It takes two

by fluffybabyshark

Summary:

Professor Sebastian Vettel might had accidentally hooked up with one of his students.
And what followed was as if that onetime mistake kept haunting him without end.

Notes:

English is not my mother language and it's my first English fic so apologize for any mistakes
any suggestions or comments are very much welcome🥳
enjoy！

I don't major in architecture so everything is made up

Chapter 1

It all started with an email, when Sebastian Vettel saw it on a Friday morning, with an unassuming subject line among the usual flood of student inquiries and department updates.

The sender wasn’t some inexperienced freshman stumbling with communication etiquette — one Charles Leclerc, a name that sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. His message was impeccably composed: a paragraph of polite deference to Professor Vettel's expertise, his earnest request to join the design project group, and an attachment.

A shirtless photo of Sebastian on a hotel bed.

Sebastian stared at the screen for a while, his coffee cooling untouched beside him. After a long pause, he clicked away from it and went back to work, but the image lingerd in his mind like an unwelcome guest. His private life wasn't exactly spotless, but he had boundaries—strict ones. There was no way he would have slept with his student. This meant that brat had just got hold of the photo from somewhere else and now was using it as leverage to blackmail his way into the project group.

It was a clever, albeit dirty trick, and not a smart one at that, because Sebastian had no intention of giving in. 

Not to blackmail, not to threats, and certainly not to some cocky undergraduate who thought he could manipulate his way in. If Charles thought this little stunt would force his hand, he was gravely mistaken.

     For me it's just work. For you it's your life. Don't play tricks, make a wise choice. This won't pave your way in.

    The recruitment of project team members follows a standardized  selection process .Go Sign up  with your grade board.

After sending his reply, he dragged that unknown email address straight to the blacklist.

The list of members selected for the Master Planning and Design Competition project group was posted on the college website by the end of the semester, and Charles Leclerc was the only third-year student to make the cut.

Charles cursed his past self — that idiot who'd thought part-time at a bar was a quick cash gig. It was now 3a.m., and he had just finished another grueling shift. His body felt like lead, his eyelids sandbags as he stumbled into the pre dawn darkness. The thought of collapsing onto the couch in the lounge area, blaring music be damned, was almost too tempting to resist. Five hours—if he skipped showering—that's all he had before his first class started. Five miserable hours to scub away the night's grime, grab some sleep and pretend to be human again.

Pierre's beat-up minivan idled at the curb, it's door hanging open for him to yawn his way into the passenger seat.

"At least the tips don't suck." Pierre quipped through the haze of bass. "And don't forget you get the occasional free blow jobs."

That trademark smirk made him want to laugh and puke. Pierre had a point, but it wasn’t much of a comfort. In fact, when Charles had taken that photo, he hadn't thought much of it. The sex was mindblowing. The professor didn't recognize him as he expected. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, a flash of bravado, to prove that he had been with that Sebastian Vettel—not some other random namesake. He even deleted the photo immediately after sending it to Pierre, not wanting anyone else to blow things out of proportion.

That's also why, a month later, he decided to retrieve that photo from Pierre and put it in the email he sent to Professor Vettel. Desperation had a way of making reckless decisions feel deliberate.

He needed that spot in Vettel's program. The scholarships, the competition prizes—anything to lessen the weight of student loans he was already drowning in. The financial aid he could apply for was woefully limited, so he needed to find some better ways than bartending. Like something more stable. A job, a real job.

He remembered Vettel's lectures, in a packed, dimly-lit lecture hall where students spilled into the aisles like sardines in a tin. Charles had never managed to snag a seat near the front; he was always lost in the sea of faces, just another nameless student in the crowd. On the final day, half the class had conveniently "forgotten" to bring the papers, just so they could knock on Professor Vettel's office door and hand-deliver those sympathetic assignments. Charles had watched them, a parade of ambition and desperation, and wondered if he’d ever get his chance.

He must get into that project group.

When the acceptance notification arrived, it landed right before the spring break—not that Charles had planned on going anywhere. While everyone fled campus for tropical beaches or ski resorts, he would’ve stayed in the studio regardless, wrestling with the semester’s design project. His third-year assignment was a large theater design, and the acoustic modeling was enough to make his temples throb. 

The PhD students in Professor Vettel's group had assembled care packages for the  undergraduates staying on campus over the break. Charles looked at the tray of foil-wrapped chocolates and honey cakes. He was certain they weren’t from the iceman professor who was as approachable as a brick wall. As for Professor Vettel, he would probably only raise a disinterested eyebrow when the doctoral students handed him the reimbursement forms.

So, he took an extra handful of chocolates without much gratitude, shoving them into his bag. He was still juggling his late shifts as a bartender, and with the way Sebastian’s expectations weighed down on undergraduates, he was running on fumes. Sugar, caffeine, sheer spite—whatever helped to combat the long nights of sketching and brainstorming the assignments, which he squeezed in between shifts behind the bar.

As the semester drew to a close, the teaching evaluation system opened for its annual ritual of anonymous professor ratings. Charles had once given Professor Vettel straight A's—because it was Sebastian Vettel, one of the most brilliant minds in the faculty, his lectures on spatial theory electric. And he was humble yet unfairly handsome in that effortless way. And those adorable little wrinkles that appeared when he smiled, making him look freaking charming paired with those sharp blue eyes.

Though this time, he clicked all D’s. A small, silent rebellion, but a satisfying way to strike back at the man who had somehow become both his idol and, at times, his nemesis. He imagined Sebastian's pristine rating slipping by a percentage point or two, and the thought alone brought a petty sense of satisfaction.

What he didn't know, was that the system had already flagged his rating as an outlier,  tossing it out before it could even make a dent. But oh well. Charles had bigger fish to fry.

The first week began with a quick design exercise, completed and rated anonymously. Sebastian personally reviewed the submissions and delivered his feedback that Friday. Without doubts, almost all the new members' designs were torn to shreds.

"...Your basic drafting skills are up to par," Sebastian said, his tone calm but cutting, "but your design concepts and development directions are... let’s just say they leave much to be desired. Of course, that’s partly due to the time constraints." He paused, taking in a sea of lowered brows. "But in the future it won't be an excuse for your lack of imagination. When time is limited, you don’t have the luxury of overthinking. Instead, you need to trust your instincts and focus on the core idea that excites you. "

"However," Sebastian continued, "I still hope everyone can engage more  with the fundamental issues and needs of the project. Think about how to integrate your initial concepts with the site conditions and carry them through to the final design. Each step should have a logical and thoughtful connection. Architecture isn’t just about ideas—it’s about execution."

Charles snapped back to reality when he realized Sebastian’s hand had, at some point, found its way on the edge of Charles's desk. It was an undeniable presence, his fingers tapping lightly, like the ticking of a metronome counting down the seconds of Charles’s growing discomfort.

"But before we dive deeper into design, let’s get one thing straight: follow the rules here. No tardiness, no unauthorized withdrawals. That’s rule number one. Since you’ve chosen to join this group, I expect professionalism. Respect is mutual, and punctuality is non-negotiable. It’s a basic tenet of being an architect."

Charles stiffened, his stomach sinking as Sebastian’s gaze swept over the room.

Without his glasses, Sebastian's eyes were softer, but even a casual glance felt like a spotlight. Charles couldn’t help but feel exposed under that gaze, knowing full well that Sebastian could see him blushing. Because today, of all days, he was the one who had been late.

He hadn’t eaten anything since morning, too busy scrambling to prepare for the design exercise—the very one that had been crushed with a few well-placed words by the man standing in front of him. Charles's stomach was growling in protest. The irony wasn’t lost on him—he was dizzy, starving, exhausted, and pouring his last ounce of energy into a project that Sebastian had already dismissed as “mediocre and lacking vision.”

Now the room was spinning, the ceiling looming dangerously above him like it might crash down at any moment. Meanwhile, there the culprit stood, still repeating, "Three tardies, and you’re out of the project team."

One thing was certain, whether Charles had earned his place in the group through his own merit, or if Sebastian had given him the green light out of concern for his own career, it didn’t matter.

Sebastian Vettel didn't like him. Charles should have known that, long before he even entered his project group.

Chapter 2

 

Not long after, the project group had passed the initial selection, which meant they could proceed with the next four months of urban design for the district and the selection process for key architectural designs.

It was proposed that the entire project team had a dinner gathering, and someone even suggested an outdoor barbecue at Sebastian's countryside house. Of course Sebastian was the first to reject that idea.

They eventually settled on hosting an academic exchange salon—two hours of case study discussions, followed by time for icebreaking, chatting, and more activities that appealed to the younger crowd.

That day, those kids even managed to get a full karaoke set. Charles sang a ear-splitting rock song and then joined the crowd under the flashing lights to dance. What a terrible dancer. Sebastian couldn't tell whether the interaction between him and Alessandro, filled with physical contact and gyrating movements, should be classified as dancing or flirting.

"You know that, right?" Sebastian tilted his head, as his PhD student panting, walked over to the table with a can of beer. "He's gay."

"Who?" Alessandro took a big swig of beer, then nodded and shrugged after following Sebastian's gaze. "Oh, I know. But he knows how to keep things in check, you know, between just having fun and actual flirting..."

"Just a heads-up," Sebastian cut him off. "I don't want to comfort some girl who comes crying to me because her boyfriend came out."

"God, Seb! It's just a dance. He also taught me some moves from his high school dance competitions. It's actually kind of fun."

"Or ridiculous."

Alessandro pursed his lips, clearly unimpressed by his harshness and walked off to chat with someone else. Sebastian stayed where he was, holding his beer, continuing to keep his distance. The party was still in full swing, and the room was bathed in a soft, warm glow. The air was filled with the faint scent of perfume and alcohol, mingling with the hum of laughter and the deep bass of the music. At some point, Charles had disappeared.

He realized that he had been paying an unnecessary amount of attention to Charles Leclerc. In fact, on the day the project began, when Alessandro gathered the students for a meeting, Sebastian had come by as usual to greet them. He saw Charles in the corner, slightly slouched, with dark circles hanging beneath his eyes. Sebastian could tell from his bleary and evasive gaze that the boy had mild myopia.

He carefully checked the errors in Charles' SU model and was particularly picky about his design ideas.He paid extra attention to his late and early departure times - now totaling 2 times. It was as if he hoped Charles would voluntarily propose to drop out of the project, but the young man seemed to have a deeper obstinate stubbornness than his casual demeanor suggested.

Sebastian didn't want things to get ugly. He hated the thought of turning into a teacher who held personal prejudices against students, but Charles' style of handling things really got on his nerves in many ways. The fact that he had wielded their accidental sexual encounter as a threat was one thing, but more than that, it was the young man's stubborn and opportunistic nature.

Charles seemed to be desperately trying to win everyone’s favor, and to some extent he had succeeded, but it was pathological. Sebastian was convinced that he wasn't the only one who felt that way, though clearly, no one would say it out loud. People tended to keep a safe distance in such situations, while Sebastian would rather kick the threatening ones out of the game. He had never been one for pretense, ; that's why he had chosen the path of a scholar over the performative, cutthroat world of a businessman.

He preferred his life simple. Complexity had its place, but he had long passed the age where he felt the need to navigate it. Life, in his view, was better lived honestly—even if that meant standing alone.

Then his phone rang. It was Nico, an old friend who had recently married his ex-girlfriend.

Sebastian stepped away from the crowd and noise, heading to the fire escape near the restroom to take the call.

"Sure, I can come back by the end of the year, maybe just in time to celebrate the baby's birth... No, everything's fine. Hey, man, that's all in the past. I'm just happy for my two good friends... I wish you both the best. Say hi to Lewis for me."

As he hung up and turned around, he saw Charles leaning against the restroom door. He looked terrible—pale, with heavy eye bags, his hair damp and sticking to his face. There were a few prominent bloodstains on the collar of his blue striped T-shirt.

Sebastian frowned and approached a bit closer. Charles straightened his spine, then quickly drew back a step. Sebastian caught a peculiar expression flickered across his face—not quite a smile, more like a twitch, a movement that was strained, almost awkward, as though he were fighting to maintain a neutral face. 

"Huh." Charles involuntarily licked his lips before words emerged in a strange, guttural manner.  "I'm not intentionally eavesdropping."

"Are you okay?"

“Nothing, just a little nosebleed, "Charles said with a hint of vigilance, meeting his gaze nervously, one hand tugging at his collar. "I won't faint or anything. It's too noisy in here, I just need a break."

Drama queen. Sebastian had to refrain himself from rolling his eyes. "You can leave early if you're not feeling well."

"No, I'm fine." Charles shrugged under Sebastian's skeptical gaze, intending to walk past him back into the hall, "I've had enough rest."

"You know, I don't like you— as a mentor." Sebastian said, picked up his pocket as he stood behind Charles. "And you won't get any recommendations from me. It’s not really just about that threatening email."

Charles barked a dry laugh, echoing faintly in the empty staircase. "Good, I'm not much of a fan of your mess either. Or your ex-girlfriend, or her ex-boyfriend's nonsense."

"I didn't intend for this conversation to get personal."

"I even didn't expect a conversation with you." Charles said, tousling the scattered hair off his damp forehead, "Goodbye, sir."

Sebastian slipped out the side door of the fire escape to have a cigarette on the rooftop. The roar of the highway and far-off city hit him in the face like a slap. He had been trying to quit smoking long ago, but now, one occasional cigarette was just what he needed to bring him back to his senses.

He couldn't pinpoint where the gnawing irritability came from, whether it was about the news of Nico and Lewis preparing for pregnancy, or Charles' provocation, or just from being bothered by these meaningless matters himself. It crawled like an itch underneath his skin. There were far weightier things warranting his attention - the impending project design, the college's annual assessment, the half-finished paper, and his longer-term promotion plan - he got his own career and life to deal with.

Being a rational adult and working for a living was just so mundane. Life had carried him away past good things, bad things, and his wild years were forever behind him. The weight of adulthood grounded him in a reality where stability was the only constant.

Sebastian returned to the room half an hour later, when the salon was nearly over, but the young people in their prime, brimming with boundless energy, were still discussing which bar to hit next for further youthful indulgence.

"I work at a bar, though it's quite a distance away," Charles proposed, "I can persuade the boss to give you a discount if you want."

"I love you, Charlie!" A lip print appeared on the still pale face.

Sebastian shook his head and refused the invitation from the Ph.D. student. He watched from a distance as Charles joined those young people and was escorted out of the research room.

Before turning off the lights and leaving, Sebastian had no doubt that Charles would once again be absent from the routine discussion of the project group tomorrow. But if Charles could also get his PhD students hammered, Sebastian would have no choice but to let him off this time.

Chapter 3

 

The first obstacles came crashing down on him far earlier than Charles had expected. Charles and Xavier chose the same site in the group design, so they were jointly responsible for the renovation of the old neighborhood and the design of a small folk museum.

Xavier was a stubborn senior who seemed to treat refuting every one of Charles's ideas and dragging their progress to a crawl as some essential component of teamwork. His responses were often short and uninterested, and conversations with him felt like hitting a brick wall, as he rarely showed any sign of engagement.

They were not quite on the same page from the beginning of the design process. Charles had proposed a bold sectional design for the city, envisioning a series of lively staggered platforms within the block. Xavier, without offering a single alternative concept, simply insisted that his ideas were impractical.

When Professor Vettle surprisingly endorsed the concept and encouraged them to develop it furthur, Xavier's response was just a shrug and a monotone "OK". It was the kind of reaction that made Charles want to slam his sketchbook shut and walk out.

To Charles, it felt less like collaboration and more like a slow-motion wrestling match where Xavier enjoyed playing the role of a bastard. They spent hours discussing plans, debating over minutiae—as if someone really cared about the impact of resurfacing those roads; this was just a design  competition; no one would nitpick about the feasibility of those student projects.

He couldn't help but feel Xavier's stubbornness in several specific fields was a deliberate move out of personal vendetta rather than principled disagreement. After all, he believed innovation was the heart of this competition, and he was damn good at giving people exactly what they wanted.

Regardless, their design was still advancing, albeit with difficulty, along the direction that Charles had hoped for. The platform design, water system integration, and the layout of plaza nodes and greenery—he felt he had shouldered most of the creative tasks, so naturally, Xavier should put more effort into the drawings and model-making.

Besides, he couldn't devote all his time to this project. Unlike these well-supported students, he still had a livelihood to maintain; his part-time job  wasn't just a hobby. He hadn't messed around with anyone in nearly two months even though he worked at a fucking bar.

Now, they need to make a 1:200 site model, and Xavier seemed to think it was perfectly reasonable to expect Charles to skip work and make the model with him.

"Yeah, go talk to my boss." Charles shot back, still trying to keep the conversation rational after a sarcastic smirk. "Look, you can spend all night on it tonight if you want, or not.Either way, the site model isn't that important until the final presentation."

Xavier crossed his arms. "Professor Vettel doesn't see it that way. You know how much he values the process of the project, and he's made it clear. We need to finish it," he emphasized "we". "And I'm not doing it alone just to stumble back to the apartment at midnight."

"Not every night in here after 10 PM has a lunatic hiding in the shadows, ready to burst out with a machine gun, you know."

The flicker of irritation on Xavier's usually stoic face was almost worth it. Almost. He looked like he had just swallowed a frog. "And do you even realize how insufferable you are?" He snapped.

"Of course. You should throw a party with people who share your views." Charles let out a short, derisive chuckle.

"Enough." His patience was clearly frayed, "Just get it done quickly, I'm not wasting any more time arguing with you."

"Yeah, you finish it," Charles grabbed his backpack and slid it over his shoulder before the other could frown again, "or don't. Whatever. I'm already late, again. And thanks to this little chat, I just got docked another 50 bucks."

He turned toward the door, ignoring Xavier's curses and the furious "Great, we're done!" followed behind him. Charles didn't look back. He didn't need to. It was only a matter of time before Xavier requested a group change, and when Alessandro came to him, Charles could practically hear the complaints he'd be feeding to the PhD. Poor, put-upon Xavier, the martyr who'd uncovered Charles's selfish, arrogant, evil core.

"Xavier claimed you are difficult to work with. Never listened to his opinions; just went your own way. And you insisted on leaving early.Is that true?"

"That’s rich, coming from someone who went mad just because I refused to play along his every whim."Charles scoffed, "He didn’t have opinions. He had complaints. Big difference. If he’d actually proposed something constructive, maybe I would’ve listened. But no, all he did was whine about those 'historical' and 'feasibility' shit like this was some government-funded urban renewal project."

He leaned in slightly, his voice shifting to a sharp, cutting tone. "As for leaving early, I have a job—you know, that thing people do to pay rent. And he just wants to go home early. What, can't miss the weekly CW drama or something?"

Alessandro chose to avoid Charles's sarcasm: "Anyway, Xavier chose to drop out midway, so now you're on your own to handle the final stretch."

"Or I could just quit." Charles faked a smile, though the words tasted bitter even as he said them.

"You could," came a voice, calm and detached, cutting through the tension and made Charles stiffen. Sebastian stood there, his expression as unreadable as ever. The professor's eyes were cool, almost disinterested, as if he had expected this moment all along. 

"It would indeed look irresponsible, but at least it wouldn't affect the next unit's grouping design."

He was merely observing the inevitable fallout. No anger, no disappointment, just a quiet, almost clinical acknowledgment of the situation. Charles half-turned his body to meet his gaze, and for a moment, he merely bit his lower lip to avoid saying something too sharp in rebuttal.

Alessandro smoothed things over again. "He was joking. We are just discussing the central concept of the museum's central concept."

Sebastian didn't even raise an eyebrow. "I do see you are having some serious collaboration issues."

"Only with Xavier Marcos," Charles shrugged, his own voice sound unnormally sharper in his ear, "and I think almost everyone would have some level of problem working with him."

Sebastian simply looked away, . "The site model still needs to be completed. Quit now, or I'll check your progress next Tuesday."

Charles forced himself not to follow their backs, instead kicking the cardboard site model—still missing large sections of miniature buildings. He let out a heavy sigh.

At least Sebastian had mercifully left him a weekend.

 

 

---

 

 

It didn’t take long before Sebastian noticed the exhaustion etched into Charles’s face, though Alessandro was the first to comment on that.

"God, he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week."

It was during one of those long, exhausting afternoons, as they sat down together for a break surrounded by the hum of student chatter. Sebastian turned around and saw Charles hunched in the corner, his face half-hidden behind a huge monitor.

That wasn't entirely true. Charles had been dozing in Sebastian's spatial theory class just two days ago, his head propped up on one hand as the lecture droned on. Sebastian had noticed, of course. He always noticed. 

Sebastian didn't usually pay attention to the students who slept through his lectures. The class was large, and as long as they showed up often enough to avoid failing, he didn't care what they did in the back row. Maybe it was because he'd been Charles's competition advisor for the past three months. Or maybe it was the way Charles slept like he didn't care who saw—head down, arms sprawled across the desk, completely unbothered. Once, Sebastian had even tapped his laptop bag against the table as he walked by, jolting Charles awake. The look of confusion on Charles's face had been almost comical though Sebastian just walked away.

He did not mean to comment on Charles's overly long tired expression. Nor did he want to inquire about any student's private life. Now, standing in the studio, Sebastian watched as Charles slumped over the worktable, his face buried in a pile of model-making materials. Even if he woke up with glue stuck to his cheek, Sebastian wouldn't be surprised.

"I thought his project was going well," Sebastian remarked.

"It is, mostly. But he's juggling a part-time job at a bar. It's a quite far away one." Alessandro added. 

Sebastian simply nodded. He knew about the bar. He'd been there once, over a year ago, before he'd realized the French bartender flirting with him was also his student. He even had chosen the bar in another district deliberately, which proved to be a huge mistake, one he'd tried to forget. 

And now, here they were, tangled in a mess of deadlines, egos, and unspoken tensions. Charles, with his sharp tongue and sharper mind, was a force of nature—exhausting, infuriating, and impossible to ignore. And Sebastian, for all his icy composure, couldn't quite look away.

Chapter 4

—I need to join your team, I need you to allow me to stay after driving away a partner, and I need you to help me post bail tonight.

That was Sebastian's first reaction when the call came in the dead of night. Unknown number, jagged breaths on the other end. Very impressive, couldn't be better. 

The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, young and hesitant, as if the speaker was unsure whether to sound courteous or matter-of-fact. It introduced himself as Pierre, a local college student. He explained in a confusing and fragmented manner, how Charles had met a "mysterious" drunkard, how they clashed after many refusals, and finally, how he was thrown into the detention center for causing injury.

Sebastian fought the urge to slam the phone down, before the ask finally surfaced. Charles needed 1000 dollars in bail, and neither the two students had anywhere near that amount. Sebastian scribbled down the address, dropped the receiver a little too hard, and dragged a hand down his face. Ridiculous, really. The faint glow of his bedside clock reading 2:20 AM. Now he had a general idea of  those dark circles under Charles' eyes.

40 minutes later, through the holding cell bars, he first met Pierre, who showed no remorse after extorting him verbally on the phone. Then Charles. He looked exactly as what he had imagined. He raised his head, shoulder squaring in a sympathetic manner, as if startling awake when Sebastian approached. His usually sharp features were marred by a swollen lip, the bruise along his jaw a mottled purple in the fluorescent glare.

Sebastian handed over the paperwork to Charles, waited beside them as they listened to the police officer's routine bail hearing explanation, and stepped out first.

