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Max Verstappen was not sneaky.
He did not creep silently around a circuit, slipping through gaps for quiet overtakes; he lunged. He braked late and hard, shattering his opponent’s peace with intent and force.
He wasn’t careful with words, either. He didn’t tiptoe around his engineers’ feelings—he was brash and outspoken, complaining at full volume, in meticulous detail, about exactly what was wrong with the car. He only threatened to headbutt a room full of journalists once, but his infamous distaste for underhanded media kept journalists a safe distance away.
And if he wasn’t able to stop for a photo with a fan, he wasn’t afraid to smile his refusal, already moving on. He didn’t take the pens offered for autographs, hands lifted in a brief, unapologetic gesture that said, I can’t.
He never lost a wink of sleep over it.
But he was in a good mood today. Monaco in December was calmer than it had any right to be. An early start from his oversized bed had earned him a rare invitation for a morning walk with Charles.
This Monday morning was brisk but not unpleasant along the harbor. Charles walked a half-step ahead, coffee in hand, navigating the narrow street on muscle memory. Max followed, one hand shoved in the pocket of his coat, a paper cup of coffee cooling untouched in his other. He always had coffee when Charles invited him.
Max did not like coffee, but he did like Charles.
The harbor was stripped of yachts, the air thin and cool, sunlight pale against the stone. Christmas lights lay strung half-heartedly over narrow streets, as if even they were tired.
They walked side by side, unhurried. No security. No cameras. Just the sound of their shoes on the pavement and the distant hush of the sea.
“I still think you could have caught him,” Max said, abruptly, as if he’d been holding it in since Abu Dhabi and had finally run out of patience.
Charles blinked, then let out a soft laugh. “We are really doing this again?”
Max glanced sideways at him. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
“You were closing,” Max insisted. “Two, three tenths a lap. You had him worried.”
Charles shook his head, smiling down into his coffee. “For about four laps. And then reality arrived.”
“You were faster.”
“I was braver,” Charles corrected gently. “That is not the same thing.”
Max stopped walking.
Charles took two more steps before he realized, then turned back, brows lifting in mild concern. Max stared at him, jaw set, eyes sharp with that familiar, unyielding certainty.
“You finished fourth,” Max said. “In that car.”
Charles waited.
“Lewis was nowhere,” Max continued. “Made up some places in the race. Good drive. But still.” He gestured vaguely, frustrated. “That car was…not exactly helping you.”
Charles exhaled through his nose, something like a sigh, something like a laugh. “You make it sound heroic.”
“It was,” Max said flatly.
They started walking again, slower now.
Charles rubbed his thumb against the cardboard sleeve of his cup. “I did what I could. That is all.”
“You always do,” Max said.
Charles glanced at him, surprised.
“If you’d had a better car,” Max went on, staring ahead, “you’d have caught Lando. Easy. Last ten laps, you were driving like you’d stolen it.”
“That is not a compliment,” Charles said, though he was smiling.
“It is from me.”
Charles laughed properly at that, the sound light in the cold air. “You know, most people would not thank someone for reminding them how close they came to changing the championship.”
“You gave me hope,” Max said, simple as that. “Last stint. When you started closing. I thought—” He shook his head, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “I thought, of course it’s Charles. Of course he’ll find a way.”
Charles slowed, visibly flustered, ears already pink. “Max—”
They walked past a closed café, chairs stacked upside down, windows dark. Charles took a sip of his coffee, humming softly in approval. “You always think I can do more than the car allows,” he said softly.
“And you almost always do,” Max replied. “That’s why.”
Charles looked at him then, something warm and a little helpless in his expression. “You have too much faith in me.”
“No,” Max said. “I have the correct amount.”
Charles laughed, shaking his head. “You know,” Charles said, trying for lightness, “if you keep talking like this, people will think you’re biased.”
Max huffed a quiet laugh. “Let them.”
Charles smiled, helpless, cheeks warm.
They started walking again, downhill now, toward the water. They reached the harbor railing and leaned against it, coffee forgotten, water dark and still below them.
“It’s strange,” Charles said after a while. “The season ending.”
Max nodded. “Too loud until it suddenly isn’t.”
“Next year will be chaos,” Charles said. “New car. Everything changes.”
“That’s why,” Max said, turning toward him. “Anyone can win.” He said it like a certainty, like gravity.
Charles smiled again, dimples flashing, shaking his head. “I’m sure Red Bull will still…somehow…find a way,” he said lightly.
Max smiled. “Maybe.” He paused. “But when you get the right car, you’ll be unstoppable.”
Charles looked at him, smile unmoved. “I will chase you with any car.”
Max didn’t hesitate. “Always have.”
Charles leaned forward onto the railing. Max followed, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
For some reason he wanted to stay in that moment, paused.
Charles pushed off the railing first, straightening with an easy stretch. “Come on,” he said, already turning.
Max followed without thinking.
They’d only taken a step when Charles’s hand came to rest at Max’s lower back guiding him away from the edge. Warm through the thin fabric of his jacket, fingers splayed comfortably at the small of his back, steering him around a corner they’d walked past together a hundred times before.
Max’s brain flickered.
A strange heat spread under Max’s skin, warmth slipping straight into his veins and making his head feel faintly fuzzy, like he’d lost a step he didn’t remember taking. His stride faltered for half a beat before he caught himself.
Charles’s hand stayed there until they were clear of the railing, then lifted away without ceremony, the absence almost louder than the touch itself.
Max exhaled slowly, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. He kept walking, shoulders level, expression neutral, pretending his body hadn’t reacted at all.
They walked again, turning inland, the streets narrowing as the buildings climbed. The sun had finally broken through the clouds, sharp and winter-bright, the kind of light that dazzled without offering any warmth. It bounced off windows and pale stone, forcing them to squint, to angle their heads just so.
Max shielded his eyes with the rim of his cup. Charles laughed and nudged him lightly with his shoulder.
They talked about easier things then. Padel—who had gotten better, who insisted they hadn’t. Arthur, and the way he never stopped moving. Leo, who had apparently gotten into a box of chocolates and given Charles the fright of his life.
Max listened more than he spoke, interjecting with dry observations that made Charles snort despite himself. It felt…normal.
By the time they reached Charles’s building, the sun was full on them now, bleaching the street, making the world feel briefly unreal. Charles stopped at the door, fishing his keys from his coat pocket.
“Well," he said, turning back with a crooked smile. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“You didn’t let me pay,” Max reminded him.
“You tried.”
Max glanced down at his cup—still half full—and, without ceremony, handed it to Charles. “You can have it.”
Charles laughed, taking it. “You are something.”
“I showed up.”
“That’s true,” Charles said, softer.
There was a pause then, reluctant. Max shifted his weight, then stepped forward before he thought better of it.
Charles mirrored him without comment. Close enough now that Max could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of him in the winter air.
“Hey,” Charles said, almost absentmindedly.
And then he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Max’s cheek, featherlight, familiar, unmistakably European. A goodbye, nothing more.
“À bientôt,” Charles murmured, already pulling back.
Before Max could react, Charles was turning away, slipping through the door and into the building with an easy wave over his shoulder.
Max stood there, suddenly alone.
The street noise rushed back in around him. Cars. Voices. The scrape of shoes on pavement. Everything exactly as it had been a moment ago.
Except Max’s cheek still felt warm.
He lifted a hand without realizing it, fingers hovering uselessly near the spot, like he might disturb something fragile if he touched it. The sensation lingered, the memory of contact, stubborn and inexplicable.
It was nothing, he told himself. People did that all the time.
Max frowned to himself as he walked back to his own apartment.
~~~~~
They went out to dinner a few nights later, Max, Charles, Carlos, and Alex crammed around a small table in Monaco, all of them visibly lighter now that the season was finally, mercifully over. Travel plans were traded between bites: Charles heading off on a family ski trip in the Alps, Max ducking up to Belgium for a few quiet days with his mom and sister, Alex flying to London to see his family, Carlos splitting his time between Scotland and Spain to juggle Rebecca and home.
Alex and Carlos ate like men making up for months of discipline, ordering recklessly and finishing everything, while Max and Charles laughed at them and stole fries anyway. Alex and Max drifted into trading cat stories—Alex’s ongoing chaos versus Max’s new cat, Donut, which prompted far too much discussion—and Carlos, inevitably, found himself commiserating with Charles over Ferrari, the two of them shaking their heads in shared, long-suffering disbelief. The food was good, the complaints affectionate, the laughter easy; for a few hours, they were just four friends relieved to be done, with nowhere to be next.
They spilled out of the restaurant warm and loose-limbed, laughter still clinging to them like steam. Carlos slung an arm around Alex’s shoulders and angled them down the street toward their building, already mid-argument about dessert, while Charles paused, keys in hand.
“I can give you a ride,” he said to Max, casual as anything.
Max didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Good,” Charles said, smiling. “Then we should stop for gelato. There’s a place I like.”
Max laughed, easy. He didn’t want the night to end either. “Lead the way.”
The valet brought the Ferrari around, glossy and familiar, and Charles slid behind the wheel while Max climbed in and pulled up directions to a spot he’d somehow never been to. The city hummed around them, Monaco soft and bright, the season finally behind them. When they parked and stepped out, the air smelled like sugar and salt and cold stone.
It was Monaco—there were always people lingering near businesses like these, phones half-raised, pretending not to stare. Two this time, maybe three. A couple of caps pulled low. A hopeful energy. Polite enough.
Charles slowed automatically. “We can—”
Max nodded. “Yeah.”
A handful of people noticed them almost immediately, a ripple of recognition, phones lifting, a few tentative smiles. Someone asked for a photo. Someone else held out a pen. Charles shifted instinctively closer, all charm and patience, signing and posing, asking names, making eye contact, the two of them moving together through it without needing to say anything.
Max followed, brisk but not unkind, signing without commentary, already half-turned like he always was, ready to keep moving. A guy on a moped offered a hat for Max to sign and he reached, like he had a million times before.
Max felt it before he saw it—the brush of air, the sudden wrongness at his wrist.
“What the—”
The moped was already accelerating, a blur of movement and noise, the rider leaning low as they tore down the street. Max stared, stunned, at his bare wrist.
For half a second, nobody moved. “Putain de merde,” Charles snapped.
“Hey!” one of the fans shouted, too late.
“That’s my—” Max started, then stopped, blinking. His watch was gone. Just like that. Snatched cleanly off his wrist. Wasn’t sleight-of-hand for magicians?
Charles was already backing away, keys in hand.
“Charles,” Max said, still dazed. “It’s fine. It’s just—”
“No,” Charles said, and there was nothing polite about his voice now. His jaw was set, eyes already tracking the direction the moped had gone. “No, absolutely not.”
“Charles,” Max repeated, more urgently this time. “You don’t need to—”
“I do,” Charles said. He grabbed Max’s sleeve briefly. “Get in the car.”
Max hesitated. “This is insane.”
“Yes,” Charles agreed. “I know.”
He was already moving, pulling Max with him toward the Ferrari. Somewhere behind them, the fans were shouting, phones out now, chaos blooming too late to matter.
They were in the car seconds later, doors slamming, engine igniting with a familiar, furious snarl.
Max barely had time to buckle in before Charles launched them forward.
“You are aware,” Max said tightly, hand braced against the door, “that this is exactly how this goes wrong.”
Charles’s smile was sharp and wild and unmistakably Charles. “This is Monaco.”
“That’s not—”
“I know these streets,” Charles cut in. “And I am not letting someone steal your watch.”
Max exhaled, something like disbelief, something like awe curling in his chest despite himself. “You can’t just do this,” he muttered.
Charles flicked him a glance, eyes bright and dangerous. “Do what?”
“You can’t just chase someone down in a Ferrari!” Max said, flustered.
Charles grinned and took the corner hard. “Hang on.” The car surged forward, tires biting hard as he took the corner like it owed him money.
Okay, okay, maybe it felt a little bit thrilling.
Max glanced at him, eyes bright, utterly delighted. “You’ve really taken this personally.”
“Yes,” Charles said flatly. “I have.”
“For the record,” Max added, utterly sincere, “I do not care about the watch.”
Charles shot him a look so sharp it could have cut glass. “You will.”
“Charles—”
“That man took something that belongs to you,” Charles said, voice tight now, something raw underneath the anger. “Not happening. Not ever.”
Max let the protectiveness sing in him with the adrenaline.
Charles’s grip tightened on the wheel. The Ferrari leapt forward again, feral and precise, Monaco streets unfolding like a memory he’d never forgotten.
Max settled back into the seat, heart thudding, grin unstoppable.
Maniac, he thought fondly. His mouth spoke before he’d made the connection. “Left here—he took the turn too wide.”
Charles didn’t ask how he knew. He just took it.
The moped swerved again, nearly clipping a delivery van. Charles followed, tires shrieking, the Ferrari pressed low and fast like it was alive.
