Opposites Collide

by arjefile

Summary:

Charles Leclerc is a high school students, Max Verstappen is the most wanted from the mechanical engineering department in one University. They are both opposites, Charles with his quiet, shy personality and always keeps to himself. While Max is a naughty, cocky, and friendly person. Pierre is Charles' only best friend since childhood, their houses are next to each other making them inseparable. Because of his younger age, even Kika, who is Pierre's girlfriend, always feels like Charles is her son and Pierre. Charles' parents had been fighting all the time for the past few years, his father often came home drunk and used physical violence against Charles to vent his anger. At that time Max and the others were gathering at Pierre's house to play and so on. When Charles' parents started to fight and Charles was hit by his drunken father's anger, Charles would go to Pierre's house to find Pierre and Kika, that's when Charles met them. But Charles is not easy to approach.

Chapter 1: The Quiet Neighbor

Charles Leclerc pressed his ear against the cool glass of his bedroom window, the muffled shouts of his parents echoing once again through the thin walls of their modest Monaco home. He had long stopped trying to drown it out. The fighting had become white noise—constant, humming, unavoidable.

 

Next door, lights glowed warmly from the Gasly household. Laughter floated out into the night, unbothered and free. It was like another world. Charles glanced down at his phone. A text from Pierre blinked on the screen.

 

Pierre Gasly : We’re all at mine. Come over if you need to, Charles. Kika made brownies.

 

He hesitated. His cheek still throbbed faintly from where his father’s backhand had connected, though it wasn’t visible yet. Slipping out through his window, Charles scaled down the familiar lattice of the trellis, landing quietly in Pierre’s backyard. The scent of chocolate and barbecue drifted from the open patio doors.

 

Inside, laughter erupted again.

 

“Dude, you seriously told your professor that your project ‘exploded on impact’?!” Max Verstappen’s voice was unmistakable—loud, cocky, edged with mischief. He leaned back on Pierre’s couch, grinning, feet propped on the coffee table like he owned the place. Around him sat the rest of the so-called elite circle of Monaco Tech’s engineering and design students: Lewis Hamilton with his calm, polished style, Sebastian Vettel who always looked like he stepped out of a library, and Yuki Tsunoda who was probably yelling at the game controller in his hands.

 

Pierre caught sight of Charles through the window and quickly stood up, guiding him inside. Kika was already placing a soft blanket around Charles’ shoulders.

 

“My baby,” she whispered, brushing his hair gently. “Did they fight again?”

 

Charles nodded faintly but said nothing.

 

Max turned his head lazily toward the door—and paused.

 

The boy standing there looked nothing like the usual crowd. Slim, quiet, dressed in a school uniform jacket that was too big for his frame and slightly worn. Eyes that looked like they’d seen more than they should have. He was beautiful, Max thought, in a fragile kind of way.

 

Pierre stepped in protectively.

 

“This is Charles. My neighbor. He’s still in high school, so don’t scare him off.”

 

Max’s grin widened. “Scare him off? I’m delightful.”

 

Charles didn’t even look at him.

 

---

 

The next time Charles saw Max Verstappen, it was a week later. He was walking home from school with a sketchbook clutched to his chest, his hoodie pulled up over his head. A motorcycle roared to a stop beside him.

 

“Hey,” Max said, pulling off his helmet. “Need a ride?”

 

Charles blinked at him. “No.”

 

“You sure? I’m pretty good at getting people places fast.”

 

“I don’t like fast.”

 

Max chuckled. “Guess I’ll slow down then.”

 

Charles walked away without another word.

 

---

 

Over the next few weeks, Max kept showing up at Pierre’s house when Charles was there. Not that Charles ever stayed long when the group got too loud. He always sat in the corner, quietly sipping tea Kika made just for him, drawing in that same battered sketchbook.

 

Sometimes Daniel tried to talk to him.

 

“Hey, man, are those cars you’re sketching? They look insane. You design?”

 

Charles gave a small nod. “A little.”

 

“Cool. You should check out George’s workshop sometime. He’s got all this 3D printing—”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

Daniel blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

 

The group gradually learned that Charles didn’t talk unless necessary. Didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t trust. Only Pierre and Kika got quiet smiles, only Pierre could touch his shoulder without making him flinch.

 

“He’s been through stuff,” Kika whispered to Lando one night when Charles slipped out early. “Bad stuff. Just give him time.”

 

Max, however, wasn’t used to being ignored. He wasn’t cruel about it—just curious. Frustrated, maybe. But Charles wasn’t a puzzle to solve. He was a person with walls made of glass and steel.

 

---

 

It was late. Pierre wasn’t home yet. Kika had gone to visit her mother. Max was the only one in the Gasly living room when Charles slipped through the back door, hoodie pulled tight, eyes puffy.

 

He froze when he saw Max.

 

“I—I’ll come back later—”

 

“Wait,” Max said, standing up slowly. “You okay?”

 

Charles didn’t answer. He moved to leave.

 

Max didn’t touch him. He just stood there.

 

“I can... sit over there, if you want. We don’t have to talk.”

 

Charles paused.

 

For the first time, he nodded.

 

They sat on opposite sides of the room in silence for almost an hour.

 

It was the most progress anyone had made.

 

---

 

The bruises started showing up more often. Kika covered them with concealer when Charles let her. Pierre grew more protective, and Max grew more angry.

 

“Why doesn’t he just leave?” Yuki asked one night, genuinely confused.

 

“Because it’s not that simple,” Sebastian answered quietly. “You don’t leave the only home you’ve ever known unless you know you have another.”

 

Max found himself watching the window at Pierre’s house every night now. When Charles didn’t come, he’d text Pierre.

 

Max Verstappen : Is he okay?

 

Pierre Gasly : Rough night. He’s sleeping. Don’t push.

 

But Max wanted to push. Not out of impatience, but out of helplessness. No one should feel that alone. Especially not someone like Charles.

 

Max started to leave little things behind. A warm drink on the table. A stack of clean sketchbooks. A blanket with sleeves.

 

Charles never said thank you.

 

But he started staying longer.

 

And Max started falling.

 

---

 

One Friday night, the usual group gathered again. This time, George had brought his friend Oscar Piastri, who was quiet but observant. He noticed Charles almost instantly—hunched in the corner, headphones in, doodling in his sketchbook.

 

"Who's that?" Oscar asked softly.

 

"Charles," Pierre answered. "My neighbor. He's... younger. Just don’t try too hard. He doesn’t like questions."

 

Oscar nodded in understanding.

 

Meanwhile, Max sat across the room, watching Charles out of the corner of his eye. The boy was sketching again, brows furrowed. Max wanted to ask what it was, but held back.

 

Instead, he walked over slowly, sat on the floor near Charles but not too close.

 

"You like geometry?" Max asked casually, glancing at the sketchbook.

 

Charles didn’t look up. "I like balance."

 

"Balance is good. Things fall apart without it."

 

A beat of silence passed.

 

Then Charles said softly, "You always talk."

 

Max grinned. "And you barely do. Makes us a perfect team, no?"

 

That earned the tiniest lift of Charles’ lip.

 

A smile. Barely there.

 

But Max caught it like it was gold.

 

---

 

The more the group came to know Charles, the more they saw his brilliance.

 

Alex once peeked at a design Charles was sketching. "Is this... an entire modular drivetrain? From scratch?"

 

Charles shrugged. "Just ideas."

 

Lewis leaned over. "Ideas like that don’t come from just anyone."

 

But Charles didn’t seek approval. He packed up his bag quickly, preparing to leave.

 

“You always run,” Max said gently, following him to the door.

 

Charles didn’t respond, but he didn’t slam the door either.

 

That night, Max slipped a note into Charles’ sketchbook when he wasn't looking.

 

"Even shadows need light to exist. You don’t have to hide all the time."

 

Charles found it later. He didn’t mention it.

 

But the next time he showed up at Pierre’s, he sat beside Max. Not across the room.

 

---

 

(To be continued...)

