Chapter 1: only threw this party for you
Chapter Text
Charles is not gay.
Charles does not like boys, does not envision kissing them, does not think about them in any way.
He never has – not more than the average person, when he turned twelve and his hormones went into overdrive and seeing anyone kissing or whatever softcore porn he tried to look up made him go haywire. But everyone was like that. Charles searched up girls and boobs and boys kissing because he wanted to see anything, and it all made him horny beyond belief.
But it makes sense. Watching a man come, even if it’s some over-produced video with terrible acting, is always good, because that’s what Charles wants. To come. Of course it’s going to be hot and exciting because – well, Charles wants it to be him. Coming. Sometimes straight porn is just so over the top, high-pitched squeals and stupid lines that no one would ever say to each other – and he can just watch something a little more realistic even if it’s two men because he wants to see them finish.
He’s not gay, that’s the thing, and he would never want to be fucked by a man, doesn’t even want anything close to his ass. It’s…wrong. It would feel weird. It’s all much better when it’s on his dick anyway so he doesn’t even need to be thinking about this in the first place! It’s just that anyone would get turned on watching porn no matter what type it is, and anyone would get hard if someone else pressed so close to their groin, and it’s just somehow Max making him go crazy.
Charles fucks girls, and he likes it, and his traitorous mind wanting to kiss Max is nothing more than the confusion of all of the above, and the fact he hasn’t been laid in weeks.
He does not like boys. He does not want to kiss them, or hold them, or be romantic with them, or fuck them.
He does not want to do any of that with Max, either. Especially.
Charles turns 18 in a week. He throws himself into party planning harder than he has before under the guise of celebrating this big milestone, and everyone buys into it. Except Carlos, who seems to permanently look at Charles with one eyebrow raised. It doesn’t suit him.
Anyway, Charles can’t be too critical of him, because Carlos’ parents own a house in the town next to Grove, which he has generously offered to host Charles’ party in. His parents barely ever stay there, having spent an outrageous amount on this big six-bedroom stately home only to spend the entire year in Mallorca. Charles doesn’t blame them for skipping English weather for the Mediterranean sun – it just means he has to keep his mouth shut for a week when he wants to snap at Carlos.
There’s not many people per year at Grove, so Charles invites the entire sixth form. He can’t really imply everyone except Max Verstappen by word of mouth, so Charles just hopes Max has enough social wherewithal to know when he is and is not wanted.
It’s fine, even if he does show up, it’s not like there’s some other gay stranger he can suck face with. Charles’ skin feels itchy just at the thought. Charles has specifically been not thinking about any of his previous…realizations. He’s seventeen for fuck’s sake, of course the idea of… action would get him to lose his mind a little, leave him a little flustered.
Somewhere in these few interactions, some integral wires have been crossed, is all. Charles will simply un cross them, and separate his need to get laid from whatever Max has plagued his mind with. He hasn’t been thinking about it, and he won’t think about it, and he definitely did not want Max’s mouth on his at all.
So, Charles will keep to his friends at his party, and he gets to be the center of attention, and there’ll be enough liquor to drown any thoughts that might say otherwise.
“Carlos, my fingers are hurting,” Charles complains. “I cannot tie any more of the balloons.”
He sighs dramatically, doing one last balloon and tying it, before pinging it in Carlos’ direction. Carlos yelps, letting go of the balloon he was blowing up so it zooms and hits Charles.
“You are barely doing any, see,” Carlos gestures to the pile that is considerably larger than Charles’. “I am winning at this.”
The insinuation of a competition has Charles momentarily wanting to immediately blow up far more balloons than Carlos, but it leaves him quickly. He flops down on the couch.
“No, Carlos, I am doing plenty,” he says. There are balloons now scattered across the living room, and a few lights strung around the walls. If it were any warmer, he would have focused on making the back patio with the pool something special – but this far into autumn and the evenings are far too cold to skip a scarf, let alone strip down for a glorified ice bath.
Charles is sure the patio will be littered with cigarette butts before the night is over, even with the vintage ash tray the Sainz’s bought from some overpriced boutique in Barcelona. Charles checks the fridge again, making sure the cans on cans stacked in there seem like enough for the night. There’s numerous bottles on the kitchen counter also: half-drunk vodka that’s sat in the freezer for weeks; the rancid anise-flavored thing one of Carlos’ friends brought back from a trip to America; some sickly sweet mixer Charles is likely to just toss into a bowl of punch.
He rocks on the heels of his feet, tapping at the counter.
It’s his birthday. Tonight will be fun. It’s all about him.
Carlos calls from the other room, asking for more help. Charles rolls his eyes and answers anyway.
The music thumps loudly across the living room, bass vibrating along the hard wood floors. Charles has had a few drinks, enough where his hand has never been empty and the string lights are starting to look more magical. Carlos did a great job, and Charles thanks him with a kiss on the cheek, messy and overdramatic, just to see Carlos squirm and blush.
“Charles! You are drinking too much,” Carlos jests, trying to tug the bottle of beer out of Charles’ hands.
Charles smiles wide, feeling content to be surrounded with his friends, center of attention. He’s wearing some oversized shirt, this vintage thing he picked up at a thrift store over the summer. It billows off his body, flowing around himself in the sticky evening of the night.
Even with the house’s old radiator heating, the air is thick, the thrum of bodies moving through the rooms warming up the place. It feels like a hot summer night, sweat plastered to Charles’ forehead, humid where nothing feels like a break except the sharp chill outside.
Every time he steps out on the balcony to pull out a cigarette, his hands start to feel cold before the embers have even come close to whispering around his fingers. It’s one of his biggest vices – cigarettes. All of his friends only smoke because they think it looks cool – which it does – but Charles likes it even more. He loves the headrush, the dizzying high. He loves how close someone has to lean in to light a cigarette, the sensuality of putting one right between his lips and moving that much closer to catch the flame. And – worst of all – he likes the smell. The thick, rich scent that lingers on clothes, on hands, on tongues.
Flicking the butt of the cigarette off into the garden, Charles rejoins his party, happy, loose. A drink is immediately supplied into his hand, and as Charles goes to turn and say thank you –
Max is in the corner of the room.
The grip on Charles’ drink tightens. Max is standing there, beer in his hand, talking to…someone. A friend of a friend, maybe, Charles isn’t too sure. Max hasn’t even said hello yet, hasn’t come and said happy birthday or anything, even though this party is clearly for Charles. Maybe he hasn’t been here long, just arrived, but Charles can’t then figure out why Max would be so engrossed in conversation with this somebody at Charles’ own fucking birthday –
A wave of nausea floods Charles’ veins. Charles feels something cold and wet spill on his shirt, and he glances down to see it’s his own drink, sloshing out of the silly plastic glass. He’s walking, his alcohol-laden brain somehow managing to send a signal to one foot and then the other, left right left right. The nausea bubbles under his skin, rising and stinging as Max gets closer.
It’s slow motion, like the scene moves through molasses in front of Charles’ eyes. Max turns his head, eyebrows frowning slightly in an emotion Charles is too gone to decipher. The friend of a friend of a friend, whoever it is, goes to say something to Charles, maybe wish him happy birthday, but all Charles does is –
“Surprised you even bothered to show up,” Charles says, watching the line of Max’s jaw tense slightly. “What a sacrifice to make, choosing this instead of being all over some stranger–”
Charles’ breath leaves him in a squeak as Max’s hand comes to the back of Charles’ neck, scruffing him like a fucking kitten and dragging him into the empty dining room next door. Max slams the door closed behind them, and the whole room spins slightly, the ceiling feeling like it might cave in on them. Charles rubs the back of his neck, skin feeling hot from Max’s unforgiving grasp.
“Charles, what the fuck is your problem?” Max says. The sound of the party, the music and the shrieks of laughter, filter in muffled through the door. It’s like Charles is suddenly only able to tune into one radio frequency at a time, the rest filled with static – and right now he’s fucking dialed in on the Max Verstappen show.
“It’s my birthday,” Charles says, tilting his head like he’s studying a wild animal. Max feels like that sometimes – a creature to be studied, examined under a microscope. Charles would have liked nothing more these past few weeks than to take a small scalpel and pry him apart, find out where all the answers lurk deep beneath his skin.
Max takes a slow inhale. Charles refuses to feel like a child being told off by his parents.
“Sorry for showing up, I guess,” Max huffs. “You only invited the entire fucking year. Everyone’s here tonight– what was I supposed to do? Sit at home?”
There’s a pang in Charles’ chest, an odd murky feeling, that Max is only here because there was nothing better to do.
“You seem to find better ways to spend your weekends,” Charles says, daring. He doesn’t even want to provoke him, but it’s like the words spill out of him before he can bite down on his teeth, like he could physically cage them and prevent them from coming out. Charles doesn’t even want anything, would never admit to it, just maybe wanted to hear that Max came out tonight to see him.
“I’m so fucking sick of you and your–” Max cuts himself off. “Why are you so obsessed, hm? Watching me across the bar wasn’t enough? Calling me a freak and yet you’re here every fucking moment going on about that bar. Desperate to see it again?”
“Well I just didn’t think there would be anyone here that want someone so easy but I guess you wasted no time finding someone–”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, now I can’t even talk to anyone without you thinking I’m going to hit on them?” Max takes two steps back, fingers coming to pinch at his nose. Charles doesn’t say anything, glaring at him from where he stands. “Calling me easy like you don’t put out for any fucking thing with tits.”
“No, by all means, go ahead,” Charles leers, hands gesturing wildly. “I mean why not just parade this around in all of our faces, show everyone you’d spread your legs so easily for them.”
Suddenly, Max is there. In his face, his forearm knocking him into the wall, pinning him there. Charles’ sight seems to be working slower than the world around him, unable to catch up with what’s going on.
Max is so close. Able to count every eyelash kind of close. Can feel the warm rush of his breath kind of close. Charles wonders if he can smell the smoke that lingers on his lips. And maybe Charles is drunk, maybe the wires that got crossed on the stairwell weeks ago are on fire – but Max looks pretty. Eyes bright with an anger only ever directed at Charles, lips parted as he breathes.
He could just – take it. Charles could lean in and finally quiet the noise that has encased his mind in static for weeks, learn what Max’s lips taste like. He’s so drunk, he has to be – but he could rid himself of the crazed obsession he has had ever since Max brought it up. It’s his birthday; they’re alone. Charles glances at Max’s lips.
Max sees him, eyes registering where Charles is looking and jerks backwards, arm still firm on Charles’ chest. Charles can see the whirlwind of thoughts zipping through his mind, the cogs visibly turning.
“Max,” he whispers, barely a sound.
Max darts his eyes – to the door, to Charles’ eyes, to his lips, to where his forearm is pressed on his chest – and finally pulls his arm back.
“What the fuck–”
Charles immediately reaches back out to him, grabbing his wrist and pulling. He won’t– he can’t make the move, can’t ask for it, but Max knows, he must know. It’s their way, their constant games of give and take, of push and pull. It’s Max's turn to hit, to swipe, to punch – to take.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at Charles, disgust curling around his mouth, disappointment seeping between his teeth.
He takes a step back, yanking his arm from Charles’ grip like the mere touch seared his skin.
“Is this some fucking joke to you? ” Max spits out.
The air in the room feels like a single flame could set the whole room alight, burn the two of them down and take their wild tension with them.
“No– Max, it’s– no, I just–” Charles can’t seem to find his words, but Max continues anyway.
“You just what? Wanted a laugh? Wanted everyone to gather round and look at the local fucking faggot, is that it?”
Charles hiccups, breath laden with the taste of cheap liquor. His voice cracks. “It’s my birthday. And you didn’t even– you don’t even care.”
Max opens the door, letting the noise of the party rush through the gaps, drowning them in it. When he speaks, his face is stone.
“Hope you get everything you wished for,” Max says, cutting through the noise, sharp and acidic.
Carlos finds Charles a few minutes later, slumped down against the same wall Max had him pinned against. Carlos is far too drunk to be any sort of useful support, but his big eyes and crooked smile and insistent manner on Charles having a good time helps Charles remember his limbs aren't made from lead. Carlos ruffles his hair, grabbing him by the arms and hoisting him up.
“You are missing out on the birthday cake, Charles,” he says, slurring all the syllables together, rolling the r’s of Charles’ name. “I am saving some just for you.”
Charles sniffles, pretending like he wasn’t crying in the billowing sleeves of his blouse at his own party. He takes a big inhale, plasters on the dimpled smile he knows people will fold for, and rejoins the crowd, determined to not let anyone, especially not Max, ruin his birthday.
Chapter 2: all i'm thinking, all i know is
Chapter Text
One of the first things Max remembers from being a kid is not being weak. That people only respect those who are strong, tough, hard. His dad said no one takes a weak man seriously. No one wants a weak man. The weak man is useless, pathetic.
Max’s fingernails dig into his palms, red crescents lingering in his skin as the hot shower water batters his body. It’s painting his chest in flares of red, the searing heat not enough to tear his mind away from his father’s voice. Not enough to stop the tears that fall from his eyes, accompanying the water and running down his whole body, muffled and lost among the shower.
The first time Max cried over Charles, it was when they were much younger, when Max couldn’t figure out why his cheeks flushed red at Charles’ cutting words and why he had the urge to fight back. He wanted to hit something, to hit Charles, when Charles had said something that made him so angry and the teachers took Charles’ side – as they always did, always caving to his big doe eyes. Max had stormed back to his room that day and those first traitorous tears had fallen from his eyes.
And yet now, years later, Max is doing the same thing. Crying over Charles.
Charles had done what he always does: not something snarky, not a snide comment laced with venom, but purposeful, intentional cruelty all the same.
No, this time, Charles had reached right into Max’s ribcage, clumsy hands tearing through flesh, and sunk his nails into Max’s soft, pitiful heart.
He doesn’t want to like Charles, he doesn’t want to feel the way he does about any boy, let alone him. But his faithless heart went anyway. There was a moment, a split second, barely tangible and so tense it felt like the room might go up in flames – where it felt like it could be real. A moment where Charles looked at him, so close to Max’s face he could count every freckle scattered across his cheeks – and then a world that Max doesn’t live in flashed as he blinked.
A world where Max sits that close to Charles regularly, where he could spend his afternoons out on the stone and grass, languidly counting each individual freckle. A world where Charles laughs and it’s Max’s to swallow, Max’s to hold, to cherish. A world where Charles makes sarcastic comments laced with affection, where his wandering hands pinch gently at Max’s sides and explore the planes of his chest.
And as soon as the thought started – it ended.
There was Charles, a breath away, dangling his worst fear right in front of him as though it were a playground game. One rigged against Max, where no matter how well he followed the rules, he was ending up on the ground, knees scraped and hands torn in defeat.
The moment ended, and Max remembered who he was. Weak, pathetic, but not the pawn of Charles.
A door slams in the bathroom somewhere. Max snaps out of it, bites down on his bottom lip to stop the trembling, and turns the tap to cold. He picks up the soap, lathering it over his body as the water goes lukewarm, then cold, then icy. It pelts his skin, wakes him up, and when he steps out into his towel, he feels like he can at least take a breath.
“Are you going to Lando’s Halloween party?” Alex asks from his bed.
Max turns around from his desk, nose buried in physics homework. “Maybe?”
Alex chuckles at him, lying down on his bed and picking up the book he was reading. “You should! Everyone’s going. I can even help figure out a costume for you.”
Max doesn't want to think about who everyone might entail. “Who’s to say I don’t have a costume?” Max asks instead.
Alex raises his eyebrows. “Wearing your school uniform and saying you’re from Dead Poet’s Society does not count as a uniform.”
Max doesn’t even know what Alex is referring to, but he understands the jab nonetheless. He huffs, returning back to where gravitational potential energy was making less and less sense.
“You should come anyway! We’ll sort something out for you to wear.”
Max just hums. “Whatever.”
Alex lets it slide for now, but Max knows he’ll be bothering him all week about it. He won’t let Charles stop him from going to a party, by no means, it’s just…Charles. It’s always Charles.
The week passes without incident, classes either taken up by tests or studying for tests or talking about university applications and essays. Max hasn’t received a call or letter from his father at school for years now, only bothering to grace the place with his presence when he’s forced to pick Max up and drop him off, but the burden of his father’s expectation weighs heavy regardless. A ticking bomb strapped to his chest that slows down with good results, but never deactivates.
When Halloween rolls around, Max and Alex are splitting a clear water bottle filled with vodka, something they had lying around, stolen from when they were too young to buy their own alcohol. Grove doesn’t let the students bring alcohol into the dorms anyway, but there’s ways to get around. The odd concealed water bottle, mini bottles of Fireball or Jaeger stuffed into the side of their boots.
Alex is going through both of their wardrobes trying to find something for Max to wear. Alex, on the other hand is in head to toe yellow, matching banana-colored button up shirt and loose trousers, tucked into ridiculous boots. Lying on the bed is a wide-brimmed hat, something that clearly was picked out of the large bins at the local thrift store.
“Ah-hah!” Alex shrieks, pulling a pair of slightly worn feather wings from a box under his bed. “You can wear these!”
“And be what, a hunting casualty?” Max remarks.
Alex brings them over to Max anyway, grabbing at his hands to loop his arms into the elastic bands. “See! You can be an angel, how fitting, Mr. Straight A’s.”
Max glances at himself in the mirror and laughs. It’s a pretty pathetic costume.
“Look we can…” Max watches as Alex grabs one of the wire coathangers from the closet, and starts bending it into a wonky circle. “If we just wrap– I have an old undershirt I was going to toss, we can just wrap that around this and then…voila!”
Alex holds up his masterpiece, a jagged ring wrapped in white cotton. Max barks out a laugh.
“Hey!” Alex laughs.
Max takes another swig of the shitty alcohol, and reaches out for the halo. It sits on the top of his head, a piece of wire digging in slightly, and he admires himself in the mirror.
The outfit is shit.
“The outfit is shit,” he says.
Alex hits him with a t-shirt. “You’ve had all year to plan, not my fault.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Alex opens it to his insufferable and prudish friend, George. Alex is a great roommate – except for his choice in best friends. George hasn’t ever really done anything to Max, not like Charles has, but they’ve never really seen eye to eye.
Where Alex has gone all out in his silly but admirable costume, George is wearing regular clothes – the only thing out of place is the headband with two small brown ears on it. Max stares at him.
“You are, what, Alex’s pet tonight?” Max asks dryly, “You were supposed to come as something else tonight, Curious George, not just yourself.”
“And you’re, what?” George sneers at him, “Lucifer?”
He hears Alex sigh, and Max pretends to laugh.
“Isn’t the hat such a good find?” Alex chimes in, a clear attempt to get Max from antagonizing George.
Trying not to let his bad attitude last all night, Max exhales and nods. “It looks good.”
George digs through the tote bag he brought with him. “Max, Alex told me to bring this for you,” he says, holding out a can.
Max studies it, unsure what he means, when his eyes catch the word glitter.
“Fuck off, you are not putting glitter in my hair,” Max says, but Alex has already grabbed the bottle and is cornering Max in their own room.
“Max! Come on, just your cheeks maybe. And neck. And arms,” Alex says, scanning his body. “It’s for the costume! It’s more fun!”
Max sighs, the fight leaving him easily, and he opens his arms. “Fine. Whatever. Make me a beautiful angel.”
Alex giggles and starts to spray, covering Max as well as the floor, sheets, and anything in the vicinity in silver glitter. When Max looks in the mirror again, his cheeks are dusted and shiny, his arms sparkling in the low light of their room.
This will be such a bitch to clean up.
The party is in full swing by the time Max, Alex, and George show up. Lando is one of the blatantly wealthy kids, the kind whose parents likely paid for a building to be named after them in order to secure him a spot at Grove. Unlike Carlos, whose modest five-bedroom house can be somewhat excused under the guide of practicality, Lando’s house is outrageously large. There’s a swimming pool out the back, good for all three days of sun that the area gets each year. The master bedroom has a jacuzzi tub, along with two rainfall showerheads, and marble imported from Italy or Sardinia or somewhere.
They have clearly paid for decorators to line the outside of the house with orange and purple lights, lining the house with a precision found only with money and not sheer interest. When they enter, a fog rolls across their feet and calves, licking at their shoes as they pass through the spider and bat decorated walls.
Max is buzzed, but not drunk enough not to appreciate the effort Lando’s parents put into this party. If you’re going to have a stupid amount of money, might as well put a stupid amount of effort into a teen party.
He is immediately greeted by Lando, eyes wide and only slightly bloodshot, but the clear scent of weed gives him away.
