On the Record, Off the Syllabus

by Anonymous

Summary:

Charles Leclerc is Pembroke College’s resident beautiful disaster. A brilliant, sharp-tongued final-year Anthropology PhD student who’s allergic to emotional honesty and occasionally a self-sabotaging menace. Max Verstappen is his exact opposite. The golden boy of the Political Theory department. Precise, charming, and annoyingly good at everything.
After an ill-timed one-night stand in the first year of their PhD, their carefully repressed feelings have boiled over into something more, something that scares the rest of the university (even though everyone has secretly placed bets). But now there’s a rumour about a single postdoctoral fellowship up for grabs, so naturally, they’re going to fight for it and also flirt while at it.

Chapter 1: Winner Gets an Office with a Window

Charles entered the seminar room and immediately noticed that it was too bright, too beige, and smelled faintly of carpet cleaner that had tried and failed to hide older sins. Some of them, namely, slavery and colonialism, and the others, mostly fornication. Fortunately, someone had straightened the chairs into rows that were almost, but not quite, perfectly aligned, and the projector was already working. Charles walked over, stood at the lectern, and tried to flatten his hair with the side of his wrist. The screen showed the title slide that the Graduate Office had made for him. MPhil in Humanities and Social Thought, with a stock photo of laughing students whose joy looked like it had been purchased in a bundle. And at the bottom, "Charles Leclerc, 4th Year PhD in Anthropology." He couldn't help but groan at the sight of it, reminded of his nowhere near complete chapter drafts for his thesis. He had already opened the file and deleted four exclamation points. There were still three left. He could not fight them all. He sighed and looked up, noticing fifteen undergrads drifting in and out of their phones while keeping a respectful grip on the free coffee and tea the college had insisted on providing to make postgraduate debt feel like a treat. Perhaps he should not have gone home with the random blonde from the Wetherspoons furthest away from campus and prepared a bit more. He pushed his sleeves up and leaned an elbow on the lectern in what he hoped read as casual instead of unprepared and nervous. 

 

“Right. Good afternoon. Thank you for joining us today at the Humanities MPhil information session. The MPhil is brilliant, difficult, occasionally life-affirming, and funded by the kind of goodwill that does not pay rent. I am here to make you want it anyway," he started with false confidence, which was affirmed when he heard a ripple of laughter. Polite, but real. He clicked to a slide that said interdisciplinarity in a font that tried too hard. Still, he continued anyway, and if he was being honest, it was going quite well. A girl in the second row smiled into her cup, and a boy near the back whispered, then shushed himself. Charles felt the room tip towards him. That sweet click when strangers decide to listen. He clicked again. Fieldwork, archives, methods that sounded like spells. Anthropology, politics, sociology, history. Anyone could play if they knew how to ask a question in a way that made other people blink. But it's exactly halfway through the session that it seemed like god realised things were going too well for him and threw an incoming disaster his way. 

 

The door at the back opened, and the tiny hairs along the back of Charles’s neck stood up before his eyes even moved. He knew the particular hush that entered a room with Max Verstappen. Not loud, not dramatic. More like someone had placed a glass lid over the space, and the air had chosen to behave. Conversations slowed and straightened. Even the projector sounded less frantic. Unfair, really. Max was not on the invite list. Max also did not care about invite lists. And yet, here he was, sliding into the front row like he had every reason to be there. Long legs, an immaculate navy cashmere sweater and poise that made everything look deliberate. He set his notebook on his lap with the precision of a surgeon and offered Charles a small, social smile that could sell to any audience. It was friendly. And also a lie. Charles did his best to keep his eyes on the students. He did not look at Max. He simply couldn't. Charles reminded himself to stay calm and not react, but it was already too late. Charles was stupid. 

 

“Some people,” he said, and the microphone picked it up nicely, “think postgraduate life is about prestige. The robes, the ancient libraries, the Latin on the gates. The stuff from some Secret History inspired dark academia Pinterest moodboard you can share on Instagram.” 
He clicked to a black slide with white text. “It is not,” he added. 
“It is about reading things no one else cares about and caring anyway. It is about very long emails that say very little. It is about learning to sit with the kind of silence that means you have not found your question yet.” In the back corner, Lando sat with his legs stretched into the aisle like he owned it. Lando was a second-year PhD in Political Theory, sitting amongst final year undergraduates, which meant Lando did, in fact, think he owned the aisle. Next to him was Oscar, a first-year PhD in Sociology, a neat jumper, and a new notebook with the price tag still on the back, who hid his gasp at Charles's thinly veiled insults directed at Max. He could see Lando nudging Oscar with an elbow and whispering something that widened Oscar’s eyes. Charles did not need to guess. He had been the subject of Lando’s running commentary before. He knew it probably had something to do with Max's sudden entrance. 

 

A hand went up in the front row, interrupting Charles. Max did not wait to be called on. Of course, he did not. The hand was theatrical, the tone was polite. Then again, in Max's defence, Charles had attacked first, not that he would ever accept it. 
“Would you say,” he began, that faint Dutch tone smoothing the edges of each word, “that the MPhil offers genuine intellectual stimulation, or does it tend to offer the illusion of it to students already convinced they want to be convinced.”
The undergrads lifted their heads, and the phones of those in the back lowered at the prospect of drama. At this point, nobody in Pembrook wasn't familiar with the relationship between Charles and Max. Charles' fingers gripped tightly around the lectern. It was a good question if you were feeling charitable. It was a provocation if you were not. Charles fell in the latter category. He could feel the back of his neck heating out of sheer annoyance. He took a slow sip of his coffee and put the cup down with extra care.
“That depends,” he said, “on whether you can tell the difference.”
A few students laughed. One did that grateful sound people make when someone says what they wanted to be true, and Charles visibly relaxed. Max’s mouth curved into a tiny smile, which felt like a dare.
“I imagine you are very good,” Max said, almost lazily, “at making it feel stimulating.”
A soft chorus of oh slid around the room, and Charles was pretty sure that the strangled noise belonged in a nature documentary came from Lando. Charles did his best to ignore it; his eyes dropped to his notes. He was not going to fight. And he certainly wasn't going to react to Max Verstappen flirting with him. He was not. Not with Max. Not in public. Not anywhere. He lifted his head again and made his voice mild.
“Well, you would know, would you not?”

 

 

As if realising his blunder, the projector clicked in sympathy, and silence engulfed the room before it was taken over by snorts and hidden laughs. Fuck sake. Charles really was stupid. He had done a fantastic job of hiding and forgetting the fateful night Max and he had spent together almost three years ago as naive first-year PhD students. He was not going to let his stupidity shed light on it. He could feel the colour rise in his ears, so he turned to the slide and started talking faster. Admissions timelines. Sample modules. Dissertation supervision that was both supportive and real (it wasn't, but they didn't have to know that). He fortunately reached the end sooner than he had planned. And so he turned to face the room and gave them a smile that said I am permitting you to leave before I say something you can quote later.
“If you have questions about the programme, email me, or better yet, email literally anyone else. There is a sheet at the front with the right addresses. Thank you for your attention. There are biscuits by the radiator. Do not eat the custard creams, they are cursed.”

The students stood in a polite flurry, whispering to each other about everything other than the MPhil program. But of course, because god was still testing Charles, Max did not move. He sat with one ankle hooked over a knee and watched Charles pack his notes with the impossible patience of someone who had never been late in his life. Lando and Oscar did not move either, those fuckers. Not like they would ever miss the drama. They moved with the purpose of men who had two goals. Get biscuits. Get gossip.
“Magnificent,” Lando said, arriving at Charles’s elbow. 
“Truly a duet for ages. You should charge admission next time. Or at least warn the faint of heart.”
Oscar hovered behind him with a biscuit and a look of curiosity. Charles ignored Lando and slid the HDMI cable back into its coiled nest. The cable reminded him of his life. Useless, tangled, slightly sticky to the touch.
“Did not realise Max was on the recruitment committee,” Lando went on. “Is that a new initiative? Put the college’s most photogenic theorist in the front row and hope he smiles the budget into balance.”
“He is not photogenic,” Charles bit back, then realised what he had done and closed his mouth. But it was too late, Lando’s grin sharpened like a hyena. 
“No. Of course not. My mistake. He is an eyesore. I should lodge a complaint with Estates.”
Oscar, who had replaced the custard cream with a more respectable bourbon, finally found his voice. “So are you two, I mean, are you, you know.”
“No,” Charles stopped him before he said anything worse. “Whatever the question is, no.”
Lando made a sympathetic sound. “He is in denial. It happens to the best of us.”
Oscar peered into his notebook as if the answers were printed in the margins. “I thought it was, you know, like intellectual enemies. Or friends. Or something in between. You were very, um, connected.”
“God save me from first years,” Charles groaned. 
“Go to class. Do not take notes on my life. There will be no exam.”
Oscar coloured and rearranged his biscuit again. Then his eyes brightened with the new thought that always arrived a beat too late. “Actually, I should ask you something. Is it true about the postdoc? I heard in the departmental office that there might be a new fellowship next year. Social Thought. They said the college wants to keep one of its own because alumni like that. Initially, they planned three, but with the funding cuts for humanities and the social sciences, the college could only convince the university to keep one."

 

The world tilted half a degree. Charles kept his hands where they were and his face where it had been and tried to make his mouth do casual.
“Rumours,” he said. 
“This place runs on them. Like tea and entitlement.”
Lando’s delight was immediate. “There it is. The plot. Imagine the poster. Two candidates enter, only one leaves. We will put it on in the summer theatre with a talkback afterwards.”
“I am not doing this with you,” Charles sighed, wondering why he was even friends with these two. Then again, it wasn't like he had a lot of options in this tiny university town. 
“Oh, but you are,” Lando interrupted him, cheerful and cruel in the way friends are when they know you can take it. 
“Because you are applying, and he is applying, and I am going to have the time of my life.”
Oscar, bless him, looked genuinely distressed. “You both deserve it, though. I mean. I am not trying to stir anything.”
“You are stirring,” Lando shook his head. 
“But it is alright because I brought a spoon.”
Charles lifted his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped away. He had a copy room to haunt, a coffee to refill, and a schedule to ignore. He did not have time for a prediction of his own nerves.