Chapter 2: An Unspoken Language

Charles hadn’t said more than ten words to Max in any of their interactions, but somehow Max understood him better than people who'd known Charles for years. Not because Max forced his way in—but because he waited, patiently, persistently, until Charles opened a sliver of himself.

 

It was raining that afternoon. Charles was soaked when he stepped into Pierre’s living room, his bag hanging limply off one shoulder. Max was already there, curled up on the couch with a notebook.

 

“Damn,” Max said, taking in the state of him. “You walk through a hurricane?”

 

Charles didn’t answer. He took off his hoodie and hung it carefully on a chair.

 

Max hesitated before offering a towel. “Here.”

 

Charles took it. Quietly.

 

He sat beside Max, just close enough that their arms almost brushed. Max didn’t speak again. He just handed Charles his own notebook.

 

Inside were sketches—of engines, frame structures... and something else.

 

The last page was a sketch of a boy, hunched over a sketchbook. Alone, but surrounded by silent understanding.

 

Charles stared at it for a long time.

 

“You drew me,” he murmured.

 

“Yeah.” Max rubbed the back of his neck. “Hope that’s not weird.”

 

“It’s... not.”

 

That night, for the first time, Charles stayed until the others went home.

 

And he left a note in Max’s book before leaving.

 

"Maybe some shadows are worth stepping into, if the light is kind."

 

 

---

 

Thursday afternoons were usually the quietest for Charles. No exams, no presentations, no pressure. But this one… this one had been brutal.

 

He had woken up late, missed his first class, and forgotten to complete a homework assignment. His teacher had scolded him in front of the entire classroom. And to top it all off, his father had thrown a bottle at the wall that morning during an argument with his mother, the shattered glass narrowly missing Charles' feet.

 

Everything was just... too much.

 

Charles didn’t bother going home after school. He texted Pierre once—“are you home?”—and received a quick “yeah, everyone’s here” in response. He didn’t care who everyone was. He needed Pierre. Needed that familiar warmth and safety.

 

The moment he stepped into the Gasly house, the sound of laughter and music spilled from the living room. Charles didn’t even glance inside. He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag, and headed straight to Pierre’s room.

 

“Pierre?” he called out, his voice small.

 

“Char?” Pierre appeared from the hallway, his eyes lighting up instantly. But before he could say anything else, Charles wrapped his arms tightly around his waist, burying his face against his chest.

 

“I hate today,” Charles mumbled, his voice trembling.

 

Pierre immediately wrapped his arms around him. “What happened?”

 

“Just… everything. I hate it.”

 

Kika peeked around the corner. “Aw, bebé,” she cooed softly, walking over to stroke Charles’ hair like he was a child. “Rough day?”

 

Charles nodded, refusing to move from Pierre’s embrace.

 

From the living room, Max had been joking around with Yuki and George when he noticed the sudden quiet. Then he caught sight of Charles wrapped around Pierre like a scared kitten.

 

He stilled.

 

This was the closest he’d ever seen Charles act openly vulnerable. His usual quiet, cold shell was nowhere in sight, replaced by soft whimpers, clinging hands, and a tremble in his voice.

 

Max took a step forward, curious, concerned, but Kika shot him a glance that said, Don’t.

 

She understood. Charles didn’t need more people hovering. He needed safety.

 

Pierre carefully guided Charles to the bed. “Do you want to lie down?”

 

“No. Just stay here.”

 

So Pierre sat on the bed with Charles practically in his lap, arms still tight around him. Max watched from the hallway, something tightening in his chest.

 

Yuki nudged him. “Don’t stare, man. He’s having a hard time.”

 

“I’m not staring,” Max muttered, then sighed. “He never lets anyone touch him like that.”

 

“Because Pierre’s different,” Carlos added from behind. “They’ve known each other forever. You’re just a flirt with fast hands.”

 

“I’m not trying to flirt,” Max said, frustrated. “I just want to talk to him.”

 

Esteban appeared beside him, arms crossed. “Then stop pushing so hard. Be patient. Let him come to you.”

 

Back in the room, Charles finally lifted his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured to Pierre. “I’m being clingy.”

 

Pierre kissed the top of his head. “You can be clingy with me anytime, bébé.”

 

Charles gave a small smile. “Even in front of everyone?”

 

Kika laughed softly. “They’re all used to it. You’re our baby.”

 

“I’m not a baby,” Charles grumbled.

 

“Fine, you’re our spoiled little high schooler,” Kika teased, sitting beside him and brushing hair out of his face.

 

Charles leaned into her touch.

 

In the living room, the others tried to continue their conversations, but every so often, someone would glance down the hallway toward Pierre’s room.

 

“Do you think he’ll come hang out with us later?” Alex asked quietly.

 

“Doubt it,” Oscar replied. “He only talks to Pierre and Kika. I don’t think he even knows the rest of our names.”

 

“He knows mine,” Max said automatically.

 

George raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

 

Max opened his mouth, then closed it.

 

Did Charles really know his name?

 

Back in the room, Charles had calmed down a little. Kika coaxed him into changing into one of Pierre’s hoodies, and the comfort of soft fabric and familiar scent helped. Pierre lay beside him on the bed, rubbing circles on his back.

 

“Wanna nap?”

 

“No,” Charles whispered. “I’ll get nightmares.”

 

Kika sat beside them, quietly humming.

 

They stayed like that for nearly half an hour before Charles finally asked, “Is everyone still here?”

 

Pierre nodded. “You don’t have to see them.”

 

“I… maybe just for a little.”

 

Pierre and Kika exchanged surprised glances, but neither questioned it.

 

A few minutes later, Charles stepped timidly into the living room behind Pierre. He stayed close, practically hiding behind him.

 

The conversations quieted. Every eye turned to him.

 

Max, who had been fiddling with a broken PS5 controller, looked up and froze.

 

Charles looked down.

 

Pierre sat on the armrest of the couch and gently tugged Charles down beside him. Kika perched on the other side.

 

Silence. Then Yuki waved awkwardly. “Hey.”

 

“Hi,” Charles mumbled.

 

“Wanna play Mario Kart?” Lando offered gently.

 

Charles shook his head.

 

“Wanna watch?” Oscar tried.

 

A pause. Then a nod.

 

So they played. Max didn’t even bother winning. He kept glancing over at Charles, watching how he leaned against Pierre like he couldn’t hold himself up.

 

He looked so small.

 

After a while, Charles’ eyes grew heavy, and he leaned his head on Pierre’s shoulder.

 

Kika smiled. “Looks like it’s nap time after all.”

 

Max watched as Charles slowly drifted to sleep, surrounded by people he still didn’t really know. But he had taken a step closer.

 

Just one.

 

And Max was ready to wait for all the others.

 

---

 

Charles stirred a little but didn’t fully wake. His head remained on Pierre’s shoulder, and one of his hands clutched Pierre’s hoodie like a lifeline. Kika covered them both with a light blanket and whispered something to Pierre before heading to the kitchen.

 

Everyone else had resumed their activities—some were playing video games, others on their phones, and a few chatting in lower tones—but the atmosphere was different now. Gentler.

 

Max sat in the corner of the couch, eyes flickering toward Charles every few minutes. He couldn’t stop himself. Something about the way Charles had clung to Pierre earlier had carved itself into Max’s mind like a brand.

 

He'd never seen anyone look so… desperate to be held.

 

Max wasn’t sure if it made him want to protect Charles or pull him into a hug himself.

 

Yuki leaned over from where he was scrolling through his phone. “You’re staring again.”

 

Max didn’t deny it. “He’s different.”

 

“No kidding.” Yuki shrugged. “Just don’t screw it up. He’s not like us.”

 

“Yeah,” Max muttered, fingers fiddling with the frayed edges of a couch cushion. “I know.”

 

Kika returned with a glass of water and placed it on the table. She glanced at Max knowingly. “He doesn’t open up easily. You try too hard, he’ll close off completely.”

 

Max gave a dry laugh. “Why do you think I’ve said nothing since he got here?”