“Max! Don’t you look dashing,” he jokes, nudging Max in the rib with his elbow. Max laughs and Lando hands him a can of beer. He’s in some suit jacket and trousers, no shirt on underneath, just the bony knobs of his torso poking out from underneath. He follows Max’s eyes and registers his confusion. “I’m Mick Jagger! Come on, that’s easy!”
Lando’s whining voice just adds to the comedy of it all – there’s no world in which Lando could pass off as Mick Jagger. Max is almost certain his suit costs as much as one term’s fees at Grove.
They laugh, Max gets dragged to the main room at the back, and the next few hours pass by in a haze of amateur strobe lights, shitty cans of beer, and hits from a badly-rolled joint. Max feels loose, and he’s having fun, and the music is loud enough to drown out any thoughts aside from how good he feels.
The late autumn air nips at his skin as he stumbles outside again, slinking to the side deck that overlooks some sort of manicured garden. The throng of bodies inside is warm, heating up the inside like a furnace, and Max needs a gulp of fresh air.
He leans over the fencing, tilting his head up to the sky. His shitty handmade halo slides slightly and Max adjusts it, having kept it prodding into his head all night to make sure it doesn’t fall off. He wasn’t the only one in a last-minute costume, but at this point everyone has had far too many drinks to care. He looks up at the night sky, counts the stars in Orion’s Belt, traces Ursa Major with his eyes.
The stars begin to move, spinning and swaying in his vision, and he drops his head down in a fruitless attempt to sober up.
“Fallen angel out here all alone?” A melodic voice cuts through where Max’s ears were ringing. He jolts up, turning around to see–
“Charles? What–”
“Oh,” Charles says, flinching like he wasn’t expecting it. His eyes scrunch up and he takes a slow, unsteady step forward. “I didn’t know it was you.”
Max rolls his eyes. He wishes he were more sober to deal with Charles. Or far, far drunker. “Well, it’s me. Sorry to disappoint.”
Charles just hums, eyebrows still furrowed like he’s examining Max. He feels fear curl in his gut, low and slimy. Here they are again, just the two of them, alcohol coursing through their systems. This time there’s no doors to slam, no ceiling to close in on them, just the deck and the stars watching down on them with sharp eyes.
And maybe God is playing cruel tricks on Max in particular, because it seems that Charles has decided to show up as the devil this evening. He’s in leather pants so tight he probably will have to get cut out of them later, and an oversized red shirt hangs off his shoulders, more buttons undone than together. Resting on his head is a small headband, with unmistakable red horns poking through the brown curls.
Max feels like all those parables on temptation have just started to make a little more sense.
Charles takes a few more steps forward, unstable on his legs, like a fawn that has just learned how to walk. He reaches the railing, standing a metre or so from Max, and leans his weight back against it, hand clutched like it might disappear. There’s red paint all over his hand, up his wrist, and streaked across his collarbone. The shirt hides more of it, and Max’s drunken, foolish mind wishes he could see more.
“Can I help you?” Max asks. He tries not to be short with his tone, but somehow around Charles it just comes out that way. He has been having such a lovely time, laughing with Lando and Alex and dancing and shouting the wrong lyrics to songs blaring through the party.
Charles hums again, shaking his head. Max is half worried he’ll be sick out here, and he resolves to leave well before he can be responsible for any of that.
“Are you having a nice time?” Charles says, words slightly slurred. He turns his head to look at Max, and those godforsaken eyes catch his, green and beautiful and ablaze.
Max bites his tongue on the sarcastic response that threatened to spill out, teeth clamping down in protest. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Lando throws a good party.”
Charles chuckles a little. “His parents do, at least.”
That catches Max by surprise, and he lets out a short laugh. Max can’t say he was paying too much attention at Charles’ party, all but cornered the moment he arrived, but this party is larger and more extravagant by a mile.
“Do you think they’re just sitting upstairs?” Max asks, trying to force a smirk to land on his face. Charles looks puzzled, his brain working far slower than usual, before he breaks into a grin.
“Yes, I am sure they are just–” Charles mimes getting into bed, pulling the covers up and turning on an invisible television. “They cannot hear a word from the music so they are just pretending.”
Max laughs at Charles’ silly impression, goes to make another comment, and then he catches himself. Charles is drunk, and Max has been here before. He won’t let it happen again.
Steeling himself, he looks back out across the garden. Charles turns against the railing to look in the same direction as Max, and inches that much closer to him as he does so. He must be drunk, oblivious to his surroundings and his spatial awareness.
“Is that halo the best you could do?” Charles says without looking at him.
Max almost sighs, relief washing over him as they revert back to their contentious ways. “You still knew it was a halo,” Max says. “Not quite sure the Bible said the devil wore tight leather pants.”
It makes Charles laugh, and Max forgot if that was his intention or not.
“I did not realize we were going for biblically accurate,” Charles retorts. “I think you would have to try a little harder to be an angel as intimidating as they claim to be.”
Max is certain it’s meant to be an insult, but it sounds…dangerous. Like something closer to flirting.
The world spins a little more. The night is quiet in front of them, the grounds of the Norris estate painted in darkness. An owl hoots low in the distance, carried across the neatly mowed grass with the autumn breeze. Something gets knocked off a countertop inside, a loud thud accompanied by raucous cheers, muffled through the panes of glass. Max wonders if his outfit looks stupid.
“How was that physics test this week? Carlos said it was pretty rough,” Charles says. He’s resting his chin on his palm, leaning against the railing. The position has his ass sticking out, leather pants stretched taut over it. Max wishes he could take a hint and go inside.
“It was, uh,” He stutters, trying to piece together Charles’ question. “Fine, yeah. Hard. Gravitational potential energy and all that, kinetic motion.”
He’s not really sure why Charles is asking, why he’s standing here rattling off curriculum topics.
“Mhmm,” Charles mumbles. “Is that what you are wanting to study at uni, physics?”
Max turns to him, breath sticking in his throat as the moonlight catches Charles’ eyes. It seems so wrong to have Max dressed as the angel here when he feels like Charles is the one sent from above. Ethereal in the silver glow of the late October moon, contradicted only by the two small horns peeking out from the tufts of hair.
“Yes,” Max responds. It sounds short, curt, but he’s worried if he says anything further, a torrent of words he’ll never be able to take back will escape, unforgivable to even himself. “Maths, maybe.”
He can’t really remember why they’re talking about maths. Max needs to walk away, to snap and fight and put up the walls he has built with careless and messy hands, needs to fortify them once more.
Charles shifts closer to him. He’s still unsteady on his feet, and Max thinks about passing it off as a misguided stumble, a drunken move, but Charles doesn’t step back. They’re side by side now, so close that Max thinks he can feel the warmth of Charles leaving his body, the way he absorbs people and light and laughter coming off him in waves.
“The beer inside is shit,” Max says, desperate to break the silence, to talk about anything that isn’t school, or himself, or Charles.
He expects Charles to laugh, or at least feign a polite snicker, but he doesn’t do anything. He just continues looking at Max, eyes bright. Max watches his mouth open slightly, like a word is dancing on the tip of his tongue, framed by a perfect cupid’s bow. He averts his eyes – he can’t look at Charles’ lips, he won’t make the mistake again.
Charles takes a step closer.
There’s a rush of emotion, a wave that floods Max’s veins, filling up his lungs. They’re standing flush now, the conversation turning them slightly towards each other, arms pressed to arms, hips to hips. Charles is swaying slightly, an aftereffect of the liquor in his system, and not the night air.
Max knows he should run. He should turn, he should tell Charles again and again and again how he wants nothing to do with him, not his pity or his jokes or his deceiving looks and actions. He should run the only way he knows how: with anger on his tongue and hostility in his hands.
If he were any less drunk, if the owl were hooting to a different song, if the stars dimmed for the night and the breeze stopped rustling in the trees and the moon swallowed itself into a black hole – Max would turn away. Because it’s Charles.
But, oh, it’s Charles.
Eyelashes flutter against those green eyes, and then they’re just a breath apart, and Max is closing the gap, and it’s the most foolish thing he’s ever done.
Because now, he knows what Charles’ lips feel like. Now, he doesn’t have to imagine what it might sound like, the small inhale on Charles’ tongue, or what it might taste like, the warmth of alcohol on his breath.
No – Max will never be able to forget this.
It’s just one press, one soft, simple press of his lips, and Max’s life may be over as he knows it. Charles will not want this when he’s sober, he will not remember this when he’s sober, he will not care when he’s sober.
Max should have pulled away the moment he saw it coming. He should have thought about all the cruel ways Charles has hurt him, the venomous words thrown carelessly in his direction, the disdain on his face when he looks at Max. He should be better, stronger, able to stand up for himself and not let himself just become the drunken whim of someone who hates him with a morbid curiosity. Charles will get to turn the page, close the book, go on living his life having addressed his bizarre fascination with Max and with boys and with kissing boys and with kissing Max.
But Max will stay here, in this moment, bathed in the silver moonlight with glitter in his hair and the soft lips of the boy he’s condemned to like against his own.
For his own sake, his own dignity, Max pulls back. He has to end it here, has to cut off the growth before it takes over his body like a parasite, infesting his being. And if that weren’t enough, if the slow torture of Charles isn’t suffering enough, Max blinks his eyes open to Charles who instinctively chases after the kiss, eyes still closed.
Max stumbles back. Charles has glitter on his shirt, and Max looks down in horror at himself to see his white shirt stained red by Charles’ painted hands. Irrefutable, damnable evidence of his mistake. Charles’ eyes open, brows furrowing as he watches Max step away.
He can’t stay and watch the disgust, the horror creep over Charles’ features. He won’t.
“I’m– I think I’ll–” Max stutters out, heading for the exit.
He hears Charles protest behind him, his name on Charles’ lips and his whole body screams at him to turn around. But he cannot listen to his treacherous heart. Max leaves Charles on the deck, alone in the cool night air, and walks home.
It’s a longer walk than he would have liked, the cold seeping into his skin as each minute passes. His room is empty when he gets home, lights off and windows closed. Only then – only once Max has torn off his shirt and scrubbed at the red paint ‘til his skin is raw and thrown himself into the tangled mess of his sheets – only then does Max let himself cry.
Notes:
ok. so i was like "i'll make this multichaptered just so if i ever get any plot ideas i can add scenes chapter by chapter" in a very noncommittal way and guess what. i have my plot. no thanks to regent who has just spiraled with me over this whole thing (and beta'd it. in case youre wondering why there's less mistakes in this one than the others. thank u). all to say, there's still no REAL promise of a schedule or a plan, but i am envisioning maybe 8-10 chapters... MAYBE... i will give them a happy ending no matter how much it pains me truly.
soooo. ch titles now from party 4 u after beautiful ao3 user deviousautumn pointed it out! let me know ur thoughts on poor wet cat max 3
Chapter Text
It won’t leave Charles’ mind.
Nothing seems to shake it from his vision, not staying up late hunched over a desk studying, not working out at the shitty campus gym, not fucking the girl from the sister school while Carlos was out one night.
An endless fucking loop of Max’s lips against his. Lean in, press, take a breath – Max is gone.
Charles barely remembers how he ended up on the deck. He left the dance floor, lighter clutched in his red-stained hands ready to ask whoever was out having a smoke for a cigarette. And then Max was there, drenched in moonlight, a real fucking angel with his wonky halo and his worn wings.
Charles tried to be nice, to be pleasant. Tried to show Max he could be normal and hold his tongue and be friends, be the eighteen year olds that they’re supposed to be, not the bickering, immature kids poking each other with sticks. Maybe Max had too much to drink, huffing out one word answers and short sentences. Charles was being patient. Nice.
But that voice, the same one from Charles’ birthday that has been haunting him ever since the beginning of the year, since The Staircase Moment, was loud in his ears. A stream of unintelligible thoughts, mindless static noise, but a sole focus on Max’s lips. Charles isn’t even sure he wanted it – but it was dark, they were alone, and Max was shimmering on a balcony with his eyes as bright as the glitter on his cheeks. And unlike Charles’ birthday, the words were soft, the actions slow.
Max’s lips were on his, and Charles has yet to recover.
He’s not even sure he liked it in all honesty. In all of his reckoning, he thought maybe a kiss would put the part of him to rest and he could continue on, back to their normal ways and it would close this rather peculiar chapter in their lives.
He’s almost certain he didn’t like it, the more he thinks about it. Max was cold, and his lips were a bit much, so different to women, and Charles is pretty sure it was the alcohol making his brain feel like it was turning to honey, molten and soft and slow. And it was the cold, the crisp air against the skin that peeked out from his shirt, that caused the ripples up his spine, the low buzz in the base of his neck
He didn’t like it, and he’s not sure why it happened, and it’s the only thing he can think about every waking minute of the day.
Clearly the Halloween party had no effect on Max whatsoever, Charles comes to find out, as he acts no different than normal. He sits next to Alex at dinner, he has his hand up for every question in their physics class (according to Carlos, who Charles absolutely does not press for details), and he completely, blatantly, arrogantly, ignores Charles.
The end of term exams will be coming quicker than Charles can anticipate, so he just focuses on those. Max doesn’t talk to him – barely even glances his way when Charles enters the common room. They never speak about Halloween, much less anything else, and Max somehow doesn’t even register Charles’ existence. Nevermind that it was Max who started this whole thing.
Whatever.
Charles is sitting next to Carlos on the couches in the dorm living room while Seb works on setting up the first fire of the season. The mid-November chill has officially taken them from autumn to winter, and as the last few leaves cling to the trees with all their might, the dorm house had begged Seb to turn on the fireplace.
Charles watches Seb fiddle with the kindling, arranging the logs, while pointedly ignoring George who stands over him. There’s criticism on the tip of his tongue, held back only by the rolling of Seb’s eyes and the frequent sighs.
Over on the table, directly in Charles’ field of vision (though he is not looking at all), Max is playing cards with Alex and another friend. They’re laughing at something, which is peculiar, Charles thinks, because he has never known Max not to be competitive. Even in things that could barely be assigned a winner, Max would do anything it took to win. He counted how many times he was picked to be line leader to prove that he won at it, back when they had just started school.
(Which, it wasn’t a competition, something as trivial as being picked to be the line leader.)
(Not that Charles counted.)
(Charles was picked just as many times as Max was, he just kept it to himself.)
So he finds it hard to believe Max is genuinely laughing at this game, whatever silly thing they’re playing. Charles huffs, poking into Carlos’ side and staring at the page of the book he is reading. Nothing has been sticking anyway; he’s been on the same page ever since everyone got down here and started being so noisy. It’s hard to concentrate.
Seb stands up with a little Ahah! and Charles turns to see the flames start licking their away around the logs, embers flaking in the fireplace. He dusts his hands off, bids the boys goodnight, and turns to his room.
“Please make sure to turn the fan off once the fire has died!” He calls out. All the boys know he will be up anyway to make sure, when he does his late night rounds after curfew, but they call out in collective agreement.
Carlos watches Seb leave, and then once he’s out of earshot, he pokes Charles with his foot.
“Ay, I am hearing that Sebastian was seen with a man on the weekend,” he says, eyes going wide on the word man. Charles isn’t following.
“What do you mean?” He asks. Someone pipes in before Carlos can speak.
“I knew it! I heard so too – that he’s gay and has some older boyfriend.”
Charles feels confused, his mind trying to fit a jigsaw piece into a completely different puzzle. Seb isn’t gay. He’s…normal.
“I mean gay marriage is legal now, it could be his husband,” Carlos says, mouth curling around the last word like it’s an infectious disease, the mere uttering of it could become contagious. The boys around them all laugh, one big joke. Charles smiles, hoping no one can see through his pathetic barrier to his ongoing crisis.
“That’s so gross, ew,” one of Carlos’ friends jeers.
Charles makes the mistake of looking up at Max; he’s been silent since the group started this gossip, unusual for someone who holds an opinion on the smallest of matters. When they lock eyes, Charles watches Max’s face harden, but not without seeing the split second of emotion flash across his face. The same one Charles saw all those weeks ago in the stairwell.
Fear.
The boys are still going on, leering and laughing at the prospect of Seb with a man, and they’re right, it freaks Charles out. But he can feel Max watching him, both of them holding the string of the other’s bow taut in their hands, arrows pointed at themselves. One wrong move, and they both end up wounded.
“Ay, Charles, what do you think, no? He has always seemed a little…” Carlos pauses, making some limp motion with his hands, “...fruity.”
The boys turn to him. It’s his turn for a comment, his turn to continue the joke, to be the funny one. That’s how it always goes – you can never be the one to back down. To say it isn’t funny, to ruin the jovial atmosphere, to have fingers pointed at you and get booed for taking everything too seriously.
“Oh, I mean–” Seized by pure panic, Charles acts on instinct. “I'm surprised they even let him work here around boys all the time, if that's what he's doing in his free time.”
Charles pictures glitter on a red shirt.
The room erupts in laughter, voices adding and piling on to the joke. His chest feels tight.
Seb has never been anything except wonderfully kind and extraordinarily interesting to him. Charles’ lungs feel like they’re seizing, shriveling up, turning him inside out.
It wasn’t his place to speak up. He’s not even gay, but he just – he didn’t know what to do. No way out, all walls closing in.
Charles doesn’t watch Max exit the room. He doesn’t look his way, he doesn’t see the way Max’s knuckles turned white, his cards long abandoned on the table.
Charles thinks of Max’s lips on his own, and he wonders whether the disgust that sits low in his guts is aimed at Max, or a mirror.
Charles picks at the grass, peeling the leaves of clovers and letting them fall to the floor. A whistle blows and he looks up, but it’s still not his turn. Seb has them practicing for the inter-house rugby game, an annual affair that never fails to turn Charles hyper-competitive. And while Charles understands that Seb can’t have him on the field the whole time enduring practice, and that they have to take turns, Charles is getting restless on the grass.
The sun has yet to come out all week, and the uniform jumpers aren’t much help when Charles is just sitting still. He wants to play, wants it to be his turn now, to prove that he should be part of the house team.
It doesn’t help, either, that Max is currently playing on the field. Charles hasn’t been watching him specifically, but it’s hard to avoid the way his thighs look in the shorts. Maybe he needs to size up, because there seems to be an awful lot of skin showing. Charles isn’t even sure he likes that – he doesn’t, for certain, not on anyone and not on Max. But something has clearly gone wrong with him, Max’s mind games working extremely well because he seems to take up prime real estate in his head these days; beachfront, big windows, a rocking chair out on the patio where Max sits and looks smug in his brain, door locked so Charles can’t enter.
He looks back at the grass. He rips the petals off a daisy one by one.
Maybe Charles is going insane. Maybe the stress of school, of exams, of university, is getting to him and he’s somehow channeled it all into some bizarre, twisted act of self-loathing that somehow involves Max. He wants to graduate, wants to get into a top university, and now his brain is chasing after something he doesn’t want, just to fuck it up a little. Self-sabotage. Or actual sabotage, since Max is orchestrating it all.
It just doesn’t make any sense, he thinks, as another clover gets mauled under his fingers, why Max started this whole thing and then didn’t even seem pleased when Charles drunkenly kissed him. It was a shit kiss, all short and flat and nothing, and then Max ran away like a coward. He didn’t even – well Charles didn’t want him to do anything further but he thought he would at least get a thank you or an apology or something.
No, Max wants him to go insane, and the worst part is, it’s working.
“Leclerc!” Seb shouts, jolting Charles from his grass blade annihilation. “Come on!”
Charles looks up to see the rest of the people waiting on the sidelines are standing up, waiting for him to join them. It must be time to swap in. Finally.
He jogs over, shaking his head in an attempt to purge all the thoughts out of his brain like a dog coming in from the wet, thoughts pinging off him like rain droplets. His team passes out the bibs, and he slips one over his head before lining up with the rest of them. Max is on the far end of the field, but Charles can tell he’s staring right at him.
Even from this distance, Max has that same look in his eyes – the one of nothing, of no recognition or admission or even a hint of a spiral. Looking at Charles like he’s just…anyone else, one of the crowd.
Charles’ team kicks off, sending the ball to the other side and the game commences. It feels good to get running, to call out to his team and cheer on as they play, exerting some physical effort. Charles has been thinking far too much about Max for weeks now, and a bit of exercise in the cool late autumn air might be just what he needs.
Max stays far away from Charles as they play, lost in the shuffle of people as Charles passes back and forth between his team, passing the ball and running and shouting. By the time Seb blows the whistle for a break, Charles feels flush with exertion. He claps his teammates on the back, the hypercompetitiveness running through the veins of all the boys, even for a practice match.