“This is unhinged,” Max said, thrilled. “I love it.”
“Stop encouraging me.”
“I’m not,” Max lied. “I’m observing.”
The Ferrari surged and snapped through the streets like it had been waiting for this excuse all season. The moped was fast, nimble, stupidly confident, and Charles chased it like it had personally offended him.
Max laughed, loud and delighted, bracing one hand against the door. “Okay,” he said, breathless. “I admit it. This is fun.”
“Focus,” Charles said, eyes locked forward.
“I am focused. On the part where we are stealing back my watch.”
The moped darted right. Charles followed without hesitation.
Max’s grin lingered through the next street. And the next. He gave directions once, then twice, enjoying the way Charles trusted him immediately.
But the city kept unfolding. They weren’t looping back. They weren’t funneling the thief into anything obvious.
Max glanced at the speedometer, then at Charles’s hands, steady, white-knuckled, utterly committed.
“You’re going to get arrested,” Max said cheerfully.
“Worth it.”
“For a watch I don’t even like?”
“For your watch,” Charles shot back.
The streets got tighter, less familiar even to Max’s eye, residential now, laundry strung overhead, pedestrians scattering in genuine alarm.
“Alright,” Max said lightly, the edge just beginning to creep in. “We’ve made our point.”
Charles didn’t answer. He took a corner too fast. The rear stepped out, just a fraction, tyres screaming before he caught it.
Max’s laugh faltered. “Charles.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I know you’ve got it,” Max said. “I’m saying you don’t need to.”
The moped clipped a curb and wobbled. Charles leaned forward like he could will the distance closed.
“Charles,” Max tried again, sharper now. “It’s just a watch.”
Charles’s jaw clenched so hard Max could see the muscle jump. “It is not just a watch,” he said, voice low, almost threatening.
Max stared at him. “Mate. I promise you, if it ends up gone—”
“I don’t care,” Charles snapped. “He took it off you.”
“Yes,” Max said. “And I am still alive.”
Charles didn’t even look at him.
The Ferrari roared again, engine note climbing, ferocious and furious and very much out of proportion to the crime.
Max’s fun evaporated. “Okay,” he said carefully. “Okay. This is where I tell you to stop.”
Charles ignored him.
“Charles,” Max said, hand lifting instinctively, bracing against the dash now. “We’re in Monaco, not a simulator.”
The moped cut through a narrow passage, barely more than a service road. Charles followed, threading the Ferrari through with centimeters to spare.
Max swore under his breath. “Charles,” he said, voice flat now. “I’m serious.”
Charles had locked on, teeth sunk in, heart pounding with the singular conviction that someone had taken something from Max, and that meant there would be no backing down, no bargaining. A dog with a kill in his teeth.
“Charles,” Max said, softer now, the way you spoke to something dangerous you loved. “This is insane.”
“Yes,” Charles said. “I know.”
“And you’re not going to stop.”
“No.” For half a second, his eyes flicked to Max, wild and furious in a way Max had never seen from him on track.
“He touched you,” Charles said, voice raw.
Max went still.
“He took it off your wrist,” Charles continued, voice tight, breath shaking now. “Like you were nothing. Like he was allowed.”
Max’s heart gave a heavy, unmistakable thud. “Charles,” he said quietly. “I’m okay.”
“I know,” Charles said. “But he didn’t care.”
The Ferrari surged again, engine screaming, and Max understood fully now that this wasn’t strategy or pride or hometown bravado. This was protection.
Max’s grip tightened on Charles’s arm. “Look at me,” he said, steady as he could make it. “I’m here. I’m fine.”
Charles didn’t slow, but his breathing hitched, just once. “He doesn’t get to do that,” he said hoarsely. “Not to you.”
Something warm and painful spread through Max’s chest, blooming too fast to contain.
Max had known, in a vague and manageable way, that he liked Charles.
It was the kind of liking that fit neatly into his life, something familiar and uncomplicated. Charles was easy to be around. Charles was honest. Charles believed in him in a way that felt pure and undiluted. Max had filed his attraction to Charles under “good and nonthreatening”.
The feeling in his gut right now was very different from that.
Charles took another corner too fast, tire clipping the curb, and Max felt a jolt of that cocktail of thrill/anxiety/Charles in his gut that took his breath away. Charles’s focus was total, feral, stripped down to instinct and motion and an unyielding refusal to let this go.
He touched you.
The words replayed in Max’s head, unfamiliar and hot. Someone had put their hands on Max and Charles had lost his mind over it. He felt them in his mouth, rolling them over his tongue like he could somehow understand Charles if he could wrap his mind around this singular sentence.
Max swallowed hard, pulse suddenly loud in his ears. His grip tightened on the door, not because he was scared of the speed, but because his body had decided, entirely without permission, that this meant something.
He felt it everywhere, in the way Charles leaned forward, predatory and furious, the way his voice had gone raw when he said it, the way he hadn’t looked at Max until Max made him.
Get a grip, Max told himself.
He laughed softly, breathless, the sound more disbelief than humor. “You’re going to kill me,” he muttered. “And not even with the driving.”
Charles shot him a look, startled despite himself. “What?”
“Nothing,” Max said too quickly. “Just—finish it.”
Charles nodded once, satisfied, and pressed on.
Max leaned back into the seat, heart hammering now for reasons that had nothing to do with speed. His knees felt weak. He hated it. He loved it. He need some fucking air.
The moped cut hard left, disappearing down a street that looked barely wide enough for a car.
Charles didn’t hesitate.
“Charles,” Max said, half-laughing, half-warning, as the Ferrari lunged after it. “That is not a road.”
“It is absolutely a road,” Charles snapped. “I learned to drive here when I was fourteen.”
“That explains a lot.”
The Ferrari screamed through the turn, mirrors folding in automatically as they clipped past parked scooters. Someone shouted. Someone else jumped back onto the curb. Charles didn’t look.
They burst out onto a wider road, street lamps flaring through the windshield, blinding and cold. Max lifted a hand instinctively, squinting.
“There,” he said. “He’s panicking.”
“How can you tell?”
“He’s looking back.”
Charles’s mouth curved into something sharp. “Good.” He downshifted aggressively, engine snarling, closing the distance in seconds.
“Charles,” Max said again, lower now. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I am not proving anything,” Charles said. “I am correcting a mistake.”
Max’s chest did that thing again, almost painful.
The moped cut toward a narrow alley, barely a gap between buildings.
Max laughed in disbelief. “Oh, he’s stupid.”
“Yes,” Charles agreed, eyes alight. “He doesn’t know where that goes.”
The Ferrari slid to a stop at the mouth of the alley, blocking it cleanly. The moped skidded, rider swearing, scrambling to dismount.
Charles was out of the car before Max could even unbuckle.
“Charles—”
“Stay,” Charles said, already moving.
Max ignored him, of course.
They met the thief halfway down the alley. Charles loomed, furious and focused and very, very done. When Charles spoke, his voice came out low and lethal. « C’est à lui. Rends-le. » (It belongs to him. Give it back)
The man hesitated—long enough to look at Max, then back at Charles, misjudging everything. Big mistake. Charles stepped forward.
Max sighed, exasperated and anxious. “Mate,” he said mildly, “I would listen to him.”
The watch changed hands very quickly after that.
Charles turned back toward Max, breathing hard, eyes still bright with adrenaline. He shoved the Rolex into Max’s chest, fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary. “Put it on,” he ordered.
Max blinked. “You’re bossy.”
“Put. It. On.”
Max fumbled with it, hands shaking, heart hammering now for entirely different reasons.
The moped vanished around the corner, engine screaming, gone for good this time.
The street fell abruptly quiet.
Max stood beside the Ferrari with the watch in his hands, breath still coming too fast, adrenaline buzzing hot and bright under his skin. The Rolex sat heavy in his palm, and his fingers would not stop shaking.
He stared at them, faintly offended. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “That’s new.”
Charles noticed immediately.
“Here,” he said, stepping closer. He held out his hand.
Max hesitated, then surrendered the watch without argument.
Charles took it carefully. Up close, Max could see everything. The green of Charles’s eyes, wide with adrenaline, flecked with gold. The way his lashes danced over the tops of his cheeks. The faint flush high on his face from the cold and the chase. His hair was a mess, curls blown loose, refusing to lie flat after the wind through the streets.
When did he get this beautiful, Max thought dimly, like it was a recent development and not something he’d simply refused to acknowledge.
“Hold still,” Charles murmured.
Max obeyed.
Charles’s fingers closed around Max’s wrist, warm and steady, pulse sure beneath his touch. His hands didn’t shake at all. That seemed kind of rude.
Charles worked the clasp with quiet precision, thumb brushing Max’s skin in a way that was almost mindless. He adjusted the fit, gentle but exact, as if he’d done this a hundred times before.
Max watched him do it, breath caught somewhere high and useless in his chest. His knees felt unreliable. His heart felt loud.
Charles snapped the clasp shut with a soft click and finally looked up. Only then did his shoulders finally drop. “Okay,” he said, breathless. “Now I am done.”
“What the fuck, Charles,” Max laughed, a little hysterical. “I can’t believe you drove like that.”
Charles ran a hand through his hair, finally sheepish, adrenaline ebbing fast. “I told you. He cannot get away with something like this.”
Max’s entire internal framework was doing something deeply unhelpful. He dragged in a breath, then another, like that might fix it. It didn’t. “That’s not—” he cut himself off with a sharp laugh, adrenaline still fizzing through him. “That’s not an answer. You didn’t even think. You just—you went.”
Charles looked at him, perplexed. “I thought plenty,” he said, an edge in his voice. “I thought he put his hands on you.”
Max blinked. “It was a watch.”
“It was you.” Charles stepped closer without thinking, crowding him back until Max felt the cool curve of the Ferrari against his spine, refusing to give ground.
“I’m not letting someone touch you and get away with it,” Charles went on, voice low and unyielding. “Not like that. Not ever.”
Max’s laugh came out breathless and disbelieving. “Oh, so you get to decide now? Who’s allowed to touch me and who isn’t?”
Charles’s jaw flexed. “Yes,” he said, eyes locked on his. “If it’s someone taking something from you like that? Absolutely.”
Max stared at him, heart still hammering, adrenaline crashing headlong into something warmer and more dangerous. “You were insane,” he said, stubbornly. “I’ve never seen you like that.”
Charles’s mouth curved into something sharp and breathless. “Good.”
“That’s not—”
“I don’t care,” Charles cut in, flushed now, energy still humming through him like he’d barely come down at all. “I don’t care if it was reckless. I don’t care if it scared you. He doesn’t get to put his hands on you and ride away smiling.”
His hand was still wrapped around Max’s wrist, Max realized. Still warm.
This isn’t normal, he thought dimly.
Not the way Charles was looking at him. Not the way Max didn’t want him to step back. Not the way the argument felt less like a fight and more like…wheel to wheel?
Max had always understood pressure. He thrived on it. This was different. This was pressure with nowhere obvious to push back against, no brake point, no line to defend, no clean exit.
His brain stalled.
Something’s happening, he thought, uselessly. Something already happened.
Max dragged in a breath and forced himself upright, shoulders squaring on instinct. “You don’t get to play hero,” he said flatly. “Just because you’re crazy enough to chase a guy through half of Monaco doesn’t mean you get to decide things for me.”
Charles’s mouth twitched. “I was not playing,” he said.
Max scoffed, sharp and brittle. “Yeah? Looked like it.”
Charles stepped closer, a deliberate step that closed the last sliver of space between them, until Max’s back brushed the Ferrari again and Charles’s presence filled his field of vision completely.
“If something threatens you,” Charles said calmly, “I am going to deal with it.” His eyes flicked to Max’s mouth, just for a moment. “And there is nothing you can do about that,” he added.
Max swallowed. “That’s—” he started, then stopped.
Charles’s eyes held his, bright and unwavering. He wasn’t angry now. He wasn’t even arguing. He’d already decided. “You don’t get to tell me not to care,” he went on, voice low. “And you don’t get to pretend you are untouchable.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “I can handle myself.”
“I know,” Charles said immediately. “That is not the point.”
He leaned in just enough that Max could feel the heat of him, could count his breaths if he wanted to.
“The point,” Charles said softly, “is that I won’t stand by if someone thinks they can take something from you. Or hurt you. Or scare you.”
Max’s throat felt suddenly too tight. “I’m not fucking scared,” he said, hoarsely.
Charles watched him for a beat too long.
Then, without comment, his fingers shifted, turning Max’s wrist just enough for his thumb to settle over his racing pulse.
Charles didn’t tighten his grip. Didn’t crowd him further. He just felt it, calm and unhurried, like this was information rather than accusation. His brows lifted a fraction. “Mm,” he murmured. “Are you sure about that?”
Max’s breath caught outright this time. He hated that his body betrayed him so easily, hated that Charles could read him like this, hated most of all that Charles was right there, steady and infuriatingly gentle about it.
