Chapter Text
Oscar walks into their apartment to find the place completely changed. Gone are the endless piles of books and laundry, the stains of their muddy shoes on the dark hardwood floor, and the smell of old cooking. He doesn’t realise how much their life had spiraled out of control until the moment that orange scented candles and fresh linen open his eyes.
There are no overhead lights turned on, just the soft glow of Charles’ carefully curated lamp collection and their mismatched candles, softened by the buttery notes of Sam Cooke playing from their sound system. He lines up his shoes on their shoe rack rather than just toeing them off, and hangs his tote bag rather than throwing it on the floor as he had been doing for the past few weeks.
The table is set for two, the candleholder he and Charles had found at an antique store proudly displaying some tastefully matched red and orange candles next to what he knows is a bottle of expensive Australian white wine. In the corner of the room, the Max table has been organised. Pills and sheets of paper neatly arranged and, if his eyes don’t fail him, colour-coded with bright sticky notes. He pads into the space, not wanting to disturb anything, and sees the kitchen door half open.
Charles is there, kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder, cutting shallots into paper-thin slices. Something is sizzling in a pan, and what's definitely a pot of pasta steaming in the far corner of their hob. Oscar doesn’t really want to interrupt, at least not yet, so he just leans against the door frame, watching as his partner cooks dinner for two.
It's peaceful to watch Charles methodically approach cooking in the same way that he does everything else. Checking and re-checking the cookbook, his phone chiming with timers every couple of minutes, his movements precise and controlled.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, Charles finally looks over his shoulder, flashing him a teasing smile. “Have you had your fill of staring?”
Oscar tips his head forward and chuckles, “Maybe.”
“I would like a hello hug. Maybe even a kiss.”
Oscar carefully steps into the space, tiptoeing over the cold tile, until he can wrap his arms around Charles’s waist as he tips the shallots into a pan with melted butter. They watch them sizzle for a while, wordlessly, before Oscar squeezes Charles’ hand, “Where is Max?”
“Sophie and Victoria wanted to take him away for the evening,” he grabs a wooden spoon from their organiser and starts moving the shallots around, “they should be back by midnight, or something like that. I thought we could take the time.”
“I didn’t know they had planned that.”
Charles hums, “It was a nice surprise.”
Oscar decides not to prod, and instead, he looks around the counter. There is perfectly cooked linguine in the pot, covered in a lovely-smelling sauce, a pack of fresh burrata, and chopped parsley. “You made my favourite.”
“I thought it would be good to have a nice night for ourselves,” he gently butts his head against Oscar’s cheek before pushing him off so that he can finish plating the food, “just us, enjoying dinner and wine and music. Maybe even a cigarette, time willing.”
“A cigarette,” there is a mixture of wistfulness and anxiety that settles into his chest, “did you buy a new pack?”
Their old one had been stuffed at the bottom of their shared sock drawer, away from everyone’s, including Max’s, prying eyes. They are, as with anything Charles buys, the expensive ones that leave Oscar’s head too heavy for his shoulders. He has never craved something more.
Charles finishes the last flourishing touches, sprinkling the Parsley over Oscar’s, and picking out the few that flutter over to his plate, before gesturing for them to get out of the kitchen. He lets Charles lead, hovering beside him as he lays down the table, allowing him to theatrically pull the chair out for Oscar to sit in. He allows all of it with a smile and by offering to serve Charles’s wine with equal flair.
Oscar can’t even find it in himself to force guilt over Max’s absence. Their flat feels like theirs for the first time since they came back from Oxford, every new book having found a place in their stands, their floors immaculately clean as Max has always insisted on having them, and none of the big lights turned on. He even allows himself to pretend that their third is just off in Milton Keynes, checking the time constantly to see when he can come back home.
He can’t feel bad about living in that reality, just for tonight.
And so, conversation flows lightly, with Charles gossiping to him about something or other that Lewis has been doing, and in exchange, Oscar tells him about the gruelling media schedule that he and Lando have been handed for the weeks after the summer break. It takes the blink of an eye for the last of the wine to be poured, and for Charles to bring out la scarpetta to mop up the remaining sauce on their plates.
It’s only then that he sees Charles hesitate— muscles tensing as if he is revving up for a race. Oscar knows better than to interrupt or try to speed up the process, so he just waits, tracing Charles’s fingers with his eyes as he wipes his plate clean with small pieces of bread. Marveling at the tendons in his hands, the dozen or so rings, the neatly trimmed nails that still have smudges from the black nail polish that Charles has been experimenting with.