Jogging over to his water bottle, Charles gulps some down, excess spilling over his cheeks and chin. He jumps up and down, wanting to expel all the excess energy he didn’t know he was storing. He just – needed to get outside, needed to run and yell and let the cold air bite at the tips of his ears and channel all of his overthinking and stress into this. It feels good. For the first time in weeks, Charles feels like he can breathe again.
Seb signals for the second half to begin, and they line up. His team gets off to a good start, and Charles almost forgets entirely who he is playing against.
That is, until Charles’ teammate kicks the ball ahead, and there’s a clear path so Charles runs for it. He keeps his head up, tracking the ball, running to catch it like it’s the final of the world championship on the line. As the ball flies down, Charles jumps, pushing himself off the ground.
One moment, Charles has the ball, clutching it to his chest, one foot hitting the ground then –
A heavy weight sends him tumbling towards the grass. His hands drop the ball, coming out instinctively, just enough time before he makes contact with the grass to somewhat soften his landing. Whoever tackled him came straight for his side, a dull pain throbbing in his ribs as he rolls over.
He sees a few pairs of trainers start to come his way, so he pushes himself up, shaky on his legs, and goes to see–
Max.
“What the fuck was that?” The words leave Charles’ mouth before he can even register what’s going on.
Max barely looks up, dusting some dirt off his shins, and shrugs. “Rugby.”
God, it infuriates Charles, how he thinks he can just do anything. The anger crawls under his skin like ants, wriggling and writhing through every cell in his body. “You just – ! You body slammed me. Before both my feet were even back on the ground. How was that fair?”
Max wipes his hands off and rolls his neck. “Do you know the rules of rugby, Charles? There’s this thing called tackling, and it’s very effective – ”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Charles cuts him off. He feels furious, alight with ire. Max and his fucking nonchalance, his feigned sense of superiority, taking out Charles with all his force in an illegal move, for what? A practice game? “I clearly was still in the air!”
“Maybe you’re just not cut out for rugby, hm? Not your thing, I guess,” Max says, shrugging him off and turning around. Charles can see Seb coming their way already, likely to try and offer some diffusing words, but Charles feels like his chest is about to split open.
“You just don’t know how to win without playing dirty! You always have to win, no matter what, bending any fucking rules to get your way,” Charles says. He knows he is raising his voice, but it feels like no matter how loud he shouts, Max is impenetrable. Charles wants to yell and yell and yell, to rattle Max’s whole body until he will listen. But it’s a losing battle – Max never listens, and that just bothers Charles more.
“Oh fuck off, you’re a sore loser,” Max spits back at him, getting up in his space. They keep finding themselves here – close enough to touch. To hit. To –
“Boys! Cut it out,” Seb calls out, blowing his whistle at them.
“I’m not a sore loser – you just can’t stand to see anyone else win!” Charles feels exasperated, hands clenching into fists to avoid hitting him square in the chest. “Grow up, you’re a fucking cheat.”
“Oh please, Charles,” Max says. He starts to turn around, giving Seb a small wave to act like they’re all fine. “Not everything just gets to go your way, I know you’re used to getting whatever you want handed to you on a silver platter. But that’s not real life.”
Charles feels the telltale sign of tears bubbling up in the tightness of his throat. He can’t cry, not now, not out of frustration. Max will feel so vindicated. “Sorry if my parents loved me enough to want to give me – ”
The rest of the sentence is cut off when two big hands hit Charles squarely in the chest, sending him tumbling back to the cold dirt. Charles smacks the ground with his elbows, and Max is standing right over him –
“Enough!” Seb yells. He grabs Max by the wrist, yanking him back from Charles. Max looks furious, blue eyes so cold Charles feels the ice creep into his chest. “What has gotten into you two?”
Max shrugs Seb off, mumbling something that does not sound like an apology. Charles pushes himself up, arms shaky from the surprise of the fall. Seb watches him with a careful eye, making sure that Max has moved far enough away as Charles stands.
“Max, that was unacceptable,” Seb says. Max goes to object, opening his large fucking mouth to likely spew some bullshit, and Seb cuts him off. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Charles feels a smug glee take over his features. Of course, Seb knew it was Max’s fault–
“Both of you are staying back after practice, and you’ll help clean up.”
Charles’ jaw drops. “Seb! But it wasn’t even me –!”
“Charles,” Seb sighs, exhausted. “I don’t want to hear it. Both of you will help, and you will apologize to each other and me before you can leave.”
Charles wants to scream.
He wants to yell and cry and pull all the blades of grass out of the field and burst the rugby ball and cry and cry and cry. It’s just so unfair – and the thought of saying sorry to Max when he did nothing wrong makes his insides twist. Max should be fucking sorry.
Charles isn’t surprised that both of them are sent off the field for the rest of practice. They sit far away from each other, Max sitting on the bench staring straight forward and Charles retaking his place on the grass, picking at the clovers again. The air feels colder this time around.
Max truly brings out a side to him that no one else can. Or wants to. Who goes around trying to rile someone up all day? Max just does whatever he can to get under Charles’ skin and it spreads like some horrible rash, crawling into every divot in his skin and taking hold of his brain, his tongue. He wishes he hadn’t gotten so drunk, wishes he had never stepped outside onto that deck. He wishes instead of leaning in with his mouth, he had gone in with a fist.
Practice ends, and Seb sends everyone else off to the locker rooms. He calls Max and Charles over.
“So?”
Charles tightens his jaw, expecting there to be a painful silence that descends upon them as neither of them budge to say sorry first.
“I apologize, Sebastian, for being disruptive in class. Charles, sorry for pushing you.”
Charles darts his eyes to Max, who keeps looking right at Seb. What the fuck? The bright lights on the field cast a strange shadow onto Max’s face, emphasizing the curve of his jaw, the line of his nose.
“Thank you, Max. I know things are stressful this year with university and the pressures that come with the end of school, but I need you to behave better than this.” Seb smiles, warm and sickly and somehow he doesn’t see through Max’s performatively apologetic façade. “And Charles?”
Seb’s eyes are on him. Charles feels like he is being flayed limb by limb. He wonders if that would be less painful than this.
“Sorry, Seb. It won’t happen again,” Charles all but mumbles, kicking his feet in the grass.
Seb hums in acknowledgement. His arms cross, waiting for the second part. Charles feels like a child being chastised – no doubt his cheeks are aflame, burning all the way to his ears.
“Sorry, Max. For– ” Charles doesn’t even know what to apologize for, proving how ridiculous this whole thing is. “For causing trouble.”
Seb raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push it. “Thank you both. You both have incredibly high potential, and it is downright embarrassing to see you behave so immaturely, for something as trivial as inter-house rugby. It’s behavior like this that would cause the whole thing to be canceled.”
Charles’ stomach drops. It has to just be a threat, there’s no way Seb could do that, but the thought of being the cause of the cancellation makes him feel sick. The other boys would never let him hear the end of how he ruined it for all of them.
“Right, please pack up the equipment and put it in the shed. Neatly, please. Then you’re free to go.”
Seb dismisses them and heads back towards the dorm building, the red brick looming dark in the evening light. Charles knows he’s sulking, picking up the cones and discarded bibs with a pout on his face. He wants this over with, wants to get out of here and go home and curl up in bed.
The field is quiet, only the soft rustling of the leaves and the distant toll of the clock tower cutting through the silence between him and Max. They are both clearly hyperaware of not coming close to each other whatsoever, maintaining a clear distance as they hurry to pack up.
Charles grabs as much as he can hold and heads over to the shed, carefully putting everything back in its correct place. As he turns to leave, Max enters. Charles darts out before Max can try to corner him in there, purposefully knocking his shoulder into Max’s on the way out.
Charles stalks back to the locker room, heading straight for locker sixteen and inputting his lock code one dial spin at a time, hands trembling. Even though all the other boys have cleared out by now, there’s a lingering scent of sweat and body spray choking up the room.
He doesn’t turn around when he hears the door open behind him. Instead, he stares straight ahead, hand poised on the lock. There’s nothing going through his mind, not the code to his locker, not how late he will be for dinner by the time he’s done – just the sound of Max’s footsteps echoing throughout the room as he walks to his locker down the row, bouncing through his mind.
Taking in a deep breath, Charles pulls the lock and releases the catch on the locker door. And then, all at once, his rage bubbles over.
“Why the fuck did you push me over?” Charles shouts, flinging his locker open so hard it ricochets back and slams shut again. He watches Max flinch at the bang. “What is wrong with you?”
Max huffs, barely a laugh. “Piss off, you’re just mad Seb didn’t crumble and take your side like always.”
Charles wishes he could slam the locker shut with Max in it. Slam the locker door on him. Anything.
“It’s not – it’s not my side, you tackled me unfairly then pushed me!” He says, indignant. Max doesn’t even look in his direction, just chuckles and bends down to untie his laces, and Charles feels hysterical. He storms over. “Why are you like this?”
Max doesn’t answer, doesn’t move even as Charles stands merely centimeters from him. Once he’s kicked his shoes off, he stands, coming face-to-face with Charles. “Out of my way.”
Charles shoves him.
This endless cycle, the constant push and pull, keeps leading them back here. Push, shove, get back up. Push, shove, knock him down. Charles isn’t sure when it will be enough, when Max will leave him alone, when Charles will get a fucking moment of peace.
Before he can say anything, Max is moving, and then Charles’ back hits the wall behind him, tile knocking into his head.
Max grabs both his arms, pinning them to the wall, the grip around his wrists unforgiving.
“Is this what you want, hm?” Max says, sneering. Charles’ wrists ache in his grasp. His blue eyes are so intense, and Charles has nowhere to hide. He can barely form a sound, mouth gaping as he tries to ignore the rush that zips through his body.
“Well? Not much to say now?”
Charles tries to wriggle out, but he knows it’s futile. Max has him stuck here. Without a response, Max pushes his whole body up against Charles’. It feels awfully like they’re back on the staircase at the beginning of the year, and Charles’ whole body tenses up.
“Is this what you want?” Max almost whispers, but his words are still laced with venom. The fluorescent lights of the locker room flicker, harsh and bright and glaring.
Charles shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. He doesn’t want this, he wants to thrash and yell and claw at Max. He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t –
“You’re so – ” Max snaps his mouth shut briefly, teeth bared. Charles can hear his breaths, can feel them against his own chest, ragged and heaving. “You want this.”
“I don’t,” Charles chokes out, and the minute the words leave his mouth, Max is shifting his leg, and Charles can’t do anything except shake his head in panic as–
“You’re fucking hard,” Max spits at him.
Charles had been trying to think of anything else, anything except the way his dick started filling out, blood rushing south the moment Max pressed up against him. His hormones have gone haywire, desperate for any action, and he wishes Max would just stay quiet.
“Calling me fucking easy and you’re here practically begging for this.”
“I don’t want you,” Charles says, his voice wobbling. Something like panic grips his whole body, and Max presses again with his thigh. A groan is ripped from Charles’ throat before he clamps his teeth down, forcing his mouth to stay shut.
It’s too much to process all at once, Max putting constant friction on his cock where he’s achingly hard – but Charles can feel him too, feel how bad Max wants this in return.
“You’re sick,” Charles says. It’s weak, but it’s something, anything to get Max to act. But Max has other ideas, and instead he just grinds his hips against Charles again. This time they both moan, the sound embarrassing and humiliating and lewd, echoing off the tiles of the locker room. Charles wants him to keep going, it feels so horribly good, and there’s nowhere else for him to go.
“Say you want it,” Max says, and it comes out just slightly more breathless than before. “Go on.”
Charles is nothing if not proud. “Never.” He says. “Fuck you.”
Max grinds up against him harder, the rough fabric of their shorts dragging against each other, and Charles’ hips jerk at the motion. The whole room feels like it could be spinning, hot and humid and heady. Charles isn’t sure if this is even real, if this is some concussed coma-induced dream he’s having while he’s still lying out on the rugby field.
“Fuck,” he hears Max curse under his breath, and then his hips pick up the pace. It’s not enough, the drag bordering on painful, but Charles is lightheaded with the pressure and it’s been weeks since he last got off in fear of thinking about Max again.
Max’s hard cock presses against Charles’, firm and relentless as his hips rut back and forth. The grip on his wrists never once relents, and he can feel his own breathing becoming staggered, desperate.
It has to be some insanity-induced erection, because nothing is making sense and the room is foggy and Charles feels like he’s right on the edge. He can’t help how his hips chase the feeling, desperate for more.
“I’m – Max, I’m – ” He won’t say it. He won’t give Max the victory, but he needs Max to stop now, before it’s too late – as though their current situation hasn’t crossed a thousand lines. “Max, you can’t – ”
Max just grunts, head dropping to rest on the tile next to Charles’ and then suddenly Max’s hips jerk out of rhythm, and Charles realizes with horror that Max is coming, he’s fucking coming in his pants after grinding against Charles and –
Charles’ orgasm takes him by complete surprise, crashing over him as he squirms in Max’s hold. He can feel the material of both their shorts becoming messy, sticky, and Charles feels like he might black out from the sheer adrenaline coursing through his body. He’s completely unsure if he made a sound, cheeks flushing a deep red as he wonders in horror if he whined, moaned as he came. If Max heard any of it.
Their bodies still, and for one agonizing second they stay right there, curled into each other, before Max drops Charles’ hands. He stumbles back, dazed, and Charles clutches his own wrists, soothing at the reddened skin there. Max looks…indecent; cheeks a vibrant red, mouth swollen pink where he must have been biting down on his lips. Charles worries about what he must look like, too. About the matching stain formed on the front of his shorts.
They make eye contact for one horrible, elongated moment, one where Charles can see the ring of blue, brilliant against blown out pupils. The air is thick, tensely heavy, and Charles thinks one wrong word would bring all the walls tumbling down.
Then, Max turns away from him. He grabs his gym bag, doesn’t even bother to hide the obvious dark patch on his shorts, and storms out the door. Charles stands there, frozen, unsure of what just happened.
The locker room door slamming shut jolts Charles out of his haze, bones rattling with the sound. He moves slowly, like the room is filled with molasses, seeping into his ears and surrounding his brain, thick and gooey. On autopilot, he walks back to his locker and pulls out his uniform. He toes off his shoes, steps out of his shorts, takes off his rugby shirt. His underwear is uncomfortable, sticky and drying, but there’s not much he can do. He buttons up his shirt, and then before he can think of any better solution, he quickly shimmies out of his underwear and puts his trousers on directly.
It’s a short walk to the house. He stuffs the underwear and the rest of his gym clothes in his bag, and walks back, trying to avoid thinking about anything that isn’t the unpleasant sensation of dried come rubbing directly against his school uniform.
Carlos is there when he gets to his room, so Charles just wordlessly slips into their en-suite and gets into the shower.
The water burns. He scrubs at his skin until it’s raw.
Charles closes his eyes and tries not to think about anything at all; not school, not exams, not rugby, not Max, and especially not Max’s hands on him.
Under the searing hot spray, he shivers.
Notes:
max watching charles douse himself in water with pink flushed cheeks: i need to body slam that man to the ground this instant
charles that night: google search am i gay quiz---
ok i know i said irregular updates and then its like BAM BAM chapter chapter. its just so fun to write! again as always, big thanks to regent for catching excessive repetitions and irregularities while i write, and for asking the real questions like "do birds sing in november?" and "could you perhaps describe this building with more than just the word 'building'?". maybe i need to be spending more time on these chapters but. words appear on the page and im done. also huge shoutout to leafitoutmate on tumblr for the rugby info <3
Chapter Text
This time, Charles thinks as he gets ready for the bar, he is going in with intention. This time, he is not being surprised or overwhelmed or cornered by an androgynous man with fascinating eyes and an intriguing allure – no, he is going in with a mission.
The beginning of this year has been nothing but a sheer state of confusion for Charles. Mixed messaging, anger and violence and hatred, long nights awake looking at the shadows on his ceiling, and most annoying of all the issues –
Max.
Charles needs answers. He decides to try to get some tonight.
It’s not like he’s admitting to being gay or anything, but there’s no other explanation for the way his stomach drops and the buzz that ignites under his fingertips and the way all the blood runs south when Max gets too close. It’s led him to two conclusions, and he’s not sure which one is worse.
One: Charles might like men.
The thought crossed his mind, blaring into his subconscious recently when he was watching a video of two girls making out, tits out and lewd and making these obscene moans, the sort of thing that usually gets him off easily, no problem. And he sat and watched it and his skin itched as he couldn’t come, and he refused to look up what he knew would get himself off. He wouldn’t do it, he wouldn’t search it – but the mere thought of it had him finishing over his fist.
It makes him feel nauseous, but nothing has made sense since Max cornered him on the staircase. And that brings him to the next conclusion.
Two: Charles might like Max.
Well, that’s not exactly true. He’s not sure what the words are for it. He hates Max. Everything that has unfolded since the staircase has only confirmed that further. He doesn’t like Max in that girly, romantic way. It’s just that his body has been rewired to react to Max now, brimming with electricity that, whenever he’s in Max’s vicinity, needs an outlet – and the outcome from there has seemingly been some arousal-induced physical insanity.
And on top of that, Max hates him. Even if there’s some world where Charles looks past Max’s unbridled aggression and sharp words and arrogant ego – Max hates him. He has made that very clear every waking moment of Charles’ life.
So maybe just his body might like Max, has been reconfigured to respond to him. And that’s why he’s going to the bar.
Charles isn’t certain of his type, but he is going to go to the bar, find someone to dance with, and ideally make out for a little. Maybe even with two different people, just for fun. This way, Charles can see whether he actually likes boys, and if he does – then he can see if he can shake Max off his mind, once and for all. The standard is relatively low, considering his one and only kiss – if he could even dare call it a kiss – was an unreciprocated, wet press of nothing.
Carlos eventually leaves for the evening, pouting and swatting at Charles when he lies and says he doesn’t feel like going out. Once Charles is alone, he goes back to his wardrobe and tries to think about what men might like. He doesn’t have anything effeminate, obviously, no stupid corsets or lace items or revealing mesh.
He tries to do better than the t-shirt and jeans from last time, so he puts on a slightly-oversized button up and pants. He cards his hands through his hair as he looks at himself in the mirror. It’s fine. The outfit’s fine. He unbuttons one more button on the shirt, but then it feels lewd and slutty, so he does it back up. He debates back and forth on whether he should wear any rings. It feels right, feels like the kind of thing that would make him blend in, but – that’s exactly the issue.
Does he want to blend in?
Does he want to go and for the patrons of the bar to think he is one of them?
No – fuck, not really. He’s not… he’s not gay, he just–
Charles flops back onto the bed. He squeezes his eyes shut. He’s doing this, he has to.
Before he can panic any longer about the night ahead of him, he slips on two rings, clasps a necklace around his neck, and hurries out of the house to get a cab.
Charles can’t remember if this is the same bouncer as before – not that he thinks anyone would be able to remember every single person who ever walked through these doors – but it makes Charles nervous as he hands over a different ID this time, his real ID. He sent his fake ID over to Arthur the minute he turned eighteen, figuring that they look similar enough, he might as well use it.
It’s raining slightly, as always, and Charles pulls his jacket tighter around him. The rain is messing up his hair, after all that work he did to get it to sit just right.
The bouncer obviously says nothing and lets him in. It’s darker than Charles remembers, music loud and thumping, the kind that Charles can feel vibrating through to his fingertips. It’s otherwise similar to last time – men with their shirts off or in varying degrees of leather outfits, a few women scattered around, the throng of bodies on the dance floor.
He immediately orders a shot and a gin tonic, having practiced his order over and over in his head on the cab ride here in order to seem familiar, like he knew what he was doing. The tequila burns on the way down, hot and harsh down his throat, trickling through his veins. The bite of lime does nothing to stop it, just a sharp acidity that makes his whole face scrunch up. He needs it though – he has planned for at least one, if not two more shots to get through the night.
Grabbing his drink, he heads away from the bar, over to the corner where he can lean against the wall and watch for a little.
It’s intimidating, again. Charles feels small here, suddenly out of his depth once again. He tries to school his features, make sure he’s coming across as cool, nonchalant, and not nervous, uncomfortable. It would be easy to just slip into the crowd and start dancing, but it feels odd without any other friends. Feels creepy, like he would be trying to make a move as a loser here by himself.
The music changes, pulsing and beating in his ears. He watches for a little longer. Watches the girls with long hair loop their arms around each other; watches the man in tight pants pull someone else closer to him by the beltloops; watches someone come out of the bathroom rubbing at their nose. His eyes flit back and forth, watching the way everyone interacts with each other, the way they all seem so comfortable. There’s a shamelessness in the air, like anything that happens inside here is locked away from what goes on outside.