The evening breeze still carried a faint chill. Rain had fallen and gone while they were inside—soft and fleeting. The air was thick with the scent of damp pavement and the mineral tang of the city at night. Sebastian put on a cardigan only to regret it immediately. 

Later, Charles emerged leaning on Pierre, holding one arm, and it was then that Sebastian noticed his foot was injured too.

"The hearing is next Wednesday, you might receive the remaining money after the fine is deducted." Sebastian said as Charles limped forward. The young man managed to straighten his back slightly, one hand still cinching around his abdomen.

He kept his head down, his attention fixed on a crack in the sidewalk. He held himself too still, like someone bracing against a cold wind only he could feel.

"Where's the other guy?" Sebastian asked, controlling his voice in a reserved manner, not letting any hint of personal curiosity slip through. The other guy—whom Pierre had referred to as "somebody Charles'd met before", though the police report was much more straightforward: Prior sexual encounter half a year ago, and it didn't go well.

"Hospital." Pierre supplied too fast. "Charles cracked him with a bottle, over the head."

At that, Charles finally looked up and met Sebastian's eyes. A raw laugh escaped him, which quickly twisted into a painful hiss as he doubled over slightly. He lowered himself again, "That bottle survived, the royal cannon. Thank god."

Sebastian was momentarily speechless, unsure how to respond to that attitude. He found no humor in this situation at all. The urge to shake him warred with something else—the instinct to demand what the hell were you thinking, to press a hand to that bruised jaw. The absurdity of it all—Charles' infuriating nonchalance about it, as if it were just another story to tell—sent an unwelcome twist through Sebastian's chest.

"I didn't come because of your blackmail, but this better be the last time you turn to me," Sebastian said, his voice low. He stared at Charles when the young man's gaze immediately fled away, and sighed. "At least in this way, and for this kind of thing. Here's a suggestion: quit the bar. Focus on your studies. You will have more and better ways to make money in the future."

The streetlight above them flickered, casting Charles’s face in shifting shadows. He was silent for a long time, his eyes strangely bright and glassy with a slight unnatural flicker.

He smiled dryly. "Yeah, like I can pay you back by myself."

"You don't have to. If there is a refund, the check will be mailed to your address."

Charles blinked. “Huh, that's good—I mean, thanks, professor?”

Sebastian furrowed his brow, about to speak, when Charles failed to pretend a yawn, followed by a wince as if even that simple action caused pain.

Sebastian hesitated, caught in that kind of fatigue that seeped into his bones. It was late—too late—and while his thoughts were unnervingly clear, his mind moved sluggishly, as if wading through thick molasses. Instead, he simply shut his mouth, turned on his heel and started toward his car.

The night had that peculiar clarity that comes after rain. The matter settled. Behind him, he heard a labored breath—whether of pain or something else, he couldn’t tell—and then Pierre’s low murmur.

The bar job, the late nights, the constant juggling of responsibilities—it all made sense now, though it didn’t make the situation any less absurd. He was so drained to reflect on what he'd done. And he didn't want to. The less he knew, the better. He was a professor, not a dad figure, or lawyer or therapist. His part in this mess—whatever it was— was done. At least for now. 

But as he slid into the driver's seat, the image lingered: Charles's battered face in the unsteady light, his eyes too bright, and that silent, surrendered look. Everything reminded him what's done was done. That one-time misstep turned out a chain reaction, a series of events that seemed to stretch endlessly—silent, persistent, like a ghost that refused to let him go.

 

The car interior was a silent tomb, the only sounds the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt and Pierre's occasional nervous shifting in the passenger seat. Outside, the city bled by in streaks of neon—red from a pharmacy sign washing over Charles' face one moment, green from a traffic light the next.

Charles stirred slightly. After a few minutes, he leaned his forehead against the window and closed his eyes, exhaustion finally catching up to him. The vibrations of the moving car traveled through his skull, more insistent pain radiating from his ribs with every breath. 

Pierre had asked him several times if he was okay, but Charles stayed silent, pretending to be asleep.

He wasn’t, though. He was tired. He didn't want to talk. That was all.

Back at the apartment, after a quick shower, he finally collapsed on the lumpy couch and refused to move. Pierre yawned as he started patching Charles up. The cut on his lip needed disinfecting, while his bruised side and swollen ankle throbbing in unison, required painkillers and a cooling spray. Charles clenched his jaw to keep a straight face, refusing to admit he’d twisted his ankle while getting the crap beaten out of him.

"Hold still." Pierre muttered as he pressed cool fingers lightly around the edges, "That guy is a fucking psycho. What did he call you again?"

"Pathetic whore." Charles winced, more from the sting than the memory. "You see how he talked shit and got in my face."

Pierre let out a low whistle. "That bottle hit was brutal, though," Pierre remarked, wincing as he examined the massive bruise on Charles’ side. "He went down like a sack of flour. I almost thought he was dead."

"So did I," Charles' voice came hoarse and raw before he even realized it. "What else was I supposed to do? He was trying to kill me!"

Pierre shrugged. "Well, you’re still alive. That's something." After tending to all the injuries, he tugged Charles’ pajama shirt back down and plopped onto the floor beside him.

"Yeah, alive. What a win," Charles muttered dryly, leaning back against the couch. The adrenaline had drained away, his body a patchwork of pain and fatigue.

"Well, next time maybe just take the compliment and walk away. The guy did call you ‘pretty’ before he called you a prick."

Charles almost laughed, then thought better of it as his ribs protested. "Shut up."

Pierre grinned. “Want some comfort babe?''

"Need someone to suck my dick so I can forget everything." His overly solemn expression was so genuine that Pierre couldn’t help a shove.

"Too bad—I'm straight through and through." Pierre stood up and walked away. He returned with a glass of water.

"How about a phone sex with your hot professor. I bet he's still up. I mean, he shows up like a saint, pays the bill, and drops a life advice bomb. What else could you even ask for?"

Charles responded with such an exaggerated, bone-tired eye roll that almost consume his entire face. But the brief amusement faded as quickly as it came, he heaved himself up on unsteady legs, swaying as he staggered toward his bedroom. Pierre hopped up and trailed behind, but kept his hands clasped tightly behind Charles' back.

It wasn’t a loud change—more like someone had quietly opened a freezer door. He hadn’t meant to hit a nerve—or maybe he had, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite this raw. Whatever. He’s tired and sore too.

He leaned against the door frame, watching as Charles wrapped himself into a human cocoon - blankets swallowing him whole, leaving only a tuft of disheveled hair, poking out like a stubborn weed. The silence from the blanket mound was louder than any complaint. Pierre frowned.

"You're not... pissed at me, are you? Come on, it's not like you had any options. Your contacts list is empty as a formatted hard driver." He paused, then added with a note of deliberate lightness, "Besides, that kind of cash is basically pocket change for a guy like him."

"No, I'm not. Now good night Pear." The muffled reply seemed to rise from the depths of the feather duvet. "Turn off the lights on your way out."

"Ah, there's the confirmation.A 'no, but yes'." Pierre exhaled. He lingered for a moment, studying that motionless slump again, before turning toward the door.

His hand was on the light switch, poised to plunge the room into darkness, when Charles's voice drifted out one more time. Softer now, thinner, like a breath on glass fading into the stillness.

"Not at you, at least."

Chapter 5

Notes:

I beg everyone to go see the newest pic of Seb in blue shirt on ROC🙏🙏
I cant handle how good he looks and that's what drive me to write this instead of my essay

 

Sebastian was one of the third-year project defense judges. Though not responsible for Charles' group, he still saw the young man's final submission.

The work measuring 0.84m x 2m, spread across four full-size Sintra boards, with more sheets compared to others, and two large scene perspectives. His design itself wasn't particularly striking, but the layout and details were well executed. Accordingly it earned him a very good score.

And Sebastian had noticed it presented around 40 additional construction details, far beyond standard requirements. Charles was always good at figuring people out and giving them what they expected, and Sebastian could even infer this just from his drawings. He just wasn't sure it was something to be admired.

As finals approached, the competition project went on hiatus, and most undergraduates, Charles included, were no longer seen in the lab. In fact, Sebastian hadn't seen him since that midnight at the police station.

He'd also missed two consecutive weekly meetings and should have been removed from the project group. Sebastian didn't raise the issue, so no one questioned it; perhaps Alessandro did, as he was responsible for attendance sheets, but he somehow chose to turn a blind eye.

Then the 14-week summer vacation began. Some students remained on campus to earn credits during the short summer semester, others to jostle for position in the upcoming semester. The team, short-staffed as always, opened internships to a few qualified undergrads.

Every summer, a number of ambitious students come here, angling for experience, connections, (more bluntly, for Sebastian's name on their future recommendation letters). In fact, most proved too idle to handle the drafting of important construction drawings, so they usually ended up running errands, assembling study models, fetching coffee.

Sebastian's design team recently won the bid for the first phase of a new scenic area project, where they were responsible for designing several exhibition buildings on a plot of land. These undergraduates would need to produce a considerable number of models.

Some of the more capable students could soon be assigned tasks like drafting CAD drawings for stairs and bathrooms. They might even contribute suggestions during the initial conceptual design phase. Sometimes, their fresh perspectives yielded useful conceptual ideas, though these rarely progressed beyond preliminary stages. Regardless, Sebastian always tried to ensure these students left having learned something.

He recognized Charles' genuine competence, setting aside his personal grievances with Charles. As a result, he'd praised Charles twice—once for proposing the concept of an outdoor exhibition space for the agricultural museum, and again for successfully communicating with the client about design changes in Alessendro's absence. Even if Charles didn't end up working in the design department in the future, he could likely secure a good position in the real estate industry.

Under different circumstances, Sebastian might have grown to appreciate such a motivated student; after all, Charles was surprisingly adept at disguising himself when trying to win someone's favor. Sebastian could see how quickly he'd won over most lab members, including Alessandro.

Charles's attitude toward Sebastian also softened after several weeks. Perhaps he'd finally realized that Sebastian had never singled him out, or felt some belated gratitude for the bail incident. More pragmatically, as his mentor, Sebastian remained Charles's best chance at a strong recommendation letter.

Sebastian, however, was no longer sure if his refusal is as firm as it was half a year ago.

 

---

 
The check arrived on a Tuesday afternoon—$1,380.20 after taxes, compensation and bail refund combined. 

The whole process turned out utterly absurd. Charles had to cover the medical expenses of that asshole, while the court somehow award him damages for harassment and provocation. After all the deductions and additions, Charles even ended up a few hundred dollars ahead. 

And Sebastian said he didn't need to return it.  

Pierre threw a grape at him while he lay sprawled on the bed, staring silently at the crisp check paper. "You're not giving that thousand bucks back to the professor, are you? Tell me you're not that stupid.”  

Charles popped the grape into his mouth, bounced up and tucked the check into his wallet. "No, hell no." 

After all Sebastian probably didn't need to know the result of the trial. Though he had given a favorable evaluation of his work, and Charles still worked for him. 

He refused to took it when Pierre tried to set up another bet, this time on whether Charles could get laid with the hottest professor in their department again. Pierre had this problem where he knew exactly how to get under Charles' skin, and Charles had dropped Seb's name into a casual chitchat too constantly.

He never intended to hide it anyway. His dumb crush over his teacher was so out in the open and normal. It was like admitting that he was bored and with too much feelings, probably psychology already had a name for this. But that didn’t give his best friend free rein to crack jokes about it. That weird hero-worship thing was strictly between them—hell, or maybe it was just some private fantasy he’d cooked up in his head.

God, if Pierre ever got one thing right, that was his dry spell really needed to end.

And it was like, how could he not? Sebastian wasn’t just any professor. He was the kind of person who made even the most mundane tasks seem fascinating, who could command a room without even trying. And seeing him like this—completely absorbed in his work — it was impossible not to be drawn in.

He wasn’t sure why that thought made him feel a bit odd, but he accepted it as fact weeks later when he hang late for the research project.

It was an evening, and the research lab was mostly empty, nearly an hour past the usual off-work time. Charles was calculating the opening hours of the bar. He could finish the floor plan Alessandro had assigned him, grab some dinner, and head straight to work.

It wasn't until the door to the private office opened that Charles realized Sebastian was still there. Perhaps noticing the light from Charles's desk lamp from afar, he walked straight over to Charles's desk, his coat hung on his arm.

"Interns rarely work overtime," Sebastian said, standing in front of Charles's screen. "Alessandro assign you the construction drawings?"

Charles nodded. "Probably no more stairs and bathrooms to draw."

"Well, he should've had you look at the design specifications and some drawing samples," Sebastian said, lowering himself slightly to examine the floor plan. "Might take more time, but at least it avoids wasted effort."

"Are there many mistakes?"

"Yes, like in the column grid layout. For simple orthogonal plans, the more common practice now is to reserve structural joints in advance, which is what we adopted in our design," Sebastian said, tilting his head toward Charles. "Mind if I make some changes?"

Charles, with a slight smirk, gave up his seat. "Of course not. Go ahead, Professor."

"What's this?" Sebastian controlled the mouse to draw a circle on a wall.

"Um, ventilation opening. I copied it from another example plan."

"Well, you hear what you said. You know workers will be building based on this drawing, right? You're designing an actual project that people will use and live in. Take it seriously, young man."

Charles pursed his lips at the slightly exasperating term, but he chose to reply softly, "Yes, Professor." He then watched as Sebastian saved a copy of the file and made extensive modifications, patiently explaining each step.

He looked so focused and... professional. He embodied everything Charles had imagined a professor to be. Charles had almost forgotten the time when he was infatuated with the most charming professor in their department; and that was before he had seen Sebastian fully attentive and displaying such impeccable professionalism.

As he watched the hand operate the mouse, the image of Sebastian’s hands—strong, capable, and undeniably attractive—was already burned into his mind.

Charles couldn’t help but let his thoughts drifting. There was something mesmerizing about the way the professor’s hands moved—confident, skillful, and effortlessly commanding. The way his fingers tapped over the keyboard, the subtle flex of his wrist as he adjusted the details—it all felt strangely intimate. He imagined what it would be like to reach out and touch that hand, to feel the warmth of Sebastian’s skin against his own. Would it be as steady and sure as it looked? Would he notice if Charles let his fingers brush against his?

"I won't repeat again, so I hope you're paying attention," Sebastian said as he input shortcut key, not looking at Charles; yet somehow, he knew Charles had zoned out.

Without thinking, Charles asked an unrelated question: "Why don't you ever call me by my name? You call everyone else by their names, but not me."

Sebastian's hand paused, then continued. "Is that important? Maybe I just find your name hard to pronounce. French pronunciation is awkward."

"Or maybe you just don't like me," Charles wanted to say, "you hate me." Instead, he said, "If it's just for convenience, you could call me like those Americans do. They all call me that."

"And then? You'd call me Seb?"

The suggestion stirred something in Charles's stomach. He'd called Sebastian that way before, long ago, perhaps over a year ago, when they lay in the same bed; a part of Sebastian buried inside him. Memories best left unrecalled.

Charles finally shrugged. "I'd call you Professor Vettel, even in private. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like someone's been talking behind my back," Sebastian said, releasing the mouse, perhaps finally realizing the lesson was over.

"Well, make that 'someones.'"

Sebastian didn’t respond for a moment, then picked up his coat and stood up. "I mean, is this attitude to get my recommendation letter?"

Charles shrugged, flashing his confident and charming smile. "That might be true. But, no, not entirely."

Sebastian shook his head, a small confused smile tugging at his lips. "Alright then. Don't work too late, and lock up when you leave."

"Will do, Professor."

Charles watched as Sebastian pushed open the glass door and left, then sat back down.

From the first day Charles entered Sebastian's research lab, he was convinced he wouldn't get along with the professor. Yet who could predict the future? After all, so many skilled animal trainers had danced with the wild beasts.

At around 8p.m., he left the office and set off to work. His shifts often began like this—for the first hour, he stood behind the bar, wiping down glasses, talking to customers, staring at the shelves of liquor because smart phone was forbidden and he was asked to "keep busy".

But his work would get easier as the night dragged on. That's when he got some chances to work on his homework behind his manager's back.

Tonight was no different—random thoughts drifting in, as he wiped different kinds of glassware behind a ten-foot stretch of scarred mahogany. Every surface seemed to gleam with a faint, oily sheen under the low wattage bulbs. Clink, pour, splash, slide. There's Dave, sloshing his beer as he leaned too far over the counter to ask Charles about his sex life. Then the woman sitting at the corner stool, her laughter sharp and loud as she flirted with anyone within earshot—including Charles, though he'd already learned to dodge it with a practiced smile. 

He served the usual mix of strangers and regulars, deflected a half-hearted pass from a guy in a leather jacket. With no one actively waving for a check or a fresh drink, he was able to settle on his favorite pastime—doodling under those cheap fairy lights draped over his head.

If he could describe the bar in one word, he'd choose slimy. Slimy because the air carried a sickly smell from spilled drinks, old wood and someone’s cologne. The lights clung to the rows of liquor bottles, giving the entire bar a vaguely dirty, amber hue. 

The owner tried to spruce the place up with dim lighting and vintage posters, but evidently they could do better —maybe start by the spatial layout. Maybe they could create zones with modular furniture, some for the quiet drinkers, some for the rowdy groups. And the lighting, use soft, indirect uplighting to graze the texture of exposed brick and reclaimed wood, or aim narrow spotlights at the few interesting details, so the place would look less like a dingy, forgotten hole. 

His focus blurred somehow. The outline of a bar softened into something more organic. Without realizing it, his pencil had strayed to the margin of his design. There, emerging from a cluster of notes and liquor collection calculations, on the napkin, was a hand.

He had no clue when he'd quitted his architecturer job. The song by Fiji Blue was blasting in the background. People around him were still talking, but he couldn't hear them anymore, his attention fixed on that hand.

Charles carefully added shading on it, carved out fine lines, faint veins, and highlights on the nails, paying extra attention to making the knuckles stand out sharply. Then he thought about something missing-the delicate, almost translucent, light - colored hairs. They're so fine and soft, like the gentlest silk threads, shimmering with a faint golden glow.

He tilted his head to have a fresh look. The hand was slightly curled inward, fingers spread, each one finger a little different, some slightly bent, others straight, to create a sense of movement. As if it should be holding something, with a subtle flex of the wrist, driving it up and down.

His eyelid twitched.

 

Notes:

in case i didnt write this clear
i mean Charles was fantasizing Seb do a handjob for him when drawing...

Chapter 6

Notes:

I finished this chapter before leaving for shanghai GP
now im dead inside but still hope u enjoy it🥲

In late October, the business school had already begun promoting their annual Halloween party a week in advance, posters plastered across every available surface. Faculty members had access to a limited number of complimentary tickets. Sebastian hadn’t initially planned to go, but Silvia slipped him one the day before the event, casually mentioning that she’d be dressing as Wonder Woman for the costume party.

Well, he wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of parading around in red underwear or sporting a black, horned headpiece. He hadn’t given much thought to the blonde lecturer from the engineering department either.

Yet there the ticket lay on his desk. Those future Wall Street elites always ensured the party was worth the price of admission, and with some downtime between projects, Sebastian figured he might as well enjoy a few free cocktails. 

The grand hall was a spectacle of lights and buzz, with students milling about in an array of costumes. In the side room, students manned booths selling feathered vintage masquerades for $15 a pop—undoubtedly from business school. Sebastian shook his head as he walked toward the main hall. Noticing that a third of the attendees had shelled out for the masks, he smirked slightly.

He made his way to the long table laden with a chaotic spread of treats and neon-colored concoctions. There were cupcakes frosted to resemble miniature monsters, bowls of punch that glowed under the blacklights, platters of finger foods and other strange-looking food.

Sebastian eyed the scene with a mix of amusement and mild disdain, the kind of look a professor reserves for students who offered a building resembling a cowboy hat as a research project. He reached for a drink that didn’t look too suspicious and took a sip, as he glanced at a boy who was attempting to balance three glow-in-the-dark drinks while wearing what appeared to be a inflatable dinosaur costume.

The cocktail, to his surprise, wasn’t bad—smooth and slightly zesty, with just enough bite to remind him he wasn’t at a faculty mixer. Moments later, Alessandro waved and approached, sporting oversized sunglasses, an orange puffer vest, blue jeans, and a dark purple, gold-trimmed mask that completely obscured the upper half of his face. Sebastian only recognized him by his familiar gait.

“I thought you only had one ticket?” Alessandro tucked the mask into his pocket, then grabbed a plate and started loading it with snacks. He seemed determined to get the most out of the ticket Sebastian had given him.

“Got another one from Silvia. Have you seen her?”

“Yeah, over there. You can’t miss her costume. It’s wild.” Alessandro tilted his head, eyeing the suit hanging off Sebastian’s frame. “How about you? A suit-wearing serial killer or just another upper-class jerk?”

“I’ll go with Hannibal.” Sebastian replied with a scoff.

“So I get a point for ‘serial killer,’” Alessandro said, as he popped the muffin into his mouth. “ Could’ve done better, Prof. At least thrown on some fake blood or carried around a Chianti glass.”

Sebastian swirled the amber liquid in his glass with a smirk. “ How charmingly straightforward. Hannibal is a classic. Subtle, sophisticated, and terrifying. Besides, I’m not here to scare anyone. ”

Alessandro laughed, nearly choking on his muffin. “ You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a ‘dangerous and mysterious professor,’ you’re really bad at letting loose. ”

“I let loose,” Sebastian protested, though his tone suggested otherwise. “All I want is a free cocktail, and enjoy the chaos from a safe distance.”

“Well, looks like our charming blonde lecturer doesn’t stand a chance. You don’t even bother a costume.”

Sebastian shot him a look, but there was no real heat behind it. He plucked the sunglasses off Alessandro’s head just before they tumbled into the communal food tray. “Careful. By the way, what exactly are you supposed to be? A rejected extra from an ‘80s music video?”

Alessandro feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “Ouch. And here I thought you’d appreciate my homage to Marty McFly. You know, the most iconic time traveler in cinematic history?”

Sebastian eyed him with mock seriousness. “You look more like a confused tourist who got lost on his way to a ski resort.”

Alessandro laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that? I’m starting to think you’re more like… the Grinch. All cynical and holed up in your ivory tower, judging everyone else for having fun.”

Sebastian shrugged, unbothered.  “Guilty as charged.”

“Come on. It’s Halloween. ” Alessandro adjusted the sunglasses on his nose, then swapped Sebastian’s wine glass for the mask he’d stashed in his other pocket, pressing it into his hand. “Here. You need this more than I do. Come on. Live a little. Dance. Mingle. Do something that doesn’t involve lurking in the corner.”

Sebastian glanced down at the mask, its intricate design catching the dim light of the room.  He turned it over in his hands, his expression unreadable.  “Lurking has its charms.  Besides, I’m not sure the world is ready for me to ‘live a little,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

Sebastian considered this for a moment, his gaze drifting to the dance floor where a group of students were attempting—and failing—to synchronize their moves to a particularly upbeat song. “I think I’ll pass. But feel free to join them. I’m sure your 80s tourist aesthetic would fit right in.”

Alessandro groaned. “You’re hopeless. But fine, I’ll leave you to your brooding, Grinch.”