“Dickheads,” he said, “I am leaving you to your biscuits.”

 

He got as far as the door before Max stood up, finally looking up from his phone. Max did not need to hurry. He moved like water, like nothing could impede him for long.
“Lando. Oscar,” Max said in that friendly way that made people assume they were friends before he turned his head to Charles. “You left so quickly. I was worried you forgot to tell them about the reading group.”
“What a tragedy,” Charles responded with a pretend smile. 
“A room of twenty-year-olds deprived of papers they will not read. How will England recover?”
Max’s eyes warmed, which was not fair. His eyes should not be allowed to do that in public. 
“They will read if you ask them. That is your talent. You make people want to say yes.”
Oscar couldn't help but share a scandalised look with Lando, who cleared his throat loudly. And Charles? He ignored how red his face was by now, and on the verge of choking Max. 
“I am really busy,” Charles told Max. 
“Recruitment material does not recycle itself.”
“Allow me to help, I am excellent at tidying,” Max added.
“That does not surprise me at all," Charles scoffed. 
“You sound like you disapprove. I promise it is not a moral failing to own a label maker." Max smiled as he leaned against one of the chairs, a little too close to Charles, their shoulders brushing together.
Lando snorted into his sleeve. He had moved half a step back, which was a new level of self-preservation, and poor Oscar had folded himself into the corner like a plant hoping to avoid being watered.

 

Max then glanced at Oscar with real kindness, which made Charles naturally roll his eyes. “You asked a good question about the postdoc,” he said. 
“It is good to be curious.”
Oscar’s mouth fell open a little. He had not said the word postdoc out loud enough for the older to hear, but, of course, Max had heard anyway. Max always heard. He had a spider sense for opportunity dressed as gossip.
Charles felt the shift in his own chest and hated that Max could see it if he looked closely. He did not want to give him that. He kept his eyes on the handle of his bag. 
“Is it true then? that the college is conjuring money out of thin air for one lucky soul. Winner gets an office with a window and three freshers as tribute," Lando asked with a smile, which, under different circumstances, would have made Charles laugh. Max, on the other hand, looked thoughtful, as if the question had only just occurred to him. He did that well, the appearance of effort. Behind it, there was a calculation that ran like clockwork.
“I have heard the same rumours,” Max responded with a shrug. 
“Perhaps they want to demonstrate continued excellence in both research and teaching. A postdoc would do that.”
“You mean a postdoc would keep Max Verstappen within walking distance of his tailor,” Lando laughed at his close friend.
Max smiled with his mouth, which was soft, and with his eyes, which were not. “I like walking. It clears the head.”
“So does running away,” Charles added, because his mouth liked to pre-empt his brain.
“That feels personal,” Max added as he turned to face Charles better. This time, Max's trousers brushed against Charles'. 
“Everything with you feels personal,” Charles grumbled under his breath.
Silence opened like a small pit. Charles' response shocked even Lando into silence. 
“Should I go?” Lando asked, not moving.
“You never go. Why don't you go?" Charles sighed.
“True,” Lando grinned. “I hate to miss an educational experience.”
Max rested his knuckles on the desk in a way that was not at all casual. 
“I thought you might be pleased. Competition tends to bring out your best.”
“It brings out my insomnia,” Charles said.
“Your best work happens at three in the morning, I have seen the timestamps" Max smiled. 
“Maybe you should stop reading my submissions then,” Charles glared at him.
“You send them to the same shared drive as everyone else,” Max said, easy, like the fact was neutral. 
“Sometimes I cannot resist a good title.”

 

“Sometimes he cannot resist a good Charles," Lando whispered to Oscar, filling the first year in about this dynamic he thoroughly enjoyed watching.  Oscar nearly dropped his biscuit. Max, who had heard it, did not laugh. He simply looked at Charles and let the truth sit there. Charles felt the fluster rise. He had spent years becoming someone who did not care when a date left before breakfast or a supervisor called his draft undisciplined. He slept with people because it was easier than sleeping alone, and easier than speaking plainly. He did not blush for anyone.
Except Max. None of this applied to Max, which was not a fact he intended to engage with in the corridor between Seminar Room B and the photocopier that ate theses.
“I have a meeting,” Charles said, which was almost certainly a lie. “Excuse me.”
He stepped past Max and kept his eyes on the middle distance. He could feel Max let him pass. That was worse than being stopped. The corridor felt colder than it should have. He pushed through the stairwell and let the air follow him down.

 

Outside, January clung to everything. Moist air. Weak sun. The quad wore its winter properly, brown grass that tried to look dignified, shrubs clipped into shapes that resembled hope. Students threaded through in scarves like banners. Charles smiled at a few of them who waved at him in greeting, having recognised him from some tutorial or seminar. He lit a cigarette and walked along the cloister, moving away from the students. He was not going to think about Max. He was going to think about the printer credits he had forgotten to top up, the draft he needed to pretend to finish, and the fact that he had promised to meet Oscar later to look over a methods section that read like AI spit it out. He was busy. He was overcommitted. He was fine. But he was not fine. He rarely was. He was, on paper, a final year PhD candidate in Anthropology, with a thesis on urban rituals of care and control as manifestations of power that made sense when he said it fast. He was also a person with a complicated relationship to sleep, a collection of text messages from numbers he had not saved, and a hard drive named after a Greek goddess because he became obsessed with Percy Jackson as a kid and thought it would make him feel protected. His parents had moved from Monaco to England when he was five. His mother had kept her accent as a fleeting memory of his father, who had left them and his two brothers one winter morning. They had been, as English people say, comfortable. Not rich enough to own a boat and certainly not posh enough for English society, but very good at pretending when required.

His mother had taught Charles and his brothers to be kind to waiters, to write a good thank-you note, and to carry a coat because one always needed one in England even when one did not. She had not taught them how to be seen in rooms like those at Radcliff University and not want to break the glass. Perhaps that's how he had ended up here. He had arrived here on a doctoral scholarship and instinct, and stayed because it felt like a reward, like he finally belonged in halls like these. His first supervisor had called him refreshing, which is how you describe someone who makes you feel awake and worried simultaneously. His second supervisor had called him a liability, which is how you describe someone who reminds you of the version of yourself you do not want to see. He had learned that brilliant is a compliment that collapses if you do not submit the form that goes with it.

 

 

He had also learned that intimacy was easier sideways. It was control dressed up as chaos. He liked that. He liked being the person who left first because leaving second felt like a story he did not want to read. Then Max had arrived. The boy with the perfect vowels, old money bones, and a suit that fit like it had been cut with a ruler that measured futures. Dutch family, old mercantile wealth that had become museums and foundations. At least that was the rumour. People said he had learned to sail before he had learned to cycle. Habits and stories that Charles could only ever secretly envy, despite his loathing for wealth and the history of the empire. But Max never bragged. He never needed to. He moved through college like it had been waiting for him and was relieved when he finally came home. Charles still remembers the first time they met. It was over welcome drinks for new PhD students at Radcliffe University, hosted by Pembrook College, of which Max and Charles had become a part. Max had been charming, and Charles had naturally been reckless. They had insulted each other in a way that everyone found adorable. Then they slept together because the universe liked symmetry, and despite being opposites, they seemed to fit perfectly. But then the next morning came, and it felt easier not to talk than to admit that I might ruin myself for you if we are not careful. Charles has this painful habit of constantly doing things that ruin his life. Radcliffe was not an opportunity he could destroy, so he left without saying a word.

 

Charles flicked the ash into a puddle as he finished the cigarette and told himself he would not light another. But then he did because he was a creature of habit. He walked along the stone path that led to the river as a group of tourists took photos of a bridge that looked far better in the prospectus. His shared office was on the second floor of a building that had once been a house for a man who had not believed in heating. The radiator made a clicking sound like it wanted to be taken seriously. He set his bag down gently, as if it might explode if jarred, and sat. He did not open his laptop. He looked at the books on his shelf and thought about the hands that had held them before his. Before he could drown in his own thoughts, his phone buzzed, and he saw a message from Lando, mostly in capital. He groaned at the sight as he opened it. 

I DEMAND A DEBRIEF, then a second message, FINE, IF YOU WILL NOT COME TO THE BAR, WE WILL COME TO YOU. A third message, I AM BRINGING OSCAR. HE WILL TAKE MINUTES. A fourth, MAX IS A MENACE TO PUBLIC HEALTH. A fifth, YOU ARE ALSO A MENACE. A sixth, THIS IS WHY THE COLLEGE DOES NOT TRUST US WITH MONEY? I CAN'T AFFORD TO PAY FOR MY PHD. 

Charles also saw three new texts at the bottom of the chat and, for the sake of his sanity, ignored them and put the phone face down on his desk. The desk remained a desk. He opened his laptop and stared at the blinking cursor. He wrote a sentence about care as a practice of attention, then deleted it, wrote a different sentence about the architecture of permission, and then deleted that too. He tried to remember a quote that had moved him to tears on a bus last week and failed. He folded forward until his forehead rested on his crossed arms as he told himself he would not let Max ruin his day and run through his thoughts. But predictably, a knock on the door startled him. He lifted his head and made the face he made when he pretended to be composed. He did not say come in, but the door opened anyway. It was not Lando. Of course not. It was Max.
He had removed the sweater and thrown it over his shoulder with the kind of casual that costs money. He stepped inside like men had been stepping into rooms to ruin them for centuries. But then again, Charles assumed Max's ancestors indeed had done so. Colonisers and whatnot. 

