fantasies, telling him who he should love.

He sees Mae’s face in his mind, her waiting eyes. The understanding lands with a sickening thud: his silence isn’t protecting her. It’s feeding her to the wolves.

On the seventh day, his guilt turns to worry. He scrolls with a different purpose, searching for Maxence’s face. He finds a new post. A moody street art portrait, an open shirt hanging loose across his chest. He’s back home and he looks thinner. Not the kind of thinner that comes from summer or running—but like something’s been scraping him hollow. The happy laugh from the Budapest video feels like a lie, a performance. He wasn't happy. He's disappearing.

The realization that he is hurting him lands with such force that he retreats to his cabin for the entire day. He draws the curtains, but he can’t shut out the low thrum of the engine, or the nauseating, gentle rock of the floor beneath his feet.

On the eighth day, at 2 a.m., he finds himself at the white piano in the lounge. The space is empty, but his mind is full of Maxence. A hand in his hair. The curve of a shoulder. That last look. It's a deep, aching longing. A physical need. He finds he can't sit still with it.

His fingers find the keys. He plays the song he knows by heart.

Then he texts, a desperate bridge across the distance:
– You went.

The reply comes back instantly.
– I did.

Axel’s thumb hovers over the screen. The three dots appear, then vanish. Finally, he writes:
– I wish you didn’t.

This time, the pause is longer before the reply comes.
– I know.

He presses both palms to the keys. The discord rings out, then fades.

When the dark begins to thin toward morning, he’s still on the stool.

On the ninth and final day, just as the ship begins to approach the coast, another post appears in his feed. A girl, maybe sixteen, showing off a fresh tattoo on her forearm: Pas Peur. Not afraid. The caption says she got it after the bridge scene. The kiss.

Axel stares at the photo. Courage.

It all hits him at once. His regret for what could have been. His shame for the pain he’s caused Mae. His worry for the man who seems to be fading before his eyes. And finally, the courage offered up by a stranger's skin.

He walks down the gangway. The air is sharp and tastes of salt and diesel. And the realization settles, clear and hard as glass: the silence has to end. Not for them. For himself.

If he doesn’t act, he won’t just lose them.

He will lose what’s left of himself.

And for the first time,
he wants to be whole.

As soon as his feet meet solid ground he finds Mae’s name. His finger trembles, then taps the call icon. It rings. Once. Twice.

Chapter 47: I’m in Love with Him

“Let’s give them what they want,” Mae says, standing in the middle of the hotel room. Her arms hang loosely by her sides. Her voice is calm, but her eyes land on Axel like a dare.

He hadn’t expected this.

For months, he’s been pulling away. Making excuses. Letting messages sit unread. Meeting only in cafés and crowded foyers. All of it carefully designed to delay the inevitable. They haven’t been in a relationship for a long time, but nothing has been resolved.

Now she’s here. In this room. With dinner waiting downstairs and a reservation that reads last chance without saying it aloud.

He said yes because he couldn’t say no anymore. And maybe because he’s tired of hiding.

* * *

“I’ve cried so much over you,” Mae says. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg pulled up, foot tucked beneath her thigh. Axel mirrors her posture. They face each other.

His chest hammers beneath his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice catches. His eyes burn.

“There’s no excuse. You deserve more than this. I’ve been lost. I didn’t know how to be honest. Or how to stop hurting you.”

The words pile up, messy, desperate. He forces them out.

Mae watches him in silence.

“So,” she says at last, “what exactly did you do?”

Axel opens his mouth. Closes it. Then—

“Are you in love with him?”

The room freezes.

He meets her eyes.

“Yes.”

His pulse stutters.

“Yes,” he repeats, quieter now. It lands on his tongue like a truth he’s finally allowed to say.

Mae swallows. Her jaw tightens.

“Did you sleep with him?”

Axel nods. "Yes." He swallows, the word tasting insufficient. "It was more than that."

A single tear slides down Mae's cheek.

“I don’t even want to know,” she murmurs, turning away.

Axel doesn’t reach for her. Her shoulder is right there, but he keeps his hands to himself.

