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Max and Charles sit opposite in the kitchen, Charles hovering around the stove, apron tied tightly around his waist and wooden spoon tightly secured in his left hand.
Max is sat on a high-top chair on the island counter, trying his best to figure out why Christian sent him the same document he had just seen two days ago, just now much more highlighted and much more confusing.
Some random popular jazz record is spinning in the living room, the sound wafting throughout the apartment and filling up the kitchen.
Usually it would bother Max while he’s trying to read, but he’s not even sure if he’s really reading anymore, or if the words on the page are really even words at all.
“Mon trésor, come, try this.”
Max doesn’t even bother looking up from the documents, simply letting his jaw fall open. Charles guides a spoon with some sort of sauce directly into his mouth, and Max finally looks up at his face when the flavor registers.
“What is that? It’s delicious.” Charles is smiling ear to ear, licking the remnants of the sauce off the spoon that was just in Max’s mouth.
“Do not worry about it,” Charles says, and it’s about as trustworthy as Ferrari's strategy.
Max raises an eyebrow, and Charles has to turn to try and disguise the grin that seems a bit too comfortable on his face.
“Fine, if you really must know, it’s a secret recipe I found in an old cookbook from the library.”
Max actually feels bad for believing him for a second, before the realization must dawn upon his face, because Charles immediately spills his guts—or rather, the sauce.
“It’s my mothers from a few nights ago. No! No, I added more oregano, so it’s totally different!” Max keeps laughing harder, and Charles’ face is slowly beginning to match the color of the sauce as he tries harder and harder to defend himself.
“It’s perfect, schat,” Max can practically see the embarrassment roll off Charles’ shoulders, and is quick to not let it slide off too fast. “Just remind me to call your mother after dinner and thank her.”
He’s not sure if he deserves the towel that is thrown in his face after.
About five minutes later, Max’s stomach is grumbling, and Charles is yet to even begin boiling the pasta.
He, of course, knows better than to voice this, because the last time he did, Charles had moved at a sloths pace afterwards, and it must have taken two minutes for him to place the chicken on the plate, staring directly at Max while he did it.
The other time Max had voiced his hunger, the monegasque had went on a rant for about twenty minutes about how one time he took a pottery class and—well, Max had mentally checked out as he told the story, instead opting for just staring at Charles’ face and watching his eyes pretty much the whole time.
The moral of the story was you can’t rush perfection. Max thinks.
Current Max has been re-reading the same paragraph for the last two minutes, and decides if he sees the words “short and/or long term” anymore his life is going to become a short term one.
So he shoves them away, crossing his arms on the marble and resting his head on them, keeping his head up just enough to watch Charles move back and forth across the kitchen. He goes from checking on the bread in the oven, to adding more seasoning to the sauce, to washing his hands in the sink, making it a perfect triangle as he paces around.
Max is almost hypnotized, and the current music is not at all helping. A tune that might be either a saxophone or some sort of trumpet begins to play quietly, the distance from the record player making the music a bit quieter than Max wishes.
The man on the record finally begins to sing after what feels like forever of an intro, his voice much softer than the trumpet in the beginning.
Charles is seemingly oblivious to the beautiful song, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, although there really isn’t anything he needs to be doing. He has just put half of the pasta into the boiling water, which means he has probably about ten or however many minutes it takes to cook pasta to focus on something else.
Max doesn’t believe it’s selfish to think that this something else should be him.
So he gets up from his stool, sliding over to Charles as slow as possible to not be detected, and begins to get to work on what might be his best plan yet.
“Take my eyes off of you…” he says along with the lyrics, and he’s not exactly the best singer, but neither is the guy on the record it seems, so he continues anyways.
“Pardon the way that I stare.”
Charles doesn’t even turn around, still completely locked in on the food that has no need to be watched this intently.
Max’s hands find Charles’, resting on either side of the stove as he looks over the pots, intertwining their fingers together as he slots his head between the junction where Charles’ shoulder and neck begin. His voice vibrates onto Charles’ skin, and he can already feel little goosebumps begin to form on his arms.
“There’s ‘nothin else to compare.” He manages to pull Charles away from the stove, spinning him around so the two can finally face each other.
“Are you serenading me, Verstappen?” Charles says, an eyebrow raising. But he’s still all smiles, and his fingers are yet to leave Max’s own, so Max knows he already knows the answer.
“The sight of you leaves me,” Max breathes in a deep breathe, “weak.” He sighs out, and Charles practically giggles. it’s better than any music he’s heard all night.
“You’re ridiculous.” Charles mumbles.
“There are no words left to speak!” Max says in response, lifting a singular finger like he’s correcting Charles on a math problem.
Charles rolls his eyes, but lifts the hand that isn’t holding Max’s to come up and hold his nape, playing with the too-short strands there.
“But if you feel like I feel,” Max begins to spin them around slowly, Charles almost tripping over his own feet. Max supports him by keeping one hand at the small of his back, the other still holding onto Charles’.
Charles has not stopped smiling, and Max wonders if they could stay like this all night, forget about dinner and documents and everything else, just spinning around and giggling at how bad Max’s singing is.
“Please,” Max goes off beat for this part, and Charles seems a bit taken aback at this music liberty. “Let me know that it’s real.” He says it before the guy even finishes, and he sounds like the words are being tortured out of him.
Charles laughs, one that makes his head go back and eyes get those little wrinkles on the corners.
Max spins them once more, slowly, bringing the hand that is intertwined with Charles’ up to his lips to plant a kiss on his knuckles, the act so idiotic and cliché that he knows Charles will be all red by the time his lips leave his skin.
Of course, Charles has the prettiest blush once he places their hands back where they were before, fingers still intertwined. “You’re just too good to be true.”
“Can’t take my eyes off of you.”
Charles rolls his eyes a final time, dragging Max down from his neck into a gentle, chaste kiss.
The music doesn’t go into that annoying blasting-trumpet part, instead the cover is much more mellow, a simple continuation of the intros instrumental.
It’s nice, and Max wonders if maybe Charles won’t even notice why they’ve been spinning around in the same spot for the past five minutes, and why Max’s hand hasn’t been on Charles’ back for half of those five minutes.
Charles, ever so observant, immediately twists around as soon as he assumedly sees the extremely suspicious look on Max’s face, who's never been exceptionally skilled at hiding anything from the monegasque.
“Max!” Max immediately slides his arms around Charles’ waist, hopeful that the man might take mercy on him if he’s being as sweet as before.
While they had been spinning and Max had been singing sweet nothings to Charles, he had also purposefully not let Charles see why they had to keep on spinning so much—so that Max could get all of the now-cooked pasta out of the boiling water and into the sauce, even occasionally using little kisses on Charles’ neck to distract him from the fact that Max was mixing everything together behind his back—literally.
“I can’t believe you. So impatient! Really, I don’t even know why I put up with it.” Charles continues to scold Max, but it just leaves the Dutchman to wonder if he really means it, because he’s fully turned away from the stove and towards Max, kissing all over his face in what he thinks is supposed to be a punishment.
Max only hums in acknowledgment, nodding as if he’s listening to anything Charles is saying and not just staring into his eyes disgustingly fondly.
For some reason, he gets an odd sense of déjà vu.