 

“You left without your handouts,” he said, as if that was a valid reason for him to be here.
“Burn them,” Charles shrugged. 
“Set the Graduate Office ablaze, save the College some money.”
Max closed the door and leaned against it. It was not a big office, and the little distance between them caused Charles' breath to hitch. 
“You are cross,” Max finally said after a minute of silence, mildly observant.
“I am cross about many things, you are just wearing a hat with a target on it," Charles said. 
“Should I take it off?” Max asked, infuriatingly patient.
“You should leave,” Charles replied as Max’s eyes flicked to the side, to the shelf of books that made the room look serious. “I will, if you ask nicely.”
“I am not doing this with you.”
“You already are,” Max smirked, which was unfortunately true. God, was Charles stupid. 
Max tapped the back of his knuckles against the door, an absent rhythm, but he did not move closer. He did not need to.
“I am not here to pick a fight,” he said. “I came to say you were excellent. The students liked you. You were honest with them. They will remember that.”
“They will remember the biscuits,” Charles snorted.
“They will remember you," Max corrected him again, shaking his head.
“You say that like it is a compliment.”
“It is,” Max said. “Even when you pretend otherwise.”
Charles let his head fall back and studied a crack in the ceiling that formed a map of a country that did not exist. He could offer a joke. He could deflect. He could tell Max that flattery would not soften the reality that there was one job and two of them who wanted it. He did none of those things. When he finally did speak, he still did not look at Max. He spoke to the crack.
“You think I will lose,” he said, and surprised himself by sounding curious rather than wounded.
“No,” Max said. “I think you want to lose.”
That hurt. Charles turned his head sharply then, because the sentence felt awfully like a dagger. “Do not fucking do that. Do not pretend you understand me better than I do.”
“I am not pretending,” Max said with a softness in his voice that did not make it easier to hear. 
“You are brilliant. But you are also very good at tripping yourself at the finish. It makes rejection feel like a choice. You have turned it into a skill.”
Charles hated how true it was. Self-sabotage was a habit for him. 
He smiled at Max without humour. 
“Aren't you romantic? The Dutch have such a way with romance.”
“We are efficient,” Max said, chuckling. “It's the shipping history.”
That was a good joke unfortunately, it made Charles laugh, and Max’s mouth lifted, pleased instead of smug. It would have been easier if he had been smug.
“I do not want to lose, I want to not care," he admitted, finally with an honesty that he did not want to share with Max.
“That is not the same,” Max said.
“I know,” Charles admitted.

 

"There will be a call for applications in six weeks. You will apply. I will apply. We will both write the best pages we have ever written. You will try to submit yours at two minutes to midnight. I will try not to check the document four times an hour. We will both, somehow, be exactly ourselves," Max said finally when it felt like the silence between them was going to boil over. 
“You think you have me in a drawer,” Charles said.
“I have you in a gallery,” Max said, lightly. “I go and look at you when I want to feel complicated.”
It was a ridiculous admission. It should not have worked on anyone over twenty. Charles felt his pulse quicken anyway. He lifted a hand and pretended to smooth his hair again so he could do something that looked normal.
“It's been three years. I cannot believe you're still doing this. You cannot flirt your way past this,” Charles sighed. 
“I am not trying to, I am telling you I respect you enough to want to win fairly," Max responded.
“Save chivalry for the donors,” Charles said.
Max let the insult pass like he had chosen to be generous. 
“Dinner?” he asked instead, in the same tone he used to propose a reading list. 
“Not a date. A discussion. We can talk about how much we both hate performative interdisciplinarity and why the coffee tastes like despair.”
Charles snorted. “You do not even drink the coffee. You drink that Swiss thing you keep in your office like a secret.”
“It is Dutch,” Max added with a smile. “And it is not a secret. I tell anyone who asks.”
“I am not asking,” Charles shook his head.
“Not yet,” Max said before he opened the door and left without a flourish. 

 

And finally, Charles felt like he could breathe. He sat for a long moment and stared at the space Max had vacated as if it might still contain him. He let himself feel what he was feeling and then boxed it like he did with receipts. And with uncanny timing, his phone buzzed again. Lando. A selfie from the library with Oscar in the background holding up a sign that read ARE YOU ALIVE. Oscar looked like he regretted all his life choices, and Lando accompanied that picture with a message in all caps, as usual, that read, ARE YOU TWO KISSING YET?
Charles typed a reply. Alive, no kissing, tell the bursar I am still a menace. He added a heart and then deleted it because that was more intimacy than he was willing to engage with in the group chat on a Wednesday.
He closed the laptop without saving anything and stood up, staring at the window where he caught his reflection. He felt the ache that comes when you want two contradictory things at once. He let himself name them. Win the job. Not care. Kiss Max. Never touch him again. He smiled at himself because it was all very dramatic. He was a grown man staring at his reflection and pretending it spoke back. Charles really was stupid. 

Chapter 2: I like being the only one allowed to be disrespectful

Summary:

The professors finally officially announce there’s only one fellowship next year. Charles and Max immediately turn it into sport: weaponised banter, jealousy disguised as wit, and the kind of academic foreplay that terrifies everyone else in the room. But late at night, when the jokes run out, Max asks the one question Charles has spent the last three years refusing to answer.

Despite the peeling wallpaper and ancient and crumbling lamps, the Pembroke administrative office had polished itself within an inch of its life. The big oval table wore a runner in college colours, making everything look more legitimate than it felt. Someone had arranged a plate of biscuits in concentric rings, most likely Oscar and some other first-year PhD who had been bullied into it by the administration. The custard creams gleamed at the centre like a warning. Charles arrived late enough to look interesting but not be scolded. He took the empty chair two places down from Lewis and directly across from Max. He did not choose that on purpose. The room had simply conspired to put him in danger, and he was trying to respect local customs. Or the other and more likely option was Lando putting everyone up to this.

 

Around the table, the ensemble assembled. Lewis, sleeves rolled, idealism tucked into his shirt pocket with his pen. Sebastian, precise as a scalpel, whose German humour frankly scared Charles. Fred, the new college dean, radiated the patience of a man who knew he was made captain of a sinking ship. Toto, dean of something important that Charles couldn't care less about, but also, unfortunately for Charles, he was the chief diplomat when donors needed to feel worshipped. Carlos and Valtteri slid in with that specific postdoc energy that combines competence with a look that says I slept in my office and will do it again because I need this job. Lando and Oscar took their places along the side, the PhD representatives for something or other, whispering already. Max sat four feet away with a notebook so crisp it offended. He did not look across the table. Charles refused to be the first to break.

 

Fred cleared his throat with the solemnity of bad news. "Thank you, everyone. We have a long agenda and a short attention span, so I will try to be brief. Budget first."
The room made the collective noise of people who had come here for gossip and would endure reality to get to it. Toto gestured to the sheet in front of each place to bring everyone's attention back to the issue at hand. “Unfortunately, due to budget cuts from the University admin, the College will only fund one Postdoctoral Fellowship in Social Thought next year. One, not three, as we originally planned."
He let the number sit, grumbling under his breath, "because of course that honour is reserved for the STEM departments," which did not surprise anyone in the room.
Before continuing, "The terms are competitive, the title is attractive, and in all honesty, the stipend is survivable if one grows one's own vegetables."
This made the tenured professors and admin laugh, but nobody even tried to fake laugh on the other end of the table where the PhDs and postdocs sat. Lewis, oblivious to this, brightened as if he had caught a thread. "If we design the teaching component carefully, we can make it a genuine mentorship platform, not just a body thrown at seminars."
Sebastian, naturally, had to interrupt when he heard Lewis speak. "And if we design the selection process cautiously, we can avoid turning the College into a gladiator pit."
At this point, Charles felt multiple eyes not so secretly glancing between him and Max. He almost wanted to laugh; surely their little fights weren't this well-known? Max, who must have also felt all the eyes on him, finally looked up. He met Charles's eyes across the paper pyramid. Not a smile. Not yet. A recognition. The softest version of game on.

 

Charles, ignoring Max, lifted his cup and discovered it was once again the cheap Tesco Earl Grey, which tasted like paper. The cheapstakes in admin did not even get Yorkshire tea. He drank it anyway and pretended to be nonchalant as Fred continued..
"Applications will open in five weeks. The Fellowship Committee will include myself, Dr. Hamilton, Dr. Vettel, Dr. Rosberg and Mr. Wolff with input from current postdoctoral fellows." He nodded to Carlos and Valtteri, who both nodded back with their eyes still looking dead. Seeing them almost made Charles reconsider applying for the position. Almost, because he was reminded that he did not look any better right now anyway.
“Criteria," Toto said, taking over from Fred, sliding the second page toward the centre with two fingers.
"Research excellence, teaching ability, contribution to College life, and what our Development Office has started calling the sparkle factor."
"The sparkle factor," Sebastian repeated, deadpan. "Terrifying."
Toto rolled his eyes and looked down the table towards the two people everyone was already looking at. "Since we have two strong final year candidates present, we may as well dispense with subtlety. Max, Charles, you have been pre-nominated by your supervisors," he said as he pointed at Lewis and Sebastian, respectively.
The air shifted at the declaration as everyone in the room suddenly looked anywhere that wasn't the chairs Max and Charles were sitting on. Charles knew this was coming, yet now that the official announcement was here, he couldn't look up and meet the supportive glances his supervisor, Sebastian, was throwing at him.

 

Max was the first to speak. Of course he was. "Thank you," he said, sunlight courteous.
"It is an honour to be considered. I will do my best to be worthy of the College's expectations." His eyes flicked to Charles for one beat. "And competition."
Charles set his cup down gently so the saucer would not betray him. "Thank you," he said, and made it sound like he had nothing to prove to anyone, which was a gross lie. "I will also do my best. I will also make it a priority to get rid of the cursed custard creams."
"Leave the biscuits alone," Toto said when he heard the snickers from all corners of the room. "Development likes them and that's where the funding comes from, mind you.”