With that, Alessandro grabbed another muffin and disappeared into the crowd.  Sebastian watched him go, the mask still resting in his palm. His eyes landed on a flash of red and blue near the far wall.  Silvia, in her Wonder Woman costume, was laughing with a group of students. She tossed her head back, her golden tiara catching the light, and for a split second, Sebastian felt something stir in his chest.

He looked down at the mask again and exhaled softly. Halloween, after all, was a night for masquerades, mischief, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of magic. The thought lingered as he set his glass down on a nearby table and slipped the mask over his face. The world shifted slightly, the edges of his vision narrowing as the mask settled into place. 

The dance floor was a riot of color and movement, a sea of costumes and laughter. Sebastian paused, just for a moment, then he straightened his shoulders, the mask hiding the faint smile that tugged at his lips.

He just needed one more drink, before making his way toward her.

 

 

Charles cradled his phone, thumb swiping across Gaydar's grid. He'd narrowed his options down to single digits now, hunting for that perfect candidate to salvage this interminable evening.

Earlier, he and Pierre had struck a deal with several guys from the Business School to sell masquerades on the party. They were in charge of storing them temporarily and transporting them with their minivan. In return, they would receive 5% of the final profit plus five tickets to the party as their payment. So far it seemed to be a decent gig.

Pierre was still counting the remaining goods, with those idiots who couldn't remember the number of masks sold clearly. When no new notifications bloomed, he slid off the windowsill and made his way toward the lobby's promise of distraction. Charles navigated against the current of glitter-dusted bodies, careful not to step on anyone, catching fractured glimpses through the strobing gloom. Then he saw Sebastian.

The fair-haired man stood anchored in the shadows beyond the dancefloor. A rogue spotlight fractured the darkness, gilding the sharp angle where his temple met those hair. Charles navigated against the current of glitter-dusted bodies, careful not to step on anyone, catching fractured glimpses through the strobing gloom—the broad expanse of Sebastian’s forehead, the soft hair framing his face, the way his suit clung to his frame with an almost predatory elegance.

He reached Sebastian's side just as the man began to turn. Charles closed the distance in one fluid step, his slight height advantage allowing him to lean in and graze lips perilously close to his ear. He felt the faint stiffening in Sebastian's posture and grinned.

"Please don't move - help me out. Someone's hunting me."

Sebastian's voice emerged measured and dry. "How?"

"Just stay still. I'll be pretending to drink your blood." Charles murmured, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "My sire is near, watching. Newly turned vampires need supervision, you know."

Sebastian recoiled as if scalded. "Charming." He turned around, adjusted his collar as he gave a light cough, his tone flat and plain. "Evening, Charles."

"Professor." Charles retreated with pantherish grace. "Let me guess your costume - a boardroom serial killer?"

Sebastian plucked a steak knife from a passing tray. "Hannibal Lecter. The Chesapeake variant."

"Bravo." 

"And you?" Sebastian’s gaze swept over Charles’ casual attire. "A vampire in jeans and hoodie.”

"A neonate vampire.” Charles corrected, leaning into the space between them. His throat exposed near Sebastian’s line of sight, as if daring him to look. "Died calibrating a thesis model in the workshop. Two days past deadline. Stuck there alone after hours because the laser cutters are always occupied during the day. See, that's how the tragedy happen."

He reached past Sebastian for a cocktail, the movement deliberately exposing his neck. Sebastian's eyes tracked the tendon beneath the smudged “bite mark” bandage before he raised an eyebrow.

“Attention to detail,” the professor observed, neither praising nor criticizing. Charles didn’t want to dwell on whether the barb referenced yesterday’s critique of his thesis schematics. He tilted his head to smirk at Sebastian.

"I even drew the bite marks under the bandage." Charles pressed, finger teasing the gauze edge. "Wanna see?"

Sapphire-hued irises flickered. Sebastian retreated behind his whiskey tumbler, the clink of ice cubes like a punctuation mark. His jawline tightened. "I'm insufficiently inebriated to flirt with my student."

Charles' smile cracked mid-syllable. His eyes widened with a seemingly genuine surprise, pink flooding his cheeks as he stumbled back a bit. His second act of the night, the drama queen.

"Oh, I didn't realize we were—" He stopped himself, let the words hanging awkwardly between them before he quickly regrouped. "Sorry, sir. I-I didn't mean it. Maybe I went too far. My apologies. I'll take this as a lesson." He offered an awkward, lopsided smile, leaning against the table behind him.

Sebastian took a slow sip of his drink. "You should."

Charles didn't look at Sebastian's expression, but the chill in his voice was unmistakable.

"I hope there won't be a next time."

He simply gave a small shrug, trying to maintain a light tone. "Got it. Sorry, Professor."

Sebastian’s aftershave lingered as he turned away - bergamot, cedarwood and something medicinal, Charles noted despite himself. He remained rooted to the spot as he watched the brown-golden head cut through the crowd with stillness. The room felt suddenly louder, the noise of the party pressing in on him—the thumping bass, the shrieks of laughter, the clink of glasses—all of it grating against his ears.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then turned back to the party, exchanged pleasantries with a circle of acquaintances, the conversation flowing easily enough, though Charles’s mind kept drifting.

He laughed at the right moments, nodded along, even offered a witty remark or two, but it all felt mechanical, as if he were watching himself from a distance. The music thrummed in the background, a steady pulse that seemed to underscore the emptiness he couldn’t quite shake.

Eventually, he slipped into a small side room, where a screening of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari—a fittingly eerie choice for Halloween—was underway. The room was dimly lit, the flickering black-and-white images casting ghostly shadows on the walls. He slumped into a chair near the back, his mind only half-engaged with the surreal, dreamlike visuals unfolding on the screen. The jagged, distorted sets and exaggerated performances felt almost hypnotic.

His thoughts kept drifting, pulled away by the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the main hall. He considered getting another drink, but the thought of weaving through the crowd to the bar felt exhausting. That's when his phone screen lit up silently. He hesitated, as the faint glow pulsed softly, demanding his attention.

Well, he'd settled on the choice for tonight. Charles tapped *interested* and drained his champagne. The bubbles tasted like absolution. 5’10”, 34. Blue eyes, swimmer’s build. 0.3mi away. At least that's what his profile told him.

 

Chapter 7

Summary:

they had sex (unintentionally) (again)
warning:pwp

The elevator took some time to reach the ground floor, as Charles waited, he glanced around. Actually he was a little bit late again, the shower took more time then he expected. It was a handsome building, old and tastefully decorated, with lots of wood panelling, chandeliers, and ornate windows. The place sort of resembled an elegant country club.

He fished around in the pocket for the key and unlocked the door. Looking around, the room was framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, sheer curtains barely muting the view outside. The hazy night stretched beyond like a heavy, silent canvas of deep blue.

He was halfway through taking off his coat, when he saw the golden-haired man leaning against the window, and he froze.

His eyes trailed slowly upward from the towel wrapped around the man’s waist—taking in the sharply defined abs, the faintly gilded hair glimmering under the light, the stubble-dusted neck and jaw. And finally those blue eyes, seemingly stripped of emotion yet deepened several shades with desire. 

He felt he should say something, though his pulse was jumping frantically in his throat. Distantly, he registered a soft click that turned him on, something so thrilling and instinctual. 

For one excruciating second, they stared each other. Sebastian cleared his throat, said finally. "I can't believe it."

"Does that matter? "He heard himself saying as he closed the distance between them. Sebastian didn't move, the faint curl on his lip somewhat diminishing a bit, but Charles chose to ignore that. He hooked a finger into the towel at the man’s waist when they were nearly touching. "I can be a complete stranger to you."

"Call me whatever you like. And I can call you master, sir... or your real name. Anything.”

He tugged the towel loose. The elder drew in an unsteady breath, his hands settling on Charles' waist to pull him closer.

"It's fine." Sebastian's voice was raw, his eyes tracing the sdark freckles on his chest —they look like moles but they aren’t raised— until his eyes met Charles’ again. With a light scoff, “I can't believe this.” He murmured, vibrations tickling, before a sound kiss blew the sensations away.

Charles’ soft laugh turned into a low sigh as Sebastian flipped them and pressed him against the wall, the Monégasque’s clothes dropped, his skin flushed under kisses.

Sebastian's hands found their way to Charles' waist, fingers pressing possessively against the dip of his spine. He drew their bodies closer until not a whisper could pass between them, his palms slid along the arch of Charles' back like a sculptor claiming his masterpiece, coming to rest at the delicate curve where waist met hip. He grinned at the goosebumps, at the way Charles almost shivered despite his scowl, his skin tinged faint blush from the shower.

Their foreheads pressed together, breathing in soft huffs and whines. Sebastian brought his hand up to Charles' chin and pressed them on his lips. Charles took them in his mouth, sucking and licking them until they were thoroughly covered.

The proximity left Charles acutely aware of it, how Sebastian's breath hitched when their lower bodies brushed. He reached down to take Sebastian's cock, feeling the veins throbbing in his hand, hot and heavy.

"Are we gonna do it here? " Charles asked as Sebastian's thumbs traced slow circles just above Charles' hipbones. "By the window? You like that?"

The professor rolled his eyes with a huff. "No, to the bed."

Sebastian picked him up by his thighs. Charles gasped, his legs already spread for him when he was tossed onto bed. 

Sebastian crawled over him, kissing his way up Charles' stomach and chest. He nipped at the soft skin of his neck and along his jaw before trailing back to his kissing his cock again. Charles' hands were tugging at his waist, pulling him closer so they would grind together.

A deep moan sounded in Sebastians' throat, a similar but more high pitched sound coming from Charles. Sebastian grabbed Charles and flipped them over so they were on their sides, in front of each other. Charles’ hands in his hair. Bodies squeezing and scratching any available skin. Hips grinding their dicks together.

“How many condoms do you bring?” 

“More than enough,” he said, voice raw as he leaned over to dig through his bedside drawer,and pulled one out along with a bottle of lube.

“Well done.” The husky praise send a hot wave down his spine, making his world tilt on its axis, a reaction he couldn't control. He  watched Sebastian open the lube, coating his fingers with it, lightly pressing one finger inside Charles, slow and patient. 

Charles gasped, clenching around them, and tilted his head back with a broken moan.

Sebastian gave him a little time to adjust before he started thrusting his finger in and out in a gentle pace, adding the second finger before long.

As he slowly worked up to two and three finger he felt the young man arching his back and gripping into the sheets.  Sebastian worked his lips slowly down Charles' body, occasionally flicking out his tongue or biting down slightly, taking his time to really enjoy the sensation of Charles melting into him.

Charles groaned, working his hips back and forth to get used to the stretch, and Sebastian’s fingers flexed around his hips, patient, waiting. He could feel Sebastian’s hard-on poking at his thighs, getting harder each time another noise escaped from his lips. 

He pulled back before thrusting deep, eliciting another moan from Charles’ mouth, and he smirked, stilling inside of him.

“How do you feel?” He hissed.

Charles swallowed thickly, licked his lip watching Sebastian grabbed the condom and ripped it open. He was always good at expressing exactly how he was feeling.

"Good. Could do better." His Adam’s apple bobbing."Fuck me raw."

 

Sebastian pulled Charles by the hips and lined himself up at his hole, sinking down onto him, and Charles winced, brows furrowing as he focused on taking him in. Sebastian started to thirst up into him, earning soft lurching gasps with every movement.

He was expecting a fast, hard pace when Sebastian started to fuck him, but he really should know better by now than to try to predict this man's whims. Sebastian set up a slow rhythm instead, pinning Charles' hands to the bed above his head and driving into him with steady, deliberate, measured thrusts.

Sebastian held Charles’ legs back against his chest as he fucked him slow. Charles was still squeezing around him, and the moment he felt him relax, he quickened the pace, listening to the way his breath caught at the back of his throat. Sebastian pounded into him hard, his hips smacking against his ass, his own breathing becoming laboured as Charles gasped and moaned and whined, clutching around Sebastian’s hands gripping his thighs.

Every single stroke dragged the thick, blunt head of his cock over him, and it was almost frustrating how quickly it's driving him toward the edge again. He was caught between the desire to be fucked and an almost overwhelming need to be good. Each thrust had a breathless whimper spilling from his slack mouth, and then he was rewarded by a teasing spanking on the hips.

For some reason, Charles thought Sebastian would be chatty during sex, maybe something stereotypically sexy and German, but as he tried valiantly to blink away tears, Sebastian was looking over him, observing, like he was a design schematics.

Sexy but weird.

“What?” He panted, breaths cut short from the thrust. Sebastian seemed to be amused by this, and lowered his head to kiss Charles.

“Such a pretty dick,” he dragged himself out, slipping just far enough that the aching head of his cock catches on Charles’ rim, then cants his hips just so and punches back in, rewarded by the obscene twitch of Charles’ cock, leaking all over the place, a thin string trailing from the tip of his head to the pool collecting below his belly button.

Sebastian borderline growled. He grabbed Charles' thighs and lifted him, then turned them and slammed him into the wall. Charles forced his head up and they kissed again, all teeth and tongue. 

Charles lifted his waist,legs wrapped around Sebastian's waist, allowing him to slip his hands along his chest, and feel his way down his sides and to his cock. 

Sebastian thrust into him hard and fast like he wanted. He tilted his head, his breathing fast and strong and his heart beating hard in his chest.

He couldn’t even bring himself to brace against the headboard, just slumping against the pillows as he sobbed in time with Sebastian slamming hips against his arse, skin loudly and sharply slapping together, The room was hot, sweaty, hazy.

“So beautiful. So good. Look at you.” Sebastian whispered as he rest in the crock of Charles' neck, using his free hand to press Charles’ trembling leg back down onto the mattress. Charles wrapped his legs around his waist, drawing him in deeper and Sebastian huffed a breath and slammed into him hard, causing him to choke out a garbled mix of curses and moans.

Charles squirmed frantically, his neglected cock bounced against his stomach, flushed red, smearing a little drop of fluid on his belly as Sebastian teased around his prostate. He looked so fucking slutty like this, spread out, taking it, whining for more. At first Sebastian had the patience to slide a hand between them, wrapping his fingers around Charles's cock. He strokes him slow at first, teasing, letting Max squirm and beg.

“Oh—” Charles’ pale green eyes rolled back in his skull, framed by thick lashes. “Oh. Christ.” The words punched out of him as Sebastian quickened the pace, his stomach clenching, the muscles in his back burning as sweat drips down his spine.

With the new angle, Sebastian hit him at the right spot every time. Charles doesn’t seem to have the ability to make proper noise anymore. One hand grasped at his cock, stroking it in time with every thrust.

Heat built in his stomach again. “Fuck,” he grunted. Charles’ eyebrows knitted and his hole clenched around the hardness of Sebastian's erection, sending him over the edge. He gasped and continued thrusting the best he could as he came hard, filling up the condom inside of Charles.

"Fuck, good boy," Sebastian said roughly, dragging his stubbled cheek against Charles' skin. It was soothing, it gave him something to focus on other than his desperate arousal. Sebastian’s gaze raking over Charles’ cock, still hard, slick with precum and a deep, painful red at the tip.

He moved his hand from Charles’ chest, swiped his finger over the slit with a smirk, and he tightened his hold as he jerked him off. "You last long."

“Yeah. Would you mind?”

Sebastian responded with a lick up the length of his hardening cock, before swirling his tongue around the tip and flicking it over teasingly. His thigh trembled on Sebastian’s shoulder, feeling Seb's tongue wonder down until it was pressed against his entrance.

"Oh fuck," he moaned. Sebastian smirked again, then began to suckle on the head while stroking slowly with his hand. Charles' hands grip at the sheets, this head thrown back.

Sebastian tilted his head back slowly from below. "Pull my hair." his voice raspy with lust.

Charles moaned at these words and did as he's told. As both his hands tangled themselves into Sebastian' dark golden hair, Sebastian took him in again, deeper this time.

Charles’ body arched helplessly against the mattress, his thighs tensing hard around Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian began to bob his head, pushing his length farther into the wet heat of his mouth each time. He tugged gently, earning vibrating moans around his cock with each movement. With a particularly hard suck, Charles' hips jerk unintentionally, which caused him to nudge the back of his throat.

He felt his eyes rolling back into his head as the come started to leak from his cock whilst he was still experiencing the most intense orgasm crashing over his whole body. 

A string of expletives leaving Charles' mouth although he could barely tell what language he was speaking, his back bowing off the bed. Sebastian gagged and pulled back, coughing. He drew in a deep breath the moment Sebastian’s hand left him neck and he closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to compose himself, and Sebastian slowly pulled away.

"Sorry." Charles gasped, then both of them started laughing. "Don't be." Sebastian said. He cupped Charles’ jaw and brushed his thumb over his cheekbone. Charles swallowed.

“Can I kiss you?” The question just escaped him softly. Sebastian’ eyebrows furrow, like he've just raised another stupid question in class.

"No harm to ask ahead." He mummered before he leaned in to lick into Sebastian’s mouth, tasting himself in his mouth.

"So next round?"

Charles blinked at the suggestion. Their relationship had been complicated. And if it was different, if his crush could co-exist with the teacher-student relation peacefully, maybe an unexpected sex could too. It was impossible to know the proportion of wishful thinking to reality there though, especially when he had no measures for comparison.

Regardless, perfection was nowhere to be found, and they related on a level.

Chapter 8

Summary:

HAPPY SEBCHAL DAY!!

Notes:

warning: a little background brocedes(married)/Sewis(ex)/female Lewis Hamilton

 

Nico posted a photo of his newborn baby, the little one swaddled in soft cotton, neonatal incubator cast an otherworldly glow of halo. He wrote: Thank you for coming into this world.

Sebastian's thumb hovered before typing  "A beautiful miracle. Congratulations." His phone rang within minutes. 

Nico's voice carried the exhausted euphoria of new parenthood. "Remember when we bet I'd die alone surrounded by vintage motorcycles? She arrived two weeks early - couldn't wait to prove me wrong." Sebastian pictured his old friend now presumably wearing baby vomit as a cologne.

They caught up like they always did, updating each other on work and what they'd been up to. When Nico casually mentioned holiday plans, Sebastian finally had to face his promise to go back to Germany before year’s end.

Christmas was just five weeks away. Time's flying. He'd grown even older.

And teaching was a profession that mercilessly reminded one of that. Day after day, he faced those indestructible young things—those who could pull all-nighters working, then bounce back after just a mere two hours of sleep; those whose eyes still sparkled with curiosity and untarnished hope for the world. Even his trusty pocket-sized leather sketchbook, the one he casually doodled in, had somehow become "vintage" in certain people's eyes.

By certain people, he meant Charles, whose eyes lit up the moment he noticed the thick sketchbook on Sebastian's desk. He grinned, leaning in with sudden interest.

"Well, old-fashioned doesn't mean bad, you know. It’s more like… classic."

Sebastian couldn't recall since when had Charles developed the habit of dropping by his office occasionally - to seek "professional advice" on a competition entry, a student paper he was submitting to a journal, or really anything at all. He'd leaned against the corner of Sebastian's desk, head tilted slightly as he watched Sebastian's pencil fly across paper. That particular afternoon, golden hour light slanted through the blinds when Charles braced himself against the desk and said. 

"Most people just snap a photo when they see something interesting. And then those images just rots in the album. But you'll have a whole book of architectural sketches. And then another."  

"Or they'll just rot in sketchbook instead," Sebastian replied, closing the leather-bound folio where he’d been roughing out a standard floor plan sketch of Wangjing SOHO.  

Charles only shrugged. "Well, that’s a different issue. But at least yours is a physical artifact. The kind that says someone actually put thought into things."  

"It just helps me think clearer about the space and get new ideas." Sebastian paused, "So, you're a fan of this academic-style hand drawing? I don't remember seeing much of your sketches."

A half-smile played at Charles lips. "Surprise. I sketch - just terribly. " He ran a hand through his hair. "It's a mess so I never show anyone. Filled with all the same boring shit you called 'inconsistent and half-baked' ."

"You get what you get. I've given you positive notes too, not my fault you ignore them. " Sebastian said, "Standards matter for project, but that doesn't mean you can't do something interesting. That's what sketching's for—keeping that raw, stupid energy alive, before the details choke it out. Your job isn't to make masterpieces right away. It's to keep that spark alive long enough to turn it into something. Just keep filling these pages, Le Corbusier."

Charles blinked, a brief smile flickering across his face—softer this time, almost self-conscious.

"So I should embrace the chaos? It’s almost like you’re giving me permission to be terrible." He hesitated for a moment, before glancing at Sebastian with a small, almost reluctant smile. "I mean, I’ll get there, though. One step at a time, right?"

That hesitant expression lingered—and Sebastian saw past the bravado to what had always been there: the restless curiosity, the steadfast dedication, and that stubborn ambition.

 

 

Sebastian returned to Germany one week before Christmas.

His mother fussed about how rarely he visited and why he wasn't wearing a heavier coat, while his father maintained his usual strained silence. All perfectly normal.

The following days were filled with reunions and gatherings. Nico had fully embraced fatherhood - he even lectured Sebastian about optimal bottle temperatures when the waiter served cream soup. Good lord.

And finally Lewis. She was a mother now. A wife. After navigating youthful passion with her first love—marked by countless partings and reunions—they ultimately chose to join their lives in marriage. And after this visit, Sebastian was certain it wasn't some ironic twist of fate. They were in love, pure and simple. Theirs was a mature relationship where the once arguments and competitions were replaced by understanding and tolerance.

If this was what marriage looked like, Sebastian had to admit it seemed less terrifying than he'd imagined. Though he'd felt a pang of awkwardness arriving at Nico's to find Lewis in pajamas soothing their baby. But Lewis had been perfectly natural, greeting him like nothing more than an ex-boyfriend from years past - which was exactly what he was.

They'd dated for one years until Sebastian got that assistant professor job and leave for America. Now she'd moved on while Sebastian remained stuck. He was better at handling bachelorhood and one-night stands (yes, even with a student) than actual relationships or anything resembling commitment.

Relationships worked best in measured doses for him. Seeing each other when possible, sharing intense but finite moments, then retreating to respective orbits, both having singular moments in the safety of capped time.  At this point, he had to admit with uncomfortable clarity: his isolation might be less a philosophy than a fear in clever disguise. Watching everyone else navigate life so effortlessly almost made him sigh. How did people manage perfect relationships amid all life's other bullshit? 

Anyway, being home had been pleasant, with the comfort about slipping back into familiar faces. Until Christmas Eve, predictably, his father resurrected the talk—opening with a deceptively mild "How's the university treating you?", which inevitably unraveled from there.

He launched into his usual tirade: the trival teaching job, the waste of his talents, the depressing state of architecture firms these days, and of course life that somehow remained provisional.

"Schneider's boy just made partner. Bought a decent house in Swiss." he announced to the gravy boat. "At your age, one should really consider settling down. "

The unspoken judgment hung in the air between them: Unlike your brother. Unlike your sister. Unlike everyone other responsible adults.

His mother cut in weakly. "The cranberries are lovely this year—"

Sebastian took a measured sip of wine. "I'm happy with my choices."

His father exhaled through his nose. "Well. You've certainly taken your time deciding what those choices are."

The rest of the dinner passed in a silence broken only by the clink of cutlery. Later, Sebastian found solace in the garden - raking frost-stiffened leaves into neat piles, running his hands along the bare branches of apple trees to check for canker. The methodical tasks soothed him. In the dining hall, he found a brochure beside his cup, the logo gleaming. He didn’t need to open it to know what it was.