 

Kika smirked. “It’s a start.”

 

It wasn’t until about an hour later that Charles stirred again. He blinked sleepily and frowned at the unfamiliar voices. For a moment, he looked like he was going to panic—until Pierre squeezed his hand.

 

“Still here, bébé.”

 

Charles turned toward him and nodded, though his eyes lingered on the others in the room. His gaze met Max’s for a split second before darting away.

 

Max didn’t move, didn’t smile. He just nodded slightly. That seemed to ease Charles a little.

 

“Hungry?” Pierre asked gently.

 

Charles shook his head. “Just tired.”

 

“Want to go back upstairs?”

 

He shook his head again. “I’m okay here… for now.”

 

Kika beamed, whispering to Pierre, “That’s practically a miracle.”

 

Lando got up and stretched. “I’m gonna order some food. Anyone want anything?”

 

As everyone chimed in, Charles remained quiet, looking down at his hands. Kika nudged him.

 

“Hey, you want something?”

 

Charles hesitated. “Um… chicken nuggets?”

 

George blinked. “You eat chicken nuggets?”

 

Pierre snorted. “He eats exactly three things: pasta, chicken nuggets, and toast.”

 

“Don’t forget strawberry yogurt,” Kika added.

 

Charles looked horrified. “Stop.”

 

The group chuckled, but not unkindly. The mood lightened.

 

When the food arrived, Charles picked at his nuggets silently while everyone else joked and teased each other. He listened more than spoke, occasionally leaning against Pierre or whispering to Kika, but he didn’t leave. And that was new.

 

Daniel flopped down next to Max. “So when are you gonna actually talk to him?”

 

Max scowled. “I’ve tried.”

 

“Tried?” Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You winked at him once and then called him ‘pretty boy.’ That’s not talking, Max. That’s harassment.”

 

Max groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I panic.”

 

“Then don’t panic. Just say hi.”

 

Max rolled his eyes but stood. Daniel gave him a thumbs-up like a proud parent.

 

He walked over slowly, hands in his pockets, and crouched in front of Charles, who tensed immediately. Pierre noticed, his eyes narrowing just slightly.

 

“Hey,” Max said softly. “Mind if I sit?”

 

Charles glanced at Pierre, then gave a tiny shrug.

 

Max sat cross-legged on the floor. “You feeling better?”

 

Charles didn’t answer right away. Then: “A bit.”

 

“That’s good. Sorry you had a crap day.”

 

Another nod. Charles looked at him now, still wary but less like he was about to bolt.

 

“I’m Max,” he said, voice light. “But you probably already know that.”

 

Charles blinked. “I do.”

 

Max smiled, surprised. “You do?”

 

“You’re loud.”

 

From across the room, laughter erupted.

 

Max pressed a hand over his heart. “Ouch.”

 

Charles’ lips twitched. It was brief, a flicker of a smile, but it was real.

 

Max’s chest warmed.

 

“Okay, okay, fair enough,” he said, grinning. “I’ll be… 20% quieter. For you.”

 

“Try 50,” Pierre muttered.

 

Kika hid her laugh in her sleeve.

 

Max looked at Charles again, softer this time. “You ever wanna talk. Or not talk. Just sit. I’m around.”

 

Charles looked at him for a moment. Then nodded.

 

Max didn’t press more. He stood, gave a little wave, and returned to his spot.

 

Behind him, Charles leaned closer to Pierre. “He’s weird.”

 

Pierre grinned. “Yeah. But he means well.”

 

Charles didn’t respond. But this time, when Max laughed too loudly at one of Daniel’s jokes, Charles didn’t flinch.

 

He just stayed where he was—between Pierre and Kika, warm and safe.

 

And slowly, the door to his world cracked open.

 

 

---

The next morning, Charles didn’t go home.

 

Pierre didn’t even have to ask. When he’d stirred awake around seven and found Charles still curled next to him on the couch, face smushed against his hoodie, he’d simply wrapped an arm around him again and let him sleep.

 

Kika had gone to prepare breakfast quietly with Esteban and George, careful not to make noise that might wake him. The rest of the group slowly filtered out or crashed in guest rooms.

 

By 10 a.m., Charles finally blinked awake, eyes puffy and dull.

 

“You okay?” Pierre asked softly.

 

Charles didn’t respond right away. Then, in a small voice: “Do I have to go back yet?”

 

Pierre didn’t hesitate. “No.”

 

Kika entered then, carrying a plate. “Eat first. You can stay as long as you need, baby.”

 

Charles nodded. His usual reserve still wrapped around him like armor, but this time, he didn’t push their kindness away.

 

By late afternoon, everyone was lounging lazily again. Charles hadn’t said much, but he hadn’t disappeared either. He sat near Pierre, book in hand, legs pulled to his chest.

 

Lando, Carlos, and Oscar were playing a loud Mario Kart match. Yuki shouted profanities at the screen while Max lounged on a beanbag close to Charles.

 

Occasionally, Max snuck glances at him—especially when Charles’ brows furrowed at something in his book or when he tucked a piece of hair behind his ear without realizing it.

 

Sebastian sat beside Max, noticing his wandering eyes. “Careful,” he murmured. “He’s not a game.”

 

“I know,” Max replied quietly. “I’m not playing.”

 

“He’s been through a lot. More than you realize.”

 

“I know.”

 

Sebastian’s voice was firm but kind. “Then be patient. Let him come to you.”

 

Max nodded, gaze never leaving Charles.

 

As the sun dipped lower, the group ordered dinner again. This time, Charles didn’t need coaxing—he asked for ramen, surprising even Pierre.

 

“You okay?” Pierre asked as they waited.

 

Charles nodded. “I just… like it here.”

 

Pierre blinked. “You’ve barely spoken to anyone.”

 

Charles shrugged. “They don’t look at me like I’m broken.”

 

Pierre exhaled. “You’re not broken, Cha.”

 

Charles looked down at his fingers. “Sometimes I think… I’m just tired of pretending.”

 

Max, who had come over quietly with a drink for Kika, overheard that. He hesitated before gently offering Charles a can of strawberry soda.

 

Charles stared at it, then slowly took it.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

 

Max nodded and sat nearby again, a small, pleased smile on his lips.

 

The evening was filled with casual chatter. Daniel was trying to teach Alex how to juggle, and Esteban was trying to stop them before something broke. Everyone was laughing, the mood light.

 

And for once, Charles stayed. Not glued to Pierre’s side—but in the same room. In the same conversation. Not invisible.

 

They watched a movie after dinner, and though Charles didn’t say much, when Pierre moved to sit on the floor with Kika, Charles surprised everyone by staying on the couch… next to Max.

 

Not close, but not far either.

 

Halfway through the film, Max whispered without looking, “Do you want another blanket?”

 

Charles hesitated, then nodded. Max handed it over, and this time, Charles didn’t flinch when their fingers touched.

 

Later that night, when most of the group had started dozing off or left for the evening, Charles stood quietly behind Pierre as he chatted with George and Kika.

 

He tugged on Pierre’s sleeve gently.

 

Pierre turned. “Yeah, bébé?”

 

Charles looked hesitant. “Can I stay over again?”

 

Pierre smiled softly. “Of course.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

He started to head upstairs but paused, turning his head slightly toward Max. “Good night, Max.”

 

It was the first time he’d said anything to Max first.

 

Max blinked, caught off guard. Then smiled.

 

“Good night, Charles.”

 

Charles disappeared up the stairs.

 

Max let out a long breath.

 

Daniel leaned over the back of the couch with a grin. “Congratulations. You’ve unlocked Level One.”

 

Max snorted. “Only nineteen more to go.”

 

---

 

(To be continued...)

Chapter 3: The Wall and The Storm

The week after Charles’ stay at Pierre’s was quiet.

 

Charles returned home Monday evening after school. His mother wasn’t around. His father was passed out on the living room couch, beer bottles on the floor like broken promises.

 

Charles tiptoed past him, clutching his school bag tightly. Upstairs, he locked his door.