In here, there’s no judgement. Something to be kept between the four dark walls of the bar that evaporates on the way out. Charles takes a long sip. He could test his theories here. No one at school would have to know. It could just stay a secret, here. Something for him to know for sure, or not.
He turns and heads back to the bar, his drink nothing more than watery gin by now. It seems to be a better spot to wait, a more natural place to observe, rather than skulking along the wall. He orders another gin tonic and before he can even turn around, there’s someone next to him.
“What are you drinking?” The boy says, nodding towards Charles’ empty glass. He’s about Charles’ age, glitter shimmering around his eyelids. His fair falls in front of his face, curls bouncing.
“Gin tonic,” Charles replies, having to lean in slightly to be heard. “But I just ordered another one.”
He’s not sure it’s the right thing to say, but the boy flashes him a smile, pulling out his credit card. Charles feels his cheeks flush slightly. He’s not used to being on the receiving end of this. Should he have offered to get the guy a drink? Charles is…well, he’s–
This other boy is clearly far more effeminate than Charles. But he’s not exactly sure what the societal rules are when it’s not a girl and a boy. Charles smiles and lets him pay.
“Are you here with someone?” The boy asks, leaning in closer like Charles did. His hair tickles the side of Charles’ face, and it sends shivers along his spine, down his arms. “Far too pretty to be drinking alone, no?”
Charles ducks his head away, embarrassed, almost. He’s so straightforward, so confident, and Charles feels completely out of his depth. It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s attractive but – well, he wouldn’t call himself pretty, not in the eyes of a man.
“No, I’m, uh– here alone,” Charles says back, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “What about you?”
The bartender places their drinks down and the boy pays, flashing the bartender a wink.
“My friends are in there,” he says, nodding towards the dancefloor. “We’re often here on Fridays. Bryan.”
He reaches his hand out, and Charles shakes it, stilted. “Charles,” he responds.
Bryan hands him his drink and Charles is thankful to have something to do with his hands. “Thank you,” he says.
The boy laughs a little, the glitter on his eyelids catching the flashing lights of the bar. He’s skinny, dressed in oversized denim shorts that are ridiculous for the weather, and what Charles is certain has to be a women’s tank top. There’s a collection of necklaces resting against his collarbones, and a jewel in his ear.
“Do you want to dance?” He says, clearly enjoying Charles looking him up and down.
“Yes, I would,” Charles says. Before he can step away from the bar, Bryan leans forward, hands coming to Charles’ chest. Charles freezes for a moment, unsure what he’s going to do – the last time someone brought their hands to his chest, they pushed with all their force to send him tumbling to the ground. No – he will not think about him.
He undoes the top button on Charles’ shirt, the motion brimming with confidence. Charles feels entranced, enthralled with how this boy carries himself so brazenly. He pats Charles’ shirt. “Now that’s better. Let’s dance.”
He pushes off the bar, tugging on Charles’ wrist. He has no option but to follow, though he would have anyway. Pulled along by the sheer magnetism. They brush past other people, damp skin and hot bodies pushing through. Charles can feel his shirt already sticking to his chest, pieces of hair stuck to his forehead.
They find themselves in the middle of the crowd. Charles lets himself move his body however he feels, leaning into Bryan. The disco ball above their heads scatters flickers of light across the room, and as Charles looks up, he feels the alcohol running through his veins. Light, weightless, careless.
He spins around, pressing back against Bryan, and this time it is not out of avoidance, out of fear. This time, he moves with intention, letting the music carry him, hips moving in tandem with Bryan’s. It feels good, to let loose like this. It feels good when Bryan puts his hands on Charles’ hips; when Bryan pulls him closer with purpose; when Charles lets his head fall back onto his shoulder.
He’s looking up at the disco ball between long, slow blinks. It spins and shimmers above him, and around him, hot bodies press close on all sides. Charles registers the feeling of a tongue on his shoulder. He tilts his neck slightly and lets the music fill his ears. A tongue on his shoulder, teeth pressing down.
Electricity sparks along his ribcage, down to his fingertips. Everything feels heightened; the heat of the bar and the sweat on his forehead and the mouth on his shoulder. He lets a hand slide up his body, along Bryan’s arm, and then backwards, backwards, until he can grasp the curls on Bryan’s head. He feels the moan that Bryan lets out against his skin more than he hears it.
Charles spins around, sees his wide eyes and red lips and damp forehead, and crashes their lips together.
It’s messy, a tangle of limbs and the jostle of other bodies trying to dance. Charles tightens his grip in Bryan’s hair, reveling in the breath he feels exhaled into his mouth. Bryan snakes his hands up in return, sliding them under Charles’ shirt and dancing along his sides, his stomach. There’s too much at once to focus on any single thing.
Bryan rubs at his nipple and Charles lets out a small yelp, completely unfamiliar with the feeling. Bryan takes it as praise and continues, fingers pinching and rubbing and squeezing and it’s so different – maybe Charles even likes it. He pushes his tongue into Bryan’s mouth, letting himself taste the liquor coating his tongue, exploring behind his teeth.
He feels like he’s on display, here in the middle of the bar. Kissing another boy like it’s something anyone could do. Charles wonders if all eyes are on them, if this isn’t what he was supposed to do at the bar. Bryan moves to his jaw, mouthing and sucking against his jawline, below his ear, down his neck. It feels dangerously good, and the tightness in Charles’ pants seem to confirm that. Fuck.
Bryan pushes forward, bringing their bodies ever closer to one another and it feels so good. Even if everyone is watching, Charles doesn’t think he could stop. He needs to know how far he can take things on the dancefloor of the bar, in the only place he thinks he could even fathom dreaming that far ahead.
As Bryan latches on to his collarbone, Charles opens his eyes. The dancefloor still pulses with bodies around them, music blaring, the lights still flashing, flickering. He lets his hands slide down, moving down Bryan’s back and–
No.
There’s no way.
There’s no fucking way that–
Two bright blue eyes look at him from across the floor. Unforgettable, unmistakable blue–
Max.
He’s obscured, covered by someone who seems as eager to attack Max as Bryan is to Charles. His body feels lit alight, white hot where he stands, and he clenches his hands into fists, twisting in Bryan’s shirt.
Max doesn’t take his eyes off Charles as he kisses this stranger. Charles watches his head move, watches how he must be diving into the kiss, messy and frantic but never once breaking eye contact.
Charles feels horribly exposed, neck on display, so he tugs on Bryan’s hair and brings him back to Charles’ mouth. Bryan is more than eager to follow, lips hot and wet from sucking on Charles’ neck, sliding his tongue in. Charles’ squeezes his eyes shut like Max was just a hallucination, a fever dream of blacklights and gin.
But when he opens them again, Bryan’s hands on his chest and mouth against his own, Max is still there. Still watching, still kissing the stranger.
Charles’ insides twist, a horrible feeling settling low and sinking. It curls through his gut, snakes through his veins. He stares back, unable to look away. Like this is another competition, another thing to win, and whoever bails first loses.
He sees Max slide his hands across the back of the brunet boy hanging off him like a limpet, jaw moving with the kiss. Charles wonders if he’s using tongue, wonders what Max’s kisses might feel like in that case. Whether he pushes, if he would suck on Charles’ bottom lip like Bryan is doing, if Max would want Charles’ hands up his shirt. Someone dances in front of Charles, blocking his view, but as soon as they stumble out, Max is there again, unblinking.
He can’t do this, he can’t take this from Charles. Not here, not now.
His whole body is thrumming with adrenaline, restless and ready to go up in flames. He doesn’t even consider what he’s doing until he finds his mouth by Bryan’s ear and whispers –
“Want to find the bathroom here?”
Bryan pulls back, eyes blinking slowly, and nods. The smile he had earlier creeps back, and he grabs Charles’ wrist to lead him away from the crowd. Charles looks up, finds Max’s eyes still piercing into his own, and then turns away.
They push through the crowd, a sea of people in the way, until they’re right by the back wall of individual bathrooms, and Bryan is pushing him up against the wall again between two of the doors for another kiss, messy and frenzied, like he can’t get enough. It’s frantic, desperate in the way that buzzes with the promise of something exciting coming. Charles hasn’t really thought too far ahead, hoping that Bryan would take the choice out of his hands and offer to go down. He’s too unfamiliar with the process to know what’s next, and he’s too drunk to be able to think clearly about it all. Maybe he will want Charles on his knees, and Charles will have to decide–
Bryan rips his mouth off, hands stopping their exploration of Charles’ back. Charles opens his eyes, expecting to see Bryan opening one of the doors around them marked ‘VACANT’ but instead it’s –
Max.
Bryan lets out a surprised protest, stumbling back from where Max has seemingly ripped him away, but Max barks out a low “Fuck off,” and flings open the door to the bathroom next to them, dragging Charles in with him before Charles can do anything more than open his mouth. Max slams the door closed behind them, and the dim, motion-activated light flickers on above them. Charles can hear the muffled sound of Bryan banging a fist against the stall door, and before he can get his bearings, Max is reaching over to throw the lock, and then there’s a body on his.
Max kisses him with force, rough and violent. Charles stands stunned for one moment, and then something inside him lights up. He kisses back with the same aggression, refusing to let Max push him around. It’s all teeth and heavy breaths, biting on each other’s lips and jamming tongues into each other’s mouths.
Charles brings his hands up to curl into Max’s shirt, pulling so tight he thinks it might rip. He wants to throttle Max, shake him until all his reasons and excuses and thoughts rattle out of him like some split-open piñata. Max groans into the kiss, shoving Charles harder against the wall. One of Max’s hands snakes into Charles’ hair and he feels Max tighten it, pulling on the strands. It sends a shockwave through his body, and any sense of control he still had left is lost..
Fighting with the buttons on Max’s shirt, Charles tries to undo them, uncaring if they get ripped off in the process. Max sucks his lower lip into his mouth and Charles moans at the sting of pain, at the light taste of copper spreading through his mouth.
Max moves lower, biting and sucking and getting his tongue all over Charles’ neck, and the realization that Max is retracing the steps Bryan took hits Charles like a fucking freight train. With a tug, Charles opens the final button and gets his hands on Max’s chest, determined to have the upper hand. Max will not push him around, tell him what to do. He won’t .
Charles yelps as two rows of teeth bite down on his shoulder, and his hand finds Max’s nipple. He pinches, hard, expecting Max to push him away, to flinch, but instead a moan falls from his lips and his mouth is on Charles’ again.
The club music permeates the walls of the stall, inescapable, and Charles can barely think straight, unable to compute how he was dancing with someone, making out on the floor, and now he’s – here, Max’s mouth attacking his own. Everything feels blurry, the movements, the motion. Even now, his vision feels obscured, a thick layer of fog clouding his thoughts.
All he knows is it feels good. Dangerously, irresistably, tantalizingly good. Charles could–
“What the fuck?” Charles jumps, jolted from his thoughts as he feels Max’s hand reach under his waistline.
Max barely pulls back, standing with their noses almost touching. He doesn’t move his hand away.
“Don’t be a pussy now,” Max says, the familiar taste of venom seeping through his lips. This is too far, Charles can’t–
“Would it be easier if I painted my nails? If I pierced my ears?” Max asks, taunting. He pops the button of Charles’ pants.
“Fuck off,” Charles says, squirming where he stands. Max’s hands are moving with intent, and it makes Charles feel sick but he’s so hard, and Max is so agonizingly close. “It’s clear you’d do anything for this.”
Max just hums, leaning in to suck another mark onto Charles’ neck, fumbling with his pants. “I would. That’s why I’m here, now, about to get your cock out.”
Charles’ mind feels fuzzy, like he can’t figure out why Max’s tone is mocking and true and raspy all at once. He resorts to what he knows. “It’s embarrassing how desperate you are– oh fuck.”
Charles’ intended remark falls short as Max wraps a hand around his hard cock, and Charles’ knees feel like they might give in. Max’s hand is big, and it feels so good wrapped around him, moving slow.
“Maybe I’ll put some gay makeup on next time and then you’d be more amenable,” Max spits into his ear. Charles can’t even think of a retort, the hand on his cock making his brain turn to static.
“Fuck you,” he hisses, though it comes out far more breathy than he anticipated.
“No, fuck you ,” Max says, twisting his hand and ripping another moan from Charles’ chest, “I know you want me to. Just say so next time and save us both the trouble.”
Charles feels completely at his mercy. Two can play this game.
He gathers enough wherewithal to find Max’s belt, focuses on undoing it and ripping open Max’s pants. He looks obscene, shirt splayed open and pants now unbuttoned, and Charles’ alcohol-impaired brain almost thinks he looks… hot.
Max is breathing heavily into his neck, hand moving at a devastating pace, so Charles follows suit. He takes Max into his hand and lets the smugness fill his lungs as Max groans at the touch. His cock is hot and heavy in his hand, and Charles makes sure to drag just a little more than would be comfortable.
“Fuck, fuck,” Max whines into his skin. “Didn’t think you’d be any good at this with the little practice you’ve had–”
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” Charles snaps, picking up the pace on Max’s cock. “Do you do this with others, running your mouth until they can’t bear to look at you?”
Max jerks his head up, looking directly at Charles. His blue eyes are blown out, mere slivers of color encircling the black. He twists his wrist and Charles bites down on his own lip to stop the noise coming out.
“We can do that if you’d prefer,” Max jeers. “I’d have no problem bending you over the sink if that’s the way you want it. Take you from behind so you don’t have to look at my face even though you’re fucking gagging for it–”
Charles can’t stand to hear another word come out of his mouth. He takes his free hand and jams his fingers in between Max’s teeth, cutting him off abruptly. Max flicks his eyebrows up in response, and then moans, lewd and obscene around his fingers. Both of their hands are moving vigorously, jerking each other off and Charles feels pulled taut, like he could snap at any moment and shatter to pieces.
His head dips, resting on Max’s shoulder, feeling how Max’s tongue moves and sucks on his fingers, watching the way their hands move on each other’s cocks. He sees Max’s other hand move, sliding down to his balls. It’s unusual, not somewhere Charles has ever really tried, and he wishes he could say it feels bad.
Charles lets his fingers slide out of Max’s mouth, dragging the spit down his chin. Absent-mindedly, he thinks about how Max’s cheek is soft against his hand. He sinks his hand into the flesh. Everything feels so much, he squeezes his eyes shut, he’s so close, so on edge, it’s–
“Or I could do you here, right against the wall,” Max sneers, something unidentifiable rippling across his expression, “Would you let me? Or is having to look me in the eye when I’m inside you the fucking dealbreaker for you?”
Charles feels a the pad of a finger brush his hole and he instantly clams up, squeezing his legs shut and forcing Max’s hand back but it’s too late to stop the jolt of electricity that sparked through his whole body at the contact and–
Charles comes with a moan, spilling all over Max’s hand and the bathroom floor. The orgasm floods his system, his vision almost blacking out at the sheer force of it. He’s not even sure if he’s still moving, if he’s still standing, but then the slide on his hand gets easier, wetter, and he vaguely registers Max jerking in his arms.
The groan is muffled, quiet over the ringing in his ears. Charles’ brain finally catches up to the rest of his body, sluggish in its movements. He’s boxed into the wall, head pressed against the hard tiles. Max is crowding him in, resting his forehead on Charles’ shoulder, chest heaving in sharp breaths. There’s stickers lining the walls, phone numbers and stupid phrases written in thick marker. Charles’ hand is sticky; his pants are unbuttoned.
There’s nowhere for him to turn, not until Max makes a move. The blood pounds in his ears. Max finally, finally steps back, languidly moving like his cock isn’t hanging out of his pants. He grabs a paper towel and passes it to Charles, winking as he does so. The neurons in Charles’ mind don’t seem to fire as quick as they should, and he stands there motionless, unable to compute what just happened.
Max holds the paper towel out for another few seconds, before shrugging and bringing it to his stomach. “By all means, don’t clean up. Let your little gay boyfriend see what happened here.” He says, smirking his dumb fucking mouth.
“Maybe I should,” Charles says, snatching the paper towel from Max’s hand and cleaning himself up. He definitely does not think about how he’s not sure whether it’s his own come or Max’s across his hands and dick. He winces, nose scrunching in disgust as the shitty paper doesn’t so much clean as it does just…smear.
He needs to get out of here. His whole plan of coming to the bar and having a night for himself and trying to sort it out has once again been ruined by Max. Always, always, always, getting in his way, worming into where he’s not welcome. He can’t have one, single fucking–
Max is sucking on his fingers, not using a towel, but licking up the mess from his fingers and he has the nerve to continue looking directly at Charles as he does it. Charles feels his lungs collapse and he races to do up his zipper, get himself together and rush out the bathroom, ignoring the pang of heat he felt low in his stomach at the sight.
He pulls the door open, uncaring of whatever state Max is in, and hurries to the exit of the club. He has to push through a few people, trying to follow the glaring luminescent glow of the exit sign as his vision tunnels in. A hand grabs his arm and he yanks it away, not planning on letting Max do anything more–
“Hey, I, um–here’s my number,” Bryan stutters. Charles wonders if he’s been waiting here this whole time. Clearly long enough to scribble his number down on a slightly damp napkin. “Call me whenever. Yeah.”
Charles looks at him, wondering if Bryan can see him feeling completely insane on the inside, and nods. Without another word, he pockets the napkin and beelines to the exit. He needs fresh air, needs to get out of here, needs to shake this whole evening from him. He can leave it behind, keep whatever happened in the last few hours locked inside this bar and not ever let it back out.
When Charles gets back to the house, his ears are still ringing. His heart is still pounding. He lies on top of the bedsheets, unwilling to soil them with his dirty club clothes but unable to get undressed. The ceiling looms above him, a phantom disco ball spinning around and around.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the crumpled napkin. Bryan had ample time to write his number down, make it nice and legible. He looks at the numbers, traces the path of the pen with his eyes. The room is spinning, the numbers are jumbled.
With a bitter taste in his mouth and a shaking breath, Charles thinks it clearly for the first time.
I like men.
He wants to cross out the thought in his mind, erase it until there’s no remnants of anything ever even being there. But regardless of how the night ended, Charles can’t seem to shake it: he liked it. He liked flirting with Bryan and dancing with him and kissing him and letting his smaller body explore his own. He’s not gay, but the memory of another guy’s chest against his has him undeniably reckoning with his attraction to men.
And worse than that – far, far worse – is the… whatever he has towards Max. He’s not sure he can call it attraction, or desire, or want, but this hunger that hollows itself out in Max’s presence and only feels sated once their hands are on each other, pushing or pulling or exploring or– whatever they did tonight.
Charles begs for sleep to take him under. For the alcohol to sweep through his system and deplete the rest of his energy and force him to forget. But it doesn’t, it doesn't come for him. He stares at the ceiling as the pipes groan with hot water, floorboards creaking. He plays the night over and over in his mind, like there could be a point where he realizes it was just some horrible dream. But he clenches his fist, feels the paper napkin crumple even further.
Squeezing into a ball, Charles tosses it roughly in the direction of the trash can. He wants to feel sorry for Bryan.
In a few weeks, classes will be over. In a few weeks, Charles will get to spend the Christmas break focused on nothing except his research project. In a few weeks, the house will be deserted of Carlos, of Alex, of everyone – including Max. And Charles will have a moment to himself, to breathe, to relax. A hard reset, where he can focus on his work, on university applications, on anything.
Charles’ eyes fall closed, and a dreamless sleep sweeps him under.
Notes:
whoops! what could possibly happen during christmas break!!
Chapter 5: somewhere far away
Notes:
cw for small non-graphic injury. also. perhaps the tags have been updated. 17k of max pov be upon ye!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Max wakes up. He rolls over.
The contents of his stomach are promptly emptied into the conveniently-placed bucket that Alex had the forethought of providing last night.
He groans as he rolls back over, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Spit smears against the smudged ink of the hastily-stamped mark from the bar. Scenes from last night flip through his mind like a kineograph specifically designed to torture him. Maybe it was an alcohol-induced hallucination, but even his guiltiest fantasies couldn’t replicate the noises that he heard last night.
His head pounds. It’s blinding, a physical throb behind his eyelids and a rattling of his skull. He’ll have to deal with the consequences of his actions soon, but not right now. One thing at a time.
Another wave of gin worms up his throat and he gags into the bucket.
One thing at a time.