"I've arranged a dinner with Wilhelm." his father said without looking up from his newspaper. The rustling pages sounded unnaturally loud. "The position won't stay open."

Without a word, he set down the untouched whisky, citing a early call with Singapore and retreated to his bedroom.

As he climbed the stairs, his mother's muffled protest and his father's "Someone has to do it" faded behind. He opened his laptop to book a morning flight, three days from now—early enough so none of them would have to pretent much longger, late enough to not seem abrupt.

Neither parent commented when he mentioned the departure date over breakfast.

The flight was delayed for hours by snow. By the time they landed, the city glowed under a blanket of white, its streets dotted with pools of warm light reflected on icy pavement. Sebastian took the train into the city, then hailed a cab that crawled through the winter sludge.

As they passed through an empty neighborhood, his gaze caught on a familiar sign—that damned bar, one reckless night spiraling into an ongoing ordeal, though its neon outline stayed dark this time. So even Charles was on holiday. Most students scattered for summer break, but nearly everyone went home for Christmas, whether they wanted to or not. Tradition, or something like it.

 

 

---

 

Charles hated Christmas. No, Charles was decidedly, categorically miserable during the holidays. 

Pierre went back to Rouen, before he invited Charles to come along. A big dinner and spending his not so favourite holiday with Pierre’s family wasn’t a good idea. So the second day, he found him stuck alone in the deserted apartment, scrolled through his phone, opening and closing apps aimlessly.

Which was worse? Being bored or pretending not to be.

And the bar where he worked was closed, which meant a huge loss of wages. What's worst, most restaurants had shut their doors early on Christmas Eve, leaving him with only one terrible takeout option.

For the first few days, Charles’ body stubbornly clung to its usual rhythm—staying up till dawn and waking up five hours later, despite having nowhere to be. He’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling until the gray winter light filtered through the blinds, then succumb to heavy, dreamless sleep until afternoon.

By week’s end, time had dissolved into a shapeless blur. He moved through the empty apartment like a ghost—leaving half-drunk coffee cups wherever he abandoned them, flipping through books without absorbing a word.

So yeah. Christmas sucked. And to make matters worse, Charles couldn’t even find a decent fuck. Those scrolling through Grindr on Christmas Eve were the kind of bottom-of-the-barrel losers who reeked of desperation.

He was just alone. And bored. Netflix provided a brief distraction, but eventually, even that wore thin.

With over a week left of break, Charles decided he might as well head to the lab, making some progress on his competition entry. Or tweak some models. Whatever. It wasn’t like the work would magically disappear just because it was the holidays.

He walked by the common rooms, where some people were sprawled on the sofas, unconscious after an holiday binge. 

The lab building was quiet. He slid his key into the lock, only to find the door already unlatched. He wasn’t the only one who’d decided to spend this vacation buried in work—

Sebastian was there too.

He was hunched over his desk, sketching something, and when Charles cracked the door open and poked his head in, the startled expression was almost comical.

"Morning."

“Hey,” Sebastian recovered quickly, leaning back in his chair and quirking an eyebrow. “What’re you doing here?”

Charles pushed the door open fully but stayed planted in the doorway. “I was about to ask the same thing.”

“Well, ” Sebastian said, a gesture at his computer. “Working.”

“Same.” Charles didn’t move closer. “Not like there’s anything better to do.”

Sebastian’s gaze flicked to the empty lab behind Charles, then back. “Cool.”

“Yeah. So… see you around, Professor?” The words came out awkward, and Charles cringed, immediately wanting to kick himself. He sounded like some terrible porn protagonist with the particularly stretching syllables.

“Sure. See you around.” 

Charles retreated to his own cubicle, when he glanced back, Sebastian was already absorbed in his screen again. The whole exchange had been painfully stilted—probably because neither of them had expected to run into the other. It was like they’d both tacitly admitted to being pathetic, and that was the real tragedy.

Neither of them had asked why the other was here, like carefully stepping around a spill in the lab, both pretending it's normal to hole up here over break.

And that was fine. They did see each other again soon enough, when they trekked to the only open café within walking distance for lunch and coffee, filling the silence with shop talk. The conversation majorly revolved academic topics and the faculty.

“You still working at that bar?” Sebastian asked suddenly on the way back, switching his coffee to his other hand.

“Yeah. Why?” 

“Nothing.” A shrug.

The quiet that followed wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Thankfully, they made it back to the lab soon enough, and Sebastian disappeared into his office with a brief goodbye while Charles immediately ducked behind his monitor.

The lab settled back into its familiar hum of computers and distant ventilation, but there was something itching at the back of his neck. 

The strip of light under Sebastian's door. A ridiculous impulse made him want to cough loudly, or drop a book - anything to shatter this. Instead, he bit back a grin and turned back to his work, the awkwardness curling in his chest like a cat making itself comfortable.

And yet... he couldn't deny he'd just enjoy this peculiar little standoff a while longer, like they'd silently agreed to be awkward together. They moved around each other with careful neutrality, eyes politely averted, each absorbed in their own task. 

Things had been fine—pleasant, even—until they’d veered into personal territory. Then it got weird again.

Charles wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the fact that they were the only two people in the entire lab, like some post-apocalyptic scenario where the rest of humanity had vanished. (Okay, that was a stretch.)

Either way, he was curious how the rest of the week would play out—assuming Sebastian didn’t suddenly decide to work from home instead.

 

And Sebatsian stayed.

They ran into each other again the next day, and this time, the greeting wasn’t as awkward as the first. Then came the third day, the fourth, and soon it was just another ordinary routine. They worked. They talked. Sebastian reviewed and tweaked Charles’s proposals, same as always.  

Maybe the lunch part was a little different from usual—but that was fine. Good, even. Charles learned that Sebastian hated raw tomatoes in his sandwiches, a detail so oddly endearing it made him smile. Even as a professor, the man could still be childish about certain things.  

Once, a server forgot Sebastian’s request, and it wasn’t until they were back in the lab that he discovered two offending tomato slices tucked between the bread.

They ate in the lounge area, and when Charles noticed Sebastian’s reflexive grimace, he just smirked.  

"Alright, I’ll help you out."

He pulled that egg and bacon sandwich toward himself, plucked out the bright red tomato slices, and popped them into his mouth. A smear of mayo clung to his fingers. He absently sucked it off his index finger—only to realize Sebastian had been staring at him the entire time with a look of blank, slightly stunned bewilderment.

“Uh,” Charles said, suddenly aware he might have overstepped, “are you the ‘hands off my food’ type, or is this a germaphobe thing?” Germaphobe seemed like a solid guess.

Sebastian paused, then shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m just… not used to this.”

“Fair. I should ask you first.” Charles raised his hands in surrender. “Bad habit I picked up from Pierre. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sebastian finally said, getting his sandwich back and even taking a bite, as if to prove it. “Thanks for handling the, uh. Tomato situation.”

Charles took a moment to respond, “Yeah, those things need serious intervention,” before turning back to his own lunch. Occasionally, when a dab of ketchup clung to his lips, he flicked his tongue out to catch it. He made sure the little gesture made his lips look even redder, fuller, more inviting—and pretended not to notice the occasional flicker of someone’s gaze in his direction.

They spent the rest of the week in quiet companionship. Then the new semester rolled in, students flooded in, bright-eyed and sun-kissed from holiday breaks, all frantic energy and looming deadlines. The lab was dragged back into its usual noisy rhythm, research proposals piled up like unread emails. The world snapped back into focus.

Things simply went back to how they'd always been. Everything went back to normal. Within days, their winter interlude might as well have been a dream they’d both forgotten by breakfast.

 

 

Charles Leclerc was absent from Wednesday morning's meeting. By afternoon, his partner reported that Charles had also missed their scheduled design discussion—hadn't even bothered to reply to texts. Then Thursday came, and again, no sign of him in the lab. When Sebastian inquired, Alessandro just shrugged.

"I can't reach him," Alessandro said. "Maybe he's sick? He always looks exhausted."

"Sick people can still call in sick," Sebastian snapped, though the possibility had given him pause. "Vanishing without notice is just irresponsible."

Alessandro wrinkled his nose. "Okay. He's Charles, what do you want me to say?"

Sebastian's jaw tightened. "How many absences and late arrivals does he have?"

"Seriously?"  

"Yes." The word came out icy. "Just give me the number."

"Uh...two? Three? Fine, maybe five?" Alessandro threw up his hands at Sebastian's glare. "Don't look at me—I didn't keep count. I mean, Charles is good when he's here, and he does put in the work. That's what actually matters."

"And rules matter. At least in my lab."

Sebastian fell silent, thumb rubbing the matte finish of his mouse. This decision sat heavy with personal complications—so much so that he questioned whether his initial policies had been too harsh. A year ago, he'd wanted Charles Leclerc gone. Today, he still wanted him gone, though for entirely different reasons —because every time Charles walked into the room, Sebastian had to remind himself why this couldn’t happen again.

Distance was necessary. For both their sakes. Better this than one of them getting expelled. Maybe this had been inevitable from the start, or at least from the moment Sebastian learned Charles had lied—had hidden his student status before they slept together. Then came the threatening email, the bail money incident, the silent lab nights left just two of them. The situation might have been even worse because of the homosexual  element. He could easily picture how being forcibly outed would have escalated everything—and he wasn't even gay, just someone who'd discovered his bisexuality in college. That was normal enough. Well, being gay was normal too, just... less readily accepted. So no, Sebastian shouldn't feel guilty. He was just doing what needed to be done, early or late.

"Contact him however you can," he said at last, leaning back in his chair. "Tell him he's off the project. He knows why."

Alessandro gaped. "Why?" Then, under Sebastian's stare: "I mean—what about his design work? There's barely anything left to do before final submissions—"

"His partner can handle it. Jason, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but that guy's been phoning it from day one compared with Charles. He's basically the dogsbody."

"Then he can manage the final drawings. The design's already set." Sebastian turned to his keyboard, feigning focus.

"You're unbelievable." 

Sebastian turned to his keyboard. "His name still stays on the final submission."

Alessandro shook his head but left when Sebastian offered nothing else. Only then did Sebastian stop typing—the screen before him was nonsense, He erased them, before forcing himself back to his paper.

This was better. Cleaner.

They'd both move on. 

 

Chapter 9

 

If Charles had been worse at reading people—or if he were like most guys his age, still fumbling through the minefield of attraction and desire—he might have convinced himself that Sebastian felt nothing for him.

But as it stood, he kept up the charade of the dutiful student, engaging in perfectly academic exchanges with the professor. Well—most of the time.

He'd occasionally let slip a "This space does feel a bit tight" or "I've always preferred thicker columns for support" when they were alone. The way Sebastian's jaw tensed told Charles he’d caught the double meaning. But he never rose to the bait, never snapped at him to cut it out.

Fine. If Sebastian wanted to pretend—if he wanted to act like they’d never hooked up, the air between them had never gone thick with something unspoken, like Charles hadn't feel his hands tremble when he finally gave in—then Charles could play along.

All he needed was that damn recommendation letter. Maybe a competition prize, if things went well. Nothing more.

Alessandro took over the tutoring job, while the professor himself only appeared during weekly meetings to drop some general critiques. "He's busy lately." Alessandro would explain. Yeah, like he wouldn't noticed the deliberate distance Sebastian had been keeping. 

Charles shrugged it off. What else was there to do?  Life wasn't going to wait for him to figure things out, leaving no room for wounded pride. When Charles's phone buzzed with a message that shifts were available at the bar, he typed "yes" too fast.

So that Tuesday, with Pierre's night class keeping him from 7:30 to 9:30, the car key went to Charles, who could head straight to the bar by himself. 

He left the car in a free parking spot a block away, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed for the intersection. Darkness still fell early, the streetlights stood too far apart and the wind blasted him in all directions. Charles eyed his own shadow, stretched and distorted. Something about the way it moved setting his nerves on edge, then quickened his pace.

Three lights from the exit, he saw it—a second shadow, looming huge and menacing by the angle. The figure was lurching toward him, dragging something long and rigid, swinging slightly with each step like a bat.

He spun around just as he drew in a sharp breath—

Then pain smashed over his skull, buzzing sound and shouts exploded in his head and the world cut to black.

 

When Charles was discharged Thursday morning, he was still fighting waves of nausea, and Pierre's less-than-smooth driving certainly wasn't helping matters.

He was determined to skip afternoon classes, collapse into bed and sleep through the rest of the day—maybe the rest of the week—but his phone had other plans. The moment the charger clicked in, the shattered screen lit up with tons of notifications. At the top: an email from Alessandro.

The message was brief and clear, due to excessive absences, Sebastian had removed him from the project team. His name would still appear in the final submission, and he'd likely get that recommendation letter—just not until after the project concluded.

Professor insisted on your removal. Sorry. He said you know why.

Charles stared at the screen, a numb sort of disbelief settling over him. Unbelievable. The bandage on his temple was throbbing dully. He took several measured breaths, before grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.  

"Where are you going?" Pierre emerged from the kitchen balancing a skillet of omelets, eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Charles lacing his shoes. "Thought you were skipping class today?"

"I was kicked off the project. Can't let that slide."

"Alright, I can drive you later. But at least eat something."

"God, no. Just smelling it makes me sick."

"That's hurtful." Pierre placed his hand over his heart dramatically. Charles just leaned against the doorframe and rolled his eyes skyward.

 

They arrived at the campus a little over half an hour later. Charles instinctively touched the bandage on his forehead, pulling the hood up over his head. As he walked toward the research lab, he greeted a few familiar faces when passing the open workspace area. They certainly noticed the bit of bandage peeking out. He headed straight for Sebastian's office, knocking twice, then pushed it open before receiving a permission.

Sebastian peeked his head out from behind the screen. 

"We need to talk," Charles said bluntly, yet wasn’t as steady as he had planned.

After a brief silence, Sebastian stood up and walked around the desk. Charles kept his gaze locked with Sebastian's, though the dizziness creeping up on him made it harder than usual.

"May I sit?" He asked, taking a step back and lowering himself onto the wall-side sofa.

"Alright," Sebastian narrowed his eyes slightly as he watched Charles, but he only leaned against his desk. "Are you okay? Alessandro said you were sick."

This is what Charles had stated in his email reply to Alessandro, but that wasn’t entirely true.

"More accurately, I was assaulted," he replied with a light scoff, yanking down his hood to reveal the wound. "Concussion. Spent two nights in hospital, then 24 hours of observation. Just discharged this morning. How about that?"

Sebastian fell silent for a moment, but Charles caught the flicker of shock and concern in his eyes. The realization almost made him smirk, and the dull ache in his forehead didn’t seem so sharp anymore. "It’s fine. The guy wasn’t trying to kill me."

"Did the police get involved? Did they catch the attacker?" 

"Yes to the first. No to the second." Charles waved a limp hand. "It's always been a rough neighborhood. No cameras or any witnesses. I didn't even see it coming."

"Any suspects?"

"The guy I had that lawsuit with, maybe?" Charles scrunched his nose, his mind still too foggy to keep track of coherent thoughts. "But now he did what he wanted, it’s over."

Sebastian stared at him for a moment, then glanced back at the bandage before muttering, "If you say so."

"Alright, so..." Charles dragged the syllable out, studying Sebastian’s expression. "We’re good?"

"What do you mean?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

"I’ve explained why I was absent—and clearly it wasn’t something I could control. So shouldn’t I be allowed to stay? You’re not gonna kick me out just because some psycho hit me on the head, right?"

"True," Sebastian conceded, but before Charles could feel any relief, he shot back, "Except that wasn’t your only absence. You should’ve been out of the group a long time ago, you’ve skipped out too much already."

Charles paused for a moment, baffled by the sudden shift in Sebastian's attitude.

Sebastian softened, just slightly. "That doesn’t matter, Charles. Your name stays on the project. Just make sure you rest up. I can recommend you to some firms later. And quit the bar job, too. You've seen how unsafe—"

So that’s it. Someone was practically eager to push him off, to get rid of him, and he seemed to think Charles should just understand and accept. That was bullshit—no one could treat him like that.

"Yeah, perfect arrangement," Charles said, holding Sebastian’s gaze, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. "No need to put up with me anymore, huh? What is it, my face really bother you that much?"

The last trace of warmth on Sebastian’s face disappeared. He clenched his jaw, staring coldly at Charles, who rose from the sofa and sneered, stepping toward him.

"Say something, professor. "Charles taunted, his pulse pounding in his ears. "Is my face that unbearable? Or maybe there's something else? Not good enough, perhaps? "

"Stop," Sebastian snapped, the word clipped like a whip. "Enough. You're leaving. Now."

"Make me." Charles stepped closer with a mocking laugh. "Are you afraid, professor? Tell me, what are you afraid of? We should talk."

He leaned forward, ignoring the wave of dizziness that followed the motion, lightly grabbed Sebastian’s shirt hem. He tilted his head—and pressed their lips together.

For one suspended moment, the world narrowed to shared heat. He could see the blue eyes flicked upward. He could feel the tremor of Sebastian’s breath against his cool lips. Then Sebastian jerked away as if scalded.  The space between them yawned wide now, an impassable chasm of everything left unsaid. Charles' chest ached, 

Sebastian broke away violently, his face was flushed with shock and anger. He caught Charles by his wrists. "Get out."

Charles staggered back slightly, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps that did nothing to steady his racing heart. In the disorientation, Charles gripped on the edge of desk for support, his vision blurred. "Good. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Every time, everyone, just abandons me. Well done. Professor."

Charles let out a sharp laugh, but the sound caught in his throat as the room tilted violently. His knees buckling before strong arms caught him—Sebastian's grip firm against his clammy skin as he guided him back to the sofa.

"Breathe, relax." Sebastian 's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. "Don't move. Are you going to throw up?"

Charles slumped back. "No..."he grimaced, trying to shake his head but stopping midway. "I don’t know, maybe."

Sebastian pulled the trash can over to the side of the sofa. Charles retched dryly before collapsing back, nothing came, only more cold sweat. He finally gave up, swallowing hard and sinking back into the sofa, almost too weak to move a finger. But the ringing in his ears did fading from a deafening roar to a distant hum.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No," Charles muttered. Hell no, he just left there hours ago.

"Then sleep for a while. If it doesn’t get better, I'll take you to the hospital."

That infuriating, unshakable calm tone slipped back into his voice, and Charles almost doubted whether Sebastian would ever sound anything else even if he were dying. He closed his eyes, letting the sound of his own breat. Was Sebastian still kneeling there, or if he had quietly stepped away? After a moment, Charles dared a glance through his lashes, finding those blue eyes watching him like a specimen under glass. He quickly snapped his eyelids shut again.

"Let yourself rest, alright?" Sebastian spoke again, his voice dry. "We can talk later."

That trailing sigh—was it concession? After all the provocations and curses(had he actually cursed? Memory blurred at the edges), could there still be room for—

Maybe Sebastian wasn't entirely the cold, selfish, heartless bastard he appeared to be—okay, he was cursing for now. Charles hoped he hadn’t accidentally vocalized any of his inner thoughts.

 

The corridor breathed around him.

White walls pulsed faintly like a living organism, from behind them coming the muffled murmur of lessons. His footsteps echoed too loud.

Charles counted door plaques—302, 303, 304—his classroom had to be just around the bend. But when he pushed open the door, a wall of strange faces snapped toward him.

"You are in the wrong room."

A silhouette stood watching from the elevated podium."This is the final exam."

Pencils scratches filled the room, morphing into the skitter of insect legs. Charles' seat waited center-row, forcing him to elbow through the crowd. 

He finally sat down. The exam booklet before him contained only his own unfinished thesis drawings—only the angles slightly off. 

Charles bent over his booklet, pencil flying steadily. The questions were straightforward enough - site analysis, structural calculations. He worked through them methodically, checking each answer twice. 

A drop landed on his bent neck. Then another. This time landed on his paper, and another. The ink began to run.

He blotted it with his sleeve and reached for a fresh sheet. He started redrawing the crucial details first, his strokes were quicker now, but still controlled. The pencil tip snapped. 

"All submissions are final."

The bell rang, and his paper vanished. Around him, chairs scraped back. He stood up, joining the students to shuffle toward the door. The classroom door swung open onto an expercted silence.

He found himself standing in a narrow corridor he almost recognized. The wallpaper—faded blue with tiny sailboats—peeled slightly at the seams. 

Slow, measured footsteps followed, then a figure emerged from the doorway, just a shadow against the light, moving with a deliberate pace. 

He took a step forward. The veined floorboard creaked. The figure didn't move. The hallway stretched longer than it should have, warping subtly as he walked faster, then broke into a run. 

He opened his mouth to call out, but before sound could form, something cool brushed his calf. He stumbled to look down.

A snake was coiling around his ankle.

 

Charles jerked awake with a gasp. Pain lanced through his forehead, his heart galloping wildly.

"How do you feel?" Sebastian's voice came from somewhere near. He must have heard his painful hissing. The room was dim, the heavy drapes drawn against the light, with only Sebastian's desk lamp on. He stood up from behind the desk.

Charles pushed himself up, wincing as the motion sent a fresh wave of dizziness through him. Memory slowly reasserting itself—the headache, the argument, the exhaustion that had finally pulled him under. 

"Much better," he swallowed, "How long was I asleep?" 

"Over an hour." Sebastian walked over with a bottle of water in hand. Charles tried to twist the cap off but failed twice. He looked up at Sebastian, who paused a bit, then retrieved it to unscrewed the cap, and handed it back. 

"Sorry, I didn’t think of that."

"It’s fine," Charles murmured softly. He tilted his chin up, taking a small sip of water, trying not to choke and make himself look more awkward under Sebastian's watch.

"So, looks like we don’t need to go to the hospital? "

"I'm good." Charles shook his head and immediately regretted the motion. He wanted nothing more than to lie back down.

"Take it easy," Sebastian's hand steadied his forearm, fingers warm agaist his clammy skin. "Just rest a bit more before you leave."

"I’m not leaving." Charles instinctively responded.

"What?"

Charles bit his lips, took a deep breath, and met Sebastian’s blue eyes again. "I’m not quitting the project. You can’t just kick me out like that. If I’m leaving, it’ll be my choice. And all that crap about my absences, pretty much everyone’s missed time. Ask Alessandro. It didn't affect my work quality at all."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, shaking his head in disbelief, then sighed. "Alright, you can stay. But you’ll have to leave sooner or later."

"That's my call to make. I can leave whenever I want, but the point is, you can't just kick me out."

Sebastian's lips flattened into a thin line. "That’s not a casual decision."

"Fine, whatever. But I'm staying." He countered, refusing to look away.

"Good. Stay as long as you like. But I'm leaving now." Sebastian rose with theatrical nonchalance, straightening his cuffs. "It's after hours."

Charles turned his face away to hide the eye roll threatening to breach decorum.

Chapter 10

 

Time folded itself quietly. It had been quite a long time since the proud, arrogant young man lose control in front of Sebastian. Now, watching Charles across the studio, Sebastian marveled at how easily he had reassembled himself. 

But maybe, watching a tightly sealed wall crack open wasn't entirely a bad thing. Though Sebastian would never admit it, part of him missed the honesty of that broken moment. Pride, confusion, and a touch of self-righteous cynicism with brittle edges—those traits came with being twenty-one, exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure. Sebastian had been there once, and recognized it all too well.