Mae inhales slowly. Her chest rises. Falls.

Then her voice hardens.

“I’m angry as hell,” she says. “And you deserve every bit of it. I should kick your brilliant little ass all the way to Sweden.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Almost a smile.

Axel doesn’t smile back.

“But I know you,” she adds, softer now. “You’re not cruel. You didn’t mean to hurt me. Even though you did.”

Her words hit harder than if she’d screamed.

Axel’s face crumples into his hands. His body folds in on itself.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs.

The tears come hard and fast. His breath stutters in sharp, uneven bursts.

“I’m so sorry, Mae. I’ve been selfish. I hurt you. You didn’t ask for this.”

“I didn’t,” Mae says gently.

“I lost myself. And now I lose you,” he whispers. “That’s the cost.”

She nods without lifting her head.

“I’m done. I don’t want this version of us either.”

Axel nods his head in understanding. 

“I’ll admit one thing,” she says. “Watching you cry like this? It’s a little satisfying.”

A broken laugh slips out of him—sharp, breathless.

Mae sighs and stands.

“The trolls need something to chew on.”

Axel wipes his face. Blinks. “What?”

“You know exactly who I mean.”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah… but what are you planning?”

“Ten minutes,” she says. “I’m taking a shower.”

* * *

She comes out wrapped in a towel, hair wet, curling at the ends. Axel watches her pull a short black dress over her hips. She kneels on the bed to fix a bracelet.

She looks stunning. Composed. Deliberate.

He lifts his phone. Snaps a picture—one knee on the bed, the dress hugging her hips, her gaze unreadable.

Let’s give them what they want, she had said.

He posts it to Instagram. No caption.

Likes start flooding in. Mae’s smile is small, but certain.

Let them talk.

Earlier that day, Maxence had posted a photo too—his hand on his girlfriend’s waist, their faces close.

Axel doesn’t want to admit it, but he likes the taste of revenge.

“Come on,” Mae says, slipping on her shoes. “I’m starving.”

Axel stands. He knows: he didn’t earn her forgiveness.

But she gave it to him anyway.

Chapter 48: I Want You

Axel lies on the bed, a throw pillow under his head. Light filters through the heavy curtains and casts a dull rectangle across the carpet. He breathes in and holds it.

He walks to the wardrobe. He hasn’t unpacked. The bag is in there, clothes in a mess. He catches a sock as it threatens to fall out.

He hasn’t talked to Maxence.

They haven’t had time to meet—too much work, too much travel.

Axel steps into the bathroom. The mirror above the sink holds his face. His eyes look pale. Lips tight and dry. He turns on the tap. Cupped hands. Cold water. He splashes it over his cheeks.

The buzz of his phone pulls him back. A message from the theatre. A reminder about call time.

He opens Instagram. Maxence has just posted a new photo—one of those moody street art portraits. Harsh shadows. A colorful shirt gaping at the chest. The caption says nothing.

Axel scrolls further. Another photo. Another loud shirt. There’s a tightness in the way Maxence holds himself. His collarbone juts forward. His gaze slides past the lens.

Axel thinks about the shirts. They didn’t used to be there. They replaced the white ones. They hang too big. He knows the body underneath. Remembers how it felt against his own. Misses the weight of it.

He heads down to the hotel restaurant. The elevator ride is slow. Outside restaurants feel too far away.

Inside, the air is heavy with the scent of butter and scorched garlic. Glasses clink softly at the bar. Axel chooses a small table near the window. A single candle flickers, catching his reflection in the glass.

A server places lasagna in front of him with a polite smile. Axel thanks her. His stomach turns at the smell.

Then a notification pings.

A new video. He nearly chokes on the first bite.

Maxence’s hair is falling onto green grass.

Axel’s heart slams into his ribs. What is he doing? Why? His fork clatters against the plate.

He pushes the food away. Stands. Walks out without the receipt.

Back in his room, Axel sinks onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight. He presses both hands to his thighs.

His skull pulses. He picks up the phone again. Scrolls back to the video.

Maxence is outside, on a lawn. Hair falling in thick clumps. A towel around his neck. Buzzing it off himself. Axel watches as the shaved patches appear.