 

The agenda plodded through subheadings with titles like Student Wellbeing and Events Calendar. During an update on Library Renovations, Sebastian leaned toward Toto and spoke in a tone that was soft enough not to be considered a rude interruption. "We could use the Paris conference to observe them without alerting them to the observation."
"We do not need to be subtle," Toto said, loud enough for everyone to hear because that man did not possess a polite or considerate bone in his body. Lewis, clearly used to this, sighed before interjecting loudly. "Speaking of conferences. The annual Power and Society colloquium in Paris is next month. We have been asked to field a panel from Pembroke."
Fred seized the opportunity in a manner that looked suspiciously rehearsed. "Excellent. Nothing demonstrates collegiate excellence like international visibility."
Valtteri lifted his head slowly, suggesting someone is about to be volunteered. "And nothing tests a working relationship like a panel that starts at nine in the morning."
Carlos grinned and whispered a little too loud, "Paris will love them.”
All of this made Charles believe that this was indeed rehearsed.
Lewis steepled his fingers. "Here is a proposal. Charles and Max co-lead our panel. We call it something that will make the programme chair swoon. We claim it is a collaboration. We sit in the front row and take notes on whether they kill each other."
Sebastian laughed, "You did not need to say the last part out loud."
"But it's true," Lewis said. Oscar and Lando nodded in agreement on the side as all eyes slid to the two people who were now officially the show.

 

Max recovered first because, of course, he did.
"I would be delighted," he said. "Power and society is practically my morning coffee."
"Your coffee is Dutch and illegal," Charles scoffed. His throat had gone dry, which he refused to attribute to Max's glance. "Also delighted. Power and society is my afternoon cigarette."
Toto shook his head, wondering if he should have accepted the offer at Trinity instead. "Please do not say that into a microphone in Paris."
Lando peered around the water jug to better see the battlefield as Sebastian set down what Charles considered an unnecessary ground rule. "You will prepare together. You will not outsource the slides to some long-suffering first-year PhDs. Set a good precedent."
Oscar visibly sighed in relief as Carlos interrupted him, "Sebastian did not say anything about that rule applying to postdocs." Valetter grinned in agreement as he made a mental note to email Oscar after the meeting.
Sebastian pretended to ignore the hopeful look Oscar sent his way as he continued, "You will not transpose your rivalry into innuendo in a way that makes the moderator cry," Sebastian added.
Lando raised his hand. "Define innuendo."
"No."
Toto leaned back, deciding it was time for him to terrorise them a bit more. "If you make the College look good, the College will remember. If you comport yourselves like you are in a soap opera, the College will also remember that.”
Fred rapped the table very gently, which in his language was a gavel. "All in favour."
There was a chorus of yesses, including Lando, who had half the table turned to look at him in confusion. "You're a second-year PhD. Who told you your opinion matters?" Charles scoffed.
"Motion carried," Fred said. He gave Charles and Max a look that was eighty percent kind and twenty percent thrilled to be alive.
"Try not to scandalise us."
"We will do our best," Max said.
"No promises," Charles said at the same time.
The room laughed because the alternative was worrying.

 

They moved on to mundane items. A lecture series that wanted a title no one would mock. A minor scandal about a stolen bike rack. The meeting finally ended with the elegant clatter of chairs and the collective sigh of people released back into their lives. The moment Fred said, "Thank you everyone," the room changed temperature. Formal became informal. People stood and arranged themselves into small constellations to acquire biscuits on their plates and gossip, the reason why everyone still attended these meetings, other than it being a requirement. The custard creams, Charles noted, remained untouched at the centre like a moral code for the college.
Lando and Oscar naturally orbited Charles at speed.
"Well," Lando said, eyes bright with the joy of a cat that has claimed it did not knock something off the table, "this is going to be delicious."
Oscar held his notebook to his chest like a shield. "I think they are serious," he said. "About Paris."
"They are serious about everything, especially their commitment to pretending to hate each other," Lando added.
"I do not pretend," Charles said. "I am sincere in my hatred."
Lando smiled, “Yes, of course."

 

Lewis drifted over with gentleness that drew in students of all ages and made him the most popular professor in Pembroke, if not the entire university. "You will be excellent," he said, and it did not sound like flattery. It sounded like a prediction.
"Remember that the panel is not merely a performance. It is a conversation. And you do that well, even when you choose to do it as fencing." Even though Lewis wasn't Charles' supervisor or from the same discipline, he had always been kind to Charles.
"Fencing is a conversation, with pointy punctuation," Charles responded with a slight grin.
Max appeared at his supervisor's elbow before anyone could talk about him. He had the uncanny ability to arrive at the exact moment the plot required him.
"I am a terrible fencer," he said to Lewis, polite, almost humble. "But I am a very good conversationalist."
Lewis smiled at both of them like a kind general before sending his soldiers to fight to the death on the battlefield.
"You will be fine," he said again. "But do send me your outline before you send it to Paris. I will ensure your metaphors do not get you arrested and that we do not look like fools." Before they could say anything else, Lewis left the PhDs to themselves as he joined the rest of the tenured folk who probably had a hidden stash of better biscuits in their offices.
Max chuckled at his supervisor before he turned to Charles. "Shall we schedule our first rehearsal?"
"I am busy for the next several years," Charles shrugged as he ate his fifth Jaffa Cake of the day.
"Tonight then," Max said. "Nine. Senior Common Room. After the master's students have finished whatever it is that they do."
"That will be midnight," Lando said.
"They are rehearsing for a play. They're doing Chekhov, it will be long," Oscar added.
"Senior Common Room at nine," Max repeated. "They're students. We will kick them out."
Charles considered saying no. He also considered the fact that Toto had looked at him like a headhunter, and that he did not want to give Max the satisfaction of being the reasonable one.
"Fine," he said, giving in. "Bring your illegal coffee."
"It is not illegal, it is misunderstood."
"I have dated that person," Charles snorted at his own joke.
Max's smile was quick and private. "I know."
Lando and Oscar hid a snicker behind their cups of tea as they nodded at Carlos from the back, gesturing to them to come and tell them what was being discussed, unhappy at the prospect of being left out of the gossip session.

 

The little circle drifted after that, the meeting dissolving into a dozen low conversations and shoe noises. Gossip rose from the carpet like steam. A cluster of junior fellows near the drinks table were discussing, in the earnest tones of people whose lives are lecters and line graphs, who would win a fight to the death in an IKEA. Charles heard his name in the air and decided to ignore it. However, as much as he wanted to, he could not ignore the second conversation that reached him, because it reached him through Max. It started three feet away with a postgrad from International Relations who had a voice like a foghorn and a personality to match. "Well, Charles will have a strong case if the fellowship committee values the sparkle factor. He sparkles his way through half the college as it is."
One of his companions giggled and added, "he is really charming."
"Very busy," the third companion said in a tone that didn't try to hide his maliciousness. Charles felt the familiar drop in his stomach. It was not shame. It was not exactly anger either. It was the feeling of being observed by people who you did not know were looking through your clothes. Max heard it too, as he always did. Charles almost expected him to join in. Why would he lose his chance to speak about how idgraceful someone like Charles was? Instead, Charles heard the man's calm voice interrupt the group, "He is also very good at his job." This startled the three into a silence they pretended had been thoughtful all along.

 

Charles pretended not to notice that a defence had been issued on his behalf. He did not want to owe Max anything, not even the smallest debt. He did not want to feel the thread that tugged at his chest when Max did something annoyingly decent. But when the room slowly emptied, Max appeared at his side, coffee in hand, casual like nothing had happened.
"At least," Max said quietly, with the kind of smile that hurt to wear, "no one will ever accuse you of being lonely. You've made sure of that."
It was a clean cut, disguised as banter, but Charles felt it anyway.
He smiled, tried to keep his voice even. "I didn't realise my social calendar was now college business."
Max's mouth twitched as his eyes stayed on Charles. "Is there anyone in the university you haven't written a field report on?"
The jab landed harder than Max intended. Cruel, sharp, like it had been waiting in him for too long. Charles stilled, his smile flattening.
"Congratulations," Charles said, voice cool. "You've managed to slut-shame me and insult my discipline at the same time. Two birds, one stone."
Max opened his mouth, and Charles could see it, the half-second where apology perched on his tongue, but then his jaw set. He shut it. Covered it with a shrug instead, as though the jab had been nothing more than wit.
Charles turned away before he could say something sharper.
"See you at nine."
The corridor was cooler than the admin office, less perfumed by power. He let the day sit on his shoulders for exactly ten steps, then shrugged it off like a coat. At six, he had a supervision, at seven, he had a meeting he had already written an apology email for, at eight, he would pretend to eat, at nine, he would be seated across a table from the person who could rattle him without trying. He tried not to enjoy the anticipation as much as he did, but Max's comment continued to sting. More than whatever those three fellows had said, if he was being honest. That's always the effect Max had on him.

 

The Senior Common Room at nine had a different personality. The lamps glowed softly. The portraits had shifted from judgment to curiosity. The chairs had remembered that they were comfortable. Max was already there, naturally, the picture of order. His laptop was open, his notes were arranged in a way that looked like a template, and his illegal coffee was decanted into a civilised pot. He had removed his jacket and hung it neatly on the back of his chair.
"You are early," Charles said, dropping his bag with theatrical carelessness.
"You are late," Max said annoyed. "By fifteen minutes."
"Time is a construct."
"It is also a schedule," Max said. He poured coffee into two mugs and slid one across the table. "Drink. You look like a person the NHS would classify as a concern."
Charles rolled his eyes but sipped the coffee anyway. Charles hated how good it tasted. He opened his laptop and produced a sheaf of handwritten notes that had been folded into a shape no origami artist would claim.
Max looked at the notes with horror, "What is that?"
"Genius," Charles said.
"Insanity," Max corrected him.
"Thank you," Charles grinned, which only annoyed Max when he realised three seconds later that it had been accepted as a compliment.
They started like professionals because it was a safer flavour of intimacy. The panel title first. Charles proposed five that were all too funny to pass muster. Max proposed five that were all too clean to be interesting. They compromised on something with rhythm and meaning. Power, Performance, and the Public: Institutions and the People Who Survive Them. It sounded like a talk people would attend on purpose.
They divided the tasks and acted surprisingly civilised towards each other as they devised an appropriate outline and plan for the session.