Wounds scabbed over soon enough. Give it time, and Charles got plenty.

The scar on Charles' forehead had long since healed, leaving only a faint jagged trace. It emerged only when he overdid his hair with hairspray and combed it back. Alessandro had once joked it looked like Harry Potter's lightning bolt. But you had to stand close enough to see it—its tail was barely visible, and Charles often covered it with concealer.

Definitely gay, no question. He thought to himself.

Sebastian chose to remain silent on topics like this, and after a few attempts, Alessandro had finally gotten the message and stopped bringing Charles up in converstations. Still they needed to discuss the progress of each student's project, including their working efficiency and time management.

"Charles quit his bar job," Alessandro mentioned in passing, "He's working well with Jason. Everything moves along smoothly."

"That's good. At least he can focus more on the competition." 

"Not really," Alessandro corrected with a sigh, "Their final defense is coming up soon."

So, it went on. Sebastian still occasionally caught glimpse of Charles, who appeared utterly exhausted, sleeping wherever he could. Once summer rolled around and the classrooms turned on the air conditioning, Sebastian noticed that Charles sneezing after waking up, followed by a stuffy nose and cough for a few days. A week later, he was fine again, but a thin blanket rested on the back of his chair in the lab. And of course, he still dozed through Sebastian's 8am lectures.

The combined pressure of the competition and finals lasted through the early weeks of summer. When the project finally ended, Sebastian couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. He couldn’t imagine how Charles would have made it through those weeks without quitting the bar job.

"Results in three weeks," he announced to the exhausted but triumphant team. "Regardless of that... you've survived. Good work, everyone. I'm proud of all of you."

A ripple of relieved applause broke out, mingled with excited chatter, high-fives and the scrape of chairs. Alessandro was already swarmed by students planning celebrations. Sebastian lingered by the door, watching with a small smile—another successful project, just another group of students moving on.

Beyond providing financial support, there was little left for him to contribute. With a quiet click of the door, he slipped back to his office.

His desk waited, exactly as he'd left it: a stack of ungraded papers, his coffee mug gone cool and a sense of utter relief, followed by the slow creep of exhaustion. Outside, the muffled sounds of student celebrations had faded to a distant hum. He watched through the blinds as they ambled away.

Everything appeared to have returned to how it was at the beginning - except the person who used to be at the center of it all was somehow absent.

When the office finally fell silent, Sebastian pack up his things and head out. He paused briefly by Charles' desk. The brown-haired young man, was slumped over the desk, arms folded beneath his head, probably sound asleep. Over the weeks, Charles' hair had grown just enough to curl slightly at the nape of his neck. He hadn’t used hairspray today, and the chestnut lock fell softly across his forehead, making him look younger, more vulnerable than Sebastian had seen him in months.

For a moment, Sebastian considered waking him. The lab was cold, and the summer night outside was warm.

He realized he might have stared too long, because when their eyes met, those green eyes, calm but intense, caught his gaze. The sudden eye contact sent a slight rush of panic through him, before he quickly looking away.

Charles offered a characteristic smile, as he stretched and pushed himself upright. He greeted Sebastian with a friendly "Hey, professor. Are you coming to our party?"

"Maybe, but I can't stay too long. " Sebastian glanced around the empty office. "You're not joining them?"

“Oh, that,” Charles made a noncommittal noise as he draped the blanket back over the back of his chair. "I told them I felt like throwing up, needed some time alone."

"You're ill?" Sebastian looked at him, concerned.

"Not really, I just told them I was," Charles replied unapologetically. "Sometimes you just need space. It's forgivable to take a sick day."

"When it comes to work, perhaps."

"Work, socializing, not much of a difference," Charles grabbed his bag, gesturing the door. "Can we talk about something else, I'm starving.  Aren't you?"

Sebastian shook his head as they walked out together. "Do you speak to all your professors like this, or just me?"

"Just you. Does it bother you?" Charles held the door open, his gaze open and unguarded. There wasn't an ounce of apology in the question, just that quiet bluntness that seemed to come so naturally to him. "I thought we're past the 'look how great I am, give me an A+' phase."

"I can still give you a C. "

"Only if your professional ethics allow you," Charles shrugged lazily. "Shall we go to our usual café? I can help you with your tomatoes."

"No, thanks. I'm good," Sebastian said, turning toward the path leading to the café. He was indeed hungry.

The café welcomed them with its usual mid-afternoon lull. They ordered separately, Charles switching his usual espresso for some tea. His finger traced absent circles on the condensation-beaded glass, his gaze fixed on the water rings, clearly lost in some private contemplation. Sebastian noted the frustration Charles wasn’t trying to hide, but he decided not to ask.

Charles finally raised his head. "So, do I at least get an A? And my recommendation letter? It'd mean a lot if I could get it before the summer starts."

He tacked on a small smirk at the end, and Sebastian did his best to ignore the hint of mockery in it. He recalled Alessandro's mention of Charles quitting the bar job. For architecture students, even the most gifted among them weren't immune to the shadows of self-doubt, that made them question their worth. And a strong recommendation could mean the difference between another year of menial tasks and a real shot at the career he dreamt.

Their eyes met across the table, as something settled between them with quiet finality—it was indeed over. This teacher-student thing between them, whatever it had been. The realization sat oddly in Sebastian's chest, weighty yet insubstantial, like holding smoke. Perhaps it had never really begun—just office hours, projects and critiques, a few café visit, and a string of  headaches following, now all ended with this letter. Charles would get his recommendation (of course he would), just as he could have got it from any professors. 

He nodded, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Sure. And you can ask Alessandro for his firm contacts. A few are happy to take on interns, and you can get in with just his recommendation. Don't worry, it's not that complicated.”

"But I like to work within my ability and I know what I'm worth," Charles paused, his tone a bit stiff. "Sorry. No offense to him."

Before Charles could add anything else, Sebastian knew he hadn't misunderstood anything. He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "It's fine. Friday, then. You can come by my office."

"Deal," Charles grinned, a little more genuine this time, licking his lips in a habitual manner. "I mean, thanks, professor."

"You earned it. Keep up." Sebastian stirred his coffee, watching the sugar cubes dissolve. "Though you might consider what you actually want from all this, Charles. Take it as advice or old-fashioned nonsense, whichever you want."

Charles poked at his food with a fork. The café's playlist cycled to a piano piece he could quite place. Finally, he nodded and gave a half-smile. "Noted. Thanks for the advice."

They finished their meals in quiet companionship. The café door chimed intermittently, each opening bringing in a brief crescendo of city sounds that dissolved quickly as it came. Beyond the window, a sparrow hopped along the sidewalk, pecking at invisible crumbs. As the complicated relationship drew to its inevitable close, Sebastian thought maybe a little more kindness wouldn’t hurt.

"You can just call me Sebastian, if not too awkward."

Charles' fork hovering in the air, his smile deepened. “Well then… thanks, Sebastian.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Good. Not awkward at all.”

It was awkward, profoundly, but not in a bad way.

 

---

 

The recommendation letter arrived in a heavyweight standard university envelope. Charles had expected some sense of closure when receiving it, but it simply sat in his top drawer for days, positioned deliberately between his passport and academic transcripts - important but not yet actionable.

He proceeded with applications methodically—CVs, video interviews, online tests. Each response came promptly, piling up in his inbox. One rain-slicked midnight, drunk on three fingers of bourbon, he finally drafted the application. The recommendation letter scanned beautifully, the same signature appearing exactly as it had on countless grading rubrics. When he reached the personal statement section, his fingers hovered until the screensaver kicked in - three times.

The third time, he wrote:

This is not a joke. I'm pursuing the best, just as you suggested. And I'm pursuing what I want.

It might have been a foolish, irrational decision fueled by far too much personal sentiment, but Charles went ahead with it anyway. The application was completed with a recommendation letter written by the professor himself, as if feeling out the limits of Sebastian’s sense of humor. 

The email whooshing away and the auto-reply arrived instantly. Charles leaned back, imagining the scene: hours later, Sebastian would wake to find his own carefully crafted words washed back to shore - that sealed bottle of farewell, thrown into the deep with such finality, now returned with the tide, its contents now something else entirely.

 

"But Sebastian doesn’t even have a sense of humor!" Alessandro had gasped on Charles’ first day.

"Sounds like someone doesn’t know his professor well enough," Charles shot back, just as Sebastian stepped out of his office. He flashed a bright smile. "Morning, Sebastian."

The air thickened for a beat before Sebastian cleared his throat, handed a stack of papers to another grad student, and turned back to them. "Morning, Charles. Alessandro. Get familiar with the project—we’re holding a concept review in two hours."

He retreated into his office, blinds snapping shut behind.

Alessandro stared at the closed door, then whirled back to Charles. "No. No, you cannot date my advisor. That's not how being a bro works."

"I absolutely can," Charles rolled his eyes. "But I’m not, and it has nothing to do with us being 'bros'." He made air quotes around the last word.

Alessandro scrunched his face. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don’t do the 'bro' thing with men," Charles shrugged. "Do you make 'friends' with women?"

"Of course I—!" Alessandro started, then faltered under Charles' skeptical look. "Oh my god. So what, now I’m just never supposed to talk to you again?”

Charles sighed dramatically. "Relax. You’re perfectly safe." He plucked the folder, giving him a slow critical once-over from head to toe.

"You're evil. You are forcing me into homophobia."

Charles finally laughed, settled into his seat, and opened the file after a deep breath. Starting a day by teasing Alessandro left him feeling invigorated. He liked his new job.

 

 

Pierre leaned against the doorframe, watching as Charles meticulously blow-dried his hair at 7:00 a.m.

"Having sexual fantasy on your bi boss—who also happens to be your tutor—and you did sleep with him once, no—twice..." He smirked at Charles' indignant expression. "Am I the only one who thinks this might not be the healthiest dynamic?"

"You're the only one who manages to make it sound that dramatic," Charles muttered, adjusting his fringe in the mirror.

Pierre smirked. "Yuki said—"

"—I absolutely do not want to hear the rest of that sentence," Charles cut in, holding up a hand.

"She said you are just obsessed with the kind of man who sees you as his personal little troublemaker. "

A shudder ran down Charles like biting into an underripe persimmon, "Ugh, at least I don't date a Duolingo pal."

"So what's the grand plan?" Pierre flopped onto the bed, almost tripping over Charles' half-packed duffel. "No phones, no TV, just... two men, linen bed sheets, sunset and candlelight? I doubt the Amish do much after dark, so it’s gonna be one long night. Promise me you won't forget protection."

"Thanks, Mom," Charles scoffed, snapping his toiletry bag shut. "It’s a site visit. To an Amish community. God knows if they'll let us stay overnight near the site. I doubt the relationship between investores and the locals isn’t half as rosy as their brochures claim."

"Sure, whatever you say." Pierre slid the condoms into the bag’s inner pocket—slowly, deliberately. "But it's never a bad thing to get prepared."

"Fantastic. Now fuck off." Charles shooed him away with an irritated wave.

"Yes, sir," Pierre grinned, retreating to the doorway. "For the record, platonism and celibacy weren't exactly healthy either."

Six weeks into his official position, Charles found himself assigned to replace the temporarily departed Alessandro for an overnight site visit — with Sebastian. The project was a new visitor center and eco-lodge in Lancaster County’s Amish community. Charles couldn’t fathom how the investors had convinced the tradition-bound Amish to sell land for commercial development. From what he knew, the locals even barred tour buses from even approaching their settlements.

But sharing close quarters with Sebastian for twenty-four straight hours? That was an entirely different calculus. Well, he still hadn’t grown accustomed to calling the man by his first name without feeling like he’d crossed some invisible line.

Charles never quite understood why Sebastian had allowed him into the studio, but he’d learned to tread carefully —better than to overstep. Then summer vacation kicked in, weeks passed in a blur of structured routines, and their interactions were largely confined to work discussions. Their moments alone could be counted on one hand.

Yet Charles knew—knew—the tension between them wasn't fabricated. He’d almost grown accustomed to the weight of Sebastian’s gaze lingering on him, how it had started long before. Something tangible and unspoken had been accumulating, dense as gathering storm clouds. They tacitly agreed to look the other way.

As Pierre had joked, all they needed was another good fuck. Sex was a good way to resolve things—to start or end a relationship. But when it came to Sebastian, that felt... precarious. They'd spent too long building whatever this was, it deserved better than to be reduced to physical release, and Charles wasn't about to wreck it now. 

Life wasn't like a binary code. Charles wasn't naive enough to expect some laughably earnest romance, nor was he after some mindless fling.

Not that he'd admit it, but this was complicated. Complicated—that weak, self-indulgent word for when one wanted too much. The kind of word people used when they were paralyzed by options instead of convictions. The past version of himself would have scoffed. Last Christmas when he hadn't gone home, he'd only sent an email.

Then, in the half of a brainstorming session, his phone buzzed. The caller ID flashed. He ducked into the fire stairwell.

His mother's voice was soft and measured—inquiring about his classes, his student account, his recovery from that concussion months ago ("The police called at three in the morning, Charles."). Charles leaned against the concrete wall, weathering the familiar reproach—his lack of caution, his poor judgment, all the ways he invited trouble by his chaotic lifestyle.​

"I'm taking 28 credits and working 30 hours a week." He counted the water stains on the ceiling."No, I'm busy, surprise. Try writing three term papers while prepping for finals...yes, still at the bar—"

"What, just say it: why is my son letting strangers grope him at a bar instead of coming home? Good news, I'm still not coming home for Christmas. Too busy with all those wild fucking parties."

"Oh fuck off with that,"​​ he snapped. "you don't even know what my life looks like. "

"Just... don't pretend that you care when all you want to do is judge me. When was the last time you asked if I was okay? Not my grades good,not my bank account—actually okay?"

The silence stretched. Charles pressed his forehead against the cold concrete wall.

"I'm done,"​​ he muttered, ending the call. For a long moment, he just slid down the wall, crouching down as the tightness burned in his throat. When he looked up, Sebastian was there, standing next to the restroom doorway, with that carefully neutral expression.

No way to tell how much he'd heard. Might have been standing there for quite some time already, since Sebastian was shifting his weight slightly under his unwavering stare. Then the realization - Sebastian wouldn't have understood a word.

"You alright?" 

"Never better," Charles pocketed his phone, attempting a smile that felt more like a grimace. Sebastian's raised eyebrow told him it wasn't convincing. "Really. I'm fine." He pushed himself upright, brushing nonexistent dust off his jeans.

"Family issue, I guess?" 

"How do you know?" Charles muttered, pressing his palms to his knees.

Sebastian avoided this, exhaling through his nose as he leaned against the opposite Charles. "The most complex relationships often exist between the people closest to us, no? Just relax— it will pass. The coflicts may not completely disappear, you'll eventually have the chance to talk things through calmly."

Charles studied him through his lashes, surprised both his words. The stairwell's fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead, for a long minute, Sebastian waiting, Charles steadying himself in that wordless companionship.

Finally, Charles lifted his head. "Are you... trying to comfort me?"

Sebastian's expression softened in a way Charles had never seen before—just a slight relaxation around the eyes, a faint smile, and a barely perceptible nod. "Yes. Is it working?"

"A bit." Charles found himself holding that rare, thawed blue gaze. "Thanks."

"You are welcome."  

As Sebastian pushed through the fire door, Charles braced his hands on his knees, rising slowly. The click of the latch echoed in the empty stairwell. That's when he realized this fragile new dimension between them—quiet and complicated and unexpectedly precious in the best way. 

A new complexity had entered his life.

 

Chapter 11

It felt less like a site visit and more like a date—a notion that had never crossed Sebastian's mind during any of his professional outings.

He arrived at Charles' apartment building at eight sharp, watching Charles getting into the passenger seat with his luggage bag, when his roommate called after them, "Drive safe, Sugar Daddy!"

The car glided smoothly along the road, as Sebastian drove with effortless control. Charles was relaxed next to him, head tilted backwards in what he thought might be a contemplative pose. Sebastian adjusted the rearview mirror out of reflex. The steady shush-shush of rubber meeting road usually had a hypnotic effect, for now though, his normally sleep-prone passenger was wide awake. Charles was humming some off-key pop song under his breath. Sebastian knew the reason immediately.

Charles reached into his bag and produced two travel mugs. "Coffee? I bring an extra. Black."

Sebastian kept his eyes on the road but raised an eyebrow. "No, but thanks."

"Fine," Charles took a sip from his own, sweetened with what smelled like vanilla. He swirled the liquid absently, watching the countryside blur past. "So, have you worked with Amish communities before?"

"This is the first with the Amish, but not unfamiliar. I've consulted on a heritage project in the Bernese Oberland before. Similar preservation requirements."

Charles perked up. "Yeah, the framing design look straight out of a Bavarian postcard."

"Common throughout the alpine regions." Sebastian nodded. "Those steep roof pitches evolved for snow load in Europe. Here, they're maintaining tradition more than function—if you remember, their barn eaves extend further than necessary. When they migrated to America in the 1700s, they brought traditions too. "

Charles nodded thoughtfully. "I read they don't use power tools. Must be challenging."

"Challenging, but rewarding. Their craftsmanship is remarkable — you'll see." Sebastian's voice carried genuine appreciation.

The two hour roadtrip passed in conversation, the kind that flowed easily from the project detail to his playlist. Outside, the strip malls and gas stations and gave way to broad farmland. As they turned onto the final stretch of road, the first Amish farmhouses came into view, its vibrant colors startling against the muted greens of the fields. The last ontermittent phone signal died out completely.

Sebastian slowed the car. The backroads stretched before them, with the rhythmic sway of tall grass and the occasional silhouette of a horse-drawn buggy against the horizon.

Clapboard farmhouses in deep barn red, stood solid and unadorned. Clotheslines stretched between posts, heavy with sun-bleached linens that snapped in the breeze. The fields rolled in front of them—neat rows of corn, wheat, and alfalfa. Men in broad-brimmed hats and suspenders guided plows behind teams of draft horses, and women in plain dresses, faces shaded by stiff white bonnets. 

The guide, a former Amish man with a thick, rolling accent, greeted them work-roughened hands. The project was about a visitor center for an Amish farming community, so they need a deep engagement with the local Amish way of life. The guide led them through woodworking shops, where the sharp, resinous scent of fresh-cut oak hung thick in the air. Then a one-room schoolhouse, sprawling orchards heavy with unpicked fruit.

They stayed longest at the stable, which was filled with the smell of warm hay and sunbaked leather. Charles hesitated before a massive black Percheron stallion. Its nostrils flared when he extended a tentative hand, the hot breath making him recoil.

"Go on, give the horses some feed," the guide urged.

Sebastian, meanwhile, had already claimed a quieter mare, her dappled grey muzzle buried in his palm. "City hands," he smirked, stroking her neck with surprising ease. The mare lipped at his pocket, searching for forgotten sugar cubes.

"It's like feeding a living steam engine," Charles muttered as the horse's whiskered lips vacuumed up the feed with alarming efficiency. 

Sebastian's quiet chuckle carried across the aisle. He'd somehow acquired a second horse, who was nudging his shoulder for attention. When they left, a clump of horsehair now decorated his sweater sleeve like some rustic boutonniere. Charles' teasing lasted a solid thirty minutes.

The afternoon light had grown long and golden by the time they settled at the farmhouse restaurant, the midday crowds having dissipated with the passing lunch hour. They chose an outdoor table, overlooking the main thoroughfare. The owner recommended apple pie and house-made cheese, both exceptional. As they eat, Sebastian timed passing vehicles (buggies outnumbered cars three to one) while Charles lounged in the honeyed sun, eyes half-lidded, licking homemade jam off his spoon with unhurried relish.

Another horse-drawn carriage clattered by. Sebastian marked on the sheet just as Charles stretched, looking around and said. "Time moves slower here, doesn't it?"

The place existed as a living preservation of centuries-old rural life. Simple, low-slung buildings with unadorned facades stood humbly against the horizon, while farmers guided horse-drawn plows through soil with the same methods their ancestors had used. The conspicuous absence of modernity - no utility poles lining the pathways, no large machinery in the field, no visible pipes or wires marring the structures - created an atmosphere, a conscious rejection of technological intrusion that permeated every aspect of the community. Sebastian gave a quiet nod, recognizing this uncompromising authenticity as the central theme that would inform his entire design theme.

They spent the subsequent hours documenting the site's topography, hydrology, and vegetation within the project boundaries. As dusk settled, daytime visitors had departed, and the Amish - true to their "early to bed, early to rise" philosophy, had retreated into their homes. The transition from day to night here carried a natural rhythm, undisturbed by artificial lighting or the persistent buzz of electronics.

Sebastian made a call to the project coordinator about the lodging; 20 minutes later, they arrived at the inn. Under the dim glow of a kerosene lantern, the front desk clerk handed them the key—long, brass, straight out of a Dickens novel.

Charles followed silently behind as they ascended the stairs, each creaking step of the worn wooden staircase groaning underfoot. Their rooms were adjacent. When Sebastian opened his, Charles just leaned in and whined. "No mattress. Perfect."

The room continued the hotel's simple and primitive aesthetic. Heavy oak beams crossed the low ceiling, a narrow bed stood against opposite walls. The only concessions to modernity were two lonely electrical outlets screwed awkwardly into the hand-planed wallboards. A single kerosene lamp cast flickering shadows across the rough plaster walls, the room smelling of old wood, beeswax and aged linen.

Sebastian carried the lamp onto the porch, where two wicker chairs faced the darkening fields. At 7:00 p.m., the sunset—a hemorrhage of molten gold—drowned into a horizon unbroken by artificial light. The silence seemed to gain weight, texture, like wool pressed against the eardrums.

A few minutes later, Charles sank into the chair opposite him with a rustle. Darkness wrapped around them, the dim kerosene lamp between them became the only tiny, trembling island of amber halos. Sebastian watched quietly as Charles hunched forward to adjust the chimney. Light pooled over his features, before climbing up to his jaw, gliding those pale green eyes with something tender. Then Charles blinked up at him—a deliberate, slow, mischievous flicker.

"Can I ask you something?" He tilted his head with faux innocence.

Sebastian knew it wouldn’t be a serious question. Still, the night had softened his edges. "Go ahead."

"Do you like teaching?"

A beat. "...Most of the time, yes." He replied as honestly as he could.

"Okay," Charles nodded, "now your turn to ask me something."

"Are we really playing this?"

"Unless you're preoccupied." Charles gestured at the void around them, "Communication is healthy, Professor. Or do you get some better ideas?"

That familiar, mocking emphasis on his title drew a frown from Sebastian, but he indulged him.

"Fine. What's the story with your suspended license?"

Charles' expression shuttered. In the uneven light, Sebastian watched his throat work before he answered. "Ah. Parties. Alcohol. Some… recreational pharmaceuticals. Poor choices, " he shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Let’s just say I used to be very enthusiastic."

"'Enthusiastic' is the word for it."

"Thank you," Charles deadpanned. "My turn. Cats or dogs?"

"Cats." Sebastian almost felt he was facing one now. "You?"

"Dogs. Wanted one since kid." Charles didn't hesitate. "Winter or summer?"

"Winter." Despite his distaste for Christmas.

"Summer. I hate Christmas." The lamplight ​​caught the gold flecks in his eyes when he grinned​​. "Beach house or mountain cabin?"

"Mountain cabin."