The familiar scratch of pen on paper wakes Max, and he blinks slowly to see Alex hunched over at his desk. A stack of textbooks sit next to his elbow as he pages through one of them. The noise is only slightly annoying, but Max owes Alex for the bucket, and what he is sure is a room that has seen better days.
“Morning,” Alex says, pausing his studying. He raises an eyebrow at Max. “Big night?”
Max hums weakly. Big may be an understatement. Huge. Catastrophic. Max might need to drop out and farm sheep in New Zealand, or become an unknown dishwasher in Poland.
“Yeah,” he responds instead. “Thanks f’ the bucket.”
The words scratch on the way out. His bones feel like lead.
“No worries,” Alex says. He’s too kind for Max, truly, though he will never admit it. “Rather that than wiping this shit off the floor.”
Max nods. “I’ll clean soon.”
“It’s okay, just get yourself together,” Alex says. “I’m busy working through this nightmare of a statistics chapter, but I’m sure you’re not nearly as worried.”
“Mm,” Max mumbles. “Try to convince my dad of that.”
Alex laughs. Max knows he has to work quite hard to get the good grades, when it seems to come more naturally to Max – not that his father ever thinks it’s enough. Max had some of the best scores in the year for his mock exams, projected to get four As by the time results come out. None of it mattered to Jos, though.
“Anyway, what did you get up to last night? Now that you’ve finally arisen from the dead.”
Max pinches at his eyes.
Charles, you know him? Yeah, well, I cornered him at the bar. The gay bar, yes. Yes, Charles and I were at the gay bar, and I cornered him and we might have kissed and jerked each other off and I don’t think I can ever show my face again at this school.
“Just a few too many mixed drinks, I suppose,” he settles on.
To be fair, he had pregamed with Alex and George last night, drinking slightly more than usual to drown out the irritating drone of George’s voice. And then once he arrived at the club, he was feeling good. Loose, free.
He was almost certain that the…locker room incident was a one-off. Charles had just been so unbearably annoying that day and was doing his best to get under Max’s skin in any way possible, bending and bending and bending until Max snapped. And it had definitely shut him up, even if he did nothing more than chase his own twisted high and watch Charles squirm under him.
It’s just… Charles knows now. He knows what Max made the error of admitting to him in the stairwell, he knows that Max attends the only gay bar in the vicinity, and he knows that the other boys in the house see it as a joke. One big fucking disgusting thing to laugh and point fingers at. And yet – Charles still tries to no end to get into Max’s space, crawl under his skin with the ability that only Charles has seemed to master, and then drive Max to insanity. Pressing against him in stairwells, humping his leg until he comes, anger-induced, arousal-clouded insanity.
And so Max wanted his free night. He wanted to leave the looming brick walls of Grove behind for a night and lose himself in the slick bodies on the dance floor. A few more drinks running through his system and the sweat on his forehead felt like a blessing, the music vibrating through his system as the DJ blended one song into the next.
Then the pretty boy showed up, the one he flirted with a few weeks back. They had made a few jokes at the bar while Max ordered him a beer, and then giggled over niche calculus humor. He had round brown eyes and a big-toothed smile, and when they saw each other again last night, Max felt confident. Enough confidence to dance with him in the crowd, let their hands wander each other’s bodies, teasing and testing.
And then Max’s lips were on his and his lips were on Max’s and everything was feeling fun–
And then Charles was there.
The guy had sucked on Max’s bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth, and Max looked at Charles.
He’d kissed Max’s jawline, a wet drag of his tongue, and Max looked at Charles.
He’d put his hands up Max’s shirt and dragged them along the soft sides of his torso.
And Charles looked back at Max.
The night had only one way forward after that, a complete and utter spiral, a rapid descent into unknown territory. And now Max lies here hungover, a bitter taste in his mouth, and the neverending loop of Charles coming over his hand plaguing his mind.
“I think that’s the last time I’ll go out this term,” Max grumbles.
Alex keeps writing, but snickers as he says, “You said that two weeks ago, I’m sure you will.” He pauses again, spinning in his chair to face Max. “And anyway, don’t forget we’ve planned for the final day of term party, and you have no excuse to miss it. I have to wake up at five am to take the train home and you just get to sleep in here!”
“Well, I’m not sure being stuck on campus working on my physics project is enviable over going to a large estate with ponies for Christmas, but right.”
“Only George has a pony, not me,” Alex retorts.
“Right, right, my apologies.”
Alex throws an eraser at him, and Max groans.
“I’ll never drink ever ever again,” he lies.
The final week of classes pass with cold mornings trudging through the early dustings of snow as the largest difficulty. The radiators in each building rattle and creak in their efforts to warm up the frozen fingertips and pink noses of the schoolboys. Causing coats pulled up to their ears and hats pulled all the way down, the snow brings a buzz of excitement across the school for the last week. The dining hall food tastes better, the dorm rooms look cozier, the common rooms of the houses feel homier.
Max focuses on maths, and physics, and history, holing himself up in the study rooms each night until curfew. He does need to study – even if there’s no immediate threat from his father since he’s staying on campus for the break – but he tries to ignore the feeling that lurks in the back of his mind that he’s also using studying as an excuse.
Charles lives in the same house, and even though they have different schedules, and their own bathrooms, and different friends – it’s far too easy to bump into him. It’s not that Max is avoiding him, but he’s just…limiting any possibility of having to look him in the eye.
He’s not sure when the unrequited pining and his overwhelming teenage crush evolved from just that to… this. To whatever seems to keep happening, lately. Admiring Charles from afar and staying in his designated place of snarky comments and out-scoring him was one thing – now, they’re in this horribly grey no man's land. One where Max gets bold and aggressive and cocksure, or Charles gets bold and needy and pathetic, and they have to wager on who will snap first.
The issue stems from Max having no idea what overcomes him the minute Charles is in the vicinity. No matter what – whether he’s bothering Max, or ignoring him, or talking to someone else, Max feels energy crackling under his skin and then suddenly he’s far away from himself, an out of body experience. Something about Charles just flips all rationality off.
So Max avoids all of it.
Even at the end of term party, hosted with Seb’s supervision until he decides it’s too late for him to stay up (with George again promising that they will keep clean), Max manages to stay away from Charles. He only has one beer, occupies himself with his friends, and goes to bed before anything can get out of hand. Before Charles can corner him again, push him to his limits.
He gets back to his dorm room, shutting out the muffled cheer from below, and in a moment of weakness – as he has almost every night since the locker room fiasco – jerks himself off to the memory, Charles’ moans ringing in his ears as he comes over his fist. It’s pathetic, but it’s all he can let himself have.
Max wakes up when Alex gets up the next morning. Max is tired, though he seemed to have had far more sleep than Alex, judging by the bags under his eyes and yesterday’s outfit still being worn. It’s still dark out, a faint glow obscured by the wash of grey clouds only slightly visible. Alex whispers goodbye, and Max wishes him a mumbled merry Christmas.
Once the robins start singing on their frost-covered branches and the clouds are letting slivers of orange light through, Max makes his way to the kitchen for a coffee. The house is bustling with everyone leaving, cars pulling up outside to collect their children or shared cab rides to the train. Max sits on the couch with his book, and waves as people take their turn to leave. He jokes and rolls his eyes as people remark on his upcoming stay in the dorm over the holidays, but he’s looking forward to it. Some quiet solitude, ample time to work on his physics project and no overbearing father breathing down his neck at any given time.
He spends most of the day tidying up his room, two weeks of exams and parties leaving it in disarray: clothes stashed on the floor and on chairs; balled up paper in the general vicinity of the trash can; two empty vodka bottles behind Alex’s bed. Max is so preoccupied getting his room together and preparing for the break, that when Seb calls him down for dinner, he doesn’t think twice about who else might be there.
The last thing he expects to see as he takes his seat is Charles.
“Why haven’t you left?” He blurts out, less of a question and more of a demand, cutting Charles’ half-smile off before it could fully form. His eyebrows furrow.
“Because I haven’t had dinner yet,” Charles replies dryly. He moves cautiously towards the table.
“No– well, are you getting picked up tomorrow then? I didn’t think they let people stay that long otherwise,” Max says.
Charles narrows his eyes at Max. “I’m here all break. I needed the library’s resources for my research, so I’m staying.” He looks Max up and down, and Max watches the realization slowly creep over his features, the horror settling in piece by piece. “Don’t tell me–”
“Yeah. I’m here too,” Max huffs out. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. His reprieve, his four beautiful, untainted, Charles-free weeks, gone in a second. His heartbeat is suddenly in his ears, skin prickling hot. He squeezes his hands into fists, takes an inhale, and then lets it go. “Great.”
“Are you done?” Charles asks, words biting. He places his plate down on the table with more force than necessary, rattling the glasses and cutlery.
Max immediately pushes his chair out, standing up. He doesn’t care that he’s only half-finished with dinner, he can’t bear to breathe the same air as Charles for one more moment. Last time they were remotely this close, they–
No. Nothing. Max won’t allow it.
He places his plate in the dish bin and marches upstairs, well aware that his feet are making a dramatic stomp on every step but too annoyed to quiet it down. There’s a rule about slamming doors in the house, which makes Max feel so much more childish as he storms into his room and then has to lightly close the door behind him.
Running away is what they seem to do best, second only to driving each other to the point of insanity.
An hour passes where Max tries to study, but the words and numbers on the page never seem to lead anywhere. His blank notebook mocks him, so he changes into his pajamas and turns off the lights, watching the moonlight dust the room in silver.
In another world, one far away from here, Max somehow did everything right. He didn’t act on fear, or anger, and he didn’t corner Charles with no way out, and he didn’t let jealousy eat at his insides until there was nothing left but to act. In another world, Charles might look at Max with a softness in his eyes, he might laugh at his jokes and smile so big Max could memorize the dimples carved into his cheeks. A world where Max says nice things, and isn’t a slave to his stubbornness, and Charles finds comfort in him and doesn’t hate him for who he is.
But this is not that world. This is the hand Max was dealt.
His father taught him nothing of kindness, of forgiveness. All he knows, all Max knows, is getting what you want through sheer force. And Max, no matter how hard he tries, has only managed to push away what he wants. Who he wants. What does it matter what it comes to – instinct, desire – when all Max knows is to bite?
No amount of force can erase the decisions Max has made. No amount of obstinacy will change Charles’ mind.
The four weeks of break loom over him, taunting, and Max falls asleep wondering if he’ll ever be able to separate love from fear.
The next few days follow a pattern of solitude, where the waning daylight hours and flickering library lights keep Max company. He gets up and eats breakfast alone, spends the day working on his project, and then comes back for dinner. Charles seems to be on the same page, as Max rarely sees him dining at the same time. There’s two other people in the house for the Christmas holidays, and it seems to be working out just fine that Max doesn’t have to run into Charles, aside from the odd moment where one of them is leaving the house as the other enters. They suffice with a short hey and carry on. It works.
Four days into break, Max looks out the window of the library. The sun set hours ago, leaving the campus cloaked in darkness, the dim glow of the streetlamps providing minimal light. Max meant to leave earlier, rumors of a winter chill settling in tonight and causing even lower temperatures the next few days. But the time got away from him – desperate to wrap up this section of research before he left, and now it’s dark and cold. Colder.
He packs up his books and regrets how the morning sunshine made him leave his gloves behind. It’s biting outside, the kind of English weather that seeps under your skin and into your bones, like no amount of layers could ever keep someone warm. The wind cuts at his cheeks, whistling through the campus, and he tightens his hands into fists in his pockets. He hurries on back, thinking of the hot meal that will be waiting in the kitchen for him and–
Max misses the step in the courtyard and hits the ground with a thud, hands coming out instinctively to catch himself. His whole body freezes, hands searing with the scrape on the ground and the icy temperatures creeping into his skin. He pushes himself up. Great, fuck. The ground is so cold against his hands and it stings, and his knees hurt and he’s so ungodly cold.
This is the last fucking thing he needs.
He stomps his way back to the dorm, hands clasped at his chest. He just wants to be out of the cold, out of the miserable winter night. He hopes Sebastian has turned on the fireplace tonight.
And then as if things could get any worse, as if Max needed anything more to go wrong – Charles is in the living room of the house. As Max clumsily shoves the door open, Charles looks up, startled, from where he’s reclining on the couch, book in hand. The fireplace is on, but now Max can’t even fucking enjoy it.
Shrugging off his coat, he feebly hangs it with the rest of them on the coat rack, avoiding touching too many things with his scraped palms.
“What happened?” Comes the familiar, irritating lilt of Charles’ voice.
Max pulls his scarf off and ignores him, trying to keep his winces unnoticeable.
“Max, are you okay? What did you–?”
“I’m fine, Charles, thanks,” Max says, bringing his hands together so Charles can’t see. He hears Charles get off the couch, footsteps approaching. Max tries to turn away but no, Charles has to get involved.
“What did you do?” Charles asks, hand reaching out for one of Max’s wrists.
“Nothing, oh my God,” Max sighs, pulling his hand away. “I just fell, relax.”
Charles is insistent, getting far too close to Max and trying to wrangle his wrist and Max wants out, out, far away from here.
“Max, just let me– you might need–I can–”
Charles’ hand accidentally grabs right on Max’s palm, pain shooting through his hand.
“Fuck! Charles, fuck, that’s–” Max squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, willing away the pain.
“Sorry! Sorry, I–” Charles takes a step back, looking at Max with something that seems awfully close to pity. “Let me help, I can clean it,” he says quietly. “I know first aid.”
Max has no idea what to say in response. His instinct says to snap, to fight, to assume Charles is going to make fun of him.
“It’s just a scrape,” Max mumbles, feeling weird. He holds out his hand to show Charles, as if to prove him wrong.
Charles furrows his brows, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “There could be dirt in there, or– I mean you just don’t know– it’s okay, let me–”
Before finishing his thought, Charles darts to a cupboard, opening a door and pulling out a small first aid kit. Max goes to protest, to tell Charles not to baby him like this, but Charles glares at him.
“Just sit down, for fuck’s sake,” Charles says.
His feet seem to carry him towards the couch without his brain offering anything other than pure static. It’s almost easier to listen to Charles when he’s being short-tempered, rather than soft. Max knows fiery, he knows impatience. The fireplace crackles in the silence.
Charles sits next to him, close enough to help but leaving space between them both. Max is thankful – it seems like any time the two of them even remotely touch one another, it escalates immediately.
Max watches as Charles pulls out a small wipe. He looks at Max expectantly.
Slowly, Max holds out his hands, palms up. The scrapes look worse than they are, red and slightly bloodied against his pale winter skin.
Charles brings one hand up underneath Max’s, barely touching, and the other begins to wipe his hand.
“Ow, shit, that stings,” Max says, flinching. Charles’ hand holds him in place, and it’s worryingly soft.
“Sorry, sorry, let me just clean it, and…” Charles focuses on his hands, trying to move gently. Max’s stomach churns with it, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Charles to bite back, to revert and be nasty, to make fun of Max for being so weak and pathetic.
Walk it off, Max, he was expecting.
You don’t need a fucking bandaid, be a man, for Christ’s sake, he was expecting.
I don’t care if your mother used to kiss it better, you’re not a fucking baby , he was expecting.
He isn’t quite sure how to handle the gentle way Charles is holding his palm while he works, or the soft focus he has in his eyes while he tries to clean. Once he’s done, he examines Max’s hands, bringing them closer to his face. Max can feel the light breaths of air leaving Charles’ mouth, and he wants to run. Wants to hit him, to retaliate – anything to push away the feeling gnawing at him on the inside telling him to lean closer.
Charles lets go, and Max goes to leave. The familiar sensation is crawling all over him, the same one that he had on the rugby field, in the locker room, on the staircase, at the bar – everywhere where Charles is.
“Hey, I’m not– sit back down,” Charles says. “You need a bandaid.”
Max scoffs. “No I don’t, it’s not a gouge.”
Charles lightly kicks him in the leg, resuming his role as Head Nurse.
“We have to put antiseptic on it, and then bandaids,” Charles says, rummaging around the first aid kit.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Max says, watching as Charles uncaps the antibiotic ointment and squeezes it onto his finger.
“Yes, be quiet,” Charles snaps, though there’s an undercurrent of mirth in his voice. It’s unusual. “This hurts less than the alcohol wipes, I promise.”
Max doesn’t want to think about Charles’ promises. He doesn’t want to know how gently Charles’ fingertips can trace the scrape on his palms, how methodically he can apply the ointment. He doesn’t want to know any of it, but he doesn’t have a choice, unwillingly forced into discovering this kind, almost tender side of Charles.
He feels destabilized, trying to jam a jigsaw piece that is a compassionate person into the wild, biting Charles puzzle. What worries him more, is that he would do anything to have more of it.
The fireplace spits out some embers, and Max feels far too aware of how close they’re sitting.
“Okay, and now we can get a bandaid,” Charles says, talking almost to himself. “Well– maybe, we might need gauze wrap, now that I think about it–”
“Charles, come on,” Max says, trying to lighten the mood. Trying to plunge them both back into the icy waters they know, instead of this warmth that’s settling around them.
“You would like it to get infected? Lose both your hands?” Charles replies, a soft tease in his voice.
Max laughs lightly. “What, like me dying of sepsis wouldn’t be a dream for you?”
Charles looks right at him, blinking twice. The green of his eyes reflects the amber from the fire, flickering. Max’s throat feels dry.
He looks back down to the gauze and begins to wrap Max’s palm. It’s almost inaudible, so soft Max might have misheard it, but it’s unmissable to Max.
“No,” Charles murmurs.
Max thinks Charles might be able to feel his pulse through the bandage, heart pounding in his ears. None of this makes any sense; Charles – who hates him, who does everything he can to make Max’s life worse, who points and laughs and is cruel towards any inkling of attraction to boys – is treating him kindly. Charles, who looked right at Max and said something cruel about Sebastian, the only person who has ever shown Max an ounce of understanding when it came to…whatever it is he’s going through – that is the same person who is bandaging his hands with the care one would expect towards a baby animal.
Max doesn’t like it at all. The feeling snakes around his insides, curling up low on his spine, and Max pushes it down, down, until all of his want feels crushed under the weight.
“I can bring dinner over, if you want,” Charles says, breaking the silence.
Everything screams at Max to say no. That the longer he entertains this, the worse the joke will be when Charles pulls the rug out from under him. Here he is, rolling over and showing the soft underside of his belly to Charles, who wields the knife that could rend him in two.
“I’m not handicapped, I can eat,” Max replies. “I don’t need you to feed me, I– yeah.”
There’s a silence that hangs in the air. Max was going to add a snarky comment on the end, but Charles’ concerned face had him second guessing. Charles has done enough – far too much, really, doting on him, playing nurse. Maybe the joke will be that Max now owes him, that moving forward Charles will use this against him. It doesn’t feel like that, though. It feels like kindness for the sake of kindness.
Max knows from experience, however, that nothing ever comes without a price.
“Let me just bring it here, so you don’t have to carry it,” Charles says. “And then yes, of course you are feeding yourself. Didn’t realize I had to be the butler and the nurse.”
It makes Max sputter out a laugh, which surprises a giggle out of Charles. It clicks to Max that Charles is trying to diffuse the tension in the room, the air so thick that it feels like neither of them could even take a breath without suffocating. Max, begrudgingly, can try this too.
“I would have preferred the butler over the nurse, I think,” Max quips back. “Can the butler make the mashed potatoes taste less like dust?”
Charles laughs, smacking him lightly with the book he long stopped reading. “Hey! Seb is not a bad cook, he could hear you saying these things.”
Max does not miss the flash of sharp emotion that passes across Charles’ face right as he says those words, before schooling his features back to his relaxed composure. Part of Max wants to reassure Charles about what he said all those weeks ago.
The other part of him hopes the guilt eats him alive from the inside.
“Anyway, let me get–” Charles gets up from the couch. He pulls at the sleeves of his jumper. “I can, uh, eat in the dining room if you want to be alone.”
Max thinks that would be best. His head knows that’s the right thing to do, to put some space between whatever weird, oddly soft dynamic they’ve just found themselves in. But there’s a small voice, desperate and pathetic and weak, begging Charles to stay.
“Uh, yeah, yes,” Max stutters out. “That’s fine. Yeah.”
Charles pauses for second, and then nods briskly. “Yes, sure. Yes– I’ll just– okay.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and Max watches the flames of the fireplace dance against the grates. He hears the plates clack and the silverware rustle, and then Charles is back in front of him.
“Right, here, I’ll just–” He places it all down on the coffee table, and then stands back up. “Don’t mess with the bandages please.”
Max half-smiles. “Thanks. For – yeah.”