 

As the plan settled, the banter loosened its tie.
"Your section will need fewer jokes than you think," Max said. "Paris appreciates irony, not stand-up."
"I do not do stand-up. I do falling apart while taking notes," Charles rolled his eyes.
"That is your charm. It's not your only trick." Max added.
"You sound concerned I will be more interesting than you."
"I am always concerned you will be more interesting than me," Max said, which should have been sarcastic, but it wasn't.
Charles glanced at him, then away, then back again, because it was sometimes better to look at the sun directly. "You think I am interesting?"
Max made a small, helpless sound as he looked away from him. "Charles."
"Do not Charles me."
"What would you prefer I call you? Darling? You seemed to like it last time," Max said with a smirk, which Charles wanted to wipe off his face.
"I prefer doctor, if you are going to be disgusting like this," Charles muttered as he refused to look at Max and gave him the satisfaction of seeing a blushing Charles.
"You are not yet a doctor," Max said. Then, softer, a half-step he might regret, "You will be."
Charles felt the thing in his chest that no one else seemed to notice. It turned slowly like a key.

 

They sketched slides with reference points that only people like them would find sexy. De Certeau. Arendt. Foucault. A line from a novelist that Charles loved for the aching way it looked at the world. A graph Max hated for its deceitful simplicity. They argued pleasantly about the word agency until the kettle clicked and interrupted them. Max got up to pour water over a new set of coffee grounds, which painted a scarily domestic scene which Charles wanted to memorise. Charles watched him the way other people watched ballet. The clean lines. The care. The degree to which everything was chosen on purpose.
"Did you hear the gossip?" Charles asked for something to do with his mouth.
"I hear everything," Max said without turning. "That does not mean I listen."
"That would be a yes." Charles was well aware of the fact that his self-inflicting harmful habit of sleeping with random people was a topic of gossip among people at the college. Charles wanted to ask Max why he had defended him, then drew blood again with what he had said to Charles. But he stopped. He simply couldn't bring himself to ask him. That was too much intimacy for Charles.
"It would be," Max said, returning to the table with his tray of competence. "It would also be a request that you not base your self-worth on people who do not know what they are talking about." Charles smiled slightly to himself. Of course, Max would never directly apologise.
"Strange. I thought your self-worth came laminated," Charles said instead.
"It is hand-stitched," Max said. "Very artisanal."
"Of course."
Max took his seat and answered the silent question lingering between them anyway, in a manner that showed just how well he knew Charles. Much to Charles' dismay. "They were disrespectful. It irritated me."
"Why?"
"I like being the only one allowed to be disrespectful," Max joked, but then, as if he changed his mind, he shook his head. "No. That is not it."
Charles looked at him, surprised at his sincerity, "What then?"
Max pushed his fingertips together. "I do not like anyone collapsing you into a story that makes them feel better."
Charles could feel his heart betraying him, so he resorted to making a joke and found that his mouth had better things to do.
"It is a good story, though. Beautiful disaster. Everyone enjoys a trope."
"You are not a trope," Max added gently. "You are a person. I know it is an unfashionable position."
Charles pretended to examine a crack in the tabletop. "I mean, it is true, though. I sleep with people. A lot," he said, like a confession made to a friend who already knew.
"Yes," Max said. "It is one of the things you do."
"You hate it," Charles found himself saying before he could stop. Before he could take it back, Max responded with a slight hesitation.
"I hate the parts of it that hurt you. That you feel the need to put up a performance."
His tone was softer now, but his jaw was tight. "And I hate the way you pretend it never does."

 

Charles laughed, brittle. "Well. You should try selling that to some romance novelist or script writer. You almost fooled me."
Max ignored it, familiar with Charles' tactics of avoidance. His voice dropped, quieter, almost hesitant. "Is that why, then? Why are you always with people? To fill the gap for a night."
Charles blinked. The question landed heavier than the jab earlier. He tried for a smirk but couldn't quite get it there. "You make it sound so noble."
"It isn't," Max said. "It's lonely."
Charles' throat tightened. He wanted to brush it off and make another joke, but Max was still watching him, steady, too steady.
"Was that why," Max asked hesitantly, barely above a whisper, "you- we. I mean, when you slept with me?"
For the first time, Charles heard Max fumble with his words. He would have found joy in it if it weren't about that night. Charles didn't move. His heartbeat ticked through the room like a second clock. He forced his eyes down, away from Max's face, his voice harsh and firm. "We don't talk about that night."
Charles could almost feel the air freeze, thick with everything they had not said for three years. Max's mouth opened, then closed. He looked down at his notes, fingers pressing hard on the page. For a moment, it seemed like he might apologise, pull the words back, smooth it over, give them both an exit. Or perhaps force Charles to speak about it anyway. But he didn't. Instead, he nodded once. Businesslike and reached for his pen. "Fine. We have slides to finish."
Charles did not know if he was grateful or hurt. And just like that, the conversation shut. But the air didn't clear. It buzzed louder, charged, unresolved. The unsaid hung between them like a live wire.

 

They returned to the work with the solemnity of people who had stepped past an edge and decided to pretend they had not. They wrote sentences that felt like they owed the world a debt and cut adverbs like weeds.
At some point, Lando and Oscar's voices drifted through the corridor. They cracked the door, peered in, and observed the two of them sitting with laptops and mugs like penitents. Lando gave them two thumbs up, and Oscar gave a tiny wave before withdrawing as quietly as two human instruments can. Charles was sure they had come in, in case a fight had broken out, so those two could watch from the sidelines and enjoy. That thought brought some levity to the heavy atmosphere in the room.
"Five minutes," Max said after that. "Break. Or we will begin to think we are immortal." He added as he stretched. It was unfair when he did that. His shirt did something that should have been illegal, and it probably was in an academic setting like this. Charles allowed himself one glance and then looked back at his screen as if he had been caught.
"This panel," Max broke the silence again, "how honest are we going to be?"
"About what?"
"Power. Ours. Theirs. The ways it makes you into someone you do not like."
Charles considered. "You are asking if we will say the bit out loud that gets people fired."
"Yes," Max laughed.
"We will say it deftly," Charles said. "We will make it sound like a type of poetry that administration can pretend not to understand."
Max smiled a little. "You are very good at this."
"At what?"
"Making a room feel brave."
"It is easy when you do not plan to live in it," Charles answered. He thought of all the corridors he had left at four in the morning because it kept him on the correct side of a line. He thought about a version of his life in which he stayed.
Max did not fill the silence with a joke. He let it do its work. "Do you ever get lonely?" he asked, not looking at Charles when he asked. Charles was almost worried the other would bring up the contentious topic of conversation again, but luckily, he didn't.
"Not the dramatic kind. The kind that makes everything feel a shade to the left of real," Max added instead as if trying to read Charles.
"Yes," Charles said, and the truth made his tongue sting. "It is my favourite hobby."
Max nodded once, "Mine too."
The kettle had boiled again and then cooled without either of them noticing. The room felt warm and tired. The portraits looked like they had paused their whispering to listen.

 

"I do not know how to do this without turning it into theatre," Charles admitted. "The panel. This. All of it."
"You can do it," Max said. "You just have to decide to be seen on purpose."
Charles laughed so quietly that the room did not hear it. Max sounded almost as if he wanted to be the one who saw Charles, or perhaps wanted to brag to the world about the version of Charles in front of him. It was a dangerous thought that Charles quickly pushed away.
"You make it sound like choosing a tie."
"For me it is," Max said, which was not a brag. It was a fact about a person whose life had taught him to polish his edges until they could cut.
"Who taught you that?" Charles asked, before he could stop the curiosity.
"My grandmother." Max smiled without his teeth. "She used to say, if you are going to be looked at, decide what they see."
"Terrifying woman."
"Great taste," Max said. "Awful opinions. I am afraid she might have been slightly racist too."
"That tracks," Charles said, chuckling.
They worked until the clock on the mantel chimed, letting them know it was time to get out. The draft existed. The sequence made sense. The slides had boxes. The pair of them had not kissed each other or killed each other. They had not made a claim that would bring about Pembroke's downfall. It felt like a successful evening.

 

Max closed his laptop and placed his palms flat on the table. "Paris will be good for us."
"Speak for yourself. I plan to suffer."
"You do that beautifully."
"Thank you," Charles said. “I work on it twice a week with my therapist."
"Good, I am glad," Max added.
The conversation had tilted again into a slope that would drop them if they let it. Charles stood and started gathering the mugs because it felt wholesome. Max took the tray before Charles could lift it, because it felt like chivalry, and he knew Charles hated that.
"Save chivalry for the donors," Charles said, automatically on instinct.
"They like it," Max said.
"I do not."
"I know," Max said, but he did not put the tray down.
For a second, they stood a minimal distance apart in a room that held the ghosts of a thousand disappointments.
"Do not make me say it," Charles said softly, and he did not know if he meant do not make me say yes or do not make me say no.
"I will not," Max said. He took a step back, which felt like both a kindness and a theft. He carried the tray to the sideboard and arranged the mugs in a neat line that would have satisfied the cleaning staff.
"We will send the outline to Lewis tomorrow," he said, businesslike again. "I will draft the email. You can add a joke about the custard creams."
"They are not a joke. They are a sign," Charles said deceptively seriously.
"Of what?"
"The end times," Charles said.
Max smiled, real and small. "Goodnight."
"Night," Charles said.
They left the SCR together and then chose different directions down the corridor. Charles took the stairs two at a time and did not look back because that was how you win at certain games.