There’s a sharpness in the way he moves. Like he’s cutting more than hair.

He lowers the phone to his lap.

That was the last piece.

His first thought is cold panic: He's erasing me. But a second, deeper ache follows. The look in Maxence's eyes isn't one of freedom. It's defiance. He isn't just shedding a character; he's performing an exorcism.

And Axel knows, with sickening certainty, what ghost he's trying to cast out.

Axel can’t breathe. He stands. Walks in a circle. Sits again. Leans forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

He pictures the kitchen. Maxence barefoot. The tissue by the sink. Remembers what he said: “A choice is not being made.”

Axel knows what he needs to do. No—what he wants to do. Now.

He picks up his phone. Opens a new message. Types.

“Let’s meet.”

Not enough. Deletes. Tries again.

“I want you.”

His thumb hovers.

Then he hits send.

He stares at the screen. No reply.

He turns the phone over. Places it on the bedside table.

And then he breathes.

For the first time that day, the breath reaches all the way down.

Chapter 49: Making Myself Ready

Axel wakes in the grey light. The room feels larger than yesterday. His phone lies next to the pillow, screen-down.

He stayed awake most of the night. His body never settled.

He turns onto his side. The pillow beside him is flattened, as if someone just left.

He closes his eyes.

A hand rests on his ribs. Maxence breathes into the crook of his neck. The weight of a thigh across his own.

He opens his eyes again. Turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

Then he reaches for the phone. No messages.

He gets up. Brushes his teeth. Catches his reflection in the mirror—something looks different today. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s me.”

Pulls on a hoodie. Walks slowly down to the breakfast buffet. Eggs, toast, a single slice of cheese. He eats without tasting.

Outside, on his walk, the Seine sparkles. It’s a cool, bright morning. Axel walks without direction, his phone loose in his hand. He opens Twitter. Notifications tick upward.

The fandom is stirring.

A post is going viral—Maxence’s girlfriend has unfollowed him on Instagram. People are speculating. Axel’s pulse lifts. A tight beat in his throat.

He scrolls.

A full moon. Black sky. Maxence’s photo.

Caption: Going through a phase.

Axel stops walking.

Back at the hotel, he eats lunch at the restaurant. The food turns to gravel in his throat when Maxence’s Insta story plays. It’s a song—Borderline by Tame Impala. The lyrics echo from the phone:

Will I be known and loved?

Is there one that I trust?

Axel grips his fork harder.

Here comes the sun.

He doesn’t know if Maxence means him. But it’s starting to feel like he does.

Then comes the photo. Maxence on the sidewalk by the sea. One arm behind his head. Axel stares at the curve of his shoulder.

He looks… soft. Like maybe he’s waiting too.

Another post. A statue. A man holding another man. Marble bodies pressed together.

He closes his eyes. His chest lifts with each breath. A memory brushes past him. Just weight. Skin against skin.

He lies back on the bed, fully clothed. He’s seeing it now. Maxence is speaking to him.

His mouth pulls into a grin he can’t stop.

He breathes in and out.

An elation he hasn’t felt in years. Maybe never.

He laughs, high and bright. The sound surprises him—it hasn’t been there in weeks.

He sends a text to his colleague with one line:

Need your help. Room 612.

A few minutes later they shoot it. Axel shirtless, jeans half-zipped, launching himself on the bed in slow motion. The bedspread flares up like a wave.

He edits. Crops. Adds the words:

Making myself ready.

He tags Maxence. Posts it.

He stands in front of the mirror. His bare chest still flushed from the run-up. He looks at himself the way Maxence sometimes does—like he’s made of something real. His lips part. A breath finds its way in.

There’s a knock on the door. Time for the last show.

* * *

After the performance, there’s a crowd outside. Fans hold signs, phones, gifts. He stops to sign a few. Smiles. Holds eye contact. His heart is somewhere else.

A girl shows him her phone. A new photo of Maxence. The buzzed head. A soft smile. The caption blank.

Axel’s voice comes without thinking.

“He looks beautiful.”