Charles slid two fingers lightly under Max’s jaw, tilting his chin just enough to feel the steady thrum there.
Max went very still. The street noise felt far away all of a sudden, all of it fading beneath the awareness of Charles’s touch and the way his pulse was giving him away in real time.
Charles hummed softly, thoughtful. “Interesting.”
Max swallowed, the movement obvious under Charles’s fingers. “You don’t need to—”
“The man is gone,” Charles said calmly, as if they were discussing logistics. “We are not in the car. Nothing is happening.” He leaned in toward Max’s ear, voice dropping to something meant for one person only. “So,” he murmured, breath ghosting over Max’s skin. “What exactly do you think you are afraid of now, hm?”
A full-body shiver chased the words. Max’s mind blanked, every clever response evaporating before it reached his mouth.
Because he didn’t have an answer that made any sense, not one he could say out loud, anyway. His heart was hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with proximity, with attention.
If anything, Charles leaned in closer, warm lips brushing over the shell of Max’s ear, voice dropping another degree until it felt like it was meant for Max’s nerves rather than his hearing. “Is it just me?” he murmured.
Max’s breath caught outright this time. His mind scrambled for something clever, something deflecting, something that would put distance back between them, and came up empty.
He didn’t want distance. He had no explanation for why he didn’t want Charles to stop. “I—” he started, then stopped.
“You don’t have to answer,” Charles added softly, almost kind. “I can already tell.” He finally stepped back, giving Max room to breathe. Then he turned, reached back, and opened the passenger door of the Ferrari. “Get in the car,” he said.
Max blinked. “What?”
“We are leaving,” Charles said evenly.
“I don’t need—”
Charles looked at him then. The kind of look that stopped arguments before they started, bright-eyed and utterly focused, all the remaining adrenaline sharpened into something cold and decisive. “Max,” he said, voice low. “Get in the car.”
Max scoffed reflexively. “You can’t just—”
“Get. In. The car.” He stepped closer, blocking Max’s line of retreat with his body, one hand braced casually against the open door like this was already settled.
“You are shaking,” Charles added, quieter now. “And I am done arguing about it.”
Max glanced down despite himself. His hands had stopped trembling, mostly, but the tension was still there, humming just under his skin, unresolved and loud. He looked back up at Charles, jaw tight. “You don’t get to order me around.”
Charles held his gaze without flinching. “I do right now.”
The certainty in it made Max gulp before he could stop himself.
“Get in the car,” Charles repeated, not raising his voice, not backing down. “Please.”
Max stared at him for a long second, chest rising and falling, pride warring with the undeniable truth that he didn’t actually want to keep standing here, exposed and buzzing and out of control. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.
But he turned anyway.
The leather seat was cool when he slid into it, the door shutting solidly beside him. Charles rounded the car without comment and got in behind the wheel, movements calm again, contained, like he’d successfully brought something volatile under control.
The door shut with a solid, final thump. The sound seemed to echo inside Max’s chest.
Charles started the engine without a word. The Ferrari purred to life, smooth and composed, like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. They pulled away from the curb.
Max stared straight ahead, jaw tight, hands braced uselessly on his thighs. His heart was still racing, still too loud in his ears, every beat out of step with the calm glide of the car.
Neither of them spoke. It felt worse than arguing.
The silence stretched, dense and unhelpful. Charles drove with both hands on the wheel, posture perfect, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Controlled in a way that made Max acutely, painfully aware of how little control he felt himself.
Max shifted in his seat, then stilled, annoyed at himself for it. His knee bounced once before he forced it still with sheer stubbornness. Every nerve felt tuned too high. He was hyper-aware of everything, the warmth bleeding from the driver’s seat toward him, the steady flex of Charles’s hands as he shifted gears, the fact that Charles hadn’t once looked over at him since pulling onto the road.
Max wanted irrationally to provoke him. To start another fight. To snap something sharp and watch Charles react. Anything to break the quiet and give Max somewhere to aim all this restless energy.
The thought slid in sideways, unwelcome. Why did he listen?
Max had been ordered around before. By engineers. By race directors. By circumstances that didn’t care who he was. He didn’t obey people just because they told him to.
Except he had. He’d gotten in the car.
Not because Charles was louder. Not because Charles was stronger. Because Charles had decided, and Max had let him.
His stomach twisted.
Max dragged in a breath through his nose and let it out slowly, trying to bleed off the excess energy. It didn’t work. His pulse stayed too fast, his thoughts bouncing uselessly, circling the same impossible questions.
The streetlights slid past the windshield in steady intervals, marking time he couldn’t seem to measure properly anymore. Charles drove elegantly unbothered like he always did, and Max had the deeply unhelpful thought that he trusted Charles behind the wheel more than almost anyone alive.
Max shifted again, fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans. He didn’t want Charles to stop driving. He didn’t want the ride to end. He swallowed hard, throat tight, eyes fixed on the blur of Monaco slipping by. His reflection flickered in the glass, flushed, unsettled, not entirely recognizable.
Charles eased to a stop at the curb outside Max’s building, movements unhurried, engine idling low and steady. He didn’t kill the engine right away.
Neither of them moved.
The silence pressed in again, thicker now, charged with everything Max hadn’t said and everything he didn’t understand yet.
Max’s hand hovered near the door handle.
He just sat there, breathing too fast, brain fractured and buzzing, realizing with a jolt that whatever was waiting on the other side of that door wasn’t going to be the end of this. It was just the next corner. And he had absolutely no idea how to take it.
Max exhaled through his nose and tried again, gruffer this time, like he was talking himself into something manageable.
“Thanks for the ride home.”
Like they hadn’t just chased someone through the streets or stood pressed together outside a Ferrari with Max’s heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
Charles glanced at him then, soft but assessing. “Of course,” he said quietly.
Max’s fingers finally closed around the door handle. “See you around,” he added.
Charles’s mouth curved, just barely. “See you, Max.”
Max opened the door and stepped out into the cool air, the city feeling strangely distant, like he was moving through it a half-second behind himself.
~~~~~
It took a few days before Max saw him again.
Not in person. On his phone.
Charles was in Uzbekistan, apparently, supporting the Ferrari WEC team, doing the whole polished, responsible ambassador thing. Max found out the way he found out most things lately, scrolling without thinking, thumb moving on autopilot, brain blissfully empty until it wasn’t.
Charles filled the screen.
He was dressed well, tailored suit, crisp lines, hair done just enough to look effortless. He was mid-sentence in one clip, hands moving as he spoke, expression focused and bright in that way that always made people lean in. In another photo, he was smiling, composed, entirely at ease in a way Max had seen a thousand times and still didn’t understand.
Max’s stomach flipped.
He scowled faintly at his phone, like that might help.
Nothing had happened. He’d driven Max home. That was it. Which meant, logically, that Charles wasn’t interested. Or at least not in any way that mattered. Charles was a decent person. Charles respected boundaries. Charles didn’t do things halfway.
Max knew all of that.
So why—
He picked up the phone again despite himself.
Another photo loaded. Charles laughing now, head tipped slightly back, eyes bright. Pretty, Max thought automatically, then frowned harder.
If Charles wasn’t interested, then what had that been?
The look in his eyes outside the Ferrari. The way his voice had gone low and certain. The way he’d stepped closer, crowded Max, asked him if he was afraid.
Max dragged a hand through his hair, pacing his kitchen.
That…possessive…side of Charles, it hadn’t felt generic. It hadn’t felt like something Charles did for everyone. It had felt like something had clicked into place because of Max.
Which was ridiculous.
But still. Why had Max gotten in the car?
No one had forced him. Charles hadn’t grabbed him, hadn’t threatened him, hadn’t raised his voice. Max could have argued more. Could have walked away. Could have laughed it off.
He hadn’t. He’d obeyed.
Max swallowed, chest tight, phone warm in his hand.
He told himself firmly that he was overthinking it. That adrenaline did weird things. That stress made moments feel bigger than they were. That Charles was just…Charles. Protective. Intense. Passionate about things he cared about.
That didn’t mean Max meant anything different.
Max set the phone down for good this time and turned away, jaw clenched, forcing the thought back into its box.
~~~~~
Charles’s Christmas party was a fixture. It happened every year, without fail, wedged neatly between the last race and the great seasonal exodus, a final gathering before everyone scattered back to families, partners, real lives. It was the kind of thing Max usually avoided on principle.
And yet.
Max stood outside Charles’s building anyway, hands shoved into his coat pockets against the cold, one of them curled instinctively around the small box he’d brought with him.
The windows above glowed warm and gold against the winter-dark street, music drifting faintly down when someone opened the door to let another guest in. Laughter followed it, easy and familiar. Max grimaced, already bracing himself.
He didn’t like parties. He didn’t like the standing around, the talking, the way people expected him to be on. He especially didn’t like showing up with something in his pocket that made his pulse spike every time he thought about it.
But Charles had invited him, and Max hadn’t even pretended to hesitate before saying yes.
He exhaled, once, and headed inside.
The apartment was already full when he arrived. Coats piled on the bed, glasses clinking, voices overlapping in half a dozen languages. It was louder than Max preferred, warmer than expected. Someone pressed a drink into his hand almost immediately. Someone else clapped him on the shoulder.
And then Max spotted Charles.
He was moving through the room with practiced ease, hosting without effort, smiling and touching shoulders, laughing with his whole face. Festive without being ridiculous. Comfortable in a way that still felt faintly unreal to Max.
Charles caught sight of him across the room and lit up, smile sharpening with recognition.
Max felt it in his chest.
He lifted his glass in greeting, casual, like he wasn’t acutely aware of the small box in his pocket, like he hadn’t already replayed a dozen versions of how this night might go.
Charles reached him just as someone bumped Max’s elbow, sloshing his drink.
“Careful,” Charles said automatically, hand coming up to steady Max’s glass before it could spill. His hand lingered on Max’s, warm and light.
“Thanks,” Max said. His voice came out lower than he meant it to.
They stood there for half a second, close enough that the noise of the room dulled around the edges. Charles’s gaze flicked to Max’s mouth, then back up, something intent and unreadable settling there.
“You came,” Charles said, like it meant more than attendance.
“Yeah,” Max replied. “I said I would.”
Charles smiled at that. “I’m glad.”
The words landed softly, and for a moment it felt like the rest of the room had politely stepped back to give them space. Max was acutely aware of the box in his pocket, of Charles’s warmth, of the memory of breath at his ear that hadn’t faded nearly as much as it should have.
“I—” Max started.
“Charles!” someone called, loud and cheerful, cutting cleanly through the moment. “We need you for a photo.”
Charles winced, just slightly, like the interruption cost him something. He glanced back at Max, eyes apologetic but bright.
“Sorry,” he said. “Host duties.”
“Right,” Max said. “Of course.”
Charles hesitated, then leaned in close enough that only Max could hear him. “Don’t disappear.”
It wasn’t a request.
Before Max could respond, Charles was already being pulled away, laughter reclaiming him as he was absorbed back into the room.
Max stood there, pulse too fast, drink forgotten in his hand. He stared after Charles, then forced himself to look away, jaw tightening as he shifted his weight and tried to remember how to exist normally at a party.
The little box in his pocket felt suddenly heavier.
Charles kept getting swept up by the party after that, pulled into conversations, dragged into photos, intercepted every few steps by friends and acquaintances who all wanted a piece of him before the holidays scattered everyone for good. Max watched it happen from the edges of the room, amused and aware of the way Charles’s eyes kept finding him anyway, checking in whenever he could.
Max, meanwhile, became a magnet for the same conversation on repeat. The championship. Abu Dhabi. The margins. What it felt like. What he’d change. What came next. He answered politely, automatically, because he’d already given these responses a hundred times and could deliver them on muscle memory alone.
Eventually, Max escaped the orbit of championship talk entirely by gravitating toward Oscar, the only other person in the room who looked just as thoroughly done with the subject.
They watched another guest launch into a passionate retelling of Abu Dhabi and Oscar sighed. “If I hear the word championship one more time, I’m leaving.”
Max snorted. “Same. We should start charging.”
Oscar took a sip of his drink. “You notice who’s not here, though.”
Max didn’t even have to think about it. “Yeah.”
“Too good for us now,” Oscar said solemnly. “World Champion Lando Norris. Has better parties.”
“Probably wearing a crown,” Max added. “Refuses to stand near normal people.”
Oscar nodded seriously. “I heard he only answers questions in motivational quotes now.”
Max huffed a laugh. “Explains a lot.”
They clinked glasses quietly, united.
They fell into step easily, exchanging looks in mutual, profane fatigue every time someone across the room grew a little too earnest about Abu Dhabi. Lando’s absence became a running joke almost immediately and they took turns inventing increasingly ridiculous reasons for why he’d skipped the party.