 

He lit a cigarette and then did not smoke it because sometimes ritual is enough. He walked the long way back to his staircase, past the library, and the noticeboard that announced student plays and lost scarves. He could feel the evening buzzing against his skin like static. It wanted to be something else. He would not let it. Not yet. He did not turn on the overhead light when he reached his room. He flicked the small lamp on his desk and watched the amber circle settle on his mess like approval. He opened the laptop and sent their outline to himself so he could read it in bed and pretend to make edits. He did not open any of the texts that had arrived while he had been acting professional. Instead of pretending to work in bed, he found himself looking from the window at the top edge of the quad and one corner of the sky. He tried to picture Paris not as an idea but as a place that would contain him. He pictured a hotel room with unforgiving lighting. He pictured the conference coffee that would taste like betrayal. He pictured a lecture hall with good acoustics and a back row that belonged to cynics. He pictured Max at the podium with a posture that made people want to stand up straighter. He pictured himself beside him, shoulders relaxed, mouth ready. He grinned at the ceiling like a fool. He would not admit that he was excited. He would instead practise his lines instead.

 

His laptop pinged. An email from Max.
Subject line: Panel outline. Body: Draft attached. Also, please do not use the phrase vibe shift in an academic context. It upsets the grown-ups. M.

Charles replied before the grown-up in him could stop him.
Subject line: Re: Panel outline. Body: It is an academic term. I invented it. Also, I am not changing it. Also, good work tonight.
He stared at that last sentence for five seconds, which felt like a rule. He added a second.
Do not be nice to me; it makes me anxious. C.

He hit send before he could try to be clever. The reply came faster than he wanted it to. Max had clearly been waiting the way people do when they have decided not to be the first to say goodnight.
Subject line: Re: Re: Panel outline. Body: I am already nice to you. You simply find it difficult to accept. Sleep. We have Paris to survive.

Charles closed the laptop and let the dark strike the room back to calm. He let the night settle. He let the outline replay. He let Max's voice slide around his mind like a song he would pretend he had not downloaded.
Tomorrow there would be more work. There would be another meeting. There would be twenty emails that thought they were urgent. There would be a joke from Lando that made him want to push him into a hedge. There would be Oscar's earnest concern. There would be the Fellowship Committee and its criteria. There would be Max again, immaculate and infuriating, asking him to choose being seen on purpose.
For now, there was a bed, a lamp, and a quiet that felt like the other side of a door. He closed his eyes and promised himself he would not think about Paris when he was supposed to be sleeping. He thought about Paris anyway.

Notes:

If I am being completely honest, I do not know why I am writing this instead of preparing for my draft submission, which is looming closer and closer. I have resorted to writing this chapter instead of working or my usual procrastination ritual of cleaning some part of the house. In my defence, half of this chapter was already written (as are parts of the next chapter). But I still hope you all will enjoy this chapter. The chapters are turning out slightly longer than I originally planned, probably because I like writing dialogue-heavy fiction. But I do hope this gives you all a good idea about the more intrinsic nature of the character's interactions and feelings. The next chapter is most likely going to be the trip to Paris, so please do look forward to that!

Until then, thank you so much for reading! And a special thanks to anyone who interacted with the story. I really appreciate it! A kudos or comment means a lot, especially because I mostly write fanfiction to find some joy and procrastinate from my actual work. If you have any feedback, suggestions or questions, please do not hesitate to ask! Have a great week ahead! I am not entirely sure when I will update next, but hopefully soon?

Warm regards
S.T. x

Chapter 3: No Borders

Summary:

Two weeks of anticipation led to Paris, where Charles carries a date he’d rather forget. Max unknowingly pushes too far, and something as fragile as smoke lingers between them in the end.

Charles loved Paris, the weight of its intellectual history, the shimmer of its romance, the art that seemed to breathe on every corner, and, most of all, the music of its language. He loved it all. Yet when the Eurostar came to a halt and the doors parted at the Nord, an unease settled in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. He had accepted the conference before noticing the dates, though he knew he didn't have a choice if he wanted a shot at the postdoctoral fellowship. As he stepped onto the platform, he told himself the past would not be allowed to poison the future. He followed along with the Pembrooke College contingent, shuffling forward with the dignity of a school trip. Two postdocs who knew better than to make eye contact with anyone, four PhD students who pretended they did not know each other, and duffel bags that appeared to be a cry for help. Carlos, of course, much to Charles's dismay, looked elegant in the way that still has Charles blushing, reminding him of his childish school crush that he had developed years ago when he had first joined the university as a master's student. Valtteri carried two bags and the air of a man who would jump in front of a train if it meant avoiding small talk. Lando and Oscar were debating whether the complimentary croissant counted as French pastry. Max looked freshly unboxed and ugly in Charles's honest opinion. And finally, Charles came behind him with a duffel that had clearly survived wars. He slung it over one shoulder and pretended it did not weigh the same as his choices.

 

The taxi queue moved like an ancient river. Paris flashed by in wet, postcard segments. Glowing cafés, scooters, a pair of teenagers kissing with theatrical sincerity, a man walking a small dog resembling a keyring. And yet nobody in the back seat took photos. Too tired and jaded with academia. That did not include the two younglings, of course. Lando tried to wedge all of them into a selfie and cut Max out completely as Oscar tried desperately to make sure his hair did not get cut out. If it were any other day, Charles would have found himself cackling, but settled for a small smile as they reached the hotel. The hotel, much like the Pembrooke team, looked worse for wear. The foyer smelled faintly of furniture polish and radiator heat, while the carpet was patterned in either what looked like flowers or, more likely, historical stains. Oscar stopped just inside the door and blinked with a feeling of betrayal.
"This is academia. If you wanted chandeliers you should have gone into consulting. Not that a History student would survive there," Valtteri said with a shrug as he gathered the booking documents the university had given him.
"It has character," Carlos tried to cheer them up.
"It has tetanus," Lando scoffed as they all followed Valtteri up to the reception.
The receptionist slapped down paperwork with the speed of a woman who wanted them gone.
"Two twin rooms for the students and single rooms for postdoctoral fellows. Breakfast is from seven to nine. Please do not steal the cutlery; the last group thought it was funny," she said, bored as she slid four keycards towards them.
"Who is with whom?" Lando asked with the delight of someone who already knew the answer.
"Monseur Leclerc and Verstappen in 304 and Monseur Norris and Piastri in 305," the receptionist responded, already annoyed that they hadn't left.
Oscar, to everyone's surprise, quite literally laughed. And was soon followed by equally amused Carlos, Valtteri, and Lando, being the git he was, pulled his phone out, unsure of what to record to preserve this moment. But as if reminded of something, he quickly put it back in his pocket.
Max rolled his eyes at the rest of them, "Surely there is another option."
Carlos and Valtteri, not wanting any part of this, took their keys and fled. They were professionals. They knew when to remove themselves from a scene.
"I am a delight to live with," Charles responded, scoffing at Max.
"You are a walking hazard. Max colour codes his spices. You once found a sandwich and decided the green bits gave it character," Lando responded.
"Once," Charles said quietly, unwilling to fight anyway. Max, fortunately, got the sign, took the keycard and did not dignify any of this with a response.
"Let us get it over with," he said, and started up the stairs.

 

Room 304 had two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a desk between them, three lamps that hummed and a set of curtains thick enough to hide any speck of sunlight. Charles had seen worse. Without a word, he threw his duffel on the left bed, claiming it without asking. As he opened the bag, it burst like a small weather system. Socks slid under the desk, a t-shirt fanned onto Max's bedspread, a notebook thumped to the floor and shed a bookmark that had once been a receipt. He groaned and collapsed face-first onto the mattress, arms flung wide, the entire picture of a man who had given up.
"You have been here thirty seconds," Max said, horrified.
"I like to make an impression," Charles replied into the pillow, not wanting to continue this conversation. He could already feel his limbs tingling, desperate to escape the heaviness he felt. It was always like this, but it felt much worse today. Charles gasped softly into the pillow as he tried to control his breath. Max gave him a look that bordered on annoyance and concern as he opened his suitcase and unpacked with the efficiency of a surgeon. Shirts came out on hangers and went into the wardrobe. A blazer was brushed with two precise strokes. Toiletries lined up in formation. He plugged his phone in and coiled the cable neatly. He did not look at Charles while he did it. He did not need to. His posture said everything it needed to say.
Charles willed himself to sit up again. He had promised himself he was going to persevere through.
"You iron your socks, do you not?" Charles asked, trying to distract himself.
"I value order."
"Fascist," Charles said.
"Stop calling me that," Max grumbled.
"Dictator."
Max threw his hands up in defeat as he pulled the hotel pen toward him and drew a straight line down the middle of the desk. "This is the border. Your detritus does not cross it," he said, giving Charles a pointed look.
"Of course you believe in borders, you colonial brute. Borders are a colonial fiction," Charles replied, nudging the desk with his feet so it turned a little, and he pointed toward Max's neat stack of printed slides.
"You are insufferable," Max said, but his mouth had softened against his will. The door swung open before it turned into a fight, and Lando leaned in without knocking.
"Steak frites. We are going for steak frites. You are coming," Lando announced as he walked in, ready to drag Charles with him.
"Thank you for the invite," Max said, shaking his head as he changed into a more comfortable jacket.
"You're invited, obviously. I am trying to make sure this one doesn't try and slink away," he said, nodding at Charles.
Max found himself smiling slightly as he followed them out. "But we need to be back by eight to rehearse. The slides are not ready, and the abstract has changed twice. We need to decide who is opening and who is handling all the questions about Said and decolonisation," Max said, locking the door behind them.
"You can take those. You have the cheekbones for it," Charles said, grinning.
Max did not rise to it, though the red hue covering his face said a different story. "Eight. We cannot be late," he repeated to Charles, his tone turned almost gentle.
"Oui, monsieur," Charles replied as he tugged his jacket closer and gently pulled his hand out of Lando's.
"I need to get more cigarettes. I will meet you guys there," he said to Lando, and slid past them into the hallway.
Lando's grin faltered as he watched Charles disappear down the stairs. He turned back to Max, who seemed unbothered, almost detached.
"I know you two have…whatever history, but can you please be nicer this weekend? That's all I ask," Lando said, his voice softer than usual, carrying an unexpected gentleness. The shift left Max momentarily unsettled, though he didn't press. Instead, he studied Lando, searching for the weight behind his words, and gave a single, reluctant nod. Together, they went down the stairs to meet Oscar.