 

He didn’t speak much at school. Not that he ever did. But something was different—Pierre could tell. He was trying to put on a brave face. Kika noticed too. Even Max, who wasn’t usually the type to worry, kept checking his phone, hoping for a message from Pierre about how Charles was doing.

 

Wednesday came like a storm.

 

It was just after 6 p.m. when Pierre received the call.

 

“Cha?”

 

No words—just ragged breathing on the line.

 

Pierre was already standing. “Where are you?”

 

“Front porch,” came the trembling voice.

 

Pierre was out the door before he could hang up.

 

When he opened it, Charles was standing there. His lip was split. His cheek bruised. His backpack strap was torn, and he held it like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

 

Kika gasped and pulled him into her arms without thinking.

 

Pierre’s voice cracked. “Did he—”

 

Charles didn’t say anything. He just pressed his forehead into Pierre’s shoulder and shook.

 

“Come inside. Come on.”

 

They led him in. Charles clung to Pierre’s hand like a child.

 

“Upstairs, Cha. I’ll get you ice,” Kika whispered.

 

“Should we call the police?” Pierre asked lowly as they went up the stairs.

 

Charles heard. “No.”

 

Pierre stared. “Charles—”

 

“Please don’t.”

 

Max and the others were already on their way over that night. Lando had planned a movie session. George was bringing food. Lewis and Seb were coming too. Nobody expected anything when they arrived…

 

Until they saw Charles on the couch with a fresh bruise across his face.

 

Silence fell like a bomb.

 

Lewis was the first to speak. “Who did this?”

 

Pierre looked at Charles. Charles looked at the floor.

 

“Charles,” Sebastian said carefully, “you don’t have to protect anyone who hurts you.”

 

“It’s not that simple,” Charles whispered.

 

Max stood frozen, hands curled into fists. His jaw was locked. “This happens often?”

 

No one answered.

 

Oscar stepped closer. “What can we do?”

 

Charles still wouldn’t look up.

 

“I just wanted to be here,” he said quietly. “With all of you. Is that okay?”

 

“Of course it is,” Kika said firmly. “You’re always safe here.”

 

Max slowly approached and crouched in front of the couch. His voice was gentler than any of them had heard from him before.

 

“Do you want me to sit with you?”

 

Charles hesitated.

 

Then he nodded.

 

Max sat beside him, careful not to touch, and just stayed there. After a few minutes, Charles leaned—just slightly—against his arm.

 

The others pretended not to notice, continuing their conversations, but there was a heavy silence behind it all. Unspoken rage. Helplessness.

 

That night, Charles slept in the guest room. Max slept on the floor next to his bed.

 

When Pierre peeked in at 2 a.m., Charles had one hand hanging off the side of the bed, fingers loosely curled around Max’s wrist like a lifeline.

 

Pierre didn’t say a word.

 

He just closed the door again and went to bed, his chest tight with both sadness and hope.

 

 

---

The atmosphere shifted after that night.

 

Nobody talked directly about what they saw—Charles' bruised face, the quiet tremor in his voice, the way he clung to Max’s wrist while he slept. But the silence became a kind of unspoken agreement: protect him. Don’t push. Be there.

 

And so, they were.

 

Lando began sitting beside him when they were in Pierre’s living room, sometimes rambling about his engineering classes just to fill the silence. Carlos offered to help Charles with homework, and when he refused, Carlos just left the notebooks beside him anyway, with sticky notes on every page.

 

Sebastian brought snacks. He didn’t say anything either, but he always made sure Charles had a plate. Yuki brought his Switch and tried (and failed) to teach Charles how to play Mario Kart.

 

Daniel kept cracking jokes. Oscar showed Charles how to use a camera one afternoon when the light was nice. Esteban and George took turns leaving care packages—tea, fruit, a scarf when it got cold.

 

Charles didn’t say much.

 

But he noticed.

 

Max, meanwhile, was always near. Not hovering. Just there. If Charles needed space, he gave it. If Charles looked overwhelmed, Max gently changed the topic or gave him something to fidget with—a pencil, a keychain, anything.

 

And Charles started to soften, bit by bit.

 

On Friday morning, Charles showed up to school with darker circles under his eyes than usual. He walked into class late, his shoulders curled inward, head ducked down.

 

The teacher barely looked up. “Nice of you to join us, Leclerc.”

 

Charles didn’t answer. He sat in the back.

 

The whispers started immediately.

 

“Always so weird…”

 

“Bet he thinks he’s better than everyone…”

 

“Who even is that guy?”

 

Charles could hear it. He could always hear it. Today, it cut deeper.

 

He hadn’t even realized he was shaking until he dropped his pen.

 

“Charles?” his seat partner whispered.

 

He didn’t answer.

 

He couldn’t. His throat was closing. The buzzing behind his ears grew louder and louder. He couldn’t breathe—

 

The teacher looked up. “Leclerc, is there a problem?”

 

Charles stood abruptly, bumping into his desk. His chair scraped backward, loud and jarring.

 

“I—I’m sorry,” he mumbled, stumbling for the door.

 

He ran. Down the hallway. Out of the school. His legs burned, lungs heaving, and he didn’t stop until he was outside the gates.

 

He didn’t know where to go.

 

He called the only number he trusted.

 

“Pierre…” His voice cracked.

 

“Cha? What happened?”

 

“Can I come over?”

 

Pierre didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

 

By the time Charles arrived, Kika was already waiting with open arms. She didn’t say a word, just pulled him into a tight hug.

 

“Upstairs,” she said gently. “Pierre’s with Max and the others. You don’t have to talk. Just rest, okay?”

 

Charles nodded, too tired to speak.

 

When he walked into the room, the noise halted. Everyone looked at him.

 

Max was the first to stand. “Hey.”

 

Charles didn’t answer.

 

He walked past all of them and curled up next to Pierre on the couch, burying his face in his shoulder like he had last week.

 

Pierre wrapped his arm around him instinctively.

 

They all knew what kind of day it must’ve been.

 

Max watched from a distance, eyes soft. When Charles peeked up at him, he smiled gently.

 

“You made it through the day,” he said quietly.

 

Charles didn’t say anything. But he reached out and tugged the sleeve of Max’s hoodie. A silent request.

 

Max walked over, sat beside him, and let Charles lean against his side.

 

“Do you want to watch something dumb?” Lando asked.

 

“Yeah,” Charles whispered. “Something really dumb.”

 

And they did.

 

For the first time in a long while, Charles laughed—even if it was only once.

 

And Max smiled like it was the most important sound in the world.

 

 

---

The following weekend, Pierre and Kika decided to host a small movie night for the group.

 

Sebastian arrived first with three bags of popcorn and a collection of old DVDs. “Vintage,” he called them with a wink. Lando and George brought soda. Yuki brought his usual sweets stash. Max showed up last with a blanket he’d specifically said was “for Charles, if he’s cold.”

 

Charles wasn’t supposed to come.

 

He had messaged Pierre earlier: “I think I’ll stay home tonight.”

 

But at 8:45, the doorbell rang, and there he was—quiet, hood pulled up, sleeves too long over his fingers.

 

Everyone blinked.

 

“Cha,” Pierre said gently, stepping aside.

 

Charles gave a small nod. “Didn’t want to be alone.”

 

No one questioned it.

 

The group settled on the floor and couch cushions, some people sprawled across beanbags. Charles, predictably, tucked himself into the corner of the couch between Pierre and Max. Pierre gave him a small bump of the shoulder.

 

“You want to pick the first movie?”

 

Charles shook his head. “You choose.”

 

Halfway through the movie, the laughter had taken over the room. Except for Charles, who watched everything with quiet eyes, a small smile occasionally flickering when someone cracked a dumb joke.

 

But then came a scene.

 

A character yelling. Slamming doors. The sound of glass shattering.

 

Charles tensed immediately.

 

Max noticed. So did Pierre.

 

And so did Oscar.