It was easy, companionable, low-stakes conversation, the kind that didn’t ask either of them to perform. Max felt himself unclench a little, grateful for Oscar’s dry humor and shared misery, for the quiet understanding of someone just as sick to death of reliving a season that was already over.
Max was mid-laugh when the space at his back changed, a familiar presence sliding neatly into place.
Charles’s hand settled at Max’s lower back. The kind of touch that could pass for friendly, guiding, nothing at all, except Max had noticed it immediately, heat blooming under his skin like he’d been pressed with a brand.
His heart rate spiked for no sensible reason.
Oscar glanced between them, eyes flicking briefly to the hand, then back up to Charles’s face. His expression went carefully neutral, polite in a way that suggested he’d clocked something but had no intention of commenting on it.
“Hey,” Charles said easily, thumb shifting just enough to make his presence unmistakable. “Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Max said automatically even as his body betrayed him, shoulders going a touch too still, breath coming just a fraction shallower.
Charles smiled, pleased, and left his hand exactly where it was.
Max tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just Charles being friendly, being familiar, being himself at his own party.
But his pulse refused to slow, the warmth at his back spreading insidiously, and Max found himself suddenly, acutely aware of where Charles was like something in him had recalibrated around that single point of contact.
He didn’t understand it.
“So,” Charles said pleasantly, glancing between them. “What are we avoiding, over here in the corner tonight?”
Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “A fifth reenactment of Abu Dhabi.”
Max nodded. “With diagrams.”
“And opinions,” Oscar added. “Strong ones.”
Charles winced theatrically. “My condolences.”
Max tipped his glass in agreement. “We were coping.”
“How,” Charles asked, amused, “exactly?”
Oscar shrugged. “Mostly the hot toddies.”
Charles laughed, loud and bright. He looked at Max. “Such hardship, people wanting to talk about your success.”
“You try answering the same question forty times about coming second,” Max replied, swaying a bit on his feet. “See how pleasant you stay.”
Charles studied him, a mischievous glint in his eye. “If it helps,” he said to Max, tilting his head to Oscar, “you get easier questions than he does.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
Charles nodded at Max. “Count your blessings,” he said pleasantly. “You were not beaten by someone wearing the same colors.”
Oscar lifted his glass. “It builds character.”
Charles smiled, dimples flashing. “Or resentment.”
Oscar glanced at him, deadpan. “I’m very supportive.”
Charles laughed, genuine this time, eyes bright. “I see that.”
His thumb shifted slightly at Max’s back, not enough to draw attention, just enough to be felt, as he angled himself more fully into the circle.
“And before I interrupted,” Charles continued, “were you being productive or just mean?”
“Mean,” Max said immediately.
“Efficiently,” Oscar corrected.
Charles hummed approvingly. “Excellent. Carry on, then.” His eyes flicked down to Max’s glass, the last swallow clinging stubbornly to the bottom. “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s nearly empty.”
Max glanced at it, unimpressed. “It did its job.”
“I’m sure,” Charles replied. “But I cannot have my guests suffering,” he said lightly. “Especially not you.”
Something in Max’s chest gave a small, unwelcome jolt at that.
“Walk with me,” Charles said. “Before someone corners you again. I cannot, in good conscience, let you wander defenseless through my party.”
Max snorted. “Defenseless.”
“Yes,” Charles said solemnly. “Against unpleasant conversation.”
“Tragic,” Oscar supplied dryly.
Charles smiled, already angling his body closer to Max. “Which means,” he continued, “I am bravely offering to escort you to safety. And another drink.”
Max arched an eyebrow. “How heroic.”
“I know,” Charles said. “It is a burden.” He gestured toward the kitchen with a small tilt of his head, already turning. “Come on, before someone asks you about Barcelona again.”
Max huffed a laugh and followed without thinking, leaving Oscar behind with a raised brow and a knowing look.
The bar itself was exactly as expected, packed three deep, bodies pressed close, voices raised to compete with the music. Charles took one look at it and made a face. “Absolutely not,” he said, without missing a step.
Max laughed. “Too much?”
“Too many people,” Charles corrected. “And too many opinions.”
He veered away from the crowd instead, guiding Max down a short side hallway toward a door Max hadn’t noticed before. Charles opened it with an easy familiarity.
Inside was quieter. Smaller. A private spillover lounge with a low cabinet built into the wall. Charles crossed to it and opened one of the doors, revealing a neat, curated stash with fewer bottles, better choices.
“My emergency supplies,” he said lightly. “For situations exactly like this.”
Max glanced back toward the hallway, then at the cabinet. “You keep a secret bar.”
“I host,” Charles replied. “It’s a necessity.”
He reached for a bottle Max didn’t recognize, pouring with unhurried precision. Just the soft clink of ice against glass.
“You don’t have to—” Max started.
Charles slid the drink toward him anyway. “I want to.”
The words landed casually, but Max felt them anyway, a small pulse of warmth in his chest. He took the glass, their fingers brushing again.
“See?” Charles said. “Shielded.”
Max took a sip, then nodded. “You’re very committed to this role.”
“Someone has to look after you,” Charles said, tone still teasing.
Max’s heart did something stupid. He ignored it.
They stood there, shoulder to shoulder now, the party muffled behind the closed door. The quiet felt intentional, like Charles had chosen this space as much as he’d chosen the excuse to bring Max with him.
“And?” Charles asked, glancing over. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Max admitted. “Much.”
They stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the party reduced to a distant thrum behind the door. Charles leaned back against the cabinet, glass in hand, watching Max with that open, attentive expression that made Max feel faintly off-balance.
Max took another sip. Bought himself time. Then, before he could overthink it into oblivion, he shifted his weight and slid his free hand into his coat pocket. “Uh,” he said, eloquent as ever.
Charles’s eyebrows lifted, curious. “Hm?”
Max drew the small box out slowly, like it might change its mind and vanish if he moved too fast. He turned it once in his fingers, then held it out, suddenly acutely aware of how ridiculous it felt. “I—” He cleared his throat. “This is stupid. You don’t have to—”
Charles had already set his glass down. “For me?” he asked, something warm and surprised lighting his face.
Max shrugged, defensive by reflex. “It’s Christmas.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Before you say anything. It’s nothing.”
Charles’s brows lifted with interest immediately. “I doubt that.”
Max shot him a look. “You don’t know that.”
Charles took the box anyway, rolling his eyes, and tipped it open. What he pulled out was small and soft and unmistakable, a tiny stuffed lion, plush and harmless, mane exaggerated just enough to be cute.
His face lit up, unguarded and delighted. “Oh,” he breathed, smiling wide. “Max.” He examined the toy’s tiny tail, grinning. “Wow, only for your biggest fan, hm?”
Max’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. “Wait—no,” he said quickly. “No, no, no, that’s not—”
Charles laughed softly, already turning it over in his hands, thumb brushing the little mane. “A lion,” he said fondly. “That’s—that’s really sweet.”
Max made a strangled noise and immediately brought both hands up to his face.
“Oh my god,” he groaned into his palms. “No. Absolutely not. This is not—it’s not about me.”
Charles blinked. “It’s not?”
“It’s a dog toy,” Max shot back, mortified. “For your dog, Leo. Your dog is named Leo. Like—like the constellation. A lion. I don’t—I wouldn’t—” He stopped, muffled. “Why would I get you something about me.”
Charles stared at him for half a second. Then his smile softened into something dangerously affectionate. “Oh,” he said, voice warm. “That’s even better.”
Max peeked through his fingers. “How is that better.”
Charles laughed again, quiet and pleased, cradling the little lion like it was precious. “Because you remembered him,” he said simply. “And because you are blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Max pressed his hands harder against his face. “Please don’t talk about it.”
Charles stepped close enough that Max became acutely aware of his warmth, the faint scent of his cologne. Charles reached out gently, fingertips brushing Max’s wrists.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
Max shook his head helplessly, still hiding. “I’m going to pass away.”
Charles chuckled, fond and utterly unrepentant, and carefully pried Max’s hands away from his face, one finger at a time. “There you are,” he murmured.
Max’s ears were bright red. His eyes refused to meet Charles’s for a second too long.
Charles’s expression melted. “This is adorable,” he said, holding the lion up like evidence. “You are adorable.”
“I am not,” Max muttered.
Charles smiled wider, eyes warm and bright, and squeezed the plush once, like it sealed the deal. “I’m keeping it,” he said decisively.
Max let out a helpless huff of laughter, still flustered, and very aware that Charles hadn’t let go of his hands yet. For some reason, he didn’t want Charles to let go.
He stayed close, eyes dropping to Max’s mouth like it had betrayed him somehow, like it had been giving things away all night. His expression shifted, something softer at first, then sharper, more intent.
“God,” Charles murmured, almost to himself. “I can’t believe how—” He stopped, huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “How sweet you are.”
Max’s breath hitched.
Before he could decide whether to deflect or protest, Charles’s thumb lifted, slow and deliberate, and traced lightly along Max’s lower lip.
It was nothing. Barely a touch.
Max gasped anyway.
The sound was small and involuntary, pulled straight from his chest, and Charles felt it. Max saw it in the immediate darkening of his eyes, the way his jaw tightened just a fraction.
“Well,” Charles said softly, thumb still there, pressure feather-light. “That answers something.”
Max’s pulse was everywhere. In his throat. His wrists. His mouth. He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do with his hands or his face or his entire body. “Charlie—” he breathed, helpless.
Charles leaned in closer, close enough that Max could feel the warmth of his breath. “I wonder,” he murmured, voice low and curious rather than crude, “if you’re always this responsive.”
Max swallowed hard, the movement dragging his lip just slightly against Charles’s thumb.
Charles stilled. Then he smiled, slow and dangerous, unmistakably pleased. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I thought so.”
Charles pulled back just enough to breathe, close enough that Max still felt him everywhere. Max stayed frozen, stunned, like the world had slipped half a second out of sync and left him stranded in it.
This is bad, his brain supplied faintly.
This is very bad.
His heart was hammering so hard it felt audible, like it might give him away to the entire apartment. He could still feel the echo of Charles’s touch on his mouth, the way his body had reacted without consulting him at all. No strategy. No filter. Just instinct.
Max dragged in a breath. Missed. Tried again.
He’d raced at three hundred kilometers an hour without blinking. He’d stared down grids, stewards, entire crowds. None of that felt remotely comparable to standing here while Charles looked at him like that, like he’d uncovered something precious and was deciding what to do with it.
Get it together, he told himself desperately.
But every time he tried to anchor himself—coworkers, party, public, bad idea—his mind skidded sideways again, replaying the softness of that touch, the quiet satisfaction in Charles’s voice, the unmistakable shift when Max had gasped.
He hadn’t meant to do that.
He hadn’t meant to do any of this.
Charles was still watching him, eyes intent, unreadable now, and the attention felt unbearable in the best and worst way. Max’s hands curled reflexively in the front of Charles’s jacket, like he needed proof that this was real, that he hadn’t hallucinated the entire thing.
“I—” Max tried, then stopped.
What was he supposed to say? Sorry my body betrayed me? Sorry I’ve apparently been ogling you for years? Sorry I would follow you anywhere if you asked me to?
None of that was survivable.
Charles’s mouth curved, just barely, like he could read all of it anyway. His hand came back to Max’s face, firmer this time, fingers sliding into his hair as he kissed him again more deeply, unmistakably hungry now. Max made a soft, helpless sound and let himself be moved, back meeting the wall with a quiet thud.
Oh.
Charles pressed closer, bodies aligning in a way that stole the last of Max’s breath. The contact was sudden and perfect in the most intoxicating way, their hips aligned just so, heat pooling low in Max’s stomach as his brain short-circuited entirely. He licked into Max’s mouth, stealing his breath, his taste.
This—this was—
Charles’s hand slid, confident now, slipping just beneath the hem of Max’s sweater, palm warm against bare skin. He rolled his hips into Max’s again and again, increasing the pressure, claiming the little sounds escaping his throat—
Fuck. He was going to fucking come.
“Charlie—” Max broke the kiss with a gasp, hands coming up between them, not pushing hard but enough. “Wait—”
Charles stilled instantly.
Max sucked in air like he’d forgotten how, heart racing wildly, hands shaking now as they gripped Charles’s jacket just to stay upright. “Oh my god,” he said, the words tumbling over each other. “Fuck.”
Charles tilted his head, studying him, and then, infuriatingly, his mouth curved into a small, teasing grin. “Too much?” he asked lightly. The words were casual. His tone was not.
Max let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh than he meant it to. “We—we can’t do this, Charles. I—”
Charles leaned in just enough to drop his voice again, playful but intent. “We don’t have to do anything,” he said. “But don’t tell me you don’t want it.”
Max closed his eyes.
Just for a second. Just long enough to try to drag himself back behind the walls he’d spent years building—discipline, control, the certainty that if he slipped even a little, he wouldn’t stop. He knew himself well enough to understand the danger. If he fell into this, he wasn’t coming back out the same.