 

Paris smelled like damp and coffee. Evening shone on the street and turned the puddles into small mirrors. Charles walked without aim or a plan to join the group anytime soon. Somewhere, a busker played a violin that sounded like a sore throat, accompanied by sounds of laughter and screams of anger filled the streets. He loved this city when it let him, loved the way its attention wandered. He could not find any of it. Everything slid off his skin. But the date sat on his chest like a brick. He had known it would. He had thought wandering around Paris would scatter it, but it did not. The numbers were heavy and immovable and wrapped around the day like a rope. This was the day they had left Monaco all those years ago. The packing tape screaming, the air heavy with lemon cleaner, his mother's mouth set, the lights in the kitchen too bright for the hour. This was the day there had been no more money to hold their life together in the city they had spent their lives in, the city they called home. This was the day a rent deposit in England, paid by his aunt, acted like a life raft. He lit a cigarette and made himself cough like a person pretending not to, dragged the smoke into lungs that wanted an excuse to feel. It tasted like paper. God, he hated French cigarettes. He watched Paris, which belonged to postcards, and felt exactly adjacent. He always felt adjacent on this day. He was very good at stepping one degree to the left of the centre of things. He had been eleven when they left. The flat in Monaco had smelled like oil and garlic, bright and noisy. Everyone knew his father. Loved him. Perhaps that's why everyone had an opinion on what they should have done that day. The day after the funeral, the baker had given them bread for free, bidding them farewell, and his mother had cried, holding it. A month later, the flat was boxed, and the car was full, and the last glimpse he had was the balcony railing he had once climbed over when he wanted to feel brave.

 

England was rain and strange brightness, and with it came a house they could afford only because it did not want to be loved. A week in, as the older brother, he told his mother he would be fine despite how much he hated it all. But he meant it, until the lights went out. The fuse blew. The house exhaled, and the world seemed stripped of its skin. The front door was stuck on the chain. The back door had a lock with a trick his little hands did not know. The phone his mother had bought him showed no signal, and the torch on the kitchen shelf had dead batteries and a smiley face scrawled on it in his brother's marker that felt like mockery. So he sat on the bottom step with his knees drawn up, counting through the panic because no one was there to see him and hold him as he failed. He cried without sound; the lack of noise made the dark press closer. The blackness took him back to the day his father was stolen too soon, the kind of absence that left the air permanently thinner. But this darkness felt worse, closer and hungrier, clawing at him with the same loneliness, the same unfamiliar terror, until his tears finally dried on his cheeks.
When the key finally turned and the hall light flared, he laughed, an ugly bark of relief that startled his mother and brother. He told her he was fine. She stroked his hair and made pasta for dinner, unaware. But the dark had already lodged itself inside his chest like damp, a presence that never left.

 

The heaviness in his limbs was seeping back, and with it came that old, familiar loneliness, the fear that clawed at him when he was most exposed. He had wanted solitude and company in the same breath, a contradiction he never seemed able to resolve. He was skilled at finding someone to hold for an hour who would not ask his name. He despised himself for it, and yet he did it all the same. Not tonight, though. Not on this date. He had promised himself that much. He lit another cigarette as he tried to think of the panel, the slides, and the subtle lift in Max's voice when he was right and allowed himself to enjoy it. He imagined saying Max's name, and didn't. He imagined reaching across the narrow desk that separated their beds, brushing Max's hand, and didn't. There were so many things he didn't do, some out of discipline, others out of fear. But the thought of Max only made the clawing worse. So he stumbled into a dim bar on the corner, ordering two neat whiskeys and swallowing them almost in one breath. Just as the clawing worsened, he saw him—a stranger with a disarming smile, playful brown eyes, and a crown of unruly curls. Charles smiled back, and with that, the promise unravelled. As the man drew closer, something in Charles's chest tightened, part dread and part relief. He let himself be carried along, whisked away to a dingy apartment, knowing full well that forgetting came at a price. He just didn't know yet how high it would be.

 

When Charles returned to the hotel, the lobby stank worse than it had that morning. Or perhaps it was him, steeped in the rancid mix of sex, cigarettes, and alcohol. The corridor stretched before him in muted light, and he caught the faint hum of the lamp above room 304 before he saw it. As though summoned by the sound of his footsteps, the door to 305 opened and Lando emerged at once, worry etched plainly across his face. He stepped forward, lips parting, as if ready to catch Charles before he could collapse.
Charles offered only a thin, practised smile. "I'm fine. Sorry, I couldn't join. Traffic," he said, not even bothering to craft a believable lie. Lando would know, as he always did.
"Okay, mate… just make sure you sleep it off, yeah? I'll be downstairs if you need me."
Lando's hand lingered on his back for a moment before he moved past, leaving the corridor quiet again. Charles watched him go until he disappeared around the corner. Then, bracing himself, he unlocked the door. The sweetness of a perfume not his own hit him at once, cloying and sharp, forcing his stomach to twist. He gagged, but forced it down. He didn't need to look at Max to know he was there. He could feel him, standing by the desk, taut and silent, carrying the weight of someone who had been waiting far too long, and had hated every moment of it.
"You're late," Max said. The gentleness that had crept into his voice over the past few days was gone, stripped clean. Charles let his jacket slide from his shoulder and flicked the light switch with two careless fingers.
"Sorry. Lost track," he muttered, no apology in his tone. But the guilt struck anyway, sharp and immediate, the moment he caught the disappointment threaded through Max's voice.
"Lost track, or distracted?" Max asked. He didn't even look up from the slide he was annotating; he didn't need to. The words themselves cut clean, a blade honed fine.
Charles spun around. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You know what it means. You make it obvious enough."
"Obvious enough," Charles echoed, his laugh hollow, bitter. "Go fuck yourself, Max."
He knew, even as the words left him, that he would regret them. He knew the anger, the frustration, and the gnawing ache inside him had little to do with Max. But it was Max, always Max, who dragged it out of him, who made him feel too much, until the only release was to wound.
"Are we really going to pretend I said something wrong?" Max turned to face him now, his eyes cutting sharply.
"You spend half your life in someone else's bed and dress it up like research."

 

The words landed harder than he meant. He heard the shape of them as they fell, wanted to snatch them back, swallow them whole, but there was no way. That was the cruelty of jealousy; it felt like honesty for a moment. Charles's face changed. The bravado stripped away, leaving him both older and younger at once. His voice came low, brittle.
"You think it's fun? You think I enjoy it? The silence feels like drowning, Max. If I don't fill it, it swallows me whole. So yes. I find someone who wants me for an hour and pretend I can stand myself. Then I hate it. I hate me. There. Lesson learned. Congratulations. You are right. I am foul."
The room froze with him, so still the hum of the lamp roared like static. Max opened his mouth and found an apology sitting on his tongue. Sorry, it felt too small and strange. And beneath it, pride and jealousy burned stubbornly on, cruel in their own right, refusing to let him soften and let Charles see how much it hurt.
"Leave me alone," Charles said, softer now. Then, almost breaking, "Please."
It startled him the way the words came out, not with anger or disgust, but with something dangerously close to desperation. In moments like this, his self-hatred had always been the loudest thing in the room. It was just a coincidence that he was always fortunately alone when that happened. But tonight that wasn't the case. It was quieter than the pain of hearing Max's words, quieter than the ache of seeing that hurt in Max's eyes. Neither of them spoke it aloud. Neither dared. Naming it would make it too real.
Max set his pen down. He didn't try to fix it. His body felt heavy, his mind unmoored, as though any movement might make things worse. Slowly, he reached for his jacket, slid it over his shoulders, and walked out without looking back. He couldn't bear to. The corridor carried him into the stairwell, then the lobby, then finally the bar— each step pulling him farther away, though his heart thudded harder with every one. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, unwilling. A part of him, stubborn, aching, wished he'd turned back, said something, anything. But he didn't.

 

The bar had a long counter and three people in it who all looked like they were tired of hearing about Foucault. Max ordered a scotch he did not need and took a stool at the end, wanting to be alone. He stared at the mirror behind the bottles and saw a version of himself that always knew what to do. It wasn't very pleasant. Especially when, for once, he felt completely lost.
"Rough night," a voice said. Lando slid onto the stool beside him, a beer in hand like a peace offering. His hoodie swallowed his frame, and though he tried for his usual grin, it faltered quickly. His shoulders sagged in a way that told Max he already had an inkling of what had just happened.
Max thought about lying, but he didn't have the energy. And besides, Lando would see through it.
"I said something I shouldn't have," Max admitted. "He said some things, too. About… I don't know. I'll leave it at that."
"Because of today," Lando said. His voice was quiet, not questioning, just stating.
Max turned to him. "Today?"
Lando stared into his beer for a long moment, lifted it, set it down again, weighing his words.
"The anniversary. Though it feels strange to call it that. It's the day they left Monaco— after his dad. He never makes a fuss about it, never says anything. But it cuts him every year, even when he thinks he's... outrun it."
Max frowned, listening.
"To make things worse…" Lando's eyes stayed fixed on the foam, his voice low and steady.
"That first week in England was hell for him. There was a power cut. Hours in the dark. The front door stuck on the chain, the back lock was tricky, and there was no phone signal. He was just a kid, still grieving, trapped in an old house that didn't want to be lived in. Alone. He's never shaken it away completely, not really. That's why he doesn't like being alone after dark. He's better at pretending now, but it's still there."
Lando finally risked a glance at Max. "I tried, at first, to push him toward therapy. He wouldn't hear of it. Said it was a waste of time, that time was the only thing he had to get where he wants to be. To 'make it,' whatever that means." He sighed, shoulders heavy again.
"Anyway. Now you know. Not all of it, maybe. But enough. And I don't think he'd mind you knowing. Not you. Even if he'd never admit to it."