 

He didn’t know Charles well. But he’d seen those kinds of flinches before. He leaned forward, grabbing the remote, and muted the TV without a word.

 

“Bathroom,” Charles muttered and got up quickly.

 

The door clicked shut behind him.

 

Silence filled the room.

 

“I’m sorry,” Oscar said, voice low.

 

Pierre shook his head. “You didn’t know.”

 

“No, but I should’ve thought to skip scenes like that,” Oscar muttered. “I’ve got younger siblings. One of them flinches too when it gets loud.”

 

Max stood quietly. “I’ll check on him.”

 

But Oscar was already walking toward the hallway.

 

He knocked once.

 

“It’s Oscar,” he said gently. “Can I come in?”

 

Silence. Then: “Okay.”

 

When he stepped inside, Charles was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, knees drawn up, fingers digging into his sleeves.

 

“I didn’t like that part,” Charles mumbled.

 

“I figured,” Oscar said, sitting on the closed toilet lid across from him. “You okay?”

 

Charles gave a small shrug. “Just loud. Too familiar.”

 

Oscar nodded. “One of my brothers used to cry when our dad raised his voice, even if it wasn’t at us. That sound stays with you.”

 

Charles looked up slowly.

 

“Mine wasn’t yelling at someone else.”

 

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

 

It was the first time Charles had admitted anything about it to someone besides Pierre or Kika.

 

Oscar didn’t push. Just waited.

 

Charles looked down. “He doesn’t hit my mom. Just me. He says it’s my fault she left.”

 

Oscar’s chest ached. “It’s not.”

 

“I know that logically. But when he’s drunk, logic doesn’t matter.”

 

Oscar didn’t try to argue. He didn’t offer platitudes.

 

He just sat there.

 

And after a while, Charles said, “Thanks for muting it.”

 

“I’ll make sure we skip scenes like that from now on.”

 

Charles nodded. “Thanks.”

 

Oscar stood. “Want to go back in?”

 

“In a minute.”

 

Oscar ruffled his hair gently. “I’ll tell them you’re okay.”

 

He paused before opening the door. “You can sit next to me if you want. Max looks like he’s one touch away from kidnapping you back to his side of the couch, though.”

 

Charles actually let out a soft laugh.

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

Oscar smiled. “Good.”

 

Back in the living room, Max looked up immediately.

 

“How is he?”

 

Oscar nodded. “Getting there.”

 

They unmuted the movie. And when Charles finally came back in, he sat next to Oscar for a while.

 

But before the end of the night, he was back beside Max, blanket draped over both their legs.

 

 

---

A quiet shift had begun.

 

Charles didn’t smile much, didn’t talk too loud, didn’t make himself the center of any group—never would. But after the movie night, something changed.

 

He still came over to Pierre and Kika’s house unannounced after bad days, usually curling up on the far corner of the couch with a hoodie covering half his face. But now, he didn’t flinch as much when the others greeted him.

 

“Hey, Charles,” George would say casually.

 

“Hi,” Charles would murmur back. No eye contact yet, but no shrinking away either.

 

And Max had started picking up on the patterns.

 

Charles liked soft food: soups, cut fruit, toast with honey. Max began showing up with those things when they gathered.

 

“Heard you might like this,” he’d say, holding out a bowl of pineapple chunks. Charles would blink, then accept it without a word.

 

Progress.

 

One Thursday evening, they were all spread out in Pierre’s backyard. A few camping chairs, some battery-powered fairy lights, light music from Lando’s speaker. It was a study break—they had all brought their laptops and tablets to prep for midterms.

 

Charles sat cross-legged on the wooden deck floor, a blanket around his shoulders, eyes flickering between the textbook in his lap and the quiet conversation happening around him.

 

He hadn’t said a word in almost an hour.

 

Sebastian leaned over to whisper something to Kika, and she gave a nod. A few moments later, Kika crouched down beside Charles, gently nudging his arm.

 

“Hey, sweetheart. Want to come sit up here?” she asked, gesturing to the lawn chair beside Max.

 

Charles hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the blanket. His eyes darted to Max, who was pretending not to watch, though he absolutely was.

 

“No pressure,” Kika added softly.

 

After a long pause, Charles gave a little nod.

 

Kika helped him up, and he sat carefully in the chair next to Max, who tilted his head to the side and offered him a quiet, crooked smile.

 

“Hey.”

 

Charles didn’t respond immediately.

 

Then, after a beat: “Hi.”

 

They sat like that for a while—Charles wrapped in the blanket, Max occasionally passing him pieces of dried mango from a zip bag, neither talking much. But something unspoken passed between them. Charles didn’t move away.

 

Later that night, Sebastian pulled Max aside while the others were cleaning up.

 

“You’re doing good,” he said.

 

Max blinked. “With what?”

 

“Being patient.”

 

Max ran a hand through his hair. “I just don’t want to screw this up. He’s not like the rest of us. You can’t joke your way into his heart.”

 

Seb smiled. “No. But you’re listening. That’s worth more than charm.”

 

---

 

The next afternoon, something unusual happened.

 

Charles showed up at the campus café.

 

Not Pierre’s place.

 

Not dragged by Kika.

 

He came alone.

 

And found Max.

 

The engineering student had a pencil stuck behind his ear and was scribbling into a mechanical diagram notebook when he looked up and blinked in surprise.

 

“Charles?”

 

The high schooler shuffled forward, hesitant. “Pierre’s still in class. I didn’t want to go home.”

 

Max immediately closed his notebook.

 

“You want to sit?”

 

Charles nodded, sliding into the seat across from him. Max pushed his untouched hot chocolate across the table.

 

“Still warm,” he offered.

 

Charles cupped it with both hands, murmuring, “Thanks.”

 

And then—quietly, carefully—he pulled out a folded paper from his hoodie pocket and placed it on the table.

 

Max tilted his head. “What’s this?”

 

“Something I drew.”

 

Max blinked.

 

It was a sketch of the group from movie night. Lando sprawled across cushions. Yuki with candy wrappers. Kika braiding Kika’s own hair mid-movie. Max was there too, leaned slightly toward someone wrapped in a blanket—Charles, mid-doze.

 

It was… incredibly good.

 

“Holy shit,” Max whispered. “Charles. This is amazing.”

 

Charles flushed. “Just a doodle.”

 

“You made me look like I actually have a soul,” Max grinned. “That’s a miracle.”

 

Charles laughed—a soft, surprised sound.

 

Max’s heart stuttered.

 

He didn’t say anything else. Just smiled as Charles took a slow sip of cocoa and gazed out the café window.

 

For once, Charles didn’t look like he wanted to disappear.

 

 

---

The storm had been building for days.

 

Charles had been unusually quiet even for him. He’d stopped doodling in the corners of his notebooks, stopped responding to Kika’s soft nudges with even a nod, and hadn’t shown up at Pierre’s house for nearly a week.

 

Everyone noticed. But no one pushed—Pierre said to give him space.

 

But Max knew. Something was wrong.

 

---

 

It happened late on a Friday night.

 

Rain poured in sheets against the windows. Pierre, Kika, Max, Oscar, and Yuki were playing Mario Kart on the living room TV, snacks half-eaten and laughter echoing through the room.

 

Then the door burst open.

 

Soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes red and swollen—Charles stumbled in.

 

“Charles?!” Pierre was on his feet immediately.

 

But Charles didn’t speak.

 

He looked around, desperate, eyes searching until they landed on Pierre.

 

Then—without a word—he threw himself forward.

 

Pierre reached him in seconds, pulling him into his chest. Charles collapsed against him, fists gripping the back of Pierre’s shirt as if to anchor himself.

 

Charles buried his face into Pierre’s chest and began to sob.

 

Not the quiet, hidden tears they sometimes glimpsed when he thought no one was looking.

 

No, this was loud. Gut-wrenching. Shaking.

 

Kika dropped the controller, rushing over. Max stood frozen.

 

Pierre held Charles tightly, his voice cracking. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you—what happened?!”