Charles was everywhere in his head already. In his mouth. In his pulse. In the way his body still leaned forward like it hadn’t gotten the memo.
Max forced himself to breathe. To steady. To choose.
When he opened his eyes again, his jaw was set, expression carefully neutral, the look he wore when he’d decided something and wasn’t interested in debating it.
“That doesn’t make it a good idea,” he said, low and firm.
He stood there and held the line, stubborn as gravity, knowing full well that wanting something this badly was exactly why he couldn’t let himself have it.
Not tonight.
And if Charles could still see the fault lines under the composure, Max wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
Charles studied him for a moment longer. Then, deliberately, he stepped back. Both hands lifted in a small, unmistakable gesture of surrender, palms open, posture easy, expression calm. No argument. “Okay,” he said simply.
“We’ll stop,” Charles added, voice light again, like he was easing them both back onto solid ground. “No dramatics.”
Max nodded once, sharp and grateful and still buzzing everywhere Charles had touched. “Thanks,” he said, gruff.
Charles smiled. “Anytime.”
They lingered, the unspoken pressing at the edges, and then Max did what he’d been telling himself he would do all along.
He threaded his way back through the party, said quick goodbyes he barely registered, grabbed his coat from the pile on the bed and slipped out into the stairwell before anyone could stop him. The door shut behind him with a soft, merciful click.
Outside, the night hit him like a wall.
Cold air burned his lungs, sharp and clean, and Max welcomed it hoping it would knock some sense back into him. He walked fast, hands shoved deep into his pockets, breath fogging in front of him as he cut through the quiet streets.
It didn’t help.
If anything, the space made it worse.
Every step gave his mind more room to replay it, Charles’s mouth at his neck, the weight of his hand, the look in his eyes when Max had gasped. The way he’d stopped immediately. The way he’d listened.
By the time Max reached his apartment, his thoughts were a tangled mess of want and restraint, desire and unease twisting together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
He locked the door behind him and leaned back against it, head tipping briefly to the wood. Without even taking off his coat or shoes, Max’s hand found itself undoing his jeans, sliding them down just enough to pull his cock out, still half hard from the feel of Charles’s mouth under his jaw, hot on his throat.
His rough hand felt cold and unforgiving as he stroked himself too fast, overwhelmed with the taste of Charles on his tongue. What if he’d let Charles continue pressing their hips together, pushing Max over the edge? What would he have done if Max had moaned in his ear, clutching frantically, ecstasy apparent?
The humiliation burned in Max’s gut as he imagined soaking through his boxers against Charles’s thigh, hot and sticky, helpless to his touch, panting into his shoulder. He groaned, his slit dripping into his overeager hand as he pictured Charles’s dark eyes hungry for him. He spilled over his fist, over his boxers and jeans, messy and wet and desperate against his own front door. He panted with his eyes closed, legs trembling with the aftershocks.
What the actual fuck was wrong with him.
~~~~~
Days later, Max was halfway through shoving clothes into a suitcase when the door buzzer went.
He frowned at it, confused, then glanced at his phone. No messages. No missed calls.
When he opened the door, Charles was standing there, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
Max’s stomach dropped so fast it felt physical.
He stood there for a beat too long, hand braced on the doorframe, heart starting up again like it hadn’t learned a single lesson in the last several days. Charles was dressed simply this time, coat, scarf, no party polish, holding a small paper bag in one hand, expression calm and unreadable in that infuriating way of his.
Max opened the door.
“Hey,” Charles said.
“Hey,” Max echoed, voice rougher than he liked.
They stared at each other for half a second, just long enough for something low and anxious to coil tight in his chest.
“I hope this isn’t weird,” Charles said lightly, lifting the bag. “I meant to give this to you at the party.”
Max stepped aside automatically. “You—yeah. Come in.”
Charles did, the door closing softly behind him. The apartment felt too small all of a sudden, the air thick with things neither of them were saying. Charles took off his coat, movements unhurried, like he wasn’t worried about rushing or hesitation or what this might turn into if they weren’t careful.
He held the bag out. “For you,” he said.
Max took it, fingers brushing the paper, grounding himself in the texture of it. He didn’t open it right away. He looked at Charles instead. “You didn’t have to—” he started.
“I wanted to,” Charles replied. Simple. Unloaded. No defense built into it.
Max swallowed, pulse already picking up again. He twirled the bag by its handles, eyeing it suspiciously. “Can I open it now?”
Charles leaned against the counter, folding his coat over one arm. “Please,” he smiled warmly.
Max pulled out the tissue paper and tossed it towards the cat food bowls, Jimmy already taking an experimental sniff. Inside the bag was a little rally car with navy and red paint and an exaggerated suspension. Something meant to go flying off road and survive.
Max stared at it for a second. “It’s a rally car,” he identified. “Is it Red Bull, for me?”
Charles smiled wider. “Look at the side.”
Max turned the car in his hands until he spotted the tiny gold lettering spelling out a name: FRANZ HERMANN
Charles continued, his eyes warming. “Because of Mexico. Since you have branched out, I figured maybe you are meant for other kinds of racing too.”
A barking laugh escaped Max before he could contain it. He turned the car over in his hands. It fit perfectly in his palm. “I think you just want me off the grid so you have less competition,” he muttered, an unbelievable fondness swelling in his chest.
Charles shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “I like versatility.”
“Thank you,” Max said again, softer this time.
He turned away before he could overthink it, crossing the apartment to the low bookshelf against the wall. He set the little rally car down carefully among the clutter there, a few trophies shoved back without ceremony, stacks of books he half-read, a photo frame he’d meant to move and never had. The car looked slightly out of place. Which somehow made it perfect.
He adjusted it once, just a fraction, so it faced outward.
When he straightened, he was acutely aware of Charles watching him, seeing where Max put things he cared about.
“It’ll live there,” Max said, gesturing vaguely. “With the important stuff.”
Charles’s smile was small and warm and unmistakably pleased. “Good,” he said. “I was hoping.”
Max nodded, hands slipping into his pockets. The apartment settled back into silence, comfortable and charged all at once. He turned back to Charles, heart steadying, resolve clicking quietly into place. “Do you want a drink?” he asked.
“Sure,” Charles said easily.
Max nodded and headed for the kitchen without waiting, grateful for the excuse to put a few steps between them and give his hands something useful to do.
Behind him, Charles wandered the apartment with the careful curiosity of someone who knew he was being allowed into a private space. Max didn’t have to look to know where he’d stopped when Charles spotted his suitcase.
“I’m glad I caught you before you left. Where are you going first?”
Max latched onto it gratefully, exhaling. “Uh—Belgium. For a bit. Then—” He shrugged. “Depends how long I last before I get bored.” He opened the cabinet and paused, eyeing the options like this was a tactical decision instead of a coping mechanism.
Charles laughed softly. “Two days.”
“Three, if I’m really trying.”
“That’s generous.”
He reached for the bottle he’d been given earlier in the month, a decent spiced rum.
Max finally risked a glance up at him. Charles was watching him with that same warm attentiveness.
“Do you pack early,” Charles asked, “or do you do the thing where everything ends up in the suitcase five minutes before you leave?”
Max snorted despite himself. “I don’t pack. Things appear.”
Charles shook his head fondly. “Of course they do.”
Max opened the cabinet with his glassware and grabbed two short glasses with one hand. He misjudged the edge of the counter by a fraction, and the glass slipped—a sharp clatter, a flash of movement, then a clean, unmistakable crack as it hit the floor.
“Shit—” He hissed as something bit into his finger, quick and bright. Not deep. Just enough to sting.
Charles was there instantly. “What happened?” he asked, already moving.
“It’s fine,” Max said automatically. “Just—glass.”
Charles ignored that entirely. He took Max’s hand without asking, turning it palm-up, brows knitting in immediate focus. “You’re bleeding.”
“Barely.”
Charles shot him a look. “Sit.”
Max found himself obeying anyway, perching on the edge of the counter while Charles disappeared toward the bathroom.
“This is stupid,” Max muttered to the empty room. “I don’t even—”
Charles was already back, first-aid kit in hand like this was a routine he’d practiced. He rinsed Max’s finger carefully with peroxide, movements gentle and exact, then pressed gauze against it.
Max watched him, oddly quiet now. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said, because apparently he needed to say something.
“I know,” Charles said. “Still.”
He wrapped the bandage neatly, thumb brushing Max’s knuckle in a way that made Max’s breath catch for no good reason at all. When he finished, he didn’t let go right away.
“There,” Charles said softly. “All better.”
Max looked at the bandage. Then at Charles. Then back at the bandage. “Well,” he said, unable to help himself. “You missed a step.”
Charles’s brow lifted. “Did I.”
Max’s mouth twitched. His heart was suddenly very loud. “Yeah,” he said lightly, like this wasn’t a terrible idea. “You’re supposed to kiss it better.”
For half a second, Max was convinced he’d gone too far, that Charles would laugh, or shake his head, or make a joke back and move on.
Charles’s gaze dropped to Max’s hand again. Then back up to Max’s face. Something unreadable passed through his eyes, curiosity tipping into decision.
Max swallowed. “I was joking.”
“Mm.” Charles’s thumb brushed once over Max’s knuckles. “I know.”
And then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Max’s bandaged finger.
Max forgot how to breathe. His laugh came out strangled and disbelieving. “You didn’t—”
Charles lifted his head just enough to look at him. “You asked.” His thumb brushed Max’s palm, still warm from after he’d kissed it.
That did not help. At all. Max’s brain short-circuited completely.
“That doesn’t—” He stopped, shook his head, helplessly smiling. “That doesn’t count.”
Charles tilted his head. “Doesn’t it.”
The air between them went very still.
Charles watched Max for a second longer, eyes warm now, curiosity flickering in with the concern. Max’s cheeks were unmistakably pink, heat creeping up his neck despite the warmth of the apartment.
“Hm,” Charles said thoughtfully. He tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle he’d just solved. “You’ve gone very red.”
“I have not,” Max said immediately, which was a lie on several levels.
Charles smiled, weaponizing his dimples, which was blatantly unfair, in Max’s opinion. “Well,” he said lightly, still holding Max’s hand, “if we are fixing things…”
Before Max could process that sentence, Charles leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
Max made a noise he had never made before in his life.
Charles pulled back just enough to look at him. “Better?”
Max stared at him, eyes blown wide. “You are—abusing your power.”
Charles laughed softly and kissed his other cheek. This one lingered a fraction longer.
Max’s brain fully blue-screened.
“There,” Charles said, still far too close, voice fond and amused now. “Even.” He finally leaned back, clearly pleased with himself. “Did that help?”
Max sat frozen on the counter, mouth opening and closing uselessly, face fully aflame. He thanked some deity above that he did not currently require the use of his knees. “I—” He stopped, exhaled hard, and pressed his lips together. “I think you may have made it worse.”
Charles blinked, then grinned outright. “Really?”
“Yes,” Max said hoarsely. “Objectively.”
Charles laughed, bright and delighted, like this outcome was deeply satisfying. He squeezed Max’s hand once more before finally—mercifully—letting go. “Good,” he said. “That means you’re still alive.”
Max dragged his uninjured hand down his face, cheeks burning, heart hammering like he’d just survived another chase entirely. “You are,” he said faintly, “too much.”
Charles tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “You like me.” He held the look for half a second, just long enough to make Max’s soul leave his body, then laughed and tilted his head, studying Max like he’d just discovered a new variable.
Charles reached forward, placing one finger under Max’s jaw to tip his head sideways to examine the side of his head.
Max’s ears were, unfortunately, impossible to ignore. Scarlet. All the way to the tips.
“Oh,” Charles said softly. “Those too?”
Max made a strangled sound. “Those are fine.”
“They don’t look fine.” Charles lifted one hand and gently brushed Max’s hair back, fingers careful, almost reverent.
The touch alone sent a shiver straight down Max’s spine, sharp and uncontrollable. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and immediately regretted it.
“I think,” Charles continued thoughtfully, “they might need fixing as well.”
Max laughed, breathless and doomed. “Charles, I swear to—”
Charles leaned in. He pressed the lightest kiss just beneath Max’s ear, barely there, warm and brief. Then another to the other side, just as soft.
Max froze. Not metaphorically, actually. Every muscle locked, knees going weak in a way he absolutely could not explain to anyone, ever. A full, involuntary shiver raced through him, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
Charles saw it and smiled. “Wow,” he murmured, clearly delighted. “That one worked.”
Max’s hands clenched in his lap, pulse roaring in his ears. “You—” He swallowed. “You cannot keep doing that.”
Charles leaned closer instead, mouth near Max’s ear now, voice dropping instinctively. “Is it helping?” he asked quietly.
Max’s breath stuttered. His entire body was too aware of where Charles was, of the warmth between his knees, the faint brush of his breath, the way Charles’s hand hovered at his elbow like he might steady him again if needed.