“I’m sorry for ignoring you on Tuesday.”
Oscar swallows a smile, not wanting to spook Charles. Instead, his gaze remains steadily on Charles’ face, even if he won’t look at Oscar. They can only win so many fights.
A few more seconds go by before Charles speaks again, “I get so caught up in it sometimes, and I simply don’t want you to be at the other end of the fight if you don’t have to be.”
It seems they are revisiting an age-old argument, then. “That’s not your decision to make.”
“I don’t want you getting hurt.” He finally, devastatingly, looks up, “More hurt.”
Oscar leans over, grabbing Charles’s hand and lacing their fingers together, “You will just end up hurting me more if you do that.”
Charles squeezes back, “I know.”
And then, Charles gives him a look. The fresh pack of Gauloises Blondes comes out of the pocket of his hoodie, and Oscar’s breath catches in his throat.
They had made a pact in Oxford, nothing until everything was over. Their private monthly rituals were too risky, especially with how high their stress was, how long their days seemed, and how far away driving was from their minds. But now, as the warm Monaco breeze flutters their gossamer curtains, it seems impossible to deny themselves the pleasure. And so he follows Charles as he scurries across the flat, their footsteps making Leo tilt his head in curiosity as they patter past his bed.
Oscar is a bit sad about the loss of music as soon as the balcony door is shut, but that is quickly forgotten when Charles tears the plastic covering off and gingerly takes two cigarettes out, handing one to Oscar, then flicking their lighter open.
The first inhale makes him dizzy, his lungs having forgotten what it felt like to feel the release.
Monaco glitters gold from their vantage point, with pettering lights covering the bay and mixing the city with the glittering water. He can hear laughter and music coming faintly from one of the bars down the street, can smell the sea salt and hot asphalt in the summer air, can feel the light ocean breeze ruffling his messy hair, and in that instant, everything seems to come crashing down on him.
The weight of the past weeks settles heavily on his shoulders, making them ache, making it hard to breathe. He leans forward, letting his forearms rest on the railing, too tired to hold himself up. Too tired to stop the words from escaping his mouth, “Did you two mean it?”
He can feel Charles shift until their hips are touching, arms brushing as he takes another drag, “Mean what?”
“When you said that there is no us without me anymore? Do you still mean it, even now?”
“Oscar.” He doesn’t really want to look up, which prompts Charles to bump their hips together until he does. If Charles’s eyes are watering, his must be rimmed red, “I asked Victoria and Sophie to take Max.”
“How is that any better? Isn’t that an us without Max?”
Charles shrugs, “There isn’t an us without him either. But that is all that we have been recently. Us because of Max, rather than just us because of us. Us regardless of what Max remembers at all.”
And that is the crux of it, is it not? Somewhere, halfway across Monaco in a restaurant of Victoria’s picking, Max sits with his family, with the only memories of Oscar being those that he has made in the past few weeks. Nothing more. None of the fights, or the push and pull, of the pain and exhilaration of the past year and a half, of things clicking into place for all three of them. There are no memories of them realising that it feels more natural, less stressful, more balanced, to share a life of three than to try to hold the weight of the world between the two of them. Of their falling together, and even more painfully of their coming apart.
“I don’t know how to love Max without loving you anymore, and I refuse to let another accident take everything away from me. So I will keep reminding you that you’re here to stay.”
“I think—” Oscar takes another drag from his cigarette, trying to give himself some time to think, then wipes his tears with the palm of his hand, “I think the thing that hurts the most is that he remembers you but not me. It’s like a sick joke.”
Smoke puffs out as Charles speaks, “He will remember you again. One way or another.”
“ Charles —”
“If not that way, then the harder and more painful way,” he turns his entire body to face Oscar, who feels his full attention like a heavy weight on his chest, “but my Max, our Max, will learn to love us again.”
“He still loves you.”
Charles shakes his head, “Not this version, no. He keeps expecting me to be him, but I’m not. I’m older, I’m less nice, more kind, more me. In his version, there is no you, and that is not how this works. This version of me involves you. So he will have to learn.”
They let that sit in the air, floating silently along with the curling smoke from their cigarettes as they light a second one. Something new and possibly stupid, but they can’t stop themselves even if they wanted to. He thinks back to the conversation he had with Max overlooking Luceram, and wonders how stupid it is for them to be in this situation— chasing versions of themselves that no longer exist. Oscar finally finds the courage to speak again when he has smoked half of his cigarette. His voice is hoarse and limbs uncoordinated, but he will definitely light a third cigarette, Charles willing. “So, what then?”