"Can't choose. Love them both." Charles straightened slightly, the shadows under his eyes deepening as he asked softly, "Next—gay or bi?"

A moth was circling the lamp, its wings battering the glass with a dry, papery flutter. Sebastian watched it. "Bisexual."

"Gay. Born this way," Charles said too lightly.

"I've already known," Sebastian leaned back before Charles could deflect, "still my turn. Why working at the bar?"

"Well—I need money. "He attempted an exaggerated face, barely visible in the gloom. "My mother's… controlling, especially after Papa died. We clash. Typical traditional parent and queer son—thank God I'm not the only child." A strange luminosity lit his eyes, he let out a bitter laugh. "She vetoed me studying here, so I bartended to pay tuition. That’s the abridged version. If you want the whole story, I could go all night."

Sebastian was staring at him. "Are we continuing?"

"Of course. My question—" Charles leaned forward, his knee brushing Sebastian's. "Shall we talk about your family?"

"We didn’t, well, align." Sebastian's gaze drifted to the fields, admission coming easily in this suspended darkness. "He expected me in a 'higher-status' profession. Architecture—then teaching—wasn’t it." The words had momentum like a stone rolling downhill. "We never stopped arguing about it, just less tense now."

"That’s why you were in the lab last Christmas?"

"Seems we’ve found common ground." Sebastian murmured with a nod. "Why architecture?"

Charles huffed a humorless laugh. "Would you believe I raced karts as a kid? Even dreamed of going pro. Of course we can't afford that. Law repels me, and medicine is boring. So architecture is the compromise—creative and practical." He paused, forcing lightness into his voice. "What about You? Intrigued by some grand cathedral? Talented at Lego?"

"Not exactly." Sebastian shut his eyes briefly. "When I was a kid, before my father’s business rebounded…I dreamed of building a vast house. That's all. Too many fairy tales, clearly."

​​The lamp guttered, plunging them into momentary darkness before flaring back to life. Charles' face hovered inches closer—or perhaps it was just a trick of the wavering light. 

"Kinda naive," Charles murmured, not unkindly. "But sweet."

"Then it became stubbornness."

He frowned. "But you like teaching. You say so."

Sebastian almost argued that nothing in life was certain—but that won't be a good answer, he was decades past twenty. Instead, he simply nodded. "Yes. I chose what I wanted."

The darkness settled around them like a second skin, giving him a strange space to be honest without feeling laid bare. Here, stranded in this Amish world that felt suspended outside of time—untethered, unmoored, they were simply two shapes in the silent night, to the same moment. 

He found himself tracing the light's path along Charles' profile—how it gilded the bridge of his nose, caught like liquid amber in the downy hairs at his temple, pooled in the delicate hollow beneath his lower lip until his mouth looked kissed by light itself. Then Charles turned, catching him in the act of observation. A smile ghosted across his face, quiet and calm. Somewhere beyond, an owl called.

"Want a drink?" The words scraped against his throat as he pushed back the chair.

"No. My turn," Charles countered cunningly. "Do you think sex between a professor and a student is unethical?"

Sebastian should’ve seen this coming. He rose, the wicker creaking as he took a half-step back. "Game's over." 

"Not until you answer this." Charles remained seated, just tilted his chin up to pin him with his gaze.

Sebastian exhaled. More than offense, it was a drowning resignation, a weary inevitability creeping over him with chilling clarity—like watching a carefully constructed wall crumble in slow motion. "Yes. It’s unethical. A professional with integrity would avoid it." The words came out flat and final, undercut by the whisper of wind through distant cornfields, then silence. Charles didn't move.

"Goodnight, Charles." 

He turned to the hallway, a faint sway to his stance. The room swallowed him whole as Sebastian groped for his phone. He thumbed the power button, but the faint blue light was soon lost in a brighter orange glow from behind.

A floorboard groaned. Charles followed, lamp in hand, the firelight a living thing in his eyes. His voice closer now.

"Can I ask one last question?"

"No." Sebastian couldn’t hear himself. The light was everywhere—dancing in his vision, seeping into his pulse, his skull. He got nowhere to retreat.

Charles stepped closer, their shadows tangled quietly on the wall. He whispered, barely louder than than the hiss of the flame. "Two people. Attracted to each other. Is that unethical?" The lamp dangled between them, casting liquid gold over his collarbones, his jaw, the curve of his mouth, golden and impossible to ignore.

"Regardless of gender, orientation, titles—just two people. Feeling something."

The lamp hit the floor with a muffled thud. Light rolled at their feet, then died. Darkness flooded the space—then warmth, as Charles closed the final distance. 

Sebastian didn’t pull away. He'd run out of exits for a long time.

 

Notes:

bgm: Love Chained-Cannons

we are finally here🎉

Chapter 12

Charles​​ sat cross-legged on the couch, hunched over his sketchbook, when​​ Pierre​​ appeared suddenly, leaning over in his shoulder. He turned to meet a shit-eating grin, then snapped the book shut.

"No—don't give me that look. This is the gooey-est thing we've ever done."

"Is that why you've been sighing at your pages all afternoon?" Pierre grabbed the book, "bro, this is gold. Does he know this? Does he like it?"

Charles shrugged, rubbing his temples. "I'm practicing—he just encouraged me to pick it up before the summer. That's it."

Pierre​​ choked on his coffee. "Holy shit. You two have been so busy." He flipped through the pages with growing delight. "This is the most romantic and weirdest love letter I've ever seen."

"He's a perfect subject, and I enjoy what I'm doing. Happy?"

Then Pierre's tone shifted—lower, serious. "But... remember he's your boss and professor, oui? If he makes you feel like you owe him anything, that's—"

Charles frowned immediatey. "He wouldn't. He's a good guy." 

"Well, still it's unethical as hell. "Pierre raised a brow, his grin returning almost instantly. "There's an obvious power imbalance here. Unless you agree that's what makes it so hot. Oh, Sir, I'll do anything for you..."

Charles threw his head back with a groan, flushed. "Why do you keep talking like my life is some cheap porn?"

"You hypocrite." Pierre scoffed. "You are the one with a Victorian maiden's forbidden fantasy. Tell me you at least get to touch the real thing when you're not—"

"I wish."

Pierre's eyes widened. "You mean all you've done is kissing?" He sighed dramatically. "He's definitely thinking about you right now. About how cute and eager you are. Your sweet, impressionable little mind."

Charles hurled the book at Pierre's head. As Pierre's laughter echoed through the apartment, Charles had to admit this platonic bullshit was the dumbest relationship he'd ever been in.

The week back in the office was odd—one that Charles found equal parts amusing and exasperating. Seb hadn't suddenly turned back to some distant, unapproachable figure; if anything, he remained unchanged, almost too normal. The same dry wit in meetings, same infuriatingly competent air. The only difference? Now Charles noticed everything.

He noticed how Sebastian avoided looking into his eyes when handing him the folder. "Revise this by ten," Sebastian said, voice even. Charles flipped it open, and spotted faint creases at the corners of several pages later—that unconscious habit Seb had when gnawing on something late into night, one he'd somehow never picked on before.

Or that moment in the conference room, when Seb had abruptly remarked, "The model was solid work." 

"Just doing my job." Charles replied breezy, shooting him a terrible wink. 

Like hell. He'd stayed up until 3 a.m., perfecting it to meet Seb's notoriously exacting standards. Later that night, he received a text: You looked like you were about to laugh during the meeting. So annoying.

Charles: You kept saying *erection* like it was a dirty word. What was I supposed to do?

A pause. Then:

Sebastian: It's unavoidable.

Charles: Sure. And that's why your voice did that thing.

Sebastian: What thing.

Charles: You sound like a bloody British documentary narrator. I can't help.

A longer pause. Charles could practically hear Seb’s exasperated sigh through the screen.

Sebastian: I regret allowing you to work here. 

Charles: Liar. You adore my creative interpretations.
Charles: Btw, the sweater today. Terrible.

Sebastian: I tolerate you. Barely.
Sebastian: So now you tolerate my sweater. 

Charles: Still at the office?

Sebastian: Unfortunately.

Charles: Need company?

Sebastian: No.

Charles: You always say that.

Sebastian: And you always ignore me. Someone has to be responsible.

Charles: Too bad I'm irresponsible and reckless. 
Charles: Put that in my recommendation letter next time.

Sebastian: Don't forget distracting.

Charles: Good. You've been staring at screens for 12 hours. 

Sebastian: Says the man texting me instead of sleeping.

Charles: At least I'm in bed.
[Image: a blurry selfie,  half his face buried in pillow, one sleep-drunk eye visible]

Sebastian: Go to sleep then. It's late.

Charles: Make me.

Sebastian: Tomorrow 8 a.m. Report on my desk.

Charles: Office bully. 
Charles: But I'll come when you tell me to ;)

The three typing dots appeared and disappeared.

Sebastian: Goodnight, Charles.

Charles chuckled, tossing his phone away. He wasn't sure if Sebastian had missed that dirty little pun, or was just choosing not to notice. 

The man could cling to his pristine professional facade all he wanted, but they both knew he was just as far gone as Charles was. And Charles loved it when Sebastian wasn't nearly as immune to this game as he pretended.

 

On Christmas Eve, Charles received an invitation to come over Sebastian's place.

They'd chosen the little Italian place tucked between a bookstore and a record shop, the kind with checkered tablecloths and flickering candlelight. The waiter—with ink-stained fingers and a distracted smile—had kept their glasses full without asking, and Charles' cheeks were all flushed from Chianti when they left.

Outside, the snow had turned to slush underfoot, crunching wetly with each step. The neon sign overhead flickered irregularly, its erratic pink glow envoking something in both of them. Alchol, late nights, drafts scrawled on cocktail napkins, and now the memory felt like fragments from another life. The walk back to Sebastian's apartment was slow, their shoulders bumping whenever Charles veered too close to the icy patches on the sidewalk.

The apartment was in one of those old brick walk-ups. Sebastian fumbled with the lock—it always stuck in snowy weather, while Charles leaned past him to peer at the name labels on mailboxes.

"Mrs. Kowalski lives here too?"

"So you have to watch out." Sebastian said, shoving the door open with his shoulder. "This morning I had to endure a full inquisition from her about why I'm still single. She even suggested online dating."

Charles stepped inside, Sebastian's hand brushing the small of his back, light enough to be accidental, yet sending Charles' pulse stutter.

The biting cold clinging to his coat was replaced by a drowsy warmth. Heavy oak bookshelves dominating one wall, a tartan throw draping over a sectional sofa. On the dining table, a stack of paper sat half-sorted on the table, anchored by a smooth stone. And—most startling of all—a small Christmas tree listed precariously to one side, adorned with a haphazard mix of wine corks, cracked coffee capsules and folded cranes​​ made from old memos. Someone had attempted tinsel. It had not gone well.

"Stop judging." Sebastian called from the kitchen, his voice carrying over the soft clink of ceramic, the rustle of tea leaves being measured into a strainer.

Charles wandered to the coffee table, picking up a half-finished balsa wood bridge model, with suspicious tooth marks on one beam.

"It's my niece. She's teething when the family came to visit." Sebastian appeared with two steaming mug. "Sit."

Charles obeyed—by sitting right on his lap, knees sinking into the cushions to cage Sebastian between his arms. The light painted gold across his sharp grin, his breath hot against Sebastian's lips as he accused him between kisses.​

"Been too damn long," he murmured, tucking his face against Sebastian's cheek with deliberate slowness before nosing along his jaw. "Any chance I could get what I deserve for Christmas?"

Sebastian arched an eyebrow, deliberately ignoring the way Charles pressed closer when Sebastian's stubble caught against sensitive skin. "Weren't you at that victory party in October?"

"Doesn't count. I'm drunk. Just a handjob." Charles mutterd, bracing his forearms against Sebastian's chest, eyes bright. "And I only tell you because I'm trying to be good in this relationship. Doesn't that merit a reward, Professor?"

Sebastian was certain that was the filthiest "Professor" he'd ever heard.

"So here we are, celebrating our first Christmas together."He conceded, "You can stay tonight here if you want. Merry Christmas."

"'Stay the night' as in sleep together, or—"

"No sex." Sebastian cut him off with a shake of his head. "We agreed—not until after graduation. Don't make me regret this."

"You gonna kick me out on Christmas Eve?"

"If you continue misbehaving." Sebastian declared. It looks like Charles was going to speak again but Sebastian stopped him with a kiss.

"Whyyyyyy." He whined into the crook of the professor's neck. "That rule is ridiculous! We're already like this, what do you call all the kissing? The touching? This?" His hips rolled in a slow, suggestive circle.

"A mistake I can't seem to stop repeating, maybe." Sebastian smoothed a hand down Charles' back, warm and steady, as if soothing a bristling cat.

"Then lapse again. Just once?"

Sebastian's hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair in that maddeningly gentle way. "Still no. We've had this argument enough times to know this goes nowhere. " 

"Phony."

"I'm aware," Sebastian admitted, giving Charles's hip a light tap. "Now get off me and hand me that book you threw away."

"That's rude," Charles hissed, but rolled of his lap. "Still hate Christmas," he muttered, flopping onto the couch.

The book hit his chest with a soft thud. He caught it on reflex and looked up, just as Charles arched lazily against the sofa cushions. The fabric of his trousers strained, and Sebastian forced his gaze upward—only to meet Charles' half-lidded stare.

"Don't," Sebastian sighed, "not on my sofa."

"Tell me to stop." Charles' fingers only dipped lower, palming himself through the fabric. "Properly. Mean it. Punish me. Show me how disappointed you are in your favorite student."

​The absurdity of it all coiled tight in Sebastian's chest.

​​"You—" His voice caught, strangled by the sight before him. He swallowed hard, before snatching the tissue box off the coffee table and hurling it at Charles. "Maybe you'll need this."

He turned on his heel, bathroom door slamming hard enough to rattle the mirror. Charles' voice followed, half-laugh and half-moan. He braced himself against the cold tile wall, hands fumbling with his own zipper. 

His own breathing filled the small space, harsh and uneven. Behind his eyelids, it only sharpened—the way his head tipped back, the way his hips arched off the couch, the way he'd whispered "Come on, Professor" like it was a dare.

The rules had been simple. Necessary. A line to prove he wasn't this—wasn't the kind of man who fucked his student, wasn't the kind of man who broke for pretty boys with sharper tongues than sense. And yet, here he was, hand moving faster now. The sink faucet dripped. Somewhere beyond the door, Charles was probably sighing his name like a prayer. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

Some rules existed to be broken. Others existed to prove how badly you wanted to break them. Now he wasn’t sure he remembered why tany of it had ever mattered.

 

Sebastian found Charles curled on the cushion when he returned, completely absorbed in his phone. The younger man's thumbs moved rapidly across the screen as he carried on some lively conversation, not even pretending to hide it when Sebastian peered over his shoulder at the glowing display.

The guy's profile picture featured suspiciously photoshopped biceps. 

"Seriously? Play with my jingle bells?" Sebastian's breath tickled Charles' ear as he read the latest message.

"Not that bad," Charles muttered, already typing out:

Been a very good boy this year.

The instant reply made them both groan:

Then come sit on Santa's lap. I got a candy cane for your mouth.

"Christ. Okay, that's terrible." Charles tossed his phone onto the coffee table like it had burned him.

Sebastian rounded the couch and dropped beside him, biting back a laugh. "So I can assume you won't be going out to ride some stranger's...reindeer?" 

"Look at you, not even jealous. World's most perfect boyfriend," Charles announced to the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head. 

"Perks of dating a mature adult," Sebastian slid an arm around his shoulders. When no protest came, he let his fingers trace familiar territory along the slope of the younger man's neck. "C'mon, grumpy. Presents await."

"Just so you know, I'm broke. Don't expect anything fancy." Charles scrunched his nose.

"Having you here is the best gift I could ask for." 

"Like you are willing to unwrap me." He huffed, already scooting forward to dig through his backpack.

Sebastian catch the sketchbook before it hit his chest. He blinked at it, then up at Charles—whose smirk was now poorly concealed behind a sip of tea. He flipped the cover. The first dozen pages were filled with architectural sketches—some rough, some more detailed.

As he turned further, the margins sprouted casual doodles, then replaced by figure studies, varied wildly in style, all of him. Quick sketches of his profile, his hands resting on a desk, unguarded moments caught between lectures—reading, or leaning back in thought. Then a particularly bold one, where his tie was loosened in a suggestive way.

Charles' knees bounced unpatienty beside him. "Just skip to the end."

Sebastian's hunch proved correct. The final pages featured a very naked, very enthusiastic study of certain details, the folds of fabric and the curve of his body creating a charged tension. His hand rested just there, the implication clear despite it was exaggerated through artistic interpretation.

"I'd give this an A+. Proficient and imaginative." Sebastian said mildly, snapping the book shut with deliberate slowness, "Though I don't remember being quite this impressive." 

Charles grinned, unrepentant. "You've ignored me for like three months. Had to keep myself entertained somehow."

"Confiscated," he declared, tucking it into his breast pocket like evidence in a tribunal. "So no one else gets to see it."

Charles' snort-laugh dissolved into proper giggles. He had rearranged himself with feline grace, his head coming to rest in Sebastian's lap. 

Sebastian's gift paled in comparison to Charles' elaborate one. He bought the latest iPad, to replace Charles' waterlogged one. Not particularly imaginative, but at least valuable enough to live up to his "Sugar Daddy" reputation. Charles buried his face in the fabric over Sebastian's abdomen and inhaled deeply. "I just adore the stench of money on you."  

What followed was an evening of typical coupledom—clinging, kissing, and all the sickeningly sweet antics of lovebirds holed up in their apartment. When they got  tired of that, they claimed opposite ends of the sofa, each absorbed in their own world.

The warm silence was punctuated only by the rustle of Sebastian's book pages. He shook his head with a smile when Charles dragged a socked foot along his calf over the rug, then reciprocated with a teasing nudge of his own. This had surprised Sebastian—how effortlessly Charles embraced (and even enjoyed) these quiet, wordless moments. Though when mentioned, the younger man had just scoffed, "Yeah, we’ll make the perfect pair of boring old gay codgers."  

Later, freshly showered and innocently settled in bed, Charles broke the stillness. "I'm quitting my internship next week." He plucked at a loose thread on the duvet. "Got grad school applications, essays, all that."  

Sebastian kept his eyes on his book. He'd already heard the news from Alessandro, along with Charles' plan to still apply here. "Let me know if you need project references," he said evenly.

"I'm considering you as my graduate advisor," Charles mused, hugging a pillow and tilting his head.

Sebastian reflexively refused. "No," He closed the book carefully. "It's—no. That would complicate everything."  

"I joined your competition team, then your studio," Charles shrugged in that infuriatingly casual way. "Applying for your grad student feels like the natural next step."  

"And I'd become your advisor, control which projects you worked on. Grade your thesis. Determine if it gets passed. When or whether you graduate at all." The words tasted like ash. "I'd hold power over your entire career. Do you understand what that means?"  

"That… you'd be my mentor?" Charles blinked. "My life coach? I'm okay with that."  

"It's dangerous." Sebastian's voice cracked. He hated this, but they had to be said. "It means our relationship would become even more unbalanced. I'd have power over you even when you didn't want me to. Even if you changed your mind. Even if you woke up one day and realized this—" he measured his word, "—was a mistake. And I'd still be there, in your classes, on your thesis committee. Forever."

Charles propped himself up. "Would you, like, fail me if we broke up?"

"Of course not."

"Then what's the problem?" Charles' expression was all nonchalance. "We’re not some tawdry 'Professor Blackmails Student' scandal—okay? Hell, we haven't even slept—" He bit off the words, then amended, "Not since—" 

Sebastian studied him, turning over that cavalier tone. "...You’re not actually serious about this, are you?"

Charles looked away in that peculiar way of his. "Not really."

"So this whole conversation was just trying to have sex?"

"Yep," Charles admitted, his voice deliberately light. "Did it work?"

"Not even close." Sebastian pushed his annoyingly close face away, reached to switch off the lamp. "Go to sleep."  

"I hate you," Charles declared as he collapsed onto the bed with exaggerated weight.

"Love you too." 

The words slipped out before Sebastian could realize, hanging suspended in the sudden darkness. Sebastian's hand remained frozen near the switch. He heard Charles' breath catch.

His body just inches away.

"You didn't mean—"

"I didn't."  

"Right," Charles murmured. He turned over with deliberate careful, the sheets whispering against skin. "Well. Um, so...goodnight?"

"Goodnight," Sebastian settled onto his back, staring at the ceiling he couldn't see. "Merry Christmas."

Another rustle. "Down to 80% Christmas hatred now. You could keep trying, you know."

Sebastian chose to interpret that as an unspoken promise—that they'd still be together next year, despite it was foolish. The wiser choice would be to make or accept no promises at all, for them both.

He'd lost track how deep into this relationship he'd already waded, nor how much further he'd go. A touch lingered too long. A glance held too openly. A boundary crossed so casually it barely registered until after the fact. It was like reliving his twenties, except with more struggle, more fear, and the occasional bout of excruciating self-analysis.  

And tonight, the real terror was that, for a fleeting second he'd wanted that careless "love you" had been real. Had wanted Charles to mean it too. He wanted it with the quiet despair of a man who should know better.

 

 

Chapter 13

As finals approached, the studio stood nearly empty.

Sebastian handled everything methodically but without hesitation. His resignation letter was drafted, and submitted in a day. He spent a weekend—one without Charles—packing things. Books boxed, blueprints filed, equipment cataloged and stored.

When Alessandro stopped by on Wednesday, all that remained were an office reduced to a skeleton, labeled boxes on the floor and some furnitures. He had been less than enthusiastic about helping Sebastian arrange movers in the past week. Sebastian suspected his reluctance stemmed from disapproval.

"This is impulsive. Irrational." Alessandro said, surveying the bare space, arms crossed, uncharacteristically firm. "And I'm assuming Charles has no idea."

"Later." Sebastian taped the box shut with more force. "He's buried in his thesis and grad applications right now."

Alessandro nodded. "Ah. So you'll wait until everything's settled, then drop the bomb like that somehow softens the blow."

"This isn't about him. I'm not hiding this from him anyway."

"Save that for later, too."

"What 'later'?"

"When everything goes to shit and you screw it all up. Then you can comfort yourself with it." He clapped Sebastian on the shoulder, mock-sympathetic. "Just a middle-aged man with no career and no love life. No big deal."

He walked off to label other boxes.

Sebastian couldn't deny the nausea coiled in his gut as Alessandro's words had landed like a punch.

"Goes to shit."

It was Charles's term, one he'd always used when critiquing formulaic blockbusters. Those three-act Hollywood films could never resist a cheap plot twist, no matter how clumsily executed.

But movies were just movies. Life wasn't a plot twist—it was something more than dramatic turns. This brought Sebastian some small comfort, and he clung to it.

Back when they were not that busy, they still made time for movie nights. Sebastian could barely remember the last film they'd watched together. After Charles  predicted the killer for what felt like the dozenth time halfway through a mystery, he finally snapped. 

"Pick something you like," Charles had said, flopping onto the couch. "I'll behave."

"We’re switching to something you can't ruin," he queued up a slow, melancholic film, pretending not to hear Charles groan.

"Ugh, this is so... pretentious," Charles groaned, slumping further into the couch. On screen, a man stared mournfully at a cup of coffee, the camera lingering for an excruciating ten seconds.