“I—” Max tried, failed, then laughed weakly. “I don’t think this is how first aid works.”
Charles chuckled, low and pleased, clearly enjoying this far more than he should have been. “You’re the one who asked me to make it better.”
Max turned his head just enough to look at him, eyes bright and wrecked, ears still betraying him completely. “That was a mistake,” he said.
Charles’s smile softened, something affectionate slipping in under the teasing. He finally eased back a fraction, giving Max just enough space to breathe again.
He stayed close, still holding Max’s hand, thumb resting warm against his knuckle like he’d forgotten it was there. His gaze flicked from the bandage to Max’s face, lingering but careful.
“Do you want me to stop?” Charles asked lightly.
Max’s breath hitched.
Charles’s mouth curved, just a little. “I mean,” he added, mock-solemn, “Primum non nocere, right?” (First, do no harm)
Max huffed a breathy laugh that didn’t quite work. His pulse was loud everywhere all at once. He bit his lip, hard, like it might help him think, then realized that probably wasn’t helping either.
“I—” He stopped, swallowed.
Charles waited.
Max tipped his head back instead, just a fraction, exposing the line of his throat. He could feel the heat there, the flush creeping higher, undeniable now.
Charles’s eyes darkened and flicked down again, sharp as ever.
“…Mon dieu,” he murmured, leaning in a fraction, inspecting him with exaggerated seriousness. “It is spreading.”
Max shut his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper. “Charles.”
“It is past your ears,” Charles continued solemnly. “Down your neck now.”
Max could hardly breathe. “Fuck.”
Charles hummed, unaffected. “I am afraid it might be serious.”
Max peeked at him. “You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” Charles said, then softened it with a smile. “But also—” he lifted a hand, hovering near Max’s collar, not touching yet, “—I should probably fix it.”
Max laughed weakly. “You can’t just—”
“Same treatment,” Charles said reasonably. “It worked before.”
Max swallowed. Heat was still creeping, traitorous and undeniable. “I feel like you’re abusing first aid protocols.”
Charles’s eyes danced. “I am improvising.” He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Max’s neck, just below the flush, warm and slow.
Max made a sound that was deeply unhelpful to his dignity.
Charles pulled back just enough to assess. “Hmm.”
“That is not—” Max’s voice cracked. He stopped and tried again. “That is not helping.”
Charles kissed the other side of his neck, just as lightly, just as tender.
Max’s lungs nearly gave out.
“Oh,” Charles said, delighted now. “No, it definitely is.”
Max shook his head helplessly and reached for him, arms sliding around Charles’s waist instinctively. He pulled Charles between his legs, pressing his forehead into Charles’s shoulder, laughing breathlessly. “You are unbelievable,” he muttered.
Charles laughed too, arms settling easily around Max in return, steady and warm. “I am just being thorough.”
Max tilted his head up just enough to look at him, cheeks flushed, neck still warm, eyes bright and entirely wrecked.
Charles pulled back just enough to look at him again, eyes flicking once more to the warm color still blooming along Max’s neck. “…Hmm,” he said, brows knitting with exaggerated concern. “No, it’s definitely worse.”
Max laughed weakly, still half-curled into him. “You just kissed it.”
“Yes,” Charles said. “And yet.”
He leaned in again, pressing another gentle kiss along the flushed skin at Max’s throat, just beneath his jaw.
Max shuddered, a full-body reaction he didn’t even try to suppress.
Charles smiled against his skin. “I think,” he murmured, very close now, “this might take a while.”
Max swallowed hard. “You are inventing problems.”
“I am solving them,” Charles corrected. He lifted his head, eyes warm but intent. “You are still shaking. Still flushed. Clearly you are not recovered.”
Max shook his head helplessly, arms tightening around Charles without thinking. “You’re the reason.”
Charles’s hands settled more firmly at Max’s back, thumbs pressing in. Possessive in the quietest way. “I know,” he said simply.
Max’s heart stuttered, heat flaring all over again. He forgot how to breathe. His eyes fluttered closed.
“And what is this?” Charles murmured again, more to himself this time.
Max felt the faint tug at his collar before he registered what was happening. Charles’s fingers slipped beneath the edge of his shirt, easing the fabric aside just enough to expose skin, knuckles brushing warm against his collarbone.
The first kiss there landed like a shock.
Max’s hands tightened on Charles’s waist, fingers digging in through his sweater like he needed proof Charles was real, solid, still there. Every reaction he failed to hide was making Charles bolder.
“Charles,” Max said, then again more breathlessly, “Charlie.”
The name slipped out warm and familiar and absolutely fatal. He felt it the moment it landed, the way Charles froze, just barely, breath hitching against Max’s skin. The way his resolve finally cracked under the weight of it.
Charles lifted his head slowly.
Their faces were close now. Too close. Max could see it all, the darkened focus in Charles’s eyes, the way his mouth was parted, pink from kissing, the faint flush high on his cheeks that Max was painfully aware he’d caused.
Charles brushed their lips together, barely there. A question more than a kiss.
Max’s heart nearly gave out.
“Do you need fixing here too?” Charles asked softly, breath warm against Max’s mouth, “Or is it still a bad idea?”
Max laughed, helpless and wrecked, forehead dropping forward until it rested against Charles’s. His grip tightened again, as if letting go would end him. “It’s definitely a bad idea,” he managed, voice rough. “Fuck, we shouldn’t.”
Charles smiled slowly, undone in exactly the same way. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Terrible.”
Max lost the thread of time completely.
He breathed in, shallow and uneven, chasing the ghost of Charles’s mouth without quite closing the distance, instinct tugging him forward even as his brain lagged behind. Their noses brushed. Their foreheads touched. Every inhale felt shared now, warm air slipping between them, close enough that Max could feel the shape of Charles’s breath as it left him.
He tilted his head without realizing it, mouth parting on a soft exhale that wasn’t a word, wasn’t a sound meant to be heard. Charles followed the movement immediately, lips hovering again, close enough to feel but not enough to claim.
God.
Max’s grip tightened at Charles’s sweater, like the only solid thing left in the room was the man in front of him. He leaned in, almost kissing him—almost—letting the moment stretch thin and electric, every nerve screaming with the restraint of it.
Charles stayed perfectly still, letting Max find the space between them at his own pace, their breathing syncing unconsciously, slow and heavy and intimate in a way that felt more exposing than a kiss would.
Max had spent his life trusting instinct at speed, making bold decisions in fractions of a second and standing by them. This felt the same, sharp and clear and terrifying in its certainty. If he stepped forward now, there would be no pretending later that it hadn’t mattered.
He didn’t care. Max Verstappen wasn’t sneaky.
Max’s hands tightened once more, breath shuddering out of him as he gave up the last, useless resistance. He leaned in and kissed him, mouth finding Charles’s with a soft, desperate certainty that stole the air from his lungs. The contact sent a jolt through him, relief and hunger tangling together so tightly he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Charles answered immediately, tightening his hands around Max’s back, like he’d been waiting for Max to make the call. He made a sound against Max’s lips, low and involuntary, and that alone nearly finished Max off.
His hands slid higher at Charles’s waist, grip tightening to keep from drifting entirely apart. Every kiss weakened him further.
Charles pulled him closer, one hand firm at the small of Max’s back, claiming the space. It was protective in the same way everything Charles did was protective. Like he’d decided Max belonged right here for the moment and that was that.
When they finally broke apart, it was only because they had to breathe.
Max rested his forehead against Charles’s, eyes closed, chest heaving just a little. He could feel the heat still blooming along his neck, his ears, his face, every tell betraying him completely.
“Well,” he said hoarsely. “That’s…something.”
Charles laughed softly, breath warm against Max’s mouth. “Yes,” he agreed. “It really is.”
Max opened his eyes and met his gaze. Something serious threaded through the warmth there now, awareness settling in alongside want.
“This changes things,” Max said. It wasn’t regret. Just recognition.
Charles nodded once. “Yeah.” He didn’t step away.
Charles’s thumb brushed Max’s collarbone where he’d kissed him earlier. “I don’t regret it,” he said quietly. “But I want you to know…I don’t do this lightly.”
Max huffed a breathless laugh. “Neither do I.”
Charles searched his face one more time, earnest as ever. “You okay?”
Max smiled, small and genuine and a little wrecked. “I’m…very okay.”
Charles’s mouth curved, dimples appearing, relief and something softer washing through him. He leaned in and pressed a final kiss to Max’s cheek, gentle and affectionate.
“Good,” he said. Then, just a little possessive without trying to be, “I am keeping you for a bit.”
Max didn’t even hesitate. He nodded, hands still warm at Charles’s waist, heart steadying in a way that felt new and dangerous and right. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Charles pulled back just far enough to look at him again, eyes narrowing with exaggerated seriousness.
“…Max,” he said slowly. “It is definitely still spreading.”
Max groaned. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am extremely serious,” Charles replied. “This is very concerning.”
“It’s my neck, not a disease.”
Charles hummed, unconvinced. “Hard to say. We may need to investigate further.”
Before Max could ask what that meant, Charles’s hands slid to the hem of his shirt.
Max stared at him. “Charlie.”
“Yes?”
“You are not—”
Charles tugged upward, decisively unhelpful. Max laughed despite himself, hands instinctively flying up to grab Charles’s wrists.
“This is not how shirts work,” Max said, breathless.
“I don’t know,” Charles said, peering at his exposed stomach like he’d just uncovered something fascinating. “This area looks suspiciously pink.”
“Oh my god,” Max said. “You are a terrible medical professional.”
Charles ignored him completely, leaning down to press a light, exaggerated kiss to Max’s abdomen. “Still warm,” he murmured. “Very pink.”
Max made a helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a whine. “You cannot keep doing this,” he said.
Charles grinned and kissed just below the first spot, clearly delighted. “You are blushing more.”
“That’s because you’re—” Max stopped, exhaled sharply. “You’re insane.”
“Possibly,” Charles agreed cheerfully. “But I am also thorough.” He gave Max’s shirt another experimental tug, clearly committed now. “We should probably check the other side.”
Max dropped his forehead onto Charles’s shoulder, laughing helplessly. “I regret everything.”
Charles laughed too, warm and bright, one hand steadying Max at the back while the other finished pulling the shirt over Max’s head.
Max barely had time to register that his shirt was, in fact, gone before Charles went very still.
“Oh no,” Charles said.
Max blinked. “What.”
Charles’s hands came up, warm and decisive, settling flat against Max’s chest like he was checking for something critical. His palms moved slowly, deliberately, sweeping over Max’s sternum, then around his ribs, fingers splaying as if he were mapping damage.
“This is bad,” Charles murmured.
Max laughed, breath hitching anyway because oh, that was a lot of contact. “I’m sure.”
Charles’s hands slid to his back, thumbs pressing lightly along Max’s spine, then spreading wide like he was bracing him. His touch was steady, far too thorough for someone pretending not to be enjoying this.
“It is everywhere,” Charles said, faux-horrified. “Chest. Neck. Back.”
“That’s because you keep—” Max stopped and swallowed. “—doing that.”
Charles gasped softly, entirely theatrical. “It’s spreading faster than I thought.”
Max’s hands came up to Charles’s waist again, more out of instinct than intent. “Charlie. I am fine.”
Charles met his eyes, solemn and devastatingly earnest. “I don’t think you understand the severity.”
Max adopted his most deadpan tone. “Oh no.”
“This,” Charles said gravely, hands still firm at Max’s back, “requires immediate intervention.”
Before Max could ask what that meant, Charles bent and lifted him.
Charles’s hands were suddenly under Max’s thighs, Max’s weight settling easily against him like Charles had done this a hundred times before. Max let out a startled laugh and clutched at Charles’s shoulders on pure reflex.
“Charles!” he protested, laughing helplessly. “You cannot just—”
“I absolutely can,” Charles said, already moving. “You are compromised.”
“I am shirtless.”
“Exactly.”
Max’s head tipped back as he laughed, utterly undone, arms looping properly around Charles now just to keep from falling. The world narrowed to the warmth of Charles’s hold, the absurdity of it.
Charles took a step forward, then paused. “Okay,” he said, glancing around the unfamiliar space. “Serious question.”
Max squinted at him. “What.”
“I have never been here before,” Charles said lightly. “Where is your bedroom?”
Max blinked. Once. Twice. “Oh my god,” he muttered. “You can’t just—you can’t just pick me up and then ask that.”
Charles laughed softly. “I can put you down.”
Max hesitated. He definitely did not want that. “…It’s,” he said finally, betraying himself completely, “down the hall. Second door on the left.”
Charles hummed, pleased. “See? Easy.”
Max tightened his grip, face heating all over again. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe,” Charles said, already turning. “But you are very good and very pink.”