He steps back. Looks up at the sky. It’s changing.

“I have to go.”

He steps onto the platform just as a train pulls in, its doors sliding open with a pneumatic sigh. He feels the rumble of it in the soles of his feet, a vibration that travels up through his bones, and for the first time in a long time, it doesn't feel like the world is shaking apart.

It feels like it is finally clicking into place.

Chapter 50: For You

Axel buttons his shirt too tight. A knot sticks in his throat. He unbuttons it, fingers fumbling. Starts over. He changes shirts. Then pulls a comb through his hair, twice, drops it, runs his hands through instead.

He checks his phone. Still nothing from Maxence. But the bed post still shows under his likes.

The air in the hallway smells like hotel carpet and nerves. He presses the elevator button three times, though it lights up on the first.

Downstairs, fans are already waiting. They’ve made signs. There’s a girl in a red beret holding a cut-out heart with Lucas and Eliott’s names on it. Someone hands him a bracelet made of yellow beads. He smiles, thanks them.

Then he sees Maxence.

He’s leaning against the far wall, talking to someone from Skam Italia. But his head turns the second Axel steps through the door.

His eyes widen.

Axel’s throat tightens. His mouth tastes like metal.

They’re not supposed to meet yet. The schedule says photos first. Fan greetings later. Q&A after lunch.

But Maxence crosses the room like none of that matters. He walks straight through the crowd, brushing past arms and signs and clicking phones.

“Hi,” he says, switching his feet. His fingers twitch near the seams of his jacket.

“Hi,” Axel breathes, feeling awkward. Back in his 13-year-old body.

Maxence’s arms fold around him, like muscle memory sliding into place.

Axel breathes him in.

Citrus shampoo. Denim. A faint trace of the Paris morning.

He wants to say something clever. Or turning-on-y. Nothing comes. Maybe a squeak.

Maxence pulls back before he can, eyes scanning his face as if checking for damage.

They go to the photo area. There’s a queue. People shouting instructions. A girl is crying. Another slips a handwritten letter into Maxence’s hand. He pockets it without looking away from Axel.

They pose.

Back-to-back. Shoulder to shoulder. Arms linked. Axel can feel the shape of him. Hipbone, thigh. Heat through denim.

Then: nose to nose. It’s a joke. The fans cheer. Axel sways forward just a little. Maxence doesn’t pull back.

The next moment, Maxence climbs into his lap. Axel laughs. Tries to make it seem like part of the act. Maybe it is.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs in Axel’s ear.

Axel’s body responds before his mind can. Bucks up.

Maxence grins, just a little.

Axel wants to reach out, pinch his nipple. Hard.

By the end of the session, Axel is sweating.

In the greenroom, someone dumps a bottle of water and a sticky granola bar in his hand. Axel bites the cap of his bottle to distract himself.

Maxence is talking to their publicist. But his eyes find Axel again. That long, slow drag of a look.

He raises an eyebrow. Just slightly.

Axel nearly drops the bottle.

He collects himself. Smiles. Leans forward, enough to brush the skin under Maxence’s ear with his nose.

“I’ve broken up with Mae,” he whispers. His pulse kicks. 

Maxence doesn’t move. His lips part, slightly.

“For you,” Axel adds, in case that could be missed.

When Maxence turns his head, his eyes are pitch black, the pupils blown wide. But just for a second, before the intensity settles, Axel sees something else flicker there—a flash of disbelief, of relief so profound it looks like pain.

Then, he smiles, crooked and teethy. 

What did I just do?

There’s a dare there. And Axel already knows he’ll take it.

* * *

Axel leans against the vending machine in the corridor outside the greenroom. His shirt sticks to his back. Someone from production hands him a schedule. He doesn’t look at it.

A fan screams from behind a nearby door. The sound cracks through the hallway like a firecracker.

His palms sweat. He wipes them on his pants. Drinks half his water bottle in one go, but the thirst stays.

A figure moves in the corner of his vision.

Maxence.

No one else is in the corridor. He walks with the same ease as always, but slow.

When he reaches Axel, he holds out a jelly candy in the shape of a tiny frog.