“We fall in love again.”
“And if that fails?”
“We try a third, and a fourth, maybe even a fifth time. But we will fall in love again.”
Max walks in on Oscar and Charles wrapped around each other, swaying to the beat of soft jazz. The door closes behind him with a soft snick, trapping him in the corridor between a flat he doesn’t recognise and an outside world that seems impossibly big.
He had gotten used to the lived-in nature of their shared space, to the strewn papers on the coffee table and the mismatched shoes. He had gotten used to not being able to quite see the colour of the sofa, or having to kick things out of his way on the path to the kitchen. He is suddenly confronted with what he knows is the way that this apartment is meant to be seen. The tapestry of mismatched items brought together by sheer power of will to make a home, a rather nice one at that. One with earth-toned furniture, bright coloured cushions, and more pictures on the wall than he can count. One with tastefully mismatched candles and flower vases. One with two lovers swaying to soft music after what seems like a lovely date.
He doesn’t have the luxury of appreciating the scene, however, as Leo comes running towards the door, barking and whimpering loudly as he barrels into Max’s legs. The moment crumbles away, chased off by the scratch of nails on their hardwood floors and Oscar’s laughter ringing after him.
Max can’t blame the dog, so instead he picks him up and allows him to wriggle and lick his face in greeting. Once both of them have sufficiently calmed down, he turns towards Oscar and Charles, who are looking at him with unreadable expressions. It’s tense and slightly uncomfortable. Max holds Leo closer to his chest and gives them a small smile, “Had a nice dinner?”
Charles smiles brightly, grabbing Oscar’s hand and kissing it loudly, “Very nice dinner. Just thought Oscar deserved to be wine and dined.”
Jealousy is not an easy emotion to temper, especially not with Charles, who is now looking at the younger man as if he had hung the stars. “Any gossip I’m not allowed to know?”
Oscar sighs, “Max.”
“What? I’m just curious.”
“Max.”
“I think I’m allowed to let in on the gossip, no?”
“Max,” He finally looks at Oscar, who is now only a few steps away from him and offering him his hand, “Just come dance with us.”
He stares at his outstretched palm, biting his lips and fiddling with Leo’s hair as he tries to decipher what is being offered to him. He looks back up at Oscar, who is giving him a gentle smile, then at Charles, who doesn’t seem to be extending him any sympathy— and hasn’t since their fight— but who is reaching out for the dog that Max is currently holding on to as a lifeline.
Leo only wriggles a tiny bit as Charles grabs him, and in lieu of not having anything to hold on to anymore, Max gives in. He gently takes Oscar’s hand, a heavy breath getting stuck in his throat, “I don’t know how to dance.”
“ Yet,” Oscar guides his hand to rest on his upper back, right below his neck, before placing a hand over Max’s waist, “You made us go to a formal social dancing thing a few months ago.”
Max throws his head back in laughter, “ Me? ”
Oscar shrugs, “You sometimes get weird ideas stuck in your head.”
“Like wanting to be able to slow dance?” Max shakes his head, “I can’t imagine what made me want to learn that.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Max, oddly, appreciates that. He has been stuck, for so long, trying to learn who he was, being told of the things that he wanted, and thought about, and not being given any space to exist in the in between. It’s silly, but that is probably the first time that an answer hadn’t been readily available for him, but not expected either. He lets Oscar sway them around for a few bars, which Max spends trying to let himself relax into the hold. He can’t quite get there, but it feels less stiff than the first few times Oscar had tried to hold him at all.
Then Charles is there, lightly arranging his hands so that he is holding on to Oscar properly, so that he stops holding him like he has never touched him before. Charles even leans forward at one point and presses a kiss to both of their cheeks, which both of them melt into.
“Okay,” Charles fiddles with his phone, and the song changes to something slower, longing clinging to every note like syrup, "We'll re-teach you how to dance.”
“You will?”
“Oscar is good at leading. Once you’ve got the hang of it, we can change, and you can try and lead me.”
Max frowns and looks at Charles, “You don’t know how to lead?”
“Don’t need to.” He shrugs, “Don’t really want to. It’s nicer not to have to think and let myself just feel the music.”
It seems that Oscar can feel him spiraling, trying to file this piece away into the endless puzzle of the past few years, because he squeezes his waist, “Don’t deep it.”
Max hesitates before nodding, eyes locking with Oscar’s, “Okay. Teach me how to dance.”
The smile he gets in return is blindingly bright.