Max buried his face briefly against Charles’s shoulder, mortified and helpless and absolutely still being carried. “Just—don’t walk into a wall,” he muttered.
Charles smiled, steady and careful as he moved. “I promise,” he said. “I am a very safe driver.”
Charles deposited him gently against the bed, bracing him there with one arm. He pulled his own sweater over his head before climbing between his legs, slotting their hips together. His other hand came up to Max’s shoulder, steady and possessive all at once.
“Stay,” Charles instructed softly. “I need to monitor you.”
Max’s breath came out in a helpless huff. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”
Charles smiled, dimples deep, eyes bright with mischief. “I’m taking my responsibilities very seriously.”
“Yeah,” Max said faintly. “I can tell.”
Charles leaned in just enough to press his forehead briefly to Max’s, voice dropping, playful but sure. “I’ve got you,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
Max barely registered the mattress beneath him; all he could feel was Charles, hovering close, eyes dark and intent in the low light.
Charles leaned in again, not to Max’s mouth this time, but lower, a soft kiss pressed to the warm skin of his chest. Then another, unhurried. Like he wasn’t counting time at all.
Max’s breath stuttered.
Charles’s lips traced a slow path downward, each kiss gentle, almost reverent, pausing as if he were committing the moment to memory. Between them, he murmured, voice low and honest in a way that made Max’s chest ache.
“I can’t believe I am actually here,” Charles said softly.
Another kiss, warm, right above Max’s navel.
Max’s hands curled in the sheets at his sides, knuckles white. He had no idea what to do with those words, the way they turned his stomach light and heavy all at once.
“I have thought about you,” Charles continued, almost to himself. “Like this.” He hesitated, breath warm against Max’s skin. “More times than I should admit.”
Max closed his eyes, overwhelmed, heart hammering loud enough he was sure Charles could feel it. Years of discipline, of restraint, of pretending this was never a thought, all of it dissolved under the quiet certainty in Charles’s voice.
“You have?” Max asked, barely louder than a whisper.
Charles lifted his head just enough to look at him, expression open and a little stunned, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it either. His thumb brushed lightly along Max’s ribs.
“Yes,” he said simply. “For a long time.”
The kiss that followed was higher again, just over Max’s heart, gentle and steady.
Max’s fingers threaded gently into Charles’s hair, careful at first, like he was afraid this might be crossing some final, irreversible line. The curls were warm and softer than he expected, slipping easily between his fingers. Charles stilled immediately at the touch, breath catching against Max’s skin.
He’s real, Max thought dimly. This was really happening.
Beautiful, impossible Charles, earnest and brilliant and kind, was here, between Max’s legs, kissing him like Max was something precious.
Charles pressed another slow kiss to his chest, then lingered there, forehead resting lightly against Max’s skin. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, almost unsure. “I did not think you would ever let me,” he admitted.
Max’s grip tightened slightly in Charles’s hair. His breath came uneven now, nerves firing everywhere, the confession clawing its way up his throat whether he was ready or not.
“I didn’t think,” Max said, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “I didn’t think you’d ever…looked at me that way.”
Charles lifted his head at that, eyes soft and searching, hands still warm and steady at Max’s sides. “I have always looked at you,” he said gently.
Max let out a shaky laugh, more disbelief than humor. “Not like how I looked at you.”
The words felt dangerous once they were out, but also lighter than he expected. Like setting something down he’d been carrying for too long.
“I’ve thought about it too,” Max confessed, voice low and unsteady. “About you.”
Charles’s breath hitched, the sound making Max’s heart skip a beat. “You have?” he asked, wonder threaded through the question.
Max nodded, fingers curling in Charles’s hair like he needed the proof of him there. “I just—I didn’t think it was allowed.”
Charles leaned into Max’s touch, forehead brushing his, mouth close enough that Max could feel the warmth of his breath. His hands slid up Max’s sides, thumbs pressing lightly at his ribs. He tilted his head, studying Max’s face like he was seeing him properly for the first time.
“It’s very much allowed,” Charles said quietly. The certainty in it landed like a balm and a spark all at once.
Max swallowed. “Yeah?”
Charles smiled slowly, a little dangerous, and leaned in to press a brief, lingering kiss to Max’s mouth, just enough to steal the air from his lungs. “Yes,” he murmured.
Max was overwhelmed by the weight of it, the wanting, the time, the fact that this wasn’t imagined or one-sided or fleeting.
Maybe it was the warmth of the room. Maybe it was Charles’s weight between his legs, the steady pressure of him. Maybe it was the simple, terrifying fact that he’d already admitted too much to take it back now.
But Max suddenly felt a little brave. “What did you think about?” he asked. The question surprised them both.
Charles lifted his head slowly, searching Max’s face, the way Max’s grip lingered in his hair, the way his breath still hadn’t settled. His mouth curved. “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked softly.
Max swallowed. His heart was pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. “Yeah.”
Charles’s eyes darkened a fraction. “Well,” he said, voice dropping, deliberate now. “I thought about kissing you.”
Max’s breath hitched immediately.
“Like this,” Charles murmured against his lips. He kissed slow and sure and unhurried, his mouth fitting against Max’s with practiced confidence, like he was showing him something he’d rehearsed in his head a thousand times.
Max melted, breath leaving him in a quiet, helpless sound as he kissed Charles back without thinking, without restraint. The kiss deepened naturally, lingering, impossible to ignore.
His mouth left Max’s, tracing an unhurried path from his lips to his jaw, down the warm line of his throat. Soft kisses bloomed along Max’s chest, his shoulder, the place just beneath his collarbone where his pulse was still racing.
Charles murmured softly against his skin, voice low, almost to himself. “I imagined how you would look—” He smoothed Max’s hair back from his forehead, eyes fond as they swept over his face. « Mais tu es encore plus beau. » (But you’re even prettier)
The words slid over Max without meaning, but the sound of them, the cadence, the closeness, sent a shiver straight through him anyway. His breath stuttered, chest rising sharply under Charles’s.
Another kiss followed, slow and unhurried. “I imagined how you would feel,” Charles said, his lips brushing over Max’s pectoral. « Mais tu es encore plus chaud, plus doux. » (But you’re even warmer, softer)
Charles rolled their hips together and Max could feel the obvious firmness of him dig into his hip next to his own. His cock throbbed at the idea that Charles was just as aroused as he was.
Max gasped quietly, the reaction immediate and involuntary. “Charlie,” he breathed, the name slipping out wrecked and helpless. “What—you—”
Charles smiled against him, barely, and kissed around his nipple softly, teasing. Max’s grip tightened, his whole body humming.
“I imagined how you would sound,” Charles murmured, close enough that Max felt the words vibrate through him. « Mais tu es encore plus beau à entendre. » (But you sound even more gorgeous)
As if to prove his point, Charles let his lips brush over his pebbled nub, letting his warm breath huff over Max’s nipple carelessly.
Max gasped, and Charles paused before he let the faintest scrape of teeth graze Max’s nipple, sending a sharp heat flaring deep in Max’s gut. He arched helplessly into Charles’s mouth, moaning embarrassingly high-pitched and needy. The sound escaped him before he could stop it.
Charles’s eyes were bright, satisfied and delighted. “There,” he murmured fondly. “Exactly like that.”
Max was shaking now, undone in the most complete way. His hands slid to Charles’s waist. He let out a shaky breath that bordered on a laugh, overwhelmed and dizzy. “I don’t understand half of what you’re saying,” he admitted, voice rough, breath uneven. “But—whatever it is—”
Charles lifted his head just enough to press a gentle kiss to Max’s lips again, as if in answer. His tongue delicately traced the seam of Max’s mouth, asking for entrance before licking into him slowly, searing desire though his chest, his core, his cock.
“I even imagined how you would taste,” Charles murmured against his lips. « Mais c’est bien plus doux que je pensais. » (But you taste so much sweeter)
His French only made Max want to chase the heat of the kiss again. Another kiss followed, slow and unhurried, like punctuation.
Charles’s hands skimmed upward, palms warm as they traced over Max’s ribs and up his chest, thumbs brushing lightly as if he were committing the sensation to memory.
Charles leaned in close, so close Max felt the words before he heard them. His mouth brushed the curve of Max’s ear, breath warm and intimate. « Je m’imaginais te garder comme ça…rien qu’à moi. » (I imagined keeping you like this, just for me)
The whisper sent a sharp, involuntary shiver through Max’s entire body. His breath broke, hips twitching up reflexively into Charles before he could stop them.
Charles pressed a hand into the side of his hip, holding him down while he controlled the pace, rocking them together, the friction slow and deep and torturous. Their erections rubbed together through denim, shooting pleasure through Max’s groin.
Charles laced their fingers together, the metal of his rings pleasantly cool on Max’s burning hands as he pinned Max’s hands above his head in the pillow. His mouth drifted lower, kissing lazily, licking over Max’s collarbone.
Max’s breaths came ragged, his hips responding automatically to the rhythm of Charles, his dick tensing and straining in his pants. He felt the telltale coil burning low in his belly too quickly, too soon. What the fuck, fuck, fuck—
“Fuck, Charles—” he groaned, voice cracking. “You can’t—Slow down, fuck—” Another moan escaped him, breathless as his hips stuttered, erratic.
Charles leaned up, pressing his forehead to Max’s, locking eyes with him while Max whimpered. “Will you be able to again, after?”
Max’s entire train of thought jumped the rails. He whined and nodded, teetering on the edge.
“Then come for me,” Charles murmured before leaning back down and wrapping his warm lips around Max’s nipple and sucking hard, lashing his tongue over his hardened peak.
Max arched against his mouth helplessly, crying out as he chased his orgasm with his hips. His hands clenched Charles’s fingers between his own, come soaking through his boxers slowly as his cock released everything he’d been barely holding back.
His hips stilled, his breathing slowed, Charles’s tongue ceased its torment of his nipple. Max tried not to think about how easily he’d come for Charles, how quickly he’d fallen apart. He realized, belatedly, that their hands were still laced together.
Max released Charles’s hands in favor of snaking his arms around Charles’s middle, pulling him close. Charles lay easily on his chest, tracing his fingers lightly over his skin.
“You are okay?” Charles asked finally. His voice was soft against Max’s neck.
Max was still flushed. “Yeah, sorry, sorry about the—I promise, that’s not—”
Charles didn’t hesitate. “You have no idea, do you? How hot you are.”
“What?” Max practically squeaked.
Charles sat up and propped his face on his hands on Max’s chest. “It is flattering, no? So easy for me.”
Max went scarlet.
The heat climbed up his neck in a rush he absolutely did not consent to, ears burning as he looked anywhere but at Charles’s face. He huffed out a laugh that didn’t have a lot of humor in it and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “That’s—no,” he said immediately. “This is a one-time thing.”
Charles didn’t interrupt. That was suspicious.
Max cleared his throat, still refusing to make eye contact, doubling down like his life depended on it. “A statistical anomaly,” he added, dry but flustered. “Won’t happen again.”
When Max finally risked a glance up, Charles was watching him with a grin that could only be described as deeply unhelpful. Dimples out. Eyes bright. “Mhm,” Charles hummed.
Max felt his ears burn hotter. “Don’t,” he warned, pointing at him weakly.
Charles’s grin widened, utterly unrepentant. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking very loudly,” Max muttered.
Charles laughed under his breath. He shifted his hips minutely, and Max gasped at the feeling of his erection still pressing into Max’s oversensitivity. “I cannot help it,” he said mildly. “You are very distracting.”
Max swallowed, the movement visible in his throat, eyes fixed stubbornly on the hollow just below Charles’s collarbone instead of his face. “That’s not—” He stopped, exhaled. “That’s not true.”
Charles shifted just enough to bring one hand up, knuckles brushing Max’s cheek first before his fingers settled there properly. “You are so beautiful, Max,” he murmured. He traced the line of Max’s jaw with the pad of his thumb, like he wasn’t afraid of forgetting any of it.
“I have known your face a long time,” Charles said quietly.
Max’s breath hitched.
“You used to be so blond,” Charles went on, smiling to himself. “Lighter than you liked. And your cheeks—” He brushed his thumb higher, fond, unmistakably so. “You still had baby fat. You tried very hard to look serious back then.”
Max let out a weak sound that might have been a protest if he wasn’t already losing the ability to form one.
Charles laughed softly. “You did this thing.” He touched between Max’s brows, right at the faint line that still lived there. “You thought it made you look tough.”
His thumb smoothed the crease away.
“It never worked.”
Max swallowed, throat tight. He could feel every place Charles touched like it was being underlined.
“But your smile,” Charles said, voice warming, eyes softening. “That never changed. Still lights everything up. The whole circuit.” His fingers traced the corner of Max’s mouth, reverent. “Even when you try to hide it.”
Max’s chest stuttered. He barely remembered to breathe.
“And your eyes,” Charles continued, quieter now. His other hand came up, framing Max’s face fully, thumbs resting just under his cheekbones. “God. We are so lucky, you know.”