Charles doesn’t wait around. Max hears him walk away from the living room, and then the footsteps travel up the stairs until Max can’t hear them anymore.
The living room doesn’t feel as cozy anymore, warmth slipping away between the gaps in the floorboards and the cracks in the chimney. He picks at the food in front of him, pushing the vegetables around on his plate. The sting in his palms turns into a dull ache, and by the time Max is clearing up to go to his room, there’s a matching ache in his chest.
When Max wakes up the next morning before the sunrise, he stares at the ceiling until long shadows paint stripes across the room. Everything is easier to navigate when Charles and him don’t get along. When they snap, fight, bicker – then, Max knows to ignore, to provoke. He isn’t sure, now, what Charles is expecting from him.The thought of saying something nice, of telling Charles he appreciated the help, makes him feel sick.
As he goes downstairs, hand lightly gripping the staircase rail, he sees someone is already in the kitchen. He thinks about turning around, but he can’t let Charles dictate where he can and cannot go. Maybe he can recapture some of that odd camaraderie they had last night, see if he can carry it over into the light of day.
“Is the butler on duty? I could use a coffee,” Max says, watching as Charles’ eyes narrow in confusion before the realization spreads across his face. He looks amused, eyes bright against the mop of hair that he clearly hasn’t bothered to style yet.
“I think the butler’s shift ended last night,” Charles laughs. “But I can get you a coffee.”
Fuck. That’s not really what Max wanted, he was just making light conversation. “That’s okay– I can do it.”
He almost stumbles over to the coffee machine just in case Charles wanted to try to beat him to it, hold something else above his head. He keeps his eyes down, focused on the blinking buttons as the coffee sputters out.
“So what are you researching?” Charles says from behind him. Max dares to turn around, tries to lean against the counter in a relaxed, normal way. “For your senior project, I am assuming that’s why you are here over break?”
Max hears the coffee machine grind to a halt, so he reaches for the mug to give his hands something to do. He nods and takes a sip.
“Yes, um, it’s physics.” He’s not sure how much to explain. He knows Charles doesn’t study the sciences, isn’t really that sort of person. “It’s to do with, like, solar cells and cars. If solar powered cars could work, that sort of thing.”
Charles nods like he’s genuinely interested. Max has to stop himself from going over the project in great detail; he finds the whole thing fascinating, itching to tell anyone who would listen about the different configurations and comparison between materials. But Max knows Charles is just trying to be pleasant, nothing else.
“Hm, interesting,” Charles hums. He picks at the skin of his fingers. “Like, real cars? Or…”
Max laughs a little, wondering where Charles thinks the department would have the money to test out real fully functional cars. “No, hah, just like, Hot Wheels cars.”
“Oh, oh, I see,” Charles says. “That’s, er, cool. Do they work? Like, do they actually drive?”
“I guess I’ll find out later,” Max says. “I just thought I might as well pick something I like. Lots of people pick, you know, the physics of pendulums or something on dampening, but you know, I really like cars so thought I could incorporate it.”
“Yeah, no, that’s cool.” Charles sips from his mug. “My father is quite into cars. Like, racing.”
Max doesn’t know much about Charles’ family, considering they’ve been at the same school together for years. What he does know, is that while Jos looks on disapprovingly at Max in his imperfect school uniform and remains unimpressed with Max’s near-perfect grades – Charles is greeted with a hug, no matter what his exam results are. Max has seen him, at school family events. He’s seen the way Charles’ father always gathers him close, tucks Charles against his chest like he’s something precious, something to be protected. He’s seen the smiles Charles’ father always has for his son. It’s one of the first things that Max noticed about Charles that made him feel like he was burning up inside
“What are you doing? Your mentor is Alonso, from the Art department, right? So you’re, what? Making a pretty picture of a house?” Max huffs out a laugh, but Charles doesn't smile.
“You know maths and science aren’t the only subjects of importance, right?” Charles cuts back at him, placing his mug down on the counter with a little too much force. “God forbid someone wants a world that has arts and humanities in it, no?”
Max is at a loss for words. He didn’t mean – well, he did mean to be a little sarcastic and rude but…that’s just what they do. He thought– he thought Charles would snicker and say something back. Now he’s just staring at Charles’ toughened expression.
So he does what he knows best. Hurt is the only thing he knows how to fuel.
“Yeah, right, so all the bridges can look gorgeous but fall apart the minute anyone drives across them?” He watches as the fury ignites in Charles’ eyes, the familiar burn he’s grown so accustomed to expecting.
“Right, yes, I’m sure when your dad gifts you a job in some bullshit Fortune 500 company you’ll really be building the foundations for your community.” Charles turns on his heel and heads towards the kitchen door. “Have fun with your stupid fucking toy cars.”
The voice sounds nothing like the Dutch-accented growl he’s heard booming in his ears as a child, but it stings just the same. Max stands in the kitchen, coffee going cold, and wonders how he manages to keep fucking this up again and again.
Smoke billows out the chimney as Max approaches the house later that evening, after a day of sulking and studying in the library. Everything took longer to write with his bandaged hands, which just made him more frustrated. He’s sure the scrapes are fine now, something so minor, and he will probably take them off before he showers tonight, but he’s not exactly sure what the protocol is. And now, Charles is likely not talking to him to tell him the follow-up steps.
As he opens the door, he hears a conversation cut short.
Charles looks to him as he enters, and Sebastian stands next to him, eyebrows furrowed. As soon as Charles sees that it’s Max, he turns and walks away, storming off upstairs.
Sebastian smiles thinly at Max.
“Hello, Max,” he says, walking over to the fireplace like he wasn’t clearly just having a conversation with Charles, likely about Max. “How is your project coming?”
“It’s fine,” Max mumbles. He doesn’t really feel like talking about it much right now. “Is-”
“Max, listen,” Sebastian comes over to where Max stands, placing one hand on his shoulder. “I know you and Charles have never really…gottten along, say, but you are some of the only two staying here for the whole break.”
Max wants to shrug his hand off, escape to his room and not have to listen. He nods feebly.
“I know the final year is very stressful for everyone, and you – and Charles – are very bright students,” Sebastian says, taking a step back. “Please just– don’t take out your frustrations on people.”
Charles is the frustration, Max thinks.
“Yeah. Okay.” He feels like he’s twelve again, being scolded for taunting his sister.
“You two are just so similar, you butt heads,” Sebastian continues. Max startles, opening his mouth to say something about how they are so far from similar, not even remotely on the same spectrum of anything. “But you’re better than this. I know you can be mature. You don’t have to be best friends, but just…be nice to each other, okay?”
Max hangs his head in defeat, mumbling out an agreement. It’s only somewhat of a relief that Charles must have only mentioned this morning, and didn’t seem to bring up anything to Sebastian related to the heated grinding and strange behaviors in bathrooms that has occurred.
He trudges upstairs and sits on the edge of his bed.
He and Charles are nothing alike. Charles hates him, takes pity on him. But Max can feel himself sinking lower, becoming the worse person, and the last thing he needs is Charles on his moral high horse. He squeezes his hands into fists, and walks up the flight of stairs to Charles’ floor.
As Max’s hand comes up to knock on the door, he hesitates, all notions of apologizing suddenly seeming far braver than he’s willing to be. But he’s here now. He knocks.
Charles opens the door, and his face falls immediately when he sees Max. Something lurches in Max’s stomach at the sight.
“What do you want?” Charles asks, monotone and blunt.
Max takes a deep breath. Apologizing is weak, pathetic – but the way Sebastian spoke to him was worse.
“I’m– I wanted to say, sorry, for this morning,” Max mumbles, unable to look Charles in the eye.
He traces the wood grain on the door with his gaze, feeling Charles’ eyes burn into his skin.
“You’re apologizing?” Charles says incredulously.
Max dares to look up. Charles has disbelief written across his features, waiting for the joke, the prank, the punch line.
“Yes,” he confirms. “I just…”
I don’t know how to talk to you without fighting. I don’t know why bitterness is easier than kindness. I’ve seen that the only response to vulnerability is cruelty, so I have learned not to be weak.
“I’m sorry.” He repeats.
Charles scans him up and down and Max feels horribly on display, exposed. Then he steps back, opening the door to his room slightly. Max doesn’t think it’s a good idea, has purposefully never imagined what entering Charles’ room might be like. But if Charles is daring to hold out another olive branch, he supposes he’ll take what he can get.
“Apology somewhat accepted,” Charles says, motioning to the chair in the corner for Max to sit in. It’s some old armchair, the patterned upholstery worn from use, faded where it’s clearly been loved by the sun. Charles sits across from him in his desk chair.
Charles’ room is larger than Max’s, and – unsurprisingly – much messier. It’s hard to tell where Charles’ things end and Carlos’ begin, and they both have all sorts of pictures and posters pinned to the wall. Carlos’ bed is made, but Charles’ sheets are twisted, half falling off the twin bed.
“Nice, er, room,” Max says as he sits down. “Cozy.”
Charles doesn’t say anything in return, just briefly surveys the room with his eyes. The only sound between them is the radiators, the constant rattle accompanying them through winter.
“So, are–”
“Can we call a truce?” Charles blurts out.
Max stares at him, stunned.
“A truce,” Charles clarifies. “Just– no more bickering, or fighting, or…”
There’s a moment where Max is terrified of what Charles will say next. Saying the words of what they have done would make everything far too real.
“If you genuinely don’t like me, I will stay out of your way, but there are not many people on campus and I can only talk to Seb so much,” Charles says. “So, a truce. No more…yeah.”
Charles is looking at him seriously, earnestness painfully clear in his eyes.
“Okay, um, yeah,” Max says. “Okay.”
Charles nods, letting out a long breath. He fiddles with his hands in his lap.
“Okay. Great.”
Max isn’t sure if he’s meant to leave now. But if they’re going to try and do anything that isn’t tear each other apart, he might as well start now.
“So what are you actually doing, over break?” He asks.
Charles pauses for a moment, then grabs his notebook. “I’m helping reconstruct a 3D render of the ruins over on the other side of town.” He points to the map pinned in his notebook, next to a picture of the ruins. “They’ve obviously fallen into disrepair, so I’m trying to use historical references and stuff.”
It’s far more fascinating than Max could ever begin to admit. Charles’ hand drawn references scatter the page, with annotated notes and newspaper clippings. It makes his project feel awfully childish, with Charles working on something like this.
“Wow, that’s um– really cool,” He stutters out. “Is that what– like, you are wanting to study at uni?”
Charles nods, putting his notebook back down. “Yeah, hopefully. I mean– I’ve applied for architecture courses. Hoping for an offer from Cambridge or UCL.”
Max hums in agreement. Of course Charles wants to go to Cambridge, steeped in history and full of pretentious people like him. Though Max can’t really say anything, with Oxford as his top choice, previously he might have attempted some jab at him but – the truce.
“Cool,” is all he manages.
The room falls silent. Max tries to think of anything to say, but nothing falls from his mouth. He should leave.
As he opens his mouth to speak, Charles does too.
“I should–”
“Can we–”
“Sorry, you first,” Max says.
Charles just shakes his head. “No, that’s okay. You can go.”
Max stands up. Should he give Charles a hug? A handshake? Charles doesn’t stand from his desk chair, watching Max, and so he just turns towards the door.
“Well, see you around, I guess,” Max says, waving weakly as he opens the door. “Have a good night.”
Charles hums in agreement and Max closes the door. He stands there for a moment, taking an inhale, letting the air that is free of Charles’ presence refill his lungs. He feels restless, like he could go run a mile in the freezing wind outside, like that could provide him any clarity.
Instead, he walks back to his room, playing the evening on repeat in his mind. Nothing seemed to go wrong, not like every other time he’s been alone with Charles. But there’s a lingering itch, plaguing him, telling him that it didn’t go right. Max doesn’t know what right is, what normal is – not with Charles.
He wonders if he should put photos up on his wall. Alex has a neat arrangement of pictures, perfectly aligned frames of his family, his friends. There’s a photo strip of George and him taken at a photobooth tucked into the side of one of the frames. Max looks in his drawers. He doesn’t really have anything to put up, an old motorsports poster folded in the back of the drawer, one photo of him and his sister when they were kids. He doesn’t have the careful arrangement like Alex, or the random assortment like Charles.
He takes the photo of him and his sister and pins it just above his desk. It looks silly, by itself, but it’s the only thing he has. He had planned to go to a bookstore a few towns over during break, and maybe they might have some things he could decorate with and add to the collection. He’s never really seen the need to do anything to these rooms, it’s not really his own place.
But as he lies in bed alone, the bare walls of his room seem to swallow him whole.
The truce holds the next morning when they are both getting breakfast again at the same time. It’s still stilted conversations and strategically-timed sips of coffee, but Max is learning how to navigate.
He has a meeting with his physics professor about the project in the morning, and then Max gets on the bus to go to the bookstore. It’s way too close to Christmas for anything to arrive for his mother and sister on time, but he wanted to at least send them a card and see if there were any small items he could ship over alongside.
While the bus stops and starts on the little country roads, Max also comes to the conclusion that he should get Charles a small gift. Nothing… romantic, or cheesy, or expensive, but just something in return for helping him out with the first aid kit. A book is the perfect gift, he thinks, for a situation like this. Simple, inexpensive, just something to unwrap. It’s the right thing to do, and then he and Charles can officially be even, and Max can have a clean conscience.
The bookstore is a beautifully old building, shelves piled high with books across all sorts of genres. Max could spend hours here, paging through a book on astronomy, flicking through the detailed maps of foreign American states, peering at the hand-illustrated book on Australian birds. He has to remind himself that he has no time limit, that he can spend as long as he wants, no one forcing him to leave.
By the counter, there’s a collection of postcards all showing England at Christmas: robins and their bright red chests in the snow, old gothic cathedrals with Santa clambering over them. He picks out two that he thinks his family would like, and then heads to the fiction section to figure out something for Charles.
Unfortunately, the only thing Max really knows about him now is that he wants to study architecture. He figures there must be a half decent book about architecture here, even if Charles just puts it on a coffee table and never really opens it. There’s a book on brutalism, which doesn’t really seem to be Charles’ thing if his room is anything to go off of, and there’s another that’s just horrible stock photos of Paris, which also feels lame.
As he’s standing there, head tilted to read the spine of each book, one catches his eye. Monaco Architectures.
Max pulls out the book and flips through. All of Max’s knowledge of Monaco comes from whatever shots of the city they show during the motorsport race weekend, and then the tacky house hunting shows that play once his father has fallen asleep in front of the television without turning it off.
The book has photos of all different parts of Monaco, roads that snake through the hills and apartments stacked on top of each other. It seems to check two boxes of Charles, so he decides it will be good enough.
On the bus ride home, after purchasing his items plus a book on old railroads for himself, he flicks through the book for Charles. He’s trying not to overthink it – it’s a book, it’s about two things Charles likes, and it’s just a meaningless gesture anyway. The photos look beautiful, bathed in sunlight with the sea glittering in the background, a far cry from the grey clouds and farmland he grew up with.
By the time the bus arrives back at Grove, he thinks about tossing the book out. It’s stupid, he can’t give Charles this – it feels too personal, now that Max has paged through it as well. What if Charles laughs at him? He sets the book on his bed, waffling on what to do, and decides it can wait, turning instead to head down to get dinner.
Sebastian and Charles are there, but this time Charles doesn’t storm away.
“Max! Sebastian is thinking of going into London tomorrow,” Charles exclaims. “He asked if we wanted to come, obviously I am saying yes. Do you want to join?”
Max sits down, and Sebastian smiles at him.
“I have to do some last minute shopping, and thought maybe whoever wants to come could see the Christmas lights with me,” Sebastian explains. “You are more than welcome to come, if you have not seen them, it is pretty good, though not as good as where you are from, I’m sure. Nothing like how Europe does Christmas.”
Max doesn’t really know what Christmas lights look like near where he’s from. His father never had an interest in going to see any, so Max only ever saw them speeding by from the window of a car. But he knows better than to respond like that.
“Yes, that would be nice,” He replies. “Thanks.”
“It’s going to be awfully cold, mind you,” Sebastian continues. “I was thinking we leave around midday, have some lunch and then it’ll be dark pretty early so we can see the lights. Have a bit of a walk around, and then come back.”
Charles seems enthralled with the idea, babbling on to Sebastian about what he would like to see in town and what Monaco usually does over Christmas. Max wouldn’t be surprised if Charles’ family pay someone to hang lights professionally, match the calibre and class of the principality. But a trip to London would be nice, and at least Sebastian will be there to diffuse whatever awkward atmosphere decides to arise between him and Charles then.
After dinner, Sebastian excuses himself from the table and leaves Charles and Max. Max is about to announce that he will also go to his room, when Charles interrupts.
“Did you want to play cards, or something?” Charles asks.
Max looks at him, confused. “I should probably study, I think, I–”
Charles rolls his eyes. “Come on, Max. Two days until Christmas. I think studying can wait.”
Max wants to. God, does he want to.
He’s never managed to get close enough to feel the glow of Charles’ actual friendship, but just a sliver of Charles’ warmth would be enough. If he turns this down and slinks off to be miserable in his room, it will only make everything more awkward. Charles seems to be trying hard to smooth over all their hiccups. Max can try too, he supposes.
“Okay, sure.”
“I have wine, also,” Charles says, a glint of excitement in his eye. They’re not supposed to bring alcohol into the dorms, so most of them have to sneak in plastic bottles of clear liquor or warm beer smuggled in duffle bags. Max has no idea how he managed to sneak a bottle of wine into the house – though, Sebastian has always been rather fond of Charles.
“How’d you manage to get that in?” Max asks.
Charles does what Max can only assume is an attempt at a wink, which catches him so off guard it startles out a laugh.
“I will get it – there are cards on the shelf in the living room if you want to start shuffling,” Charles says, pushing up from the table and darting upstairs.
Max goes and grabs the cards, sitting down on the couch. It feels strangely nice to have an evening like this – no studying tomorrow, a trip into the city, Christmas the next day, and just him and Charles. He cuts the deck and shuffles, trying to think of a good card game to play, as well as potential topics of conversation just in case an awkward silence creeps over them again.
Charles returns with the bottle of wine, something French and dark red, and pours them both a glass.
“Do you know how to play four corners?” Max asks as Charles places their glasses down on the coffee table, before coming to sit on the other side of the couch, facing him with his legs crossed. He leaves a gap between them, clearly for the cards to be placed, and Max is grateful for the distance.
“Of course,” Charles replies, making himself comfortable, “everyone knows that game.”
It turns out, Max didn’t need to think of any other conversation topics; Charles is far too focused on the card game, exclaiming on every turn and trying to force Max into losing. They play three rounds, each one getting louder and funnier as they sip on the wine and try to out-do each other on the simple card game. Max wins two out of the three times, which Charles insists is because he’s cheating, unable to fathom how he might have lost.
Max knew Charles was competitive, but it was only on things that mattered: exam results, GCSE scores, running the fastest mile time. Something silly like cards, Max does always want to win, sure, and he usually does win – but something about playing against Charles has him second guessing every one of his moves, unsure what silly mind games Charles is trying to pull.
They change to Gin Rummy (not without Charles making a comment about Max’s fondness for gin tonics, which has Max wanting to be swallowed whole by the couch), and Charles is even worse at this game. He keeps calling the cards their French names ( “I am just needing the roi but no you have ruined my chances with the set of trèfles you have.”) as if it will somehow befuddle Max, but instead it just helps Max win each round.
After three and a half rounds, the fourth cut off by Charles finishing his glass of wine and throwing his hand at Max, scattering ten cards around the couch, they agree to call it quits on cards.
“We can stop here and call it even,” Charles says, cheeks a little pink from what must be too much wine.
Max feels tipsy in a way he’s not used to, giddy and happy and warm. He only ever really has wine at dinner on special occasions, where his father usually pours one glass for Max and the rest for himself. To have glass after glass like this makes it feels like his eyelids are heavy without wanting to sleep.
Charles’ words register in his mind. “Even? You lost most of those rounds.”
Charles leans across to smack him on the arm, but catches Max’s hand as he tries to defend himself. He watches Charles’ eyes widen comically.
“Max! Your hands – I am so sorry,” he babbles, looking genuinely concerned at what are now three-day-old scratches. Charles has this beautifully expressive way about his face, like he can’t help but contort all of his features to display the emotions he feels. Max has usually seen the other side of this – the way Charles can't wipe a scowl off his face, how his anger lingers on his features when he looks at Max with a tight jaw.
But today, Max is getting to see his eyes scrunch up with laughter, cheeks wide as he giggles, eyebrows raised in concern for his hands.