 

Charles let out a strangled sob. "They—they were hitting things. Throwing things. He—he pushed her, and she said divorce and I—", Charles choked, barely audible through the sobs. “He said it’s my fault. He said it’s always been my fault.”

 

Pierre’s arms tightened around him protectively.

 

“That bastard,” Kika whispered furiously.

 

Charles kept crying, soaking Pierre’s hoodie. “He said he never wanted me. He said everything went wrong because of me. Mom didn’t even say anything. She just… just packed her bag and left.”

 

Yuki quietly turned off the TV. Oscar went to get a warm towel.

 

Max stood off to the side, heart breaking.

 

He wanted to go to him. He wanted to say something. But this wasn’t his place—not yet.

 

Charles didn’t look at anyone else. Only Pierre.

 

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Charles whispered. “I tried. I always try. Why do they hate me so much?”

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Pierre said firmly, cradling the boy who had always felt like his little brother. “You’re not the problem. They are.”

 

Oscar returned, wrapping the towel around Charles' shaking shoulders.

 

Kika was behind him instantly, hands rubbing his back.

 

Charles cried. Loudly. In front of everyone.

 

Max stood, his heart in his throat, unsure whether to come closer or give space.

 

Daniel looked at Lewis, who mouthed, Don’t crowd him.

 

“We’re here now, okay?” Kika added softly. “You’re safe.”

 

Charles didn’t answer. But he clung tighter.

 

That night, they made him a bed on the couch. Kika sat beside him and hummed while Pierre rubbed his back until he finally fell asleep, small and broken under the blanket.

 

Max stood at the hallway entrance for a long time, watching.

 

He had never hated anyone more than he hated Charles’ father.

 

---

 

The next morning, Charles didn’t speak much.

 

His eyes were dull, his limbs slow. But he let Kika make him tea. Let Oscar hand him a pair of dry socks. Let Yuki braid a small piece of his hair, murmuring, “For protection.”

 

He even let Max sit beside him without flinching.

 

“Can I draw with you later?” Max asked carefully.

 

Charles nodded. Once.

 

That was enough.

 

Later, while the others cleaned up, Max and Charles sat in the sunroom with a pile of sketchbooks and pencils between them. Max didn’t try to talk much. He just drew.

 

And after a while, Charles leaned over and rested his head lightly on Max’s shoulder.

 

Max froze.

 

Then, very gently, he moved his hand to cover Charles’ trembling fingers.

 

They stayed like that until the light faded.

 

---

 

(To be continued...)

Chapter 4: The Healing Point

Charles didn’t go home that weekend.

 

Pierre didn’t ask when he was planning to. Kika didn’t either. They just quietly cleared a drawer in the guest room, placed Charles’ backpack in it, and said nothing when he sat down at the kitchen counter the next morning like he belonged there.

 

Because he did.

 

No one mentioned school, either. Charles sat on the balcony in one of Pierre’s oversized hoodies, knees to his chest, sketchpad in hand, and everyone tiptoed around his silence.

 

Max was the only one who joined him.

 

He didn’t say much. Just brought a blanket, draped it over Charles’ legs, and opened his own sketchpad. They sat side-by-side, drawing until the sun dipped behind the rooftops.

 

Charles didn’t smile.

 

But he didn’t cry either.

 

 

---

Monday morning came. Charles didn’t want to go to school.

 

His eyes were swollen, voice hoarse. But Pierre nudged him gently. “You don’t have to face them. But you have to keep moving, alright? You’re almost done. Just a little more.”

 

“I’ll go with him,” Max offered.

 

Everyone looked at him.

 

Even Charles.

 

“I’ll walk you there,” Max added casually, slipping his hands in his hoodie pocket. “No pressure. If you want me to shut up the whole way, I can do that.”

 

Charles stared at him, uncertain.

 

Then nodded once.

 

They left the house in silence, Charles half a step behind Max the whole way. But he didn’t flinch when Max held the gate open, or when Max waited for him at the corner before crossing the street.

 

 

---

At school, Charles tried to blend in. But word of his parents’ split had started to spread.

 

He heard the whispers. Felt the eyes.

 

But Max walked him straight to the front gate and waited until he was inside.

 

And when Charles came out at the end of the day, exhausted and numb, Max was there again. Leaning on his bike. Waiting.

 

“You okay?”

 

Charles shook his head.

 

“Want to ride back with me?”

 

He hesitated.

 

Then, quietly, “Okay.”

 

Max handed him a helmet.

 

 

---

Back at Pierre’s house, the others were already there. Lando and George were arguing over some stupid card game. Kika was icing cupcakes. Yuki had passed out with a blanket over his head.

 

It felt like home.

 

Max watched as Charles moved through the room, still quiet, but not invisible anymore. He reached for a cupcake, let Lando complain at him about school, even sat beside Alex on the floor without pulling away.

 

And then something remarkable happened.

 

When Pierre finally sat down on the couch, Charles made a soft sound, curled against him without a word, and dozed off with his head on Pierre’s shoulder.

 

Kika beamed.

 

Max’s heart thudded painfully.

 

 

---

That night, Charles helped Kika wash the dishes.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly.

 

“I want to.”

 

Kika glanced over. “You’re doing a bit better today.”

 

Charles dried a mug. “I think… I just needed to be somewhere else.”

 

“You’re always welcome here.”

 

He hesitated. “Even if I’m… a mess?”

 

Kika dried her hands and turned to him. “Sweetheart, all of us are messes. Some of us are just better at hiding it.”

 

He didn’t respond. But his shoulders relaxed slightly.

 

 

---

Later that night, Max caught Charles in the hallway.

 

“I made something,” Max said.

 

He handed over a folded piece of paper.

 

Charles opened it. Inside was a cartoon sketch—Max had drawn the whole group like a superhero team. Pierre had a cape. Yuki was riding a flying takoyaki. Charles, small but glowing, sat on top of a cloud holding a pencil like a magic wand.

 

Charles blinked.

 

Then—slowly—he smiled.

 

 

Only a little.

 

But it was real.

 

Max felt like he could breathe again.

 

 

---

Charles tried.

 

He still kept his head down when he walked the school corridors, but his shoulders weren’t hunched anymore. He answered when people talked to him—short, quiet replies—but he didn’t run. He still hated loud noises. Still flinched at shouting. But when Pierre raised his voice in frustration over a video game, Charles only sighed and handed him a snack.

 

He was learning to breathe again.

 

Max noticed.

 

He noticed everything. The way Charles sat a little closer now, how he didn’t shrink away when Kika brushed his hair off his forehead. He noticed that Charles would reach for Max’s sleeve when walking next to him, just lightly, just for grounding. He noticed how he still curled up against Pierre like a kitten, but sometimes—just sometimes—he looked for Max too.

 

It made Max feel like gravity.

 

 

---

On Wednesday, Max found him in the art room after school. Everyone else had gone home.

 

“You okay being alone?” Max asked, leaning against the doorway.

 

Charles didn’t look up from the canvas. “I’m not alone.”

 

Max blinked, surprised.

 

A small smirk tugged at Charles’ lips.

 

Max walked over, peered at the painting. It was soft watercolors—blues, greys, a gentle gradient of stormy skies. In the corner, barely noticeable, a figure curled up beneath a tree, and another figure sat beside him. Close, but not touching.

 

“I like this,” Max said honestly.

 

Charles hesitated. “It’s… you.”

 

Max’s heart stuttered.

 

 

---

Later that evening, back at Pierre’s, Charles was quiet again. Tired. Pierre noticed the way he was fidgeting.

 

“What’s wrong, mon petit?”

 

“I have to go home tomorrow.”

 

Silence fell.

 

Kika gently set down the bowl of salad she was mixing.

 

Pierre sat down next to him. “Do you want us to go with you?”

 

Charles shook his head.

 

“I have to pack my stuff. Mom’s already gone. It’s just… Dad now. But maybe he's not at home.”

 

Max spoke up from the doorway. “Let me take you.”

 

Charles didn’t look up.

 

But he nodded.