 

Max's hand tightened around the glass. He downed the drink in one go, but it did nothing to steady him. Lando's words spun in his head, colliding with the memory of Charles making jokes out of leaving, turning desire into performance. He thought of his own ugly line upstairs, the jealousy that had felt like a point scored, only to curdle into a wound. They sat in silence, the bar humming faintly around them, until Max finally said, "I didn't know."
"No," Lando replied easily. "You didn't. I don't know what happened exactly upstairs, so I won't say it wasn't your fault, but don't be too harsh with him or yourself either. Don't tell him I told you, though! Makes me a shitty friend, I guess. But I think you deserve to know. More than that, I think he deserves for you to know. Still, he'd kill me. But someone who isn't already in love with him needs to be in his corner."
Max turned, startled. The words left him feeling exposed, like a child caught hiding something fragile. Lando only shrugged. "I'm not blind. I've got eyes. And ears. And a sense of humour." His smile was small, but not unkind.
Max set his glass down, tracing the condensation ring left on the counter with his thumb, though it refused to fade. He thought about that dark house, about panic like damp settling in the bones. He thought about apologies that would not land, gestures that might. He thought of all the ways Charles infuriated him, and all the ways Charles endeared him. And then, he thought of a pack of cigarettes in Istanbul, the kind Charles had loved and never found again, raving about them at twenty-two as first year PhDs on their first-ever conference trip, while Max frowned in disapproval. He stood abruptly, leaving the beer unfinished. Lando watched him go but didn't call after him. Instead, he lifted his phone and thumbed a quick message into the group chat.
Body: reminder to hydrate.
His way of hovering without hovering.

 

By the time Max found himself back on the street, the rain had returned. Paris at that hour had its own kind of silence, not complete, but softened, as though the city were clearing its throat and leaving the night to those stubborn enough to claim it. He walked with purpose but no direction, scanning shopfronts lit by tired neon, kiosks that smelled faintly of old paper and cheap wine. Everything felt slightly unreal, like a stage set left standing too long. The first shop was too bright, the fluorescent hum too sharp. Stacks of Gauloises, Marlboro, Lucky Strike. Nothing. The second was no better. Camel, Winston, more Gauloises. The man behind the counter gave him a look that bordered on pity when Max asked for Turkish cigarettes. In fairness, Max didn't even know the name. He only knew he would recognise it when he saw it. He still clearly remembered Istanbul. Charles leaning against a wall, along with Carlos, smoke curling around them, fingers loose on the filter of something fragrant and slow-burning. The only good thing about this conference, he'd said with a laugh softer than usual, smoke gentling his face in a way Max had never forgotten. Third shop. Fourth, and soon he was at the fifteenth shop, having scoured through the part of Paris their hotel was in. He switched to halting French and pulled up a photo he'd tracked down through the depths of Reddit on his journey through the corner shops. At the fifteenth, an old man rummaged beneath the counter and surfaced with a dusty pack, logo faded but right. The price he asked was laughable, surely not what the pack had once cost. But Max didn't care. He handed over too much and didn't wait for change.
The walk back was quieter. Paris had folded itself away, leaving only the hiss of cycle tyres on wet asphalt and the stray voices of bars clinging to life as the rain thinned. Max kept the cigarettes in his pocket, heavier than they should have been. He hoped they were an answer, or at least the beginning of one.

 

When Max opened the door to Room 304, the lamp still hummed, though it was nearly one in the morning. The air, however, had shifted. Charles lay sprawled across his bed as though he had collapsed mid-argument with himself, too tired to arrange his body into comfort. In sleep, his face was unfair, unguarded and almost fragile, and his sharpness softened. Max let himself look for too long before forcing his gaze away. He considered adjusting Charles's position, pulling the blanket over him. Instead, he set the packet on the bedside table, just at the edge of the invisible line he had once drawn to divide it. Then, after a pause, he nudged it to the middle. No borders. He wasn't a tyrant.
There was no ceremony to it. Not a gift, not a gesture dressed up in meaning. Just something remembered. Something placed in plain sight. A quiet way of saying, I see you. You don't have to fall alone.
Max stripped down to his t-shirt and slid into his own bed. He left the covers untouched, the heater dialled a little higher to keep Charles warm. On his back, eyes to the ceiling, he listened to the uneven but steady rhythm of Charles's breath. For the first time since the train, he felt as though he had done the right thing.

 

Later, once sleep tugged Max under, Charles stirred. Half-dreaming, he reached toward the table for his phone. Despite everything, he found himself worrying for Max and also perhaps guilty. He only relaxed when he saw the other's shadow on the other bed. But yet, as he reached for his phone again to see the time, his hand brushed near the pack instead. His eyes cracked open further, still heavy with sleep, and he froze. The packet sat there, waiting. Faded, improbable. For a moment, he thought he had conjured it, some cruel trick of memory. He blinked again. It was still there. Something inside him jolted, sharp and quiet. He hadn't mentioned them in years. Not since Istanbul, not since he'd laughed at himself for caring too much about cigarettes. And yet here they were, sitting precisely on the line he and Max had drawn between their beds on the table.
Charles didn't touch them. His throat worked, breath shuddering out of him, closer to a sob than he'd admit. He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He thought of the boy in Yorkshire counting silently in the dark, afraid of being heard, afraid of being alone. He thought of every time he'd convinced himself that his flaws were all anyone would ever notice. He thought of Max, sharp and infuriating Max, somehow seeing past all of it and choosing to remember this, of all things. The cigarettes were nothing. But they were also everything. Proof that someone had been paying attention when he thought he was unwatchable. His chest ached with its weight, with the tenderness of being seen when he least wanted to be. He lay there, silent, staring upward. And for once, the silence didn't punish him. It held him, tentative and almost gentle, almost like company. And for the first time that day, Charles let the tears come, unrestrained, streaking across his face. Somewhere between grief and relief, a smile tugged at his mouth, fragile but real.

Notes:

Hello everyone,
Firstly, happy race weekend, and happy Max on pole to those who celebrate! I’d apologise for the delayed update, but I did mean it when I said there wouldn’t be a fixed schedule for these. That said, I tried to make up for the wait with a longer chapter.

The ending, with Max finding the Turkish cigarettes for Charles, feels especially tender to me. It might sound a little silly (or make me seem like a chain smoker), but a close friend once did something similar for me, and it remains one of the kindest, sweetest gestures I’ve ever received. It’s a memory I still cherish deeply, and I wanted to twist it slightly into this story, keeping the truth of that kindness all to myself while layering it with the emotional weight of these characters. Hopefully, it also works as a sign of something beginning to shift between them in the chapters ahead.

This chapter also became a small exploration of Charles as a character and why he is the way he is. A friend who read it pointed out that he almost reads like the eldest immigrant daughter, which wasn’t intentional, but I can see why it comes across that way, and it makes sense to me, given who he is in this story. She also said it sometimes feels a bit Fleabag-esque, which I don’t really see myself, but I thought was an interesting observation, probably just the influence of the kind of media I tend to consume. Or Just typical British behaviour.

One thing I do want to clarify though, Charles’s views on therapy are, of course, wrong. Shaped by unresolved trauma and PTSD. If you’re reading this and are in therapy, or considering it, please don’t let his perspective put you off. Therapy helps, and it’s important to remember his resistance comes from a place of hurt, not truth.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the race tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy this chapter too. As always, please don’t hesitate to leave your thoughts, suggestions, or feedback in the comments. I’d love to hear them.

Warm regards,
S.T. x

Notes:

Hi there, everyone.

This is something I first wrote a long time ago, back when I was an undergraduate student dreaming about grad school and newly obsessed with F1. Austria 2019 moved me in the way it can only move a 19-year-old girl who loves a good enemies-to-lovers story. I never really published it, just kept the introductory chapter and plotline safely stowed away on Grammarly, and focused instead on writing fanfiction for a different fandom as a way to destress.

Now, as an older (and much more jaded) grad school student/fellow, I’m not really involved enough in any other fandom, at least not enough to read or write a fic for it anymore (can’t believe I’m over my Succession and K-pop phase, and unfortunately not enough people write for the Industry tv series). Which is why I’ve decided to bring this idea back to life instead of pawning it off to another fandom like I originally planned. This is the kind of heartwarming romcom/drama I enjoy watching in movies and tv shows and reading in books. So I have done my best to put it into words and bring to life not a unique story but rather a version of it I find comforting and entertaining.

Updates will be slow, and I don’t have a fixed posting schedule, but I can assure you the entire story is already mapped out. It will be finished. I’ll just need time to tweak and edit certain elements since the original plotline is from a while ago, and drivers have come and gone.

I am also going to request you all to please keep your expectations low. I primarily write academic papers, so this is mostly a form of stress relief. My priority is to write something that entertains me, makes me laugh, and occasionally makes me cry. I just hope it does the same for you. And please, under no circumstances, put this through any form of AI. As an academic, I have nothing short of loathing for generative AI, and I have also seen how AI has ruined parts of AO3. This is a hobby for me, and I do not want it ruined by emotionless writing and edits from AI.

Until then, if you have any questions, suggestions, comments, or feedback, please don’t hesitate to share them. I really appreciate it!

Warm regards,
S.T. x