“They’re fine, Charles, see?” Max says, holding them out for Charles to visually confirm – but Charles takes hold of his hands, instead. He examines them carefully, turning Max’s palms to catch the low light, tip of his tongue caught between his teeth in such overexaggerated focus that Max would normally laugh, but he’s too distracted by the sparks that run from Charles’ fingertips to his, flickering through his veins.
Max blinks slowly, the red wine smoothing everything over, slowing his thoughts. Charles looks up at him, and Max gets the funny feeling that they’ve been here before. Maybe this time, maybe tipsy on wine and giddy with cards, maybe–
Charles cuts his thoughts off, sitting upright all of a sudden.
“Oh! I have, um, something I wanted to show you,” he exclaims. The feeling fizzles out, and Max isn’t sure whether he should feel relieved or not.
“Oh, sure, where–?”
Charles jumps up, stumbling slightly into the coffee table as he misjudges his drunkenness, and leans to grab Max’s wrist, avoiding his hands.
“Come– I’ll show you,” Charles says, tugging on him to get up. Max follows immediately, suddenly ushered towards the stairs by an eager Charles, and he turns to look back at the couch. Two glasses of wine, an empty bottle, and cards scattered all over the floor; it’s an incriminating scene.
“Shouldn’t we try to clean up the wine and cards?” Max asks as Charles practically drags him up the stairs.
“It’s fine – we can do it tomorrow,” Charles says. His grip on Max’s arm is relentless, as if Max wouldn’t willingly follow him wherever he wanted to go.
“Oh, okay, sure,” Max says. He doesn’t think he’s had that much to drink, but the stairs feel like they go on forever, and the walls bend and tilt as they make their way up. It’s just a blur of brown curls in front of him, one step higher as they scrabble up the stairs. He’s glad they seem to be doing okay as friends – this could be the first time they have gone hours without trying to bite each other’s heads off.
Charles still doesn’t let go as they turn to the hallway – Max is sure this isn’t his own room, but he’s not–
“Okay, it’s, um, just in here,” Charles mumbles, going to get his key out of his pocket. Max is trapped right behind him, still handcuffed by Charles’ own fingers as Charles fumbles with the key. He giggles as he misses the lock, and the sound vibrates through Max’s body. It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. He thinks maybe he could record the sound and press it into vinyl, turn it up so loud it rumbles through every fiber of his being on loop.
The door clicks open and they’re in Charles’ room. Max wonders if Charles has a new sketch for his thesis, which Max would be pretty interested in seeing, just maybe not three glasses deep at past midnight.
“So,” he says slowly, watching as Charles chews on his cheek. “What did you want to show me?”
Charles seems to have suddenly remembered that’s why they were here, as if there was any other reason for hauling Max up the stairs like that.
“Oh, well– it’s…” Charles sways slightly, and takes a step towards Max.
Max thinks of bright moonlight, of owls singing, of stains on shirts.
“It’s this.”
Charles kisses him. Max doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just feels the same, agonizing press of Charles’ lips to his own. It takes Max’s body a second to catch up, and then he’s kissing back, he’s kissing Charles. He moves his hands, slowly, unsure where to put them or what to do, but he needs to feel Charles, needs to know that this is real. That Charles is kissing him, and he is kissing Charles, and it’s not some made up fantasy playing out in his mind.
He feels Charles’ hands come to frame his face, gentle on his cheeks, holding him like he might float away otherwise. And he might, he feels so dizzy with it. He reaches for Charles, lets his hands come up to curl around his sides, just below his ribs, and revels in the feel of Charles’ warm body, so alive under his touch.
Charles pulls away slightly, gasping for air, and for a split second Max worries this is about to end like all other moments have, cut-off and brimming with regret – but before Max can even begin to spiral, Charles dives back in. He kisses Max like he wants to taste the wine on his tongue, and Max would let him, oh God, would Max let him. Charles’ tongue pokes at Max’s mouth and it sends a bolt of electricity through his whole body.
Max’s face burns with the movement, feeling the red wine flush sit high on his cheekbones. He’s not sure how they got here, how it’s managed to go so right this time. Every time Max has gotten close to this, to Charles under his hands, it’s clumsy and he’s fucked it up and he’s had to resort to the agression that seems to be woven into the fibres of his being.
But not this time.
This time is soft, desperate, like Charles can’t get enough. Charles tilts his head and keeps kissing and it makes Max’s head spin. He wants to get his mouth everywhere, taste the hard line of Charles’ jaw and the soft skin of his neck, but he can’t bring himself to move from Charles’ lips. He has spent every night since Halloween trying to forget the feeling of them, but now that thought has been washed from his mind. No – now, he wants to map the exact curve of Charles’ mouth, imprint it onto his own lips and hold it forever, remember this forever.
For however long this lasts. For when Charles wakes up tomorrow, regret and guilt spilling out from him like a wound he cannot stop – Max wants to be able to remember tonight.
Charles shuffles slightly, pushing against Max some, and Max feels his legs hit the side of the bed. He opens his eyes, taking a sharp breath in and looking at Charles. Charles’ eyes are wide, lips bright red and Max has no choice – sick with want, accepting this might be all he ever gets: just this one night where everything fell perfectly into place.
Max sits on the bed, tentatively, and looks up at Charles. He opens his mouth to say something, to ask what’s next, to question what they are doing, if Charles is aware of what could come next.
But Charles cuts him off before any sounds can come out, fitting between his legs and kissing him again. And just like the last time, like the first time, it’s nothing short of breathless. Max’s head is tilted upwards and Charles surrounds him – his hands on Max’s face, the taste of him on Max’s tongue, the warm, clean scent of him layered underneath the faint spice of the body spray he favors – he’s everywhere, overwhelming, and yet still Max feels like he’s starving. He slides his hands under Charles’ shirt, feeling the soft skin of his stomach and sides. He feels a shiver run through Charles’ body, muscles tensing under his hands, and he wants more, more.
Charles puts a knee up on the bed, pressing into Max in a way that emboldens Max to grab at his hips and pull as he leans back into the bed, bringing Charles with him. Charles clambers onto the bed, rather ungracefully, giggling into Max’s mouth as they try to place all their limbs comfortably on the twin mattress. Charles ends up stretched out alongside him, drawing Max into deeper kisses and letting out these soft little sounds that are driving Max out of his fucking mind. In their new position here, Max’s arm is stuck under his body, so he props himself up on his elbow, using the position to run his other hand over Charles’ body, pushing up the fabric of Charles’ shirt to skate his hand over Charles’ bare waist.
A moan passes from Charles’ mouth to Max’s and he wants to swallow it down – wants to taste all the noises Charles is making and hoard them all, keep them stored in the gaps between his ribs for safekeeping forever. Charles’ tongue is in his mouth again and Max pushes his tongue back and it feels messy and uncoordinated and sloppy and it’s the best thing Max has ever done.
Charles writhes under his touch, and Max’s hand brushes over the waistline of his pants.
Pulling back slightly, Charles looks up at him. The green of his eyes is blown out by his pupils, glassy and dazed. Max looks at him for confirmation.
Tell me it’s okay, he wants to beg. Tell me you want this too.
Charles doesn’t say anything, flicks his gaze to Max’s hand, then his lips, then his eyes. Max can see Charles is hard – the tenting in his pants as obvious as the way he was pushing his hips up to Max. But he’s so–
Fuck, Max barely knows what he’s doing here and Charles is brand new to any of this. He has no idea what Charles wants, has never been able to figure it out, and now he’s looking up at Max with his perfect green eyes and his perfect cupid’s bow mouth and Max doesn’t want this night to end.
“I could, you know,” Max says, voice raspy from kissing. “I can go down on you, if you’d like. So you can, just– it’s–”
He’s not sure how to finish that sentence. So you can pretend it’s anyone doing this. You can pretend it’s a girl.
It is Charles, after all – who brazenly brags about the girls who go down on him, how it’s easy for him to get anyone. One week on Christmas break with limited options, and it seems he’s decided to stoop for Max.
Charles doesn’t respond at first, capturing Max’s mouth again and kissing like he can’t get enough. Max wonders if his wine-addled brain is playing tricks on him, letting him see what he wants to see, but Charles nips at his lips and gasps into his mouth and Max thinks he can let himself be played, then. Just this once.
“If I’d like?” Charles mumbles incredulously between kisses. He moves to Max’s cheek, to the line of his jaw, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against his skin. It leaves a fiery trail in its wake, Max’s whole body feeling like it’s burning up.
“Yes– just, I can–” Max can barely think straight, can barely get the words out from behind his teeth with Charles licking at his ear. “But if not it’s okay, we can–”
“Okay,” Charles whispers, nodding. His nose brushes against Max’s neck, and Max tries to keep hold of his quickly-dwindling composure. This is fine, this is– impersonal, if anything, Charles is just drunk and so is Max and it’s just the two of them. It’s not sex, it’s not intimate, Max can do this and be normal and just hope Charles doesn’t wake up too ashamed tomorrow.
Max shifts to straddle Charles, kissing down his neck, along his collarbone. Charles writhes under the motions, hips pressing right up against where Max has been embarrassingly, achingly hard since they got to Charles’ room. He lets out a groan, feeling it vibrate against Charles’ chest, and continues moving downwards.
Fumbling slightly with Charles’ belt, Max avoids looking up at Charles. He can feel his gaze burning into his skin, but as Max undoes the buckle and then the button on Charles’ pants, he sees Charles’ head drop to the pillow. His whole body is moving, chest heaving up and down with breaths.
As Max tugs slightly on his pants, urging Charles to lift his hips so he can slide them down a little, he watches Charles’ hands curl into the bed sheets. Max takes a deep breath.
“You can tell me if you need to stop, or–”
“Just get on with it.” Charles’ voice is breathy and thin, words almost tripping over each other on their way out. Max doesn’t want to read into anything, so he obeys.
Max frees Charles’ cock, trying to keep his thoughts under control. He grabs the base with one hand and leans in, taking Charles into his mouth. He hears a sharp intake of air, sees Charles’ head dart up out of the corner of his eyes to watch.
The first time Max gave a blowjob, he had been back and forth as to whether he liked men. But then he got on his knees, and the feeling of a cock in his mouth, heavy and hot on his tongue confirmed his attraction. Messy and unrefined; Max remembers how much he’d liked it.
This, in comparison – what Max thought he liked before, feels like a single drop of water in a tidal wave of arousal. He licks at the head, hearing Charles’ breath quicken in response, and tries to do whatever he thinks will elicit more of those noises.
He registers vaguely that he’s grinding into the mattress, desperate for friction, and has to force himself to stop, fearing it might be over before Charles.
Max sinks lower, letting Charles’ cock slide into his mouth, and God, he hopes this is good for him. He wants to pull off, to ask if Charles is okay, if he likes it – but he’s terrified if the answer is anything but a yes. Charles is nothing if not stubborn, surely he would say something if it’s–
Max feels a hand come to rest on his head, feels it pause briefly, as if in hesitation, and then Charles is threading his fingers through Max’s hair and gripping, sending a shockwave of arousal through Max’s body. Max glances up, looking through his lashes at Charles. He moans around Charles’ length and feels Charles shudder in return, spurring him on. His free hand comes to grip at Charles’ hip and he lets the other move up and down, slowly pumping at Charles’ dick.
It all feels too good to be true. But Max is blinded by his arousal and the primal need to get Charles off. He picks up his pace, lewd noises filling the spaces between Charles’ gasps. Max knows he’s close, has heard the way Charles’ breath hitches and his moans get cut short as he nears the edge. Nothing compares to this, not even the two other orgasms he’s somewhat forced out of Charles – this one is just him and his mouth and the beautiful way Charles reacts under his body.
“Close,” Charles rasps, breathless.
Max continues, hollowing his cheeks out and matching his hand to the same rhythm as his lips, and then Charles lets out a broken moan and comes. Max’s mouth fills with it, hot and bitter, as he tries to swallow it all down. Max almost comes on the spot, watching Charles’ hips jerk and his hands spasm in the bedsheets.
He pulls off, letting his hand slowly pump up and down as Charles rides out the end of his orgasm,and then he sits back on his heels, gently pulling his hand away. He wipes at his mouth, swiping away the few dribbles of come that he couldn’t swallow. Last time they did– this, Max was far drunker on stronger alcohol, full of cocksure bravado and arrogant ego.
Now, he’s unsure, panicked at the vulnerability. Charles is looking hazily down his nose at Max, unable to lift his head, breath starting to slow down. Max slides off the bed and stands up, legs feeling shaky. The reality of the situation slowly starts to creep in, the fog lifting to where nothing but the creaks in the floorboards are audible.
He scans Charles’ body, melted into the mattress, and his body screams at him to lie down next to him, but that’s not what they are, what this is.
It is his time to leave.
Charles reaches out a tentative hand. “Do you want me to…” he says, gesturing towards where Max’s dick is clearly straining against his pants. Max knows he’s trying to be polite, but Charles barely even likes men, let alone Max, and most definitely does not want to go down on him.
He goes to sit up and Max flinches.
“No– it’s…fine,” he stammers out. He runs a hand through his hair. “I know you– you probably don’t want to, so– I’ll go.”
His body feels too hot all over, itchy and unbearable as he tries to decode the look on Charles’ face. He regrets not looking up to gauge Charles’ reactions more, during – wonders if Charles watched him at all, while Max had his mouth on him. His heart pounds in his ears, any louder and Charles will be able to see the palpitations thrumming through his shirt.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Max says, giving Charles one final nod before exiting the room. The door clicks shut, and he pauses for a moment outside. Maybe Charles will call out, tell him to come back. Maybe he’ll jump out of bed and chase after Max.
Maybe there is no movement at all, and the romantic rolodex of ideas that flips through Max’s mind is his wishful thinking, his mindless dreaming.
He steps away, and there is no call, no voice, no movement.
He hurries down the stairs to his room, shutting the door quickly like the past few hours are trying to sneak into his room with him, locking them out before he can unravel. He lies face down on his bed, face buried in his pillow. His dick drags along the sheets, unable to get any less hard now that he knows what it feels like to have Charles come in his mouth.
It’s pathetic and he’ll regret it in the morning, but he just drags his hips along the sheets, letting the friction of the bed get him off. Charles’ noises play on a loop in his mind, the phantom feeling his limbs writhing and squirming under him, the broken moan he made when he came–
Max thrusts into the sheets and comes inside his boxers. He grinds against the bed as he rides it out, teeth biting into the pillow, and he tries to think about anything, anything , other than Charles.
The wind rattles against the old window frame the next morning. The room is cool when Max wakes up, feeling gross and uncomfortable. He gets out of bed groggily, trying to avoid looking at the sheets whatsoever as he peels them from the bed, bundling them up and dumping them in his laundry basket. He immediately jumps in the shower, letting the hot water sear at his skin, scrubbing furiously.
Yesterday evening, the prospect of a day in London with Charles by his side sounded unbelievable. In both ways – that it would be so incredible to spend time with him, and that he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like, now that they had managed to be friendly.
But since then, Max has managed to make things terribly awkward, give an over-eager blowjob, and set them up for a day of uncomfortable small talk. He thinks about backing out, but knows that Seb will just assume it’s his dislike for Charles again, and tell him to grow up. A lose-lose decision of his own making.
He leaves it until the last possible moment to come down and meet Seb and Charles, descending the stairs to see them leaning against the couches, waiting for Max. He mumbles out a small apology, and purposefully avoids looking at Charles. The three of them make the walk to the train station, sun hanging low near the horizon, gracing the winter sky only briefly in these short, frigid days.
Charles is more than happy to stay occupied talking to Sebastian, telling him about his thesis, his family. He rambles on about their plans for upcoming holidays, and Max knows Charles is from Monaco and so it’s not bragging to talk about his family life, but it just seems so – unfair. Charles gets to visit his family and stay in beautiful sunny wealthy Monaco, and Max has to go back to colder temperatures with an even icier father.
The train ride isn’t so bad, zipping through the countryside before pulling into Paddington Station. Max has never really had a chance to explore around Christmastime, always too focused on exams or having to return straight back home. As they exit the station, Max suddenly feels so small.
There are people bustling everywhere, families and tourists and locals all shuffling through the streets. Bundled up in big coats and scarves having a beer outside a bar, holding hands with their kids as they point at the displays in the toy stores, watching street performers and buskers and magicians. Grove suddenly feels even more like a bubble, secluded and far away from this lively, overflowing world.
Max looks over at Charles as they make their way through the streets of London, and he has a similar expression of awe on his face. Charles turns to face him, and their sudden moment of eye contact has Max turning his head away, trying to blame his flushed cheeks on the cold.
They have lunch, and as the day progresses and the sun sinks lower, Max’s long-standing grudges start to pale and wither in the face of Charles’ radiance. Regrettably, Charles is both funny and talkative today, buzzing with the excitement from the city, and Max is worn down from remembering not to laugh, or trying to keep things distant. Once the sky turns dark and the Christmas decorations light up the streets, Charles is pulling both Max and Sebastian along, pointing at the various shop window displays and stopping to take photos of the lights, and Max is helpless but to smile and join in.
Max almost forgets about how cold it is, lost in the city lights and festive spirits. It seems like every store is decorated, from the little boutique shops draped in holly and glittering ornaments to the large department stores covered head to toe in light displays.
Sebastian pulls them into one of the larger stores, the three of them immediately blasted by the hot air of the inside.
“Alright, I need to find something for my– partner here,” he says, tucking his gloves into his pockets. “Let’s meet back by the front in, say, thirty minutes?”
Max looks at him and tries to plead with eyes not to leave him alone with Charles, but Sebastian barely waits for an answer before he’s off, heading towards the fragrance section. He slowly turns. He can hang with Charles for thirty minutes. Easy. No problem.
“Do you need to get anything?” Max asks, unsure of what to do next.
Charles shakes his head. “No, not really. My parents said because I am staying here, I don’t have to send anything over. Though – I know my little brother is already going to be so mad at me, he’s very – you know, he just likes all the gifts.”
Max snickers, thinking about his sister. “Hm, my sister is a bit the same way. But we were not big on gifts, in my family.”
Charles’ eyes widen in disbelief. “Not big on gifts!? So much of the fun of Christmas is opening everything around the tree.”
Max nods in response, but doesn’t relate to the sentiment. Growing up, he never really understood the excessive fanfare around Christmas, a holiday filled with seemingly arbitrary traditions centered around getting gifts. His whole childhood, Christmas was never an affair like this – shuffling through displays, hands wrapped around hot drinks, people with eyes full of joy in silly sweaters, various Santa hats and reindeer antlers. When his parents were together, his mother tried to make it magical, but once they split up and Max grew up, his dad put little effort into it.
But now, as he thinks about Sebastian trying to pick out a gift for his partner with care, or the way Charles is enamored with the idea that it could snow and be a white Christmas here, since that’s impossible for Monaco, Max starts to see why. Starts to imagine a world in which there’s people he loves, excited to open the gifts he has thought through carefully and chosen. A world where Christmas is a warm dinner, too much dessert, expensive wine.
“Shall we just walk around?” Max asks, trying to shake the feeling that he seemed to miss something for years that everyone else understands.
Charles nods, and they make their way through the different departments of the store. They ogle at the ridiculously expensive watches, encased in glass and shimmering in their cages; they slink their way through the maze of home decor, laughing at the lamp that’s shaped like a racoon and trying not to blush at the phallic-shaped candles; they point at clothing that costs more than their school tuition fees and critique the materials.
When they get to a section for pets, Max stops for a moment to look. There’s designer leashes, lavish cat trees, expansive fish tanks for a home aquarium.
“Do you have pets?” Charles asks, picking up one of the cat toys to inspect for fun.
Max shakes his head. “No,” he responds. “I always wanted a cat, but– my father does not like them.”
Charles laughs. “I do not blame him, dogs are far better.”
“No– everyone thinks that, but cats are so misunderstood,” he says, trying not to be too defensive. “They are very loving but they are just independent, which is good, you know, they want their space and respect.”
Charles looks at him with furrowed brows. Max knows everyone just thinks dogs are better because they love you instantly, but – cats, you have to work with them, have to understand them. His father never understood why anyone would care for a cat if they don’t love you back, and Max knew enough to refrain from saying that most things, if given a choice, wouldn’t love him back.
“Hm, well, I still think dogs are better,” Charles says. “But I guess that is true about cats. I do like that they can be left alone.”
Max nods, and they move to a different part of the store. Charles then sees the time.
“Oh! We have to head back,” Charles says, grabbing Max’s arm. “Sebastian is waiting for us.”