Max blinked, lashes brushing Charles’s skin.
“Of all the things hidden by the suit,” Charles said, eyes searching his, “that we still get to see these.” He smiled. “I can always tell when you are smiling under the helmet. Even with the balaclava on. Your eyes give you away every time.”
His thumb traced under Max’s lower lashes, feather-light. “You don’t disappear when you are covered up,” Charles murmured. “I always know where to look.”
Max was barely holding it together.
Every careful word, every touch, stripped something out of him. Charles had seen him grow into himself. Had noticed what stayed the same. Had kept looking.
Max’s hands came up, gripping Charles’s wrists like they were the only solid thing left in the room. His breath came shallow and uneven, heart thundering against his ribs.
“Charlie,” he breathed, wrecked.
Charles made a low sound at the back of his throat and then he was kissing Max again, harder this time, no longer teasing. One hand slid firmly to Max’s hip, holding him steady like Charles had decided Max wasn’t going anywhere.
Max’s breath left him in a quiet, helpless sound, thoughts scattering as Charles’s mouth pressed against his, intent and claiming.
They came up for air together, barely.
Max’s breath left him in uneven pulls, chest rising fast under Charles’s hands as he tried to reorient himself, where he was, who he was, how the fuck he was supposed to still be alive.
Charles’s mouth trailed down Max’s jaw, then to his neck, open-mouthed and claiming. Max gasped softly at the contact, head tipping back without permission, the sound torn out of him before he could stop it.
Charles murmured then, low and close, more to himself than to Max. « Mais il n’y a jamais eu de plus belle vue que toi quand tu levais les yeux vers moi. » (But there has never been a more beautiful view than when you looked up at me)
A kiss pressed warm beneath Max’s ear. « Ça m’a tenu éveillé la nuit. » (It kept me up at night)
The words slid over Max without meaning, but the sound of them hit him full force.
He shuddered, a full-body reaction he couldn’t control, breath breaking again as something warm and dizzy coiled low in his chest. French always did something to him. Charles’s French, murmured like that, intimate and certain, did something worse.
“Charlie,” Max breathed, the name coming out wrecked and pleading all at once. His grip tightened reflexively, fingers twisting into Charles’s hair like he needed it. “I—I don’t—”
Charles kissed him again at the base of his throat, unhurried, almost indulgent, like he’d felt the shiver and liked it.
“I don’t understand,” Max managed, laughing weakly through the breathlessness, still trying to drag himself back into the room. “You know my French is shit.”
Charles smiled against his skin, just barely, and kissed him once more. “I said you are distracting, on the podium,” he murmured. “I have always thought that.”
Max closed his eyes, heart racing, clinging to Charles like reality itself had narrowed down to breath, warmth, the steady certainty of being held while everything else fell away.
Charles leaned back down, pressing a careful kiss to Max’s chest again, right where his heart was still racing.
“You too,” Max finally choked out. “Especially when you won,” he admitted quietly. That was the dangerous part.
“I don’t think about…anyone…like that,” Max said slowly, choosing each word with care. “But you’re the only one who’s ever taken something from me and—made me want more.”
“Fuck,” Charles hissed, the word torn out of him like he hadn’t meant to say it at all. His hands tightened on Max’s face, thumbs pressing into his cheeks as if he needed the confirmation of him there. “God, Max.”
He kissed him then without restraint. Full and desperate and warm, like he’d been holding himself back for years and finally lost the argument. Charles swore again into Max’s mouth, low and wrecked, kissing him like the words hadn’t been enough and never would be.
Max made a small, broken sound against his lips, hands clutching at Charles like he was afraid he’d disappear if he let go.
“I’m so—” Charles cut himself off with another kiss, forehead pressing into Max’s as he breathed him in. “I have wanted you,” he admitted hoarsely. “For so long. You drive me insane.”
His mouth traced Max’s jaw, his cheek, everywhere except pulling away. Like he couldn’t stop touching him now that he’d started. Like he didn’t want to. “You have no idea,” Charles murmured, voice rough with it. “None.”
Max could feel the heat surging through him, the desire overwhelming every bit of his body. “Please, Charles,” he groaned, not sure what he was asking for. “Please.” His cock pressed insistent against the seam of his jeans again, hungry for the man lying on him.
Charles felt it and paused, holding him even as his own breath came uneven. He pressed one more reverent kiss to Max’s mouth, slower now, appreciating instead of consuming.
“I am crazy about you,” he said quietly, like a truth he’d finally given up hiding. “I just…needed you to know.”
Max swallowed, throat tight, chest still rising too fast under Charles’s hands. “Yeah,” he said quietly. Then, because the truth was already out and there was no point pretending otherwise, he added, rough and unsteady, “I haven’t been normal about you either.”
Charles stopped altogether, a look of surprise on his face.
Max huffed a weak laugh, eyes flicking away for half a second before forcing himself to look back at him. “Not for a long time,” he admitted. “So…I guess that makes us even.”
His fingers curled around Charles’s waist. “We make a good pair,” he finished, softer.
Charles’s smile lit Max up from the inside. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We really do.” He traced a lazy finger down Max’s abdomen, watching the muscles tighten, his voice lowering to a dangerous degree. “Does that mean I can make you come as much as I want?”
Max felt his cock twitch at the words. “I’m pretty sure it’s—it’s your turn, actually,” he stammered.
Charles raised an eyebrow. “My turn? Does this mean I get to choose?” He hummed, drumming his fingers on Max’s sternum as if thinking.
Max scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Are you always this dramatic?” He said, breathless. “Just fuck me, before we both die of old age.”
Charles froze for exactly half a second.
Then his mouth curved into the kind of smile Max had seen only a handful of times, sharp with satisfaction and barely contained glee. A got-you smile. Dimples out, eyes dark and bright all at once.
“Oh,” Charles murmured. “Gladly.”
He dipped down and kissed Max like he’d been waiting for permission all along, warm and confident and devastatingly thorough. Charles kissed him like the question had finally been answered, like Max had just unlocked something he’d been holding behind his teeth for years.
Max made a helpless sound into his mouth, hands coming up automatically, fingers clawing uselessly at his back as the mattress shifted beneath them. Charles crowded him without apology now, weight solid and grounding, the kiss deepening with a pleased little hum that felt unfairly smug.
One hand worked Max’s jeans open before both tugged at his waistband to pull them and his boxers off. Max fumbled to lift his hips to shimmy out of them before helping free Charles of his, all while locking lips and gasping between kisses.
“You asked,” Charles breathed against his lips, smiling again before kissing him once more, slower, deliberate, savoring the way Max melted into it despite himself.
Max’s head tipped back, breath gone completely, any remaining protest dissolving into the sheets. He wanted it. He wanted Charles to take exactly what he’d offered.
Of course, Charles was gorgeous naked. Max had trouble concentrating once his cock snapped out of his briefs and pressed between Max’s legs, thick and red and weeping. The cut of his hips, the power in his thighs, Jesus. Max felt fingers under his chin tilt his head back up to teasing eyes.
“You like the view?” Charles murmured, entirely too smug.
“Fuck off,” Max said weakly before wrapping his legs around Charles’s perfect midsection.
Charles moaned low in his throat and Max felt a heady rush knowing he was affecting Charles just as much. Fingers swiped over his already throbbing dick, collecting come from earlier and Max felt weirdly dirty and aroused.
Before he could process that combo of feelings, Charles’s fingers swirled his come around his asshole and actually fucking killed him.
Max made a strangled noise that he would deny forevermore, something between a gasp and a squeal. His hands flew to Charles’s shoulders, clutching at the short hairs at the nape of his neck just for something to hold. “Shit, ah—” He lifted his thigh higher to give Charles better access anyway. “What the fuck—Charles—”
Charles pressed harder with his fingers, dipping just the tip of one finger inside. Max moaned immediately, his body betraying him.
“You are so messy, coming for me so easily,” Charles murmured. His lips traced softly over Max’s chest heaving under him. “And you have such a filthy mouth, telling me to fuck you, like this.”
He lowered his mouth and bit a large piece of Max’s pec, sucking hard. The searing pain didn’t hold a handle to the wave of lust that overwhelmed Max’s senses, pulsing in his chest, his stomach, his cock. Max groaned loudly, letting his head fall back between his shoulders.
Charles sat back and admired the mark he left on his chest while his finger pressed deeper, slick with Max’s own come. He edged a second fingertip in with the first while he teased Max’s nipple with the other hand, twisting lightly and tweaking it until it was so hard it hurt.
“Filthy mouth like this, I think I should make you come on my fingers, make you taste yourself, make you swallow.” He looked up at Max, eyes dark with hunger and mischief. “What do you think?”
Max could hardly keep his eyes open. Charles was two knuckles deep with both fingers, twisting and pulling obscenely at his hole using his own come. It felt so good and so filthy and all he wanted was to fucking come again, come for Charles, have Charles feed it to him on his pretty fingers, let him suck it off his rings—
He moaned loudly, clenching and throbbing at the thought. Fuck, he was so close.
Charles looked down where his fingers fucked lazily into him, squelching slowly; at his dick, throbbing so hard it bobbed visibly against his abdomen, leaking on his belly. “Maaax,” he chided, drawing it out. “Are you so close again?”
Max whimpered, squeezing his thighs uselessly, wrapped around Charles, as if to pull him closer. Charles kept intentionally missing his prostate, he was sure of it, otherwise how could he not have—
Suddenly Max’s body went rigid, his cock jerking. “Fuck—” he rasped, voice gone. No, yeah, Charles was just being a dick.
Charles had bottomed out with two fingers, now. He curled them only sometimes, dragging the pads of his fingers over the spot Max wanted him most so carefully that Max wanted to cry.
“I thought I would make you wait, but it is much more fun to take you apart, mon cœur.” Charles smiled so fondly at him that Max did actually consider crying. “You just cannot help yourself, can you?”
Max shook his head rapidly, biting his lip, his thighs trembling from trying to hold his orgasm in. “Too much—ah—‘s’too much, Charlie—”
Charles pushed a third fingertip in and Max groaned around the burn of it, rocking his hips against the slow rhythm Charles had established. He leaned up and kissed Max deeply, swallowing his moans and whimpers, drinking him in.
Max finally felt pressure against his dick this way, with Charles’s taut stomach pressed against his dripping cock, and he couldn’t help but hump against it as Charles fingered him, his other hand threading through his hair.
Charles’s fingers twisted in his strands, pulling enough that it made his head feel fuzzy. Max groaned loudly into his mouth, Charles licking hotly into him, pushing deeper with his wet fingers.
Max’s orgasm didn’t so much hit him as he crashed into it, like a train off a cliff, rutting against Charles’s stomach, squirting hot and thick onto his own belly. Charles swallowed his cries, fucking his fluttering hole with his fingers, releasing his hair.
Before Max could even fully come down, Charles had moved on top of him, stroking himself in the come pooled on his stomach. “God, Max, you are incredible,” he groaned, spreading it all over his scarlet cock.
Charles eased an arm under one of Max’s thighs, holding it against his chest and pressed his slick cock head against Max’s hole, his eyes dark and hungry. “Are you ready, cheri?”
Max trembled a little, still dazed, as he held his thigh up and took a deep breath. “Please, Charlie,” he begged. “Need you.”
“Fuck,” Charles muttered to himself as he pushed in, breathing heavily as though it were costing him everything to do so. “Fuck, Max—”
It wasn’t like Max could’ve read a book titled “What It’s Like when your Childhood-Rival-Turned-Lover Fucks You” and known what to expect. Even if such a book existed, even if someone else had been in his exact position before, he didn’t think any words in the human language could describe the Earth-shattering feeling of being stretched open on Charles’s thick cock and his own come.
It certainly hadn’t been on his list of “shit that could happen”.
Charles did not hesitate bottoming out. Once Max was completely full, they stayed locked like that while Charles’s hand rested on his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye like he wanted to memorize Max’s face in the moment, mouth slack in awe.
Max wrapped his legs around Charles’s back and slid his hands up the firm planes of him, his chest, over his shoulders, his broad neck, his jaw. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in the world.
When Charles finally started moving, Max’s breath stuttered like he’d forgotten how sex worked. Charles fucked him shallowly, working him up to the sensation, and Max worked on tensing and relaxing, rolling his hips in time. The oversensitivity made him gasp and his eyes well up, his face hot, but his focus was solely on Charles, on his hands, his face, his hips.
Charles leaned down on his elbows, caging him in, to kiss him again. Max groaned into it, wrapping his arms fully around his back. He broke the kiss to kiss up Charles’s jaw, savoring the raw scrape from Charles’s stubble.
Max’s panting close to his ear, his moaning, his muttered curses, seemed to break whatever restraint Charles still had. His hand found Max’s hip with a bruising pressure, his thrusts turned punishing