 

 

---

The house was quiet when they arrived. Too quiet.

 

Charles unlocked the front door and stood frozen in the entryway.

 

“Want me to come in?” Max asked.

 

Charles nodded once. “Just wait in the living room. Please.”

 

Max obeyed. He sat stiffly on the edge of the couch while Charles disappeared down the hall.

 

There were thumps, drawers opening and closing, a soft sniffle.

 

Max stood.

 

“Charles?”

 

He found him in the bedroom, sitting on the floor beside a half-packed suitcase, hugging one of his sketchbooks.

 

His eyes were red.

 

“I used to draw here when they fought,” Charles whispered. “With headphones on. Pretend I was somewhere else.”

 

Max sat beside him. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

 

“I know,” Charles said. “But it’s still… hard.”

 

Max gently took the sketchbook from his arms and closed it.

 

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go home.”

 

 

---

Charles didn’t say anything on the ride back. But when they arrived at Pierre’s, he grabbed Max’s sleeve and didn’t let go.

 

Not when Kika opened the door.

 

Not when Pierre pulled him into a hug.

 

And not even when Max sat down beside him on the couch.

 

Charles leaned into his shoulder. Quiet. Breathing.

 

And Max didn’t move.

 

He just stayed.

 

 

---

Pierre’s living room had never been this quiet.

 

Charles sat curled up in one corner of the couch, his knees pulled to his chest, Max beside him. They weren’t touching anymore, but they might as well have been. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was fragile. Precious.

 

It was Yuki who shattered it.

 

He came in holding a controller. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this sad indie film vibe. Mario Kart, boys. Winner gets Kika’s last brownie.”

 

Max raised an eyebrow. “You really think you’re winning?”

 

Yuki grinned. “Not me. I’m betting on Charles.”

 

Charles blinked.

 

“You... you’ve never seen me play.”

 

“Nope,” Yuki said cheerfully. “But you’ve got that quiet menace energy. I trust it.”

 

Kika snorted from the kitchen.

 

“Don’t encourage him,” Pierre muttered.

 

But something shifted in Charles’ face—a flicker of something like amusement.

 

 

---

An hour later, Charles was still sitting with his legs tucked under him, but now he was laughing. Quietly, carefully—but laughing.

 

He’d won three rounds. Yuki had screamed when Charles knocked him off Rainbow Road. Lando had declared him a dark horse. George had tried to buddy up with him, to which Charles replied, “Only if you stop throwing red shells at me.”

 

George had promised nothing.

 

 

---

Later that night, after everyone left, Charles lingered in the hallway instead of going straight to bed.

 

Max noticed him hesitating.

 

“Something wrong?”

 

Charles shook his head, then looked at him. Really looked at him.

 

“Thanks. For earlier. At my house.”

 

“You don’t have to thank me.”

 

“I want to.”

 

Charles’s voice was small, but sure.

 

“You stayed.”

 

Max swallowed hard. “Always will.”

 

 

---

Charles surprised him the next day.

 

Max was sprawled under the hood of a car in the campus garage when a soft voice called his name.

 

He slid out, hands greasy, blinking up at the figure in the doorway.

 

Charles. In an oversized hoodie. Hugging a tote bag to his chest.

 

“I brought lunch. Pierre said you’d forget again.”

 

Max stared for a second too long. “You… made this?”

 

“I can cook,” Charles said defensively.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Max laughed, taking the bag. “You brought this for me?”

 

Charles nodded. His ears were pink.

 

Max couldn’t stop smiling.

 

 

---

That afternoon, Max didn’t tell anyone.

 

But when he opened the bag and saw the neatly wrapped sandwich, the small side of cut fruit, and the sticky note with a simple drawing of a smiling car, he sat in silence for a moment.

 

Then he tucked the note into his wallet.

 

Right next to his student ID.

 

 

---

The others began noticing.

 

“Charles talks to Max like he’s known him forever,” Alex murmured.

 

“He brings him food,” Esteban added.

 

“He let him win at Mario Kart—”

 

“He didn’t let me,” Max cut in, smirking.

 

But when Charles walked into the room with a hoodie three sizes too big and sat next to Max like it was second nature, no one said anything.

 

Because something unspoken had already begun.

 

 

---

The university festival was in full swing.

 

String lights glowed over the quad, laughter and music blending into the summer night. There were food stalls run by students, games set up between tents, and a stage with a rotation of performances—from acoustic guitar covers to someone doing questionable stand-up.

 

Charles had only agreed to come because Pierre begged. Max offered to stay home with him, but Kika had nudged both of them with that knowing look.

 

“You don’t have to talk to anyone,” Pierre had whispered while fixing Charles’ collar. “Just stay near us.”

 

Charles nodded. His fingers curled tight around the hem of his hoodie.

 

 

---

They arrived together.

 

Charles clung close to Pierre at first, ignoring the curious looks from others. It wasn’t that people knew who he was—they didn’t. But Charles stood out. His pale skin under the string lights, the way he hovered on the edges. Quiet, watchful. Like someone from another world.

 

Max kept a respectful distance. Not far, but not crowding him either. He offered Charles food and drinks, never pushing. Every time Charles hesitated, Max quietly moved aside other people to make room for him.

 

And eventually, Charles drifted from Pierre… to Max.

 

 

---

Max handed him a soft drink. “It’s non-alcoholic. Promise.”

 

Charles looked at the can. “You remembered.”

 

Max just smiled.

 

They found a bench near the fountain. Charles sat with one leg pulled up, sipping slowly. He glanced around at the noise and life and didn’t feel like running.

 

“I hated crowds,” he said quietly.

 

“Still do?”

 

Charles considered. “Less. With you.”

 

Max’s heart squeezed.

 

 

---

The moment shattered when a stranger approached.

 

“Hey,” a guy said, half-drunk, weaving slightly. “Didn’t know we had underclassmen here tonight.”

 

Charles blinked.

 

The guy leaned too close. “You’re cute. What’s your name?”

 

Charles froze.

 

Max stood up before anyone else did.

 

“Back off.”

 

The guy laughed. “Relax, I’m just talking—”

 

“I said back off.” Max’s voice was sharp. Cold.

 

The guy looked at Max—really looked—and saw the threat behind his easygoing façade. He raised his hands and walked away.

 

Charles still hadn’t moved.

 

“Hey.” Max knelt in front of him. “You okay?”

 

Charles slowly nodded.

 

“I’m here,” Max whispered. “No one touches you unless you want it.”

 

Charles blinked rapidly.

 

Then, surprising both of them, he leaned forward and hugged Max.

 

Right there. In public. In the middle of a festival.

 

Max didn’t care who saw.

 

 

---

By the end of the night, Charles was walking beside Max without flinching when someone brushed past.

 

He even laughed when Lando almost knocked over a cotton candy stand.

 

And when Max reached for his hand under the glow of

the lights—he didn’t pull away.

 

Not this time.

 

 

---

The festival had changed something.

 

Not in a grand, fireworks kind of way. But quietly, like the gentle shifting of seasons. Charles didn’t disappear into his shell the next morning. He didn’t flinch when George greeted him at Pierre’s front door, didn’t turn away when Oscar offered him a croissant.

 

He even joined them in the living room. Sitting between Pierre and Max.

 

Just... there.

 

 

---

The group had gotten used to tiptoeing around Charles. But now, with him sitting quietly among them, it was like watching a miracle unfold in real time.

 

Yuki leaned toward Pierre and whispered, “He’s like a cat that finally decided we’re not predators.”

 

Pierre elbowed him with a warning look, but Charles glanced up.

 

“I heard that.”

 

A beat of silence.

 

Then Charles added, “...but it’s accurate.”

 

Laughter exploded across the room.

 

Even Charles smiled.

 

 

---

Later, they spilled outside with snacks and mismatched cushions. The summer evening stretched above them in warm, soft blues. Daniel started a lazy conversation about their favorite comfort foods, and somehow they ended up sharing childhood stories.

 

Sebastian talked about a stray dog he secretly raised in his parents’ garage.