Charles turns and Max follows, desperately trying to commit to memory the way Charles’ hand felt on his arm.
They make their way back down to the front, where Sebastian is waiting with a bag in his hand. It’s a Tom Ford bag, Max notes absently. He wonders if it’s a cologne or a perfume; Sebastian had said partner, after all. It’s possible that rumor Carlos brought back to the house weeks ago had some merit to it. Not that that would change anything.
They bundle back up, heading back out into the cold. It feels so much colder this time, now that they’ve had a reprieve inside, but the lights shining above the street soon make Max forget about it. They hang between the buildings, bright and flashing, making the old streets look like something right out of a Christmas card.
There’s an old bookstore with big windows and crooked walls that they peer into, marveling at the old structure. It’s decorated to look like a gingerbread house, but full of old books and knickknacks and souvenirs instead of candy.
Sebastian goes to turn down a smaller side road, claiming there’s a place for an easy dinner, just under a cheery royal-blue sign, when Charles stops them.
“I can meet you there, but I just– I forgot something,” Charles says. Max furrows his brow. “It’s just– for my parents. You go ahead! I’ll be right there.”
Sebastian nods, then gives Max a look that mirrors his own confusion. They head down the road and stop into this small Italian restaurant, sitting down at one of the cozy tables.
“Are you having a good time?” Sebastian asks as he looks at the menu.
Max knows what he’s trying to do, even with his feigned nonchalance as he scans the pasta options. “Yes, this is a lot of fun. I haven’t really seen London at this time.”
Sebastian smiles in agreement. “I know, there is something rather wonderful about it all. Different to where I’m from, with the more old fashioned European markets, but the atmosphere here and the lights are wonderful.”
They chat about the different displays they saw, and then Charles comes in, cheeks pink and slightly flustered.
Sebastian asks what he bought, and Charles deflects, saying it’s nothing major, and then they focus on the appetizers they want to share. Sebastian tells stories from previous years at the school, scandals and pranks and Max and Charles giggle along. He asks them about their projects and their university plans, and Max listens as Charles explains his work in more detail, fascinated at the material and captivated by his passion. When Charles glances his way, Max suddenly looks away, worried about being caught looking far too earnest.
The meal goes well, and, by Max’s judgement, he and Charles get along just fine, so Max thinks maybe the rest of the break might not be so bad. They are much quieter on the train ride home, exhausted from the day out and low on new conversation topics.
The walk back from the train station to the campus is horribly frigid, the chill sneaking through any gaps in Max’s clothing, biting at his skin. The three of them walk quickly, shoulders up to their ears and hands stuffed in pockets in an attempt to retain any sort of heat. Three asynchronous puffs of air take their turns huffing out of their mouths, their breath visible in the low light of the streetlamps.
As miserable as the cold is, Max loves the way heat emanates from the house, billowing out as they open the door and cocooning them as they enter. Max shrugs off his coat, scarf, hat and gloves and dumps them unceremoniously by the door, rubbing his hands together to bring back some of the feeling in his fingers.
He looks over to Charles, whose teeth are chattering and whose cheeks are flushed pink from the wind outside. Max looks away in an attempt to stop his brain from thinking how good he looks like that.
“Goodness, it’s cold out there,” Seb says, hanging up his coat and checking the time on his watch. “I’m going to bed – I’ll likely have left before either of you get up tomorrow, so–”
Seb extends his arms out to Charles first, giving him a hug and patting him on the shoulder before turning to offer the same to Max. Max lets Seb fold him into a hug as well, feeling rigid and wooden as he reciprocates.
“Merry Christmas both,” Seb says, before heading in the direction of his room.
“Merry Christmas,” they respond back.
Max doesn’t wait around to find out if Charles has anything to say. He darts up the stairs, taking some two at a time, and arrives at his room slightly winded. He peels off his shoes and then drops to the bed, exhausted from the day of trying to stay warm, and trying to seem normal around Charles – and fuck, he hadn’t made the bed from this morning.
He flops down, head hitting the pillow, debating whether he has enough energy to put a new set of sheets on or if he should just fall asleep on top of the bare mattress like this. Just as he is about to resign himself to getting up and wrangling with a fitted sheet, there’s a knock at his door.
He sits up. “Yes?”
The exasperated sigh that comes from the other side of the door confirms his suspicions.
“Can you open up?”
Max stares at the floor boards for one moment, wondering what on earth could be in store for him tonight, Charles’ wildly unpredictable behavior leaving it up to anyone’s best guess. He stands up and goes to the door, opening it to a flustered Charles.
“Is there something– oh. ”
Max is cut off as Charles brings his hands up and pushes them flat into Max’s chest. It’s not very forceful, but it takes him so much by surprise that he stumbles back into the room. Charles follows in quickly, and Max hurries to stand by the bed to hold onto something; if the determined look in Charles’ eyes is anything to go off of, then Max has some kind of reckoning headed his way, he just wishes he knew what he did to cause it this time.
He barely has time to assess how they’ve ended up back at the childish, physical hits when suddenly Charles drops to his knees in front of him.
“What the fuck–”
Charles looks right up at him through his eyelashes, devastatingly green eyes locked on him as he undoes Max’s belt.
“You didn’t fucking– let me–” Charles grits out, movements aggravated as he fumbles at the button on Max’s jeans.
Max stands frozen in place, brain completely disconnected from any of his limbs. Charles yanks on his jeans, pulling them roughly down to his thighs, and then goes to grab his boxers.
“What are you doing?” The words leave Max’s mouth quickly, worried that Charles is actually about to bite his dick clean off. The thought, embarrassingly, doesn’t do anything to slow down his rapidly growing hard on.
Charles huffs and sits back on his heels. “Blowing you? Obviously.”
Max still doesn’t move, and Charles’ feigned annoyance is starting to slip. He can’t hold eye contact with Max, breaking to glance down at the bulge in Max’s boxers in front of his face.
“Um.” Max says. “Okay.”
Charles rolls his eyes and tugs down on Max’s boxers, dragging against his dick until it springs out. Max grips the side of the bed, knuckles white, and watches as Charles doesn’t seem to wait for any further affirmation. Max goes to speak, to ask what the fuck Charles is thinking, but then Charles’ mouth wraps around his dick and his thoughts dissolve into nothingness
He lets out a broken moan as Charles swallows his length down, legs feeling weak trying to hold himself up. Charles coughs slightly, gagging as he furrows his eyes and tries to take more. He does it again, teeth scraping slightly, and it’s so overwhelming, so blindingly good. Max feels Charles’ throat contract a third time, gagging and choking slightly.
“It’s not going anywhere,” he rasps out, trying to lighten what seems to be an extremely strange, wildly charged atmosphere. “It won’t— it won’t run away.”
Max tries to huff out a short laugh, but Charles pulls completely off him. He has that same deadly look, the one he used to shoot across the classroom in maths whenever Max got an answer right and he didn’t, full of contempt.
“Can you–” Charles takes a breath, bringing his hand to grab at the base of Max’s dick, forcing a little noise out of his throat. “Can you be helpful?”
Max tries to make sense of Charles’ question as he watches his cock, hard and flushed, disappear and reappear through the movements of Charles’ hand. “Helpful…” he repeats back slowly.
Charles lets go and stands up, and suddenly Max feels extremely vulnerable, pants around his knees and dick out, while Charles stays fully dressed.
“I've never done this before so just- can you not be a dick?,” Charles says as he pushes against Max again, this time to make him lie down on the bed. “Tell me what to do or– just shut up.”
Charles crawls between Max’s legs, a direct exchange from where they were last night, and Max thinks absentmindedly about the lack of sheets on the bed. Charles looks up at him again, and finally Max’s body kicks back into gear.
“Fuck, um–” Max says, trying to focus as Charles retakes his dick into his hand, leaning down. Max can’t tear his eyes away, mesmerized by the way Charles’ tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Just– you can go slower, or, um–”
He has to fight to get every word out as Charles seems to listen, taking him back into his mouth but slower this time. There’s the slight drag of teeth, and if anything, it makes Max even harder.
“You can like– you know, lick,” he continues, forcing each word to come out. He’s never had to fucking describe blowjob instructions before, much less while he’s actively being blown. Charles bobs his head a few more times, the wet heat of his mouth almost too much to bear. Max has nowhere to put his hands, letting them curl and spasm into fists by his side.
“Like up the–” he goes to continue explaining as Charles does exactly that, pulling off and licking from base to tip. Max lets out a moan, chest shaking and eyes squeezing shut. It feels too good, he has no idea how he’s ended up here, but there’s no way he can last very long. He opens his eyes again and looks down, watching as Charles licks at the head of his cock, each motion driving him wild.
Charles looks right up at him again and Max feels it like a kick to the chest, wind knocked out of him just like it is every time Charles looks at him – but this time, with Charles laying there with one hand wrapped around Max’s hard cock, tonguing lewdly at the pre-come leaking from the head, Max feels like he’s fucking choking on it, transfixed by the image in front of him.
“Yeah– good,” he says, breathless. Charles’ cheeks seem to flush a deeper shade of red as he registers what Max says, and Max feels any resolve to make this last crumble.
He looks away again, trying to focus on the paint that’s peeling off the ceiling, but Charles takes his whole length back into his mouth and picks up the pace, matching it with his hand. Max looks down again, the desire to watch far too great. He’s breathing in short little gasps, a groan coming out as Charles overestimates his abilities again and goes slightly too far, throat constricting around his cock.
“I’m close,” Max warns.
Charles pulls off and a smirk crosses his face. “Already? So it is good then, hm?”
“It’s good,” Max responds almost too quickly, making Charles’ smug smile even bigger. “It’s good– very good, you can keep going.”
Charles laughs lightly, pumping his hand a few more times. “I just– I don’t think I’ll, you know, swallow, so…”
Max nods, mind briefly staticking out at the mental image of Charles swallowing his come, but he holds onto his last fraying thread of composure. “That’s fine, it’s okay– I’ll just– tissue, or you can spit– there’s a bin.”
Charles nods like he’s taking notes and then dives right back in. Max has no chance of surviving.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to come, oh, fuck–”
When Max comes, it hits him like a fucking truck, vision whiting out as pleasure rolls over him in waves. Something in the back of his mind is telling him to keep still but his hips desperately chase the warmth of Charles’ mouth. Max is almost certain he’s making some obscene noise, and he flutters open his eyes to the sight of Charles pumping him through it, mouth dripping with his come.
“Fuck,” he lets out weakly, head dropping to the pillow. “The bin is–” he gestures towards the desk, “over there.”
Charles gets up, grabs a tissue and spits, and Max hears the rustling of the bin. He doesn’t really feel like he can move, bones heavy on the bed, body sapped of energy from the sudden activity.
“Okay, so,” Charles says, folding his arms and standing next to Max’s bed, looking down at him. “Seems like that was not so bad.”
Max laughs, as though being completely immobile after easily the best orgasm of his life is just not so bad. Charles has a small smile creep across his face.
“You could use a few more lessons,” Max says, smirking. “More than happy with the hands-on learning approach.”
Charles lightly smacks him in the arm, but he’s giggling. Max, in a moment of foolish weakness, almost asks Charles to stay.
“Great, well,” Charles looks at Max’s whole body, spent cock lying on his thigh, no sheets in sight. “Merry Christmas.”
Max props himself up on his elbows. “Merry Christmas, Charles.”
Charles turns towards the door, then turns back. Like the entirety of the night, Max doesn't know what’s happening next until it’s too late –
Charles kisses him.
It’s short, a soft peck on the lips.
He pulls back, blushes at the floor, and then leaves.
Max plays it over and over and over in his mind. The kiss, the look on Charles’ face, the way his cheeks were pink and his hair was messed up. The kiss. His lips. The kiss.
He presses his face into the pillow, desperate for the smile that's crept over his features to be somehow hidden from view, known only to him. He doesn't want a witness to this, doesn't need the universe seeing him like this and snatching it away again.
He kicks off his jeans, cleans himself up with a tissue, and accepts that he has absolutely nothing left in him to put new sheets on the bed. He pulls up the cover-less duvet and lets the events of the last thirty minutes roll around and around in his mind. The blowjob wasn’t very skilled or anything, but having Charles’ lips stretched across his dick and his pleading eyes looking right up at him so often – the combination was lethal.
He replays the kiss again. Lingers on Charles’ hesitancy, how he was about to leave, before turning for the kiss.
Max brings his hands up to his face, takes a deep breath, and tries to stop his cheeks from burning.
It’s only right as he’s falling asleep, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, that it hits him.
When Charles kissed him, tonight, for the first time, there was no liquor on their breath.
And no excuses to hide behind in the morning.
The first thing Max notices when he wakes up is that he’s colder than he usually is, and he wonders if something happened to the radiator overnight.
The second thing he notices, as he rubs his eyes and adjusts to the morning light, is that there’s snow on the ground outside.
It’s just a light smattering, already gone on most of the paths but dusting the grass in powdered white, and Max can’t help but let a smile take over his face. It feels surreal, the bright white, untouched on the lawn aside from the small tracks from birds.
Max gets the book he bought for Charles and wraps it up, making sure the tape sits even against the folds of the green and red paper. He doesn’t want to seem careless, or thoughtless, but then he worries he’s putting in too much effort. Should he have wrapped it at all?
He chews on his lip for a moment, and then decides that it’s already done, and besides, there’s snow outside and it’s Christmas day and Charles kissed him last night.
The flush that erupts across his cheeks burns as his heart flutters against his chest. Charles kissed him last night. Sober, willingly, on purpose. He squeezes his hands into fists and curls his toes and takes a deep breath. It doesn’t mean anything, not really, not after some weird competitive blowjob that Charles sprung on him out of nowhere. It feels like anything that seems to be happening now over break is safe in their little bubble, the consequences of the outside world and the normal school year far, far away for now. But it’s Christmas, and it’s just them, so Max thinks he can let himself have the joy of experiencing Charles just a little bit longer.
He puts on sweatpants and a pair of socks, knowing the tile in the kitchen will be colder than it usually is, and heads downstairs. He’s up first, so he puts the kettle on and leans against the counter, fidgeting with his hands.
It doesn’t take long for footsteps to echo above him, coming closer and closer until Charles pokes his head into the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly.
“Merry Christmas,” Max responds. The kettle whistles on the stove, and Max makes them both a coffee. Charles takes it and they sit on the couch, both taking their places on the opposite ends.
“Can you believe it’s snowing?” Charles says, looking out the window at the picture perfect scene with such wonder in his eyes. “It’s so beautiful.”
Max nods, focused on the way Charles’ dimple indents his cheek.
“I, um, got you a little something,” Max says, before his nerves take over and prevent him from giving the gift. “Just for – to say thank you, for helping me the other day.”
Charles turns to look at him, dimples deepening as he smiles. Max hastily gets up and grabs the present from where he had it stashed in the kitchen.
When he comes back, Charles is still looking at him with that same fond expression.
“It’s just small– and if you don’t like it I can, uh, well I don’t know if I can return it but I can maybe donate it or–” Max babbles, knowing he’s beginning to ramble but unable to sit in the silence of Charles’ gaze.
“It’s okay, Max,” Charles says softly.
Max hands him over the gift, so clearly a book, and folds his hands back into his lap.
Charles just holds it for a second, eyes scanning the wrapping paper, and Max has a brief burst of panic, wondering if Charles thinks he did a shit job of wrapping it. The moment passes, though, and Charles tears at the corner, opening it up.
“Oh,” Charles breathes, sounding a little surprised.
Max’s stomach drops. “It’s not– it’s probably stupid, I just thought with architecture and Monaco–”
“It’s beautiful,” Charles interrupts him, unwrapping the gift fully and turning it over in his hands. He flicks open to a random page and sighs at the pictures splashed across, glossy and gorgeous. “Oh, Max, it’s– it’s so thoughtful.”
Charles’ voice wobbles as he says it, and his eyes blink rapidly.
“Is– is everything okay?” Max asks.
Charles nods, thumbing through a few more pages, pausing on each one as he takes them in. “It’s– yes, I just– I am missing home and my family, I have never spent Christmas away and– this break has just been…I am–”
He takes a pause to wipe at his eyes, laughing wetly at himself. “Where did you buy this?”
Max rubs at his neck. “I went into town, they had a bookstore and I saw it and– well, I know you probably know a lot about Monaco’s architecture but maybe you could use it as a coffee table book, for decoration you know, and just…”
He drifts off, unsure how to word the rest of the sentence without all the overwhelming feelings he has been trying to suppress spilling out and drowning them both. Charles closes the book, admires the front cover, and leans over to place it down gently on the coffee table. Max expects him to settle back into his side of the couch, but instead, he grabs Max’s sweater and pulls him in.
Max makes a small, surprised noise as his lips meet Charles’, pressed together for a few seconds. Max wonders when this will ever be less heartstopping, if it will ever be less electrifying.
Charles breaks away smiling, all teeth and bright eyes and dimples, and Max wonders if he should stand outside in the snow to shock himself out of this dream he’s somehow living in.
“Thank you,” Charles says, earnestly, “Now hang on, I will go get your gift.”
“What–?”
Charles jumps up from the couch, darting upstairs before Max can even begin to fathom what is happening. Charles reappears shortly with a bundle of paper and string, tape covering practically half the gift, and Max cannot believe he’s being handed anything at all. Charles couldn’t have known about the book, and yet he got this for Max anyway, took the time to wrap it – albeit, badly, though unfortunately Max’s brain seems to be classifying that as ‘endearing’ – and here he is, giving it to Max, like Max deserves it.
“It’s small, too,” Charles mumbles as he sits back down, acting oddly shy. “It is not nearly as good as what you got me, so– I am very sorry for that.”
He hands it over to Max. “I hope you like it,” Charles adds.
Max carefully peels off the paper, running his finger under the tape and sliding it off. A pair of socks fall into his lap, the soft fuzzy kind, adorned with two little ears, whiskers, and paw prints. He stares at them, at a loss for words.
“Oh no, do you hate them?” Charles frets, leaning forward to take them back, but Max yanks them out of reach. “I just thought – you know, it’s cold here on these floors in winter, and you said you like cats, and I saw these at that beautiful little store in London and I just thought it would be silly, so.”
Max runs his fingertips against the soft material of the socks. He looks at Charles, and Charles looks at Max, and he wishes he could take a photo of Charles like this, ruffled from the morning, lit by the soft morning sun surrounded by snow, beautiful and kind and Charles .
“I like them very much,” Max chokes out. “Thank you.”
Charles breaks out in a smile so wide that crinkles form at the corners of his eyes. “You should try them on, just in case, you know.”
Max kicks off his old socks and pulls these on, Charles hovering over him on the couch, watching intently.
“Do they fit alright? Is it – are they scratchy?”
Max stares at him and thinks: you are so perfect.
“They’re perfect,” he says, wiggling his toes so the cat ears move. Charles beams at him, warmth radiating off him in waves, a magnetic field so strong Max is helpless to do anything but be drawn to it.
Charles leans in and kisses him again, and Max basks in the glow that is Charles.
His lips move slowly, cautiously, and Charles reciprocates, and then Max feels nothing but teeth, Charles’ smile pressed right to Max’s mouth.
As he pulls back and watches Charles duck his head, blushing, Max is reminded where they are – in the middle of the living room, in their house, at school. When break ends, Max thinks, when everyone returns and Charles decides his little winter holiday experiment has ended, it will haunt him. When break ends and Max has to reign it in, stop pretending like this is something they could have, it will haunt him.
But for now – surrounded by the snow-covered grounds of Christmas, in the insulated bubble of unreality they have carved out for themselves, Max could pretend. He could pretend Charles is his, only his.
The sunlight is so warm in Charles’ gaze. And Max thinks:
My wings are made of wax, and I am flying right towards this bright, beautiful thing. My wings are made of wax and I know I will get too close, and when I do the sun will melt the wings right off my back and send me hurtling back down to earth. I know the inevitable fall will kill me, but for now, it is worth it.
For now, I am flying.
Notes:
everyone say a big THANK YOU to ao3 user regent who did an incredible job beta'ing this chapter. it was jumbled incoherence before she had her way with it. this story would be nowhere without her. so excited for this chapter and even MORE excited for what's coming next chapter :)
in related news, the next chapter may not be out for a hot minute because (flex!!!!! soz) i am going to MONZA! let us all forza our ferraris as hard as we can please. so for the two weeks until then, i will do my best and see how much i can get done, but no guarantees there. it is shaping up to be another loooong one like this.
thank you so much for all the support and love on this story. truly means so much <3
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