"You said you'd behave."

"I am behaving. This is me behaving badly." Charles threw a piece of popcorn at the screen. "It's like a cinematic constipation."

"This is what you want, something that doesn't treat its audience like idiots." Sebastian stuffed a strawberry in his ever-talking mouth. "At least here, nothing just abruptly goes to shit for no reason."

Charles grinned, tilting his head. "Oh, please. Life’s all ‘ups and downs and downs and downs.’" His fingers tracing a dramatic nosedive in the air before landing in Sebastian's palm. "One minute you’re fine, the next—plop. No warning. Just splat. Like stepping in gum."

Sebastian frowned. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, but curled his fingers around Charles' anyway. 

"Prove me wrong," Charles leaned in, they sharing the saccharine taste of strawberry on his tongue.

 

---

 

The lights were on when Sebastian entered the apartment. On the couch, Charles was absolutely faking sleep. He buried himself under two throw pillows with zero attempt at actual concealment.

The familiar sigh from above made him press his smile into the couch cushions.

"Charles," he mumbled, hand settling at the nape of his neck. The fingers carded through his hair automatically, tracing the tension along his scalp. "How many times do I have to tell you not to—"

"Shhh." Charles dragged out the sound, nuzzling his sleepy face against Sebastians corduroy shirt. The fabric smelled like cedar and faintly of coffee. "No talking."

Sebastian hummed. "That tired?”

"Love this," Charles sighed, looping his arms around Sebastian’s waist to anchor him closer. "Harder."

Obliging, Sebastian increased the pressure of his kneading fingers, drawing a low, satisfied noise from Charles, when his eyes flew open, bright with mischief.

"No congratulations for the newly minted graduate?"

Before Sebastian could respond, Charles grabbed his sleeve and yanked him downward. The world tilted violently as his back hit the sofa, Charles' face swimming above him through the sudden dizziness.

He tilted his head, with all the innocent mischief of a cat presenting its belly—eyes bright, smile just crooked enough to be irresistible.

Sebastian tried to lift himself up, only for a hand to shove him back down. He glared at Charles, but it seemed to go right over their head as Charles made himself comfortable on his lap. The young man leaned down to capture his lips in a slow, thorough kiss.

"Are you drunk?" He huffed a little laugh when they finally broke apart.

"Sober as a judge. Skip the party and everything, for you."

The words dripped with faux naivety even as his hand began its slow descent down Sebastian's abdomen. Every muscle beneath that wandering touch jumped and twitched. Charles' breath hitched with barely restrained eagerness—like a kid tearing into presents—right before his palm cupped Sebastian's erection through the fabric.

Sebastian could only stare, dumbstruck, as Charles made quick work of his belt buckle with terrifying efficiency. All his blood had long since rushed to his groin.

"Charles—"

"Mmm?" Charles didn't pause.

"Are you sure—"

"Yes." 

"Isn't it too—"

"No."

"But I have something to—"

Charles silenced him with a bite to his collarbone. "Later." He peeled off his own shirt, before guiding Sebastian's hands to his waist. "Just no talking, Okay? "

Their lips connected again, hands rubbing and groping. Moans were swallowed and minds were lost. Charles' body against him, taking his body heat and drowning him in slick friction.

"You promised." Charles offered his body lowered, grinding his pelvis in a way that was everything but innocent. "Or do I have to make you?"

They were so close now, skin on skin, heat on heat. Sebastian pulled them closer still, squishing their hardened parts impossibly closer. He didn't care if it was a little painful. Charles didn't mind, he was breathing heavily on top of him, grasping at his shoulders like a life line in the heat of each other.

Reason flew out the window for them both. Sebastian lifted himself up to sit up and pulled Charles along with him before grabbing the back of his neck to plant another passionate kiss on him. Charles wrapped his arms around his neck to force them closer. That once cocky expression had been whipped off his face only to be replaced with lusty, lidded eyes that stared up into his with need.

Charles' free hand found its way down to their aching needs. He wrapped his hand around them both, it was hard to do, but he did so anyways and pumped them together once, from hilt to tip. It was long and slow, having them gasp for air in unison, as Charles buried his head back into Sebastian's shoulder.

They didn’t even make it to the bedroom. First lazy kisses, then desperate ones, until all that remained was the slide of skin and Charles' moan against Sebastian's teeth.

So they stumbled to the kitchen to refuel. Charles leaned in obediently to let Sebastian feed him, some swallowed properly, some deliberately spilled. The shock of cold made Charles gasp, his spine arching off the kitchen island as rivulets of cream slid down his chest. 

"Fuck—" Charles' fingers tangled in Sebastian's hair, not guiding, just holding on as Sebastian licked a broad stripe up his trembling abdomen. Melted streaks glistened between them like some obscene glaze, when Sebastian finally pulled back, his fingers pressed against Charles' parted lips.

Charles licked them clean with obscene focus, then leaned in to chase the flavor directly from his mouth. "Tastes better on you."

The bathroom was only steps away, but they took their time getting there. Charles, a mess of gasps and garble words of "deeper" and "more", was shoved against the tile as Sebastian started fucking him earnestly. As promised, he fucked him so good it has Charles wailing like a bitch in heat; his head thrown back as he speaks gibberish to the ceiling. His legs quivered and Sebastian continued to hold him up, brutally thrusting up with raw and pure desire as he moving Charles up and down on his cock.

By the time they fucked their way to the bedroom, neither could be bothered to dry off—hell, they barely had the breath to spare. Their bodies pressed together with a desperate urgency, as if trying to fuse skin to skin.

Charles was the first to collapse onto the mattress, the damp sheets cool against his back. Sebastian followed, caging him in with arms braced on either side of his head, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight. But before he could lose himself in the heat of it, Sebastian abruptly yanked the rumpled bedsheet over his face.

"The f—?" Charles' muffled protest was cut short as Sebastian scrubbed vigorously at his hair through the cloth. By the time he managed to wrestle free, his hair was a wild, towel-dried mess, sticking up in every direction.

Sebastian couldn’t help the grin at the sight of Charles, flushed and disheveled, blinking up at him with a mix of bewilderment and indignation. Then without warning, he leaned down and kissed him—slow, deliberate, as honey dripping from a spoon to the space between their lips.

The sex was everything Charles had imagined—slow, hungry, real. Frantic hands and passionate fumbles, Sebastian whispering his name like it was a promise. Usually Charles hated dampness—most people did so and for good reason. By the time they were done, they'd ruined a good set of bedsheets. And he believed at least one of them was definitely coming down with a cold. (Sneezing mid-sex was objectively a terrible idea.)

Afterward, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, Sebastian carded fingers through his hair and said:

"I'm resigning next week. The university can find another professor."

"What?"

"That thing—I wanted to talk to you about earlier."

"Oh." he murmured, lips brushing his skin, light as a dream. "Wow."

"Michael's ready to launch the business. Truthfully, we've been talking about this for years. The timing is working now."

Charles lifted himself up on one elbow, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Then it softened, his mouth curled into something close to a smile.

"That's good."

Sebastian caught his wrist. "Charles. Look at me."

Those eyes met his, startlingly guileless.

"You don't need to carry this," Sebastian traced slow circle over his hand, measured and careful. "It's my choice. My career."

"I see. Okay."

"Just 'okay'?"

Charles' voice held a sly edge."I'm imagining you on a golf course. You'll have to cultivate some new hobbies."

"Fuck golf." Sebastian huffed a laugh, low and rough. "At least I won't have to pretend to care about academic politics anymore."

"You're sure?"

There was something in his eyes—not guilt, not resistance. Just a quiet intensity, as if memorizing the shape of Sebastian's answer.

"Never been more sure of anything."

Charles studied him for a long moment. Then, with deliberate care, he leaned in and kissed him—slow, sweet, lingering. When he pulled back, his smile was small but real.

"Now you'll have to endure idiots who think they know better than you." he mused. "And how to smile through it all. Catch your ego at the door, Sir." 

"Maybe you can join me after grad. I know you are always good at that. We can design together, or consult on projects if you'd like."

Charles paused. Then—miraculously—he laughed, the sound warm and low against his chest. "Christ, Seb. Could've waited 'til I wasn’t boneless." He kissed him again, soft and quick, before rolling over to settle back against his pillow.

Sebastian still got something to say—anything, but he didn't. No point trying to wake someone who's determined to stay asleep.

He pressed his lips to the warm skin at his nape, convincing himself this was enough—Charles' quiet acquiescence, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, his spare clothes left at his apartment. Small things. Insignificant, but they felt like proof. His reaction had been... well, not quite what he'd expected, but then again, when had Charles ever been predictable?

This is how it happens, he thought. Not with grand declarations, but with the slow accumulation of mine and yours blurring into ours. Resigning felt like the next logical step, from stolen moments to something more substantial. 

It wasn't perfect. But perfection had never been the goal.

The days that followed had carried a quiet warmth, the kind that settled into bones and made even the most mundane routines feel like something worth savoring. They'd been too busy to see each other, but kept texting as usual. Sebastian had thought, foolishly, that they'd settled into something steady like actual adults. It was theirs, and more than that—it had begun to feel inevitable. Like the natural progression of things.

He never figured the quiet itch, until Pierre's call popped out from his screen. The shape of that unease became horrifyingly clear.

"The airport called this morning. My car was in departures—the bastard took it and just fucking dumped it there."

"Charles's gone."

Easier to believe everything was fine. Sebastian stared at the empty bookshelves, the half-packed boxes, the last remnants of a life he was leaving behind. He pulled out his phone, thumbing through it with jerky movements. His stomach dropped when his call went straight to voicemail.

Each of his own messages pulsed with anxiety, each of Charles' replies clipped and airless, like a smile that didn't reach eyes. It was there. Had been there, if he had let himself notice.

He wasn't the only one who'd been avoiding the obvious. They'd both been running. Just in different directions.

 

 

Chapter 14

Notes:

warning: ollie is not a good little brother and Charles is a mess

 

This was what Charles do.

When it came with a dizzying rush, Charles had said all the right things—Yeah. Right. That's good. I'm looking forward to it. 

He ate the entire jar of cookie when he got back to his apartment. He didn't remember buying these. They tasted like sweet cardboard and panic, sticking to the roof of his mouth, but he couldn't stop. Not until the tin was empty and his stomach ached with the sickly weight of them.

It was about the way Sebastian looked at him—bright-eyed, almost relieved. No more regulations or ethics dictating their relationship. No more carefully constructed distance. He had cut out a piece of his own life—his career, his tenure, his stability—and handed it to Charles like it was nothing. Generosity borders on violence. Charles knew about sacrifices. His mother had made plenty, always with the same tight smile: Look what you made me do. 

The thought turned his stomach. His hands began shaking before he could stop them.

He tried to persuade himself it was fine, keeping up the act of a supportive partner. Pretended to accept it well. They texted like normal—about essays, forgotten chargers, the mundane back-and-forth of two people who shared a life. Charles responded, even offered to help with the moving. 

But every time Charles looked at his phone, he saw it:

I'm resigning next week.

The enormity of it crashed down, and Charles didn't know how to survive that. Sebastian had asked—gentle, considerate, careful:

Are you okay with this? 
I want to make sure I'm not making this harder for you.
Let me know if you are uncomfortable.
I know it affects us both.

For one stupid second, he almost texted back: Don't. Take it back. It's too much. I can't carry this.

But he didn't. 

Because Sebastian had already thrown it away. For him. 

It's fine. 
Okay.
Don’t worry about me. 

If his messages felt slightly hollow, Sebastian didn't seem to notice.

Three days later, when the weight became unbearable, he boarded the plane in a haze of exhaustion. As the familiar skyline came into view through the window, his stomach clenched. 

He'd braced for the inevitable interrogation, the disappointed sighs, even another long-overdue screaming match after he raised middle fingers to her carefully laid plans and expectations.

The house smelled like lemon cleaner, exactly as he remembered. Mama hadn't asked why he was back. Not really. Just that tight-lipped "Will you be staying long?" over the sink, her hands scrubbing at an already-clean plate.

Not quite forgiveness. But it was enough.

Her expression softened when she knew he had earned his degree with stellar transcripts—something resembling approval he'd gotten since declaring he was leaving for university all those years ago. 

Poor ollie got roped into helpig Charles clear out his old room. The kid stood practically at the opposite wall, lips sealed tight as he violently shook out the bedsheet with exaggerated force. Charles nearly laughed at the display, but caught himself just in time.

Now, sprawled on his childhood bed, he stared at the water stain on the ceiling. It had grown since he'd last been here, branching out like a crack in ice.

Downstairs, the television droned some reality show, punctuated by his brother's commentary. The kid had grown since Charles last saw him, all sharp elbows and sharper tongue, ten and already reached his shoulder. It was unsettling, how much he resembled their mother in the way he held himself—chin up, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a fight even in his own home.

A knock—more of a kick, really—against the doorframe.

"Maman says you have to eat," his brother announced, arms crossed over his Spider-Man pajamas.

Charles didn't turn. "Tell her I'm busy."

"Doing what?" The kid stomped further into the room, "You're just lying there!"

"Not hungry." He said to the ceiling.

"You got kicked out of university or something?"

"It's called graduating, genius."

"Then why're you hiding in my room?"

Charles finally turned his head, just enough to see Ollie's nose wrinkled with a look that was uncomfortably familiar.

"Need a change of scenery." He fixed him with a flat stare. "Problem?"

Ollie's face scrunched up further. ​​"Just..."​​ He kicked at the carpet. ​​"It's weird, you being here."​​

"You were a lot more tolerable when you just toddled after me all day."

Ollie rolled his eyes so hard his whole head moved with it."So," he tried again, "how long are you staying?"​

"Don't worry,"​​ Charles said dryly. ​​"I'll be out of your hair soon enough."​

Ollie shrugged. ​​"Whatever. Don't mess with my stuff."​​ He turned to leave, then paused. ​​"And you can't stay forever."​​ 

The door clicked shut behind him before Charles could respond.

Charles wasn't surprised by Ollie's attitude—three years was a lifetime at that age, and probably he's befriended some "very devout" kid at school， or they didn't have a physiology teacher to explain that homosexuality wasn't fucking contagious.

But his little brother had pointed something out. Another day crawled by, slow and stifling as a prison sentence. He finally decided not to pretend playing dead, and picked up his phone.

Pierre answered on the third ring, with the distant clatter of a keyboard. "Was starting to think you'd thrown your phone in the sea."

"Well, I didn't."

"You shit." 

"Thanks." Charles muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He hadn't shaved. Hadn't slept much, either. "Is that Call of Duty?" He asked, recognizing the bursts of a sniper rifle in the background.

"Mhm."

Silence. His gaze drifted to the window—outside, the harbor glittered under a moonless sky, shades of yachts bobbing like ghost ships in the inky dark. 

"So," Pierre's voice sharpened, "you just gonna breathe into the phone all night?"

"...I'm bored."

Pierre snorted. "How about 'Sorry I jacked your fucking car and refuse to park it properly'?"

Charles' mouth twitched. "How's it now?"

"Enjoyed a lovely two-day stay at the impound lot's five star detainment services," Pierre drawled. "Thanks to you, I abandoned a lecture to rescue it. Now you owe me eight hundred bucks and my will to live."

Charles huffed a small laugh. "I forgot about that. Too rushed."

A sip of something—probably soda, then Pierre’s voice softened. "You holding up?"

"Not bad."He swallowed. "My mama hasn't kicked me out yet. But my room is filled with junk." He kicked at a stray shoebox under the bed. "Even found my middle school diary."

"I bet it was like Project X meets Euphoria."

Charles rolled his eyes, but the knot in his chest loosened slightly.

"So when will I see you again?"

"No idea." Charles admitted. "Though Ollie's campaigning hard for my deportation."

"Is the little one still giving you shit?"

"Oh, he's moved on to new hobbies. Joined the basketball team. Heard he'd threw a tantrum when he wasn't picked first for drills."

"Ah, competitive gene runs in the family."

"He stays late every time, begging for extra practice like the coach is fucking Santa. Probably just to avoid me, though."

"Well, at least we know he won't be gay. Though you should worry he might develop some teacher kink since that desperate need for approval from elders..."

"Fuck off."

A beat, then Pierre's voice dropped, softer than moonlight, "Look, I know you didn't mean to bolt."

Charles' breath caught. He rolled onto his side, staring blankly at the wall. Nothing in his mind, he didn’t even register how Pierre had figured this out.

Pierre deflected."So what's the plan? When will I see you again?"

"I don't know." Charles mummered. "Play games. Catch up on sleep."

He stared at the ceiling, "I'll return you the money. Soon as I—"

"Uh, you can save that." Pierre interrupted, voice suddenly evasive.

"What?"

"Just—consider it handled already. You don't have much money on you, do you?"

A knot twisted in Charles’ gut. "Don't tell me—"

"Sebastian knew, alright? You know how Wow shows your IP when you log in..."

"You are so dead." 

 

 

Two days since that phone call with Pierre, and still not a single word from Sebastian. No suspicious figures lurking by their window. Charles had holed up in his room, his only entertainment the goddamn iPad he kept picking up and putting down. Irony of ironies—the thing had been a gift from Sebastian himself.

Sebastian hadn't reached out either—that stung more than Charles wanted to admit. Maybe Seb was done with him. Maybe he'd finally realized Charles wasn’t worth the trouble.

At one point, sprawled across his bed in a fit of restless frustration, Charles found himself thinking of Schrödinger’s goddamn cat. If Charles never contacted, then in some way, Sebastian both was and wasn’t coming for him. He even couldn't determine if he actually wanted Sebastian to appear.

What he did know, was that he could't get rid of this man in his mind. By late afternoon, he was so tangled in his own head. If he didn’t get out now, he'd either spiral into full-blown delusion or start punching walls.

Monaco was tiny, but at least its size came with one advantage: after spending his wildest years here, he knew exactly where to find a decent gay bar.

He bought himself the first tequila. The second and third came courtesy of a smirking redhead at the counter. By the fourth—something fruity and suspiciously strong, pressed into his hand by a stranger with tattoo—the room had taken on a warm, liquid glow.

Charles was floating somewhere above himself, his mind pleasantly blank. The fifth—or sixth, didn't matter— was whiskey, downed in one burning gulp before he swayed off his stool. Something in the drinks loosened his limbs and sharpened the pleasure coiling low in his gut. Or maybe it was just the way the tattooed guy kept staring—eyes lingering on the dip of his waist, the jut of his hips—that made everything feel hazy and bright.

In places like this, men were always thirstier for cock than cocktails. Charles let himself be steered down the dim hallway, as they stumbled into a bathroom stall, he was crowded onto the wall, his head thunking back against the graffiti-scrawled partition.

He gasped, and the pain felt good. Charles watched through half-lidded eyes as the stranger sank to his knees before him, fingers making quick work of his belt. The alcohol rendered the world pleasantly out of focus. Free drinks, free blow—it should've been a good fucking night.

"Fuck, you're pretty," the stranger growled. Charles reached down to grab the guy's hair, eager to skip past the talking.

Those hands found him again, sticky and slow, all Charles could focus on was the nausea.

Wrong.

It hit like a punch. The wet heat, the wet sounds—it all curdled in his stomach, making his throat convulse. He shoved the man back with a garbled "Off—", barely stumbling into a stall before his knees hit tile.

Bile burned up his esophagus, bitter with tequila and whatever the fuck else he'd swallowed tonight. He braced shaking hands against the toilet seat, spitting as his stomach cramped again.

"You good in there, princess?"

Charles barely heard him over the buzzing noise filling his skull. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a wet, ragged cough. 

"The hell's your problem?"

He could only retch in reply. "I'm fucking diseased, mate. Better go wash your mouth out."

For a terrifying moment, he thought the man might actually hit him. But he must have looked pathetic enough—the stranger just cursed viciously, slamming the stall door hard enough to make the metal shriek before storming out.

Now he was alone in the dim-lit bathroom, slumping against the stall wall, breathing through the lingering burn in his throat. 

Between the drip of a leaky faucet, he stared at the graffiti-scarred door, the reflection in the metal surface was distorted - a pale face with red eyes, lips swollen and split (when had he bitten through them?). 

The alcohol had dulled the worst of the nausea, but something else was still working through him—low but insistent under his skin, making his pulse throb in places it shouldn't.

His head felt both empty and too full. He needed—something. An anchor. A voice that wasn't the one still echoing in his ears (fucking waste of time). His fingers fumbled for his phone, the screen too bright, the contacts list swimming until he found the one name that made his stomach twist. Sebastian. Fucking Sebastian. The culprit of this entire disaster.

He smashed his thumb into the button. It rang. And rang. He couldn't wait for greeting.

"You—" His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "You were just going to let me leave? Just like this?"

"...Are you drunk?"

"How else would I call you?"

"Why not?"

Silence. The accusation hung between them, sharp and uncomfortable. Charles stared at the screen, he was hard and shaking and so goddamn angry at himself, but now it had given way to something familiar. The tiles were cold against his back, the stall suddenly feeling too small.

"I'm... in the middle of things," he admitted, tone wavering as one hand gripped himself through his jeans. "Say something...help me, Seb."

"Where are you?"

"Now you ask," Charles muttered. "I thought you don't care."

"I'm not doing this now." Sebastian sighed, his tone annoyingly calm. "Go home, Charles. Sleep it off. We'll talk when you're sober."

"No, no tomorrow." Charles snarled, feeling his pulse hammer in his temples. "Admit it. You weren't going to call. Weren't trying to fucking find me."

The line went silent for a beat—then Sebastian’s voice dropped, low and rough. "What do you want to say?"

"I don't know."His tongue felt thick. "I'm drunk."

"Fine." Sebastian's voice splintered on the word. "Then tell me why you ran."

"Why did you quit?" 

"...You know why."

"I don't."

"Charles—"

"SAY IT."

A long pause. Then Seb's voice, quiet but unshaking:

"Because I love you." 

Slow and clear. Charles' hands stilled, his heartbeat a wild, erratic thing against his ribs.

"Are you drunk too?" He murmured quietly, his tongue clumsy again.

"I wish."

The air left his lungs in a rush. The fluorescents buzzed overhead, too bright, the world tilting at a nauseating angle. He pressed his forehead to his knees. Somewhere beneath the ringing in his ears, he heard Sebastian's steady breath—waiting, always waiting.

"I'm hanging." 

He held the phone to his ear for one second longer, just to hear Sebastian inhale as if to speak again. Then the screen went dark.

 

 

---

 

 

Sebastian was kneeling beside the bed, working at a stubborn zipper that refused to close. He knew it was ridiculous—Charles had keys, and he's an 8-hours flight away—but his shoulders tightened at the doorbell's chime.

This time it was Pierre.

The young man lingered awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved in his pocket as he watched Sebastian pack, like he wasn't the one who showed up unannounced just three hours before Sebastian's flight. Still, he noticed how Pierre visibly relaxed upon seeing his half-packed suitcase on the floor.

"You are leaving for Monaco, are you?"

"Yes."

"He said going back there was like being shoved into a closet." Pierre shrugged, no real nonchalance in the motion.

Sebastian's lips twisted into something bitter. "My love must be truly terrifying that he'd rather run away."

Pierre shook his head. "Not your fault."

"Thanks."

Pierre shifted, clearly uncomfortable. He dragged a hand through his hair, messing it further. Sebastian waited, then sighed and turned to face him fully:

"Was there something else you want to say, Pierre?"