Axel stares at it.

“For blood sugar,” Maxence says, deadpan.

Axel takes it.

“Thanks,” he says. It sticks to his teeth.

Max looks at him and says, “You look different.”

Axel doesn’t answer, but a small smile touches his lips.

They stand in silence against the wall.

Maxence leans his head against Axel’s shoulder. Axel doesn’t flinch. He thinks of his mother, their cozy house. The values he was raised with. What this might mean for their future.

It feels like everything fits within the same frame. He can feel the heat of Maxence’s skin through his shirt.

Maxence looks straight ahead, voice low.

“Are you coming to my party tonight?”

Axel nods.

“Good,” Maxence says. “I want you too.”

He blinks, kicks off the wall and walks away.

Axel can’t tell if he’s more nervous or aroused.

* * *

Maxence’s apartment smells like lemon and aftershave.

The door swings open and Axel steps in. Music’s already going. Someone’s poured chips into a salad bowl. There’s a beer pyramid on the kitchen counter. A girl in a glittery top is dancing in place, wine glass in hand.

Axel’s shirt is unbuttoned just enough. He’s practiced a smile in the elevator mirror. It held for three seconds.

Maxence isn’t in the hallway.

Axel’s heart knocks. He walks slow. Nods at someone he might’ve met once. A guy with curls offers him a beer. He takes it. The glass bottle cold in his palm.

Then he sees him.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, beer between two fingers. Standing in the kitchen, leaning against the fridge. Laughing at something a girl with red braids says. He tips his head back. Exposing his throat.

Axel’s knees consider quitting the job.

Maxence catches him watching.

And doesn’t look away.

He lifts his chin. A small invitation. Or a warning. Axel walks over.

Their bodies brush when Axel squeezes past. Maxence turns slightly. Mouth tilted. Shoulders loose. But there’s a flick in his eyes, a glint of heat.

“Nice of you to show,” he says.

Axel takes a sip of beer. Shrugs. “Didn’t want to miss your funeral.”

Maxence snorts. “Funeral?”

“Goodbye party. Same vibe.”

“You’re an idiot,” Maxence mutters.

But he’s smiling.

The girl with the braids walks off. Maxence sets his beer down.

And then, without warning, he places a hand flat on Axel’s crotch. Palm open. Fingers pressing into denim. Axel forgets every word he ever knew.

Maxence leans in. Mouth close to his ear.

“Careful. I might take you for a spin on my bathroom rug.”

Axel chokes on air. Laughs, a little too loud.

Maxence steps back, eyes glittering.

Axel licks his lips. “That thing’s seen enough.”

“Not yet.”

”I need a fucking drink” Axel says. He means it in every sense possible. 

* * *

One drink turns into a second. Then a third.

Maxence keeps filling his glass with colourful, evil cocktails. Strong and sweet and way too effective. Axel laughs too hard. Blinks too slow. The world starts to blur at the edges.

Somewhere between “Cheers to queer love!” and someone putting glitter on his cheekbone, Maxence decides to blast What a Wonderful World on the speakers. Louis Armstrong croons into the chaos.

Axel stiffens.

Maxence grins, triumphant.

He knows it’s Axel’s favourite song to make love to.

Then the torture escalates.

Maxence winks across the table. Slips his toes between Axel’s thighs. 

It’s unbearable.

Axel tries to focus on anything else. But his drink is disappearing. His mind is mush. And Maxence is everywhere.

So Axel snaps.

He grabs Maxence by the shoulders, spins him toward the hallway, pushes him through the bathroom door and slams it shut behind them.

* * *

“I want you to fuck me in da kink,” Axel says—loudly. If the music weren’t pounding through the apartment, half of Paris would have heard it.

Maxence blinks. “You want me to do what?”

They’re crammed into his bathroom. Tiles sweating. Clothes crooked. Axel’s fly is open. His hair looks electrocuted.

“To fuck me in the S-I-N-K,” Axel enunciates, one hand slapping the porcelain like it owes him money.

A pause.

Maxence’s eyes sweep the room. It’s small. Too small for ambition.