 

Lando confessed he once cried when he lost a toy spaceship.

 

When it came to Charles, everyone waited. Respectfully. Not expecting.

 

But Charles cleared his throat.

 

“I used to hide under my bed with a flashlight and read novels I wasn’t supposed to have. Pierre would knock on the window and smuggle me snacks.”

 

Kika’s eyes softened. “I remember that. You always wanted sugar cookies.”

 

Max, beside him, said nothing. But his hand brushed gently against Charles’—and this time, Charles didn’t hesitate.

 

He laced their fingers together.

 

 

---

Hours passed. The others drifted off, one by one.

 

Pierre and Kika went inside. Lando and Yuki crashed on beanbags. Only Charles and Max remained outside.

 

Under the stars. Quiet. Comfortable.

 

Max leaned against the porch post. “You’re incredible, you know.”

 

Charles turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

 

“Because you survived everything,” Max murmured. “And you still came here. Let us in. Let me in.”

 

Charles looked down at their joined hands.

 

“I’m scared all the time,” he admitted. “Even now.”

 

Max nodded. “Me too. But being scared doesn’t mean you stop trying.”

 

Silence stretched.

 

Then Charles whispered, “I want to try. With you.”

 

Max leaned in. Close. Close enough that their foreheads touched.

 

“You’re my favorite,” he said, voice rough. “From the very beginning.”

 

Charles smiled. It wasn’t a big smile—but it reached his eyes.

 

And under the quiet hush of midnight, they kissed.

 

Gentle. Honest. Real.

 

Not the end of their story.

 

Just the beginning.

 

---

 

END OF STORY.

 

Chapter 5: Bonus Chapter

One Month Later

 

The first time Charles showed up on campus, nobody recognized him.

 

Not because they didn’t know who he was—they’d heard all about the shy, quiet boy Pierre and Max had all but adopted into their inner circle. But because Charles had changed.

 

He walked beside Max with steady steps, shoulders relaxed. Still quiet, still observant—but no longer curled inward like a secret. There was a steadiness to him now. A kind of peace.

 

Yuki dropped his drink when he saw them.

 

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Charles Leclerc is real.”

 

Alex laughed. “And Max is holding his hand like he’s a limited edition collector’s item.”

 

Max, overhearing, winked. “Because he is.”

 

Charles flushed but didn’t let go.

 

---

Classes hadn’t started yet, so they loitered near the quad. The group had gathered on the grass—Oscar, Lando, Esteban, George, even Seb with his reusable coffee cup and perpetual dad energy.

 

Charles was tucked beside Max, listening quietly to the conversation.

 

That’s when Kika leaned over and snapped a picture.

 

“Sorry,” she said when Charles blinked. “You just looked really happy.”

 

He blinked again. Then nodded. “I am.”

 

Pierre handed him a juice box with a teasing grin. “He still only drinks these.”

 

Charles accepted it, rolling his eyes.

 

“I’m not five.”

 

“You’ll always be five to me,” Kika said, pulling him into a side hug.

 

---

They stayed like that until the sun started to dip.

 

And as the shadows stretched long across the campus lawn, Charles leaned into Max’s side and whispered, “This is the first time in a long time that I feel like I have a future.”

 

Max kissed the top of his head.

 

“You’ve always had one,” he said. “You just needed people to believe in it.”

 

Charles smiled. “Now I do.”

 

And for the first time, Charles wasn’t just surviving.

 

He was living.

 

---

Pierre’s Perspective

 

Pierre had always been fiercely protective of Charles.

 

From the first time he saw him through their shared bedroom windows—five years old, teary-eyed, clutching a stuffed bear—Pierre knew the boy next door would change his life.

 

Back then, Charles barely spoke. He trailed after Pierre like a shadow, always watching, always wary. Pierre never asked questions. He just made room. Built safety around Charles one LEGO set, one juice box, one blanket fort at a time.

 

So watching Charles now—laughing with Max, lying on the grass with the others, eyes warm and open—Pierre had to blink back something sharp behind his eyes.

 

Kika slid her fingers into his.

 

“You did that,” she whispered.

 

“No,” Pierre murmured. “He did. I just stood still so he had somewhere to run.”

 

---

Still, Pierre had doubted Max.

 

Not because he disliked him—Max was loud and obnoxious, but sincere. He just wasn’t sure Charles could handle someone like that.

 

Until the night Charles ran crying into their home, and Max was the first to move. No hesitation. No question. He stood at Charles’ side like he’d belonged there all along.

 

That was when Pierre knew.

 

Max might be cocky.

 

But he loved Charles.

 

And Charles... Pierre had never seen him look at someone like that. Like they were sunlight.

 

---

Later that night, Pierre watched the group curled in a heap on their living room floor. Kika was asleep on his shoulder. Charles rested his head on Max’s lap.

 

Pierre smiled.

 

For years, it had felt like Charles’ world might never open up.

 

But now, it had bloomed.

 

And Pierre had never been prouder.

 

---

Thank You, Pierre

 

It was late.

 

The others had gone home. Only Charles and Pierre remained in the quiet of Pierre’s room, dimly lit by the desk lamp. Kika was asleep in the guest room, and Max had walked Charles over hours ago, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Stay if you need to.”

 

Pierre was sorting through old notebooks when he felt a small weight lean against his shoulder.

 

Charles.

 

He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. Now, he looked up at Pierre with something solemn in his eyes.

 

“Can we talk?”

 

Pierre closed the notebook. “Always.”

 

A pause.

 

“I don’t know how to say it,” Charles admitted.

 

“Say it messy, then.”

 

Charles’s voice trembled. “Thank you.”

 

Pierre blinked. “For what?”

 

“For everything,” Charles whispered. “For giving me a place to hide. For never asking me to explain. For protecting me, even when I didn’t say I needed it. For just... being there.”

 

Pierre swallowed hard. “Charles—”

 

“You didn’t have to,” Charles continued. “You were just a kid too. But you never made me feel like a burden. Even when I cried every night. Even when I couldn’t speak. You just... stayed.”

 

Pierre turned, pulling Charles into a hug.

 

“You’re my family,” he said. “You always have been.”

 

Charles clung to him.

 

For a while, they sat like that, the years of quiet pain and quiet love folded between them.

 

“I wouldn’t be here without you,” Charles murmured against Pierre’s chest.

 

Pierre smiled.

 

“And now you are,” he said. “And you’re not just here. You’re happy.”

 

Charles nodded. “Because I had you.”

 

Pierre held him tighter, heart full.

 

Neither of them said it, but both knew: some bonds go deeper than blood.

 

And this one had saved them both.

 

---

A Moment with Kika

 

Kika found Charles in the backyard alone, staring at the stars like they were the only thing keeping him anchored.

 

She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, sat down next to him, knees brushing.

 

Charles glanced at her. Then back at the sky.

 

“You ever feel like you’re broken in ways no one can see?” he asked softly.

 

Kika didn’t flinch. “All the time.”

 

Charles exhaled, voice thick. “I used to think that if I stayed quiet, maybe things wouldn’t fall apart. If I disappeared into the walls, maybe my dad wouldn’t yell. Maybe my mom wouldn’t cry.”

 

She reached for his hand, held it gently.

 

“But they did anyway,” he continued. “No matter how small I made myself.”

 

Kika’s voice was gentle but firm. “That was never your fault.”

 

“I know,” Charles said, blinking quickly. “But it still felt like it.”

 

Another pause. Then:

 

“You and Pierre... you were the only place that felt safe. You never asked me to be anything. You just let me be.”

 

Kika smiled, eyes glistening. “That’s what family does.”

 

Charles finally looked at her fully.

 

“I never said thank you.”

 

“You never had to,” she said. “But I’m really glad you did.”

 

Charles leaned his head on her shoulder.

 

“I love you, Kika.”

 

She kissed his curls.

 

“I love you too, baby boy.”

 

And they sat like that, under the stars, two hearts stitched together by years of quiet care.

 

---

 

THE END.