He hesitated, "Thought you know, Charles isn't... the 'you're the best thing that ever happened to me' type."

This time, Sebastian did smile—a dry, knowing thing. "I've noticed that."

"Yeah, well." Pierre's jaw worked. "It's not that he doesn't feel it. He just—" A frustrated gesture. "He's got this fucked-up thing when things get too good, it scares him more than anything else. Like...some kind of self-abusive thing maybe?"

Sebastian frowned. "What are you saying?"

"It's just... when things get too good, he doesn't know how to handle it."

"He could have talked to me," Sebastian muttered, more to himself.

"Ask him about his license, how it got suspended." Pierre exhaled. "Not casually. Really ask."

"Why?"

"There's something he hasn't told you." Pierre's eyes flicked to Sebastian’s face, then away. "When you talk to him—and you should talk to him. He's been carrying it."

"What thing?" Sebastian's throat tightened. "How bad is it?"

"Not nearly as bad as he thinks," Pierre said with certainty. "But bad enough that he'd rather run than face it."

Silence. 

"If you actually..."He stumbled over the next word, grimacied, and continued,"love him—then you'll be able to handle that."

His voice softened. "Look, Charles isn't a bad person. He just... isn't as tough as he acts. At the end of the day, a messed-up little queer kid who's panicked."

A beat. Then, quieter, almost pleading:

"Don't give him up."

 

 

Chapter 15

Notes:

warning: trauma, dangerous driving, car crash mentioned

 

An automatic weather alert popped out when Sebastian landed at Nice Airport: overcast with scattered showers and strong winds gusting up to six levels. To top it all off, he'd forgotten his umbrella. 

Charles still wasn't answering his calls. He bought an umbrella and a sad-looking sandwich from an airport kiosk, then hailed a cab and gave the driver the Leclerc family's address. Through the rain-streaked window, the city looked misty and subdued, the usual ochre buildings and clustered rooftops dissolving into a wet blur.

Sebastian had mentally rehearsed a dozen greetings during the ride. Though of all the things he'd prepared for—anger, rejection, even a punch— none of them involved being turned away at the door like this.

A boy who couldn't have been older than fourteen examined him through a video intercom, claiming he was home alone and refusing to open the door.

"Where are your parents?" Sebastian kept his voice calm, though he noted the boy's coffee-colored curly hair and the familiar shape of his eyes. "You're Ollie, right? Where's your brother now?"

"Mama's at work," Ollie said, still guarded. "Charles isn't here. He's been gone since yesterday."

"Do you know where he might be?"

"A bar. Or a hotel."

"...Right." Sebastian's lips twitched. "Well, if he comes back, could you tell him Sebastian Vettel stopped by?"

The boy offered a shrug. "Maybe. If he even comes back."

"Excuse me?" 

"My Pokemon card's missing, the Dark Charizard." Ollie glared through the screen, as if channeling his resentment toward Sebastian. "Charles stole it. I know it, he just took it and ran. If you see him, tell him I'll never forgive him!"

The screen went dark with a click. Sebastian stared at it, then settled for rubbing his temples at the sheer aburdity of it all. As he turned to leave, a low rumble of thunder rolled overhead. He glanced up—dark clouds churned like a living thing. The coming Mediterranean downpour looked relentless.

You're such an idiot. He muttered to himself, heading back toward the neighborhood exit.

He checked into the nearest hotel. When the front desk handed over his key card, he found himself asking almost on impulse, "You wouldn’t happen to have a guest named Charles Leclerc here, would you?"

"Sorry, we can't disclose guest information," the clerk replied politely, though the suspicion in her eyes made Sebastian mentally curse himself.
Idiot.

In the room, he tried calling Charles again. Still, just the robotic voicemail prompt after rings and rings. Sebastian sighed.

"Charles...it's me. I'm here. I went to your place. You weren't there. I don't want to leave this. I want to talk—properly, face to face."

He swallowed hard.

"Where are you? Call me back. Or just pick up. I… miss you."

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the streets and the distant skyline blurred by rain. The clouds still seethed; droplets pattered against the glass, then thickened into streams, warping the city into shimmering smears of color.

He dialed the number a few more times, but with each unanswered ring, the hope in his chest dimmed further.

Collapsing onto the bed, Sebastian let the frustration wash over him. His apartment was still half-packed in boxes; his new studio remained unfinished. His whole life had stalled since Charles disappeared a week ago. The realization had first left him frustrated, then panicked—until now, holed up in some hotel room agonizing over this, all he felt was exhaustion.

Just as he started mentally calculating the odds of Charles being hurt or in danger, his phone rang.

Time blurred after that. The rain continued its relentless assault against the window, then gradually eased. Sebastian wasn't sure how long he sat there—minutes, maybe an hour—before the ringing startled him.

He snatched up the phone the moment he saw the caller ID, his pulse suddenly loud in his ears.

"Charles—are you okay?"

"Hey," came an unfamiliar male voice. "Not Charles. Name's Daniel. Charles is… well, he's alive. At my place. Not exactly coherent right now, and he'll have one hell of a headache later. But he's fine."

Sebastian went silent for a beat before replying, "You listened to my message."

"Yeah. Sorry." His voice didn’t sound particularly sorry.

"Can I talk to him?" 

"Afraid not," Daniel clicked his tongue. "Still dead to the world. Tossed his phone across the room earlier, so don't take it personally—doubt he even checked who'd called."

Sebastian's throat tightened. "...Right." 

"That's it?"

"What?" Sebastian barely kept the irritation out of his voice.

"Was hoping you might come get him. He smells like a pile of garbage." Daniel said with another infuriating click of his tongue. "I'll text you the address. Oh, bring a change of clothes."

"Fine."

Sebastian didn’t hang up. Neither did Daniel.

After a tense pause, Sebastian finally asked, "What are you to Charles?"

Daniel's reply was deliberately vague. "We didn't sleep together last night, if this is what you want to hear."

"...I'll be there soon."

"Sure thing." The words carried a faint taunt—or maybe Sebastian was just imagining it, then the line went dead.

 

---

 

Charles' head was splitting open. Consciousness came with a wave of nausea.

It didn't take long to realize he was sprawled across Daniel's living room. The same place he'd fled to at sixteen, when he'd stumbled through the door shaking after coming out to his parents. The owner of the house was lounging on the couch, gaming controller in hand, plucking a chicken wing from a fast-food bucket.

"No work today?" Charles croaked, wincing at how raw his throat felt.

"You begged me to stay," Daniel said, not looking up from his game.

"Did I?" Charles' eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah," Daniel grinned, "Moping like a kicked puppy. Drunk off your ass. Said you had nowhere else to go. Full waterworks. 'Just one night'."

Charles groaned, the motion sending a fresh spike of pain through his skull. "I didn't."

"Please. You only remember I exist when you need a sexless inn to crash. Daniel knows everything."

"Go to hell." 

Daniel snorted and slid a cola across the coffee table toward him. "Eat something, then get your ass out of my house with your boyfriend. I still have to clean whatever biohazard you left."

Charles choked on his sip. "You called Seb to come here?"

"That guy's been blowing up your phone all day," Daniel shrugged. "Should be here in half an hour."

"Fuck!" Charles buried his face in his hands. "Fuck you."

"Save that," Daniel said, voice dripping with infuriating amusement. "Your Seb left like a hundred voicemails. Sounded intense."

His grin didn't last long. Charles looked genuinely miserable, the impending confrontation with Sebastian clearly worsening his headache tenfold. With a sigh, Daniel tossed him an aspirin, then—after a moment’s hesitation—patted his own thigh in invitation.

Charles slumped over, resting his head on Daniel’s lap. The older man rolled his eyes but obligingly pressed his thumbs against Charles' temples.

"I can't believe you did this," Charles muttered, though he didn't pull away.

"Uh-huh. Keep bitching and I'll revoke my world-class hangover service."

A beat of silence. Then:

"...How much did I say last night?"

Daniel smirked with all teeth. "Enough to know you're dramatically in love and dramatically stupid about it."

Another pause. Daniel's fingers stilled briefly when Charles spoke again, quieter this time.

"...I keep failing him."

"Probably." 

"Seb's gonna be pissed. He hates this kind of shit. Making scenes."

"Yeah, well." Daniel resumed his ministrations, tone lighter. "He sounded pretty desperate to find you. Scared, not mad."

Charles exhaled sharply. "He should be mad."

"So this 'Sebastian' guy's the type to hold a grudge, huh? Tell me more."

"Not a chance." Charles huffed a laugh despite himself. Daniel roughly ruffled his hair.

"Hey—is he like a less obnoxious version of that guy from Queer as Folk ?"

Charles' mouth twitched into something almost proud. "Wait till you meet him."

Daniel shuddered theatrically. "Ugh. Disgusting."

 

Charles was startled by the doorbell. Daniel shoved his head away to answer the door, leaving Charles blinking stupidly at the ceiling. It hammered against his ribs like a trapped thing.

He's really here.

He scrambled upright—then immediately regretted it when the room spun. God, he must look awful. His hair was a disaster, his mouth tasted like death, and his clothes reeked of stale liquor and—had he actually thrown up on himself at some point?

Before he could dive behind the couch, Sebastian stepped into the living room, and Charles' stomach did something complicated.

Despite the stubble shadowing half his face, Sebastian looked goddamn fresh and handsome. His eyes locked on Charles, taking in the mess of him. Charles wanted to sink into the floor.

"You can shower first. I have clean clothes." Sebastian mercifully ignored the disaster in front of him, holding out a duffel bag while attempting a reassuring smile. "We can go back to my hotel after."

"You got a hotel room?" Charles mumbled.

Sebastian hesitated. "Yes. I need somewhere to stay."

"You came here...for me?"

"Yes. I came for you."

Daniel made a exaggerated gagging noises, finally breaking their intense eye contact. Charles snatched the bag hastily and bolted for the bathroom before his face could combust.

Under the steaming shower spray, Charles' mind buzzed like a beehive. Sebastian's "I came for you" and that earlier "I love you" kept echoing in his head. It felt like a dream.

Nervous bubbles churned in his stomach. He discreetly threw up once, then spat into the drain.

In Daniel's living room, the two men sized each other up.

Daniel flashed his most irritating smirk first. "Well, nice to meet you. Sebastian, right?"

Sebastian gave a stiff nod, radiating hostility from every pore. Daniel bit back a laugh. 

"Daniel. He ever mention me?"

"Not much."

"He knows I'd ruin his reputation." Daniel smirked. "So how did you two meet? You look older than him."

"Sorry, that's private."

"Ooh, private." Daniel wiggled his eyebrows mockingly. "Guess our boy's special to you."

When Sebastian didn't rise to the bait, Daniel changed tactics. He grabbed a soda from the coffee table, popping the tab. "Relax. I've known him since he was knee-high."

He continued as Sebastian's shoulders loosened slightly. "Used to be his godfather's buddy. Now designated babysitter." Daniel took a swig, smiling at him over the rim. "Though looks like I'm being replaced."

"He gets in trouble often?"

"Nah, more like...you can't trust the little asshole alone."

The bathroom door creaked open and Charles emerged, hair damp and wearing Sebastian's clothes. He froze under their dual attention.

"You two look...good." He said warily.

Daniel snorted. "Just giving your boy here the official 'don't be a dumbass' orientation."

"God, what did you tell him?"

"Only the good stuff," Sebastian deadpanned, finally walking over to straighten Charles' collar with a strange tenderness.

"Well shit. Now I've seen everything." Daniel shoved the duffel at Sebastian. "Get him out of here before he starts to get emotional on my couch."

Charles made a face as he dragged Sebastian toward the door, but Sebastian caught the genuine concern in Daniel's eyes. He gave a small nod before following his disgruntled boyfriend out into the Nice afternoon.

 

Most of the car ride passed in silence.

Charles, cheeks flushed from the hot shower earlier, slumped against the window, his half-dried hair falling messily over his forehead. When he rested his temple against the cool glass, the strands nearly covered his eyes completely.

Sebastian couldn't stay cold toward him—not when Charles was curled up in his shirt, radiating equal parts exhaustion and quiet submission.

"It's cold," Sebastian murmured.

Charles blinked at him, then shifted, letting his head drop onto Sebastian's shoulder instead. Sebastian didn't say anything, just slid an arm around his back, holding him there.

They stepped inside the room, Charles collapsed face-first onto the bed and said his first words. "Can I stay the night?" 

Sebastian leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. "Maybe call home first."

Charles rolled onto his back, hugging a pillow to his chest. "I'm over eighteen."

"Yeah," Sebastian snorted. "And your recent behavior has been so mature."

Sebastian immediately regretted it. Instantly, Charles curled tighter around the pillow, his face hidden.

Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until Sebastian finally gave in and sat on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the pillow, trying to tug it free.

"Are you mad at me?" Charles' voice was muffled. "Should I leave?"

"No, and no. I need you to let go of this fucking pillow before you suffocate yourself."

Charles released it with a huff, and Sebastian hurled it on the floor. He hadn’t missed the way Charles sniffed. "Jesus, are you crying?" 

"No. I've got a cold." Charles sat up, scrubbing at his nose. His eyes were red-rimmed, hair sticking up in every direction in the human burrito. "My head's killing me, my stomach hurts, and I'm starving."

Sebastian stared. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday morning." The chicken wing and soda he'd thrown up probably shouldn't count.

Sebastian exhaled hard. "You're a fucking idiot. You're miles from being an adult, Charles."

They ordered takeout. Sebastian pressed the back of his hand and then his forehead against the younger man's skin. The "cold" was clearly a lie, but the stomach pain seemed genuine enough. Charles had reclaimed the poor pillow, curling around it like a boiled shrimp on one side of the bed.

Sebastian chose to lie down on the other side—leaving a careful few inches between them. "So, will you go back home?"

"What?"

"You are here."

"I guess. She won't be happy to see me like this."

"Fine," Sebastian said. "Next—did you steal Ollie's card?"

"...Yeah." 

"Jesus Christ, you're an adult. Give the kid his stuff back."

"It's a limited edition. Worth decent money on eBay."

"So?" 

Charles' voice turned petulant. "It was mine first."

"This isn't about the damn card, is it?" When Charles didn't answer, Sebastian relented. "Fine. Keep it. I'll buy the kid a new one."

"Don't make me laugh, my stomach hurts," Charles muttered, but the blanket bundle shifted as he compromised. "...I'll give it back. And you're right. It's not about the card."

Sebastian turned his head. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out, fingers threading through the tousled brown hair peeking out from the blankets. The way those soft strands curled around his fingertips was unfairly soothing.

The silence became bearable again.

"Pierre told me to ask about your suspended license," Sebastian said carefully. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

Charles stiffened. For a long moment, Sebastian thought he'd shut down completely—until Charles tilted his head just slightly, avoiding Sebastian's touch.

"It was after a party," Charles muttered, voice rough. "Went out with some friends. Took some shit—LSD, mostly. I was the one behind the wheel."

There he was—that cocky bastard from school who'd always had it out for them. They saw him biking home, headphones on, completely unaware. Someone had yelled Scared the shit out of him!, and between the drugs and the adrenaline, none of them saw anything wrong with it.

He floored the gas, the car surging forward and closing in on the bike. Horn blaring, windows down, their laughter mixing with the startled scream that erupted when the guy swerved and clipped a fire hydrant.

The bike wobbled violently. A curse, clatter of metal—then the guy was down. Charles jerked the wheel away, but not fast enough. The car skidded across asphalt. Someone was still laughing. 

A sickening thud as the rear tires rolled over something—

"There's a patch of oil. We couIdn't stop. His leg was broken—” His throat clicked. "I thought I almost got him killed."

"It was ruled an unintended incident. My license was revoked. My family paid substantial compensation. Later, Papa fell ill. When I left for America, mama stopped covering my tuition."

Sebastian opened his mouth, but no words came out. Now he understood why Charles had been so determined to keep that bar job, why exhaustion had clung to him like a second shadow all this time. He'd made a terrible mistake—and paid for it in quiet, grinding installments ever since. A real, jagged thing that had been cutting into him for years.

He hesitated before asking,  "The kid, How is he now?"

Charles let out a short, humorless laugh. "He's fine. Took a year off, came back jacked. Posts gym selfies now." He paused, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. "Doctors did a good job, I guess."

Sebastian watched him carefully. "Do you two ever... talk?"

"No." Charles’ jaw tightened. "He blocked me everywhere. His friends used to DM me shit sometimes—hope you rot, that kind of thing."

"I'm sorry." Sebastian frowned, giving Charles' head a light pat.

"No, don't—don't say that to me," Charles shook his head violently, voice cracking. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I don't deserve this. Never did, really. But it's fine—I can take it. I'm okay. I'm fine."

Sebastian shifted closer, running a soothing hand over the blanket covering Charles' back. "Feeling okay?"

"I am." 

Sebastian sighed at the tremors through the fabric. "No, you're not."

Charles sniffed hard, doubling down. "It's just a cold."

Sebastian didn’t argue. He just pressed his chest against Charles’ hunched back, arms wrapping around him in a loose hold. Charles had curled into a defensive ball like a wounded animal, and Sebastian held him firm, his chin resting lightly on Charles’ shoulder. He could feel the tremors running through him, the way Charles’head slightly tipping back agaist his collarbone.

"But here's the thing," He continued, his tone soft but unwavering. "You didn't just run from me. You ran from yourself. And that shit follows you no matter how far you go."

Charles swallowed hard, forcing out a dry laugh. "Don’t psychoanalyze me. I’m good. Ninety percent of the time, I don't even think about that night. It’s not like I care about that guy." His fingers twisted in the sheets. "I just care about my own goddamn life."

"This isn’t just about the accident," Sebastian said quietly. "It’s about the way you’ve let that guilt rot inside you. That’s just another kind of ego. Until you think you don't deserve anything good." A pause. "Not even us."

"You’re so afraid, Charles. But holding onto this pain doesn’t make you noble. It just makes you a coward."

"Fuck you," Charles snarled, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. But Sebastian stopped him. 

"Am I wrong?"

Charles shuddered, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "You' re an asshole."

"Then I'm right." Sebastian sighed. "The world’s got enough broken things. You don’t have to keep suffering to prove you're sorry. And you don’t have to do it alone."

For a long moment, Charles didn't move. Sebastian held him tighter, feeling Charles' breathing gradually steady against his chest, the tension in his muscles slowly unwinding like a coiled spring finally released. He kept his arms around him, pressing a silent promise into Charles' forehead.

"Relax. It’s not like I just figured out your self-destructive bullshit today," he murmured. "And I'm not the only one who cares you. Before I came here, Pierre showed up at my door. Asked me not to give up on you."

He lifted a hand, brushing his thumb along the dampness on Charles' cheeks. The touch was featherlight, almost reverent.

"I told him I'd never walk away. That if anyone was getting left behind, it’d be me."

Charles shuddered against him, a sound escaping his throat—something between a choked laugh and a sob.

"I already lost my job," he admitted quietly. "Didn't want to lose this, too." Sebastian's brow furrowed slightly as he offered a small smile.  "Don’t give up on me, Charles. Not now."

Charles froze for a heartbeat. Then a shudder ran through him as he exhaled - the kind of breath that comes after holding back tears for too long. "That’s... hard," he muttered, his voice raw and soft. "You’re too good to be real."

Charles turned in Sebastian's arms until their foreheads pressed together. Their gazes locked - damp, searching, and Sebastian kissed him. Once, twice—slow, deliberate.

"I'm real," he murmured, thumb brushing Charles' lower lip. "And I'm the good kind of real. The kind you don't want to walk away from."

Charles stared at him, then laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. "Christ. You're really enjoying this."

Sebastian grinned. "Maybe. Did it work?" 

"It's a disaster." Charles huffed, then shut him up with another kiss that left Sebastian breathless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16

Charles, wide awake as he had slept through most of the day, lay sprawled across Sebastian’s chest, his finger absently tracing circles over the exposed curve of his pectoral muscle. Sebastian's mind was foggy with exhaustion, barely clinging to consciousness as Charles rambled about childhood wounds—intimate relatives gone too soon, a mother whose disappointment lingered like a ghost.

"So maybe you were right, Dr. Freud," Charles murmured, his voice softer than he intended as he studied Sebastian's half-lidded gaze. "I'm shit at this. Love, or being loved. Can't tell if it’s the world that's untrustworthy or just... me. Maybe both."

"And then you fucking quit your job, just to make this work. For a love confession you hadn't even said out loud yet. You have no idea how badly that scared me."

"I know," Sebastian mumbled, the corner of his mouth quirking up as if he were sleep-talking. "Trust me, I’m painfully aware."

"Screw you," Charles laughed, poking the dimple that appeared in Sebastian’s cheek. After a beat, he let out a quiet sigh. "I was freaked out. Didn't want to lie to you. Knew you wouldn't want that either."

He pressed a kiss to the stubble along Sebastian's jaw. "I'm sorry."

Sebastian hummed, tilting his head to brush his lips against Charles’ temple. "S'okay. Whenever you’re ready." 

Charles huffed a laugh. "I genuinely can’t tell if you’re asleep right now."

"Me neither," Sebastian admitted, rolling onto his side until his breath ghosted over Charles’ ear. "Missed you."

Charles smiled, finally letting his eyes fall shut. "Yeah. Me too."

 

 

---

 

It was just another unremarkable evening—Sebastian swinging by campus after work to collect Charles, the car smelling faintly of the takeout coffee they'd split between traffic lights.

Golden hour spilled through the windshield as they merged into slow-moving traffic. Charles lounged in the passenger seat, one hand absentmindedly tapping along to the radio beat, while the other scrolled through food delivery options on his phone.

"Thai or Italian?" 

"Italian. We've got that leftover wine."

"Since when do you care about wine pairings?" Charles teased, adding garlic bread to the cart.

"Since you made me drink that shitty merlot last week," Sebastian shot back.

"There's a new German exchange student in our lab," Charles remarked idly, squinting at his screen. "His jokes are as bad as yours."

Sebastian smirked. "Bet he's punctual."

"He got that heavy accent." Charles ignored him and continued. "Learned a new phrase from him today. Wanna hear it?"

Sebastian glanced at him, eyebrow raised.

Charles turned then, a faint, almost shy smile playing at his lips. "Ich liebe dich."

The words hung between them, soft but deliberate. Sebastian's grip on the wheel tightened just slightly, warmth pooling beneath his ribs like honey.

"Yeah?" His eyes on the road, "Thank you. I'm honored."

Charles huffed a laugh, leaning back against the headrest. "Don't mention it."

Traffic inched forward, brake lights glowing in the dusk. The radio played some old jazz standard neither knew the name of.

"You know what this is like?" Sebastian mused. "That first steak you cooked for me. Kind of... unique, but somehow I still wanted it."

Charles kicked at him half-heartedly. "What the hell?"

"Means I love you too—even if your cooking is a crime."

Charles rolled his eyes, but the protest died on his lips when Sebastian reached over, their fingers tangling together on the center console.

Outside, the city blurred past, streetlights flickering to life like scattered stars. Ordinary, familiar. The kind of evening that felt like it could last forever.

 

Notes:

This is a bit short—might come back to polish it later, but for now I’m officially out of steam.
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it!

 

and Charles did actually say "Ich liebe dich" when he wished Seb a happy birthday in German😌