“You want me to bend you over the sink,” he says slowly.

“Yes,” Axel breathes. “Please.”

The word is more pathetic than he intended.

Maxence opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. “You’re drunk.”

Axel nods. “I am.”

Maxence steps closer anyway.

Axel’s skin buzzes. His knees forget how to function. His thoughts are all elbows and need and the image of Maxence once saying take you for a spin on my bathroom rug like it was nothing—while Axel laughed like it didn’t break something open.

Maxence’s hand lifts. He brushes a thumb over Axel’s lip, gentle now.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you.”

Axel nods again. “Every damn day since you kissed me.”

Maxence bites his lip. His fingers flex where they hover near Axel’s waist.

He fumbles with Axel’s shirt. Axel claws at Maxence’s belt. They knock into the towel rack. The mirror fogs from their breath. The air tastes like lime, gin, and something half-finished.

Maxence gets Axel’s jeans halfway down. Axel’s ass hits the cold porcelain. He gasps—then laughs, winded.

Maxence drops to his knees. His breath lands hot against Axel’s hip. His hands slide up, curve around Axel’s thighs, fingers digging in.

He pauses. Then leans forward.

Axel lets his head fall back, one palm gripping the sink, the other lost in Maxence’s hair.

Then—

A sound escapes him. Not quite a moan. Not quite a whimper. A high, startled noise that sits somewhere between want and panic.

Maxence freezes.

They both go still.

Axel’s eyes fly open. “Wait—”

Maxence pulls back a breath. “We don’t have—”

“Lube,” Axel says. “Yeah.”

They stare at each other.

A long beat.

Then they both start laughing. Shoulders shaking.

Maxence rests his forehead against Axel’s thigh.

“I was really gonna try,” he mutters.

“I know,” Axel says. “I was ready to die for it.”

They stay there, breathing hard.

Even straight boys don’t go in without lube.

Later, after the party has subsided and the guests have gone home, Maxence pulls him close.

The bed is soft and the sheets cool against his skin. But Maxence’s body is warm and solid against him.

Sleep finds them both.

Chapter 51: Then Have Me

They slept in. Now the tiny bathroom smells like citrus shampoo and steam. The tiles radiate heat from Maxence’s shower, and the mirror fogs at the edges. Axel stands on the round rug, toes pressed into the fabric. 

“He’ll move in with me,” Axel thinks, surprised by how clearly the words form. They arrive without tension, already true.

Maxence pulls the plastic aside. The rings clatter as he steps in. “Wait a minute,” he says. “I’ll get it warm enough.”

Axel watches the water run over his skin. The slope of his back. The ink across his ribs. The scar near his hip. All of it familiar. And still—it stirs.

Maxence reaches out. His palm faces upward.

Axel steps in.

Hot water slides across his shoulders. Maxence’s arms follow. One hand cradles the back of Axel’s head. Fingers move through his hair, slow.

Maxence’s mouth brushes his shoulder. “I thought you wouldn’t come back,” he whispers.

Axel hears the pain in his voice. Shame pulses through him. He pauses. Leans in and kisses Maxence’s neck. Wants to say this right.

He looks up. Finds his eyes. “I was always making my way to you.”

Maxence's breath hitches. Axel feels the shift—in his arms when they pull him close. He rests his forehead against Axel's, eyes closing for a long moment, as if the tension of a years-long wait has finally released its grip.

Axel tucks his face into the curve of his collarbone. Hands resting against warm ribs. Maxence holds him. Water running between them.

When Axel tilts his head up and kisses him, Maxence responds with heat. Tongue. Open. Axel groans, deep in his throat. Their hips touch. Arousal sharp and clear. The kiss deepens.

Maxence pushes Axel gently against the tile. His hands trail down over ribs and muscle. One wraps around Axel’s thigh, lifts. Axel bends his knee, rests it against Maxence’s hip. The world narrows.

Water slides over them. Axel turns around. Maxence’s fingers are slick. Searching.

“I want you,” Maxence breathes, hot against his back.

Axel leans into him. “Then have me.”

Heat rises. Sharp. Crashing through him. He doesn’t brace for the pain. This time, he knows he wants all of it.

When Maxence slides into him, Axel gasps. His hand finds the tile, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping him here.

Maxence moves with hunger.

Axel lets go.

“Yes. Right there.”

Maxence grips his hips. Breath staggered. He presses his mouth into the hollow just beneath his ear.

Axel’s muscles quake. His voice shatters open. Everything spills forward—tight, aching, and then released—

Maxence follows with a cry. Face buried in Axel’s neck. “I—Axel—fuck.”

Steam curls around them. Maxence gathers him in his arms, holding him like he means to keep him there.

Axel rests his cheek against Maxence’s shoulder. Lets his eyes close. The water surrounds them.

Chapter 52: I’m Here Now

The sun hasn’t reached the window yet. The room smells like cotton and dog fur. Axel lies still, the sheet tangled around his waist, Maxence breathing slow beside him. One of his arms stretches across Axel’s chest, heavy and warm.

At the foot of the bed, Ouba has wedged herself between their legs, her nose twitching in her sleep.

Axel watches the ceiling. Traces the faint cracks in the stucco. Outside, the city is quiet.

Axel moves slightly and turns his head. Maxence’s lashes rest against his cheeks. His hair is a mess. Axel feels a tug in his chest.

“I want this,” he thinks. Clear as spring water.

He remembers how he once told Maxence that he wanted an easy life. He meant peace through distance. For his mother. For work. For everyone but himself.

He knows better now.

Easy isn’t the goal. Living something that’s real is. 

It’s truth for a lifetime.

Maxence stirs. Blinks into the space.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs.

“You’re pretty,” Axel replies.

Maxence scoffs. Then shifts closer, nuzzles into the curve of Axel’s neck.

“It’s Monday morning. Work,” he says against his skin.

He pulls back, looking Axel in the eye.

“You sure you’re built for this? The mornings. The dishes. Me hogging the blanket.”

He says it like a tease, but Axel hears the question underneath.

He takes a breath.

“You’re enough,” he says. Reaching a hand out to stroke his cheek.

Maxence blinks, and stills. Says nothing.

“Before, I was scared,” Axel says. “I didn’t know who I was.”

“And now?” Maxence draws a small circle on Axel’s stomach with his thumb.

“I still don’t know,” Axel says. “But I know who I want to be with.”

Maxence is quiet. Then: “Okay.”

Axel smiles into his hair.

Maxence pulls back. Exhales. His eyes water. He blinks it away. “It hurt. Waiting for someone who might never come.”

Maxence presses his palm to Axel’s chest, light.

“I used to wake up. Reach for you. Then remember you weren’t there.”

His hand stays there. A faint tremor under his palm.

Axel reaches for his hand. Twines their fingers.

“I’m here now.” A pause. Then: “You’re stuck with me.”

Maxence’s smile returns, faint and crooked.

Ouba flops over, her paw pressing to Maxence’s thigh.

They both look down.

“We should take her out,” Axel says.

Maxence groans. “Later.”

“Come on. It’s morning. People are out. Perfect time to get caught holding hands.”

Maxence raises an eyebrow. “Are we doing that?”

“Yeah,” Axel says. “We are.”

He rolls out of bed, grabs a hoodie, and clips the leash to Ouba’s collar. Maxence steps into his shoes. Follows.

Axel takes his hand.

Ouba trots ahead, tail wagging.

Maxence glances sideways, trying to hide his smile.

The street smells like coffee and fresh bread. A cyclist passes.

Axel squeezes his hand. Lets the breath out slowly.

They keep walking.

Chapter 53: Epilogue: I Found Myself

Later. Weeks, maybe. Or just long enough. 

Axel: 

thank you for being the bigger person when I was lost 

Mae: 

🩶 Did you find yourself? 

Axel: 

I think I did. 

Mae: 

🩶

Axel: 

🩶

 

He sets the phone down on the nightstand. Watches Maxence’s shoulder move with each breath. Ouba shifts a little, paws twitching.

He breathes in — and his own chest feels open, like an old book that enjoys being read.

The warmth stays.

He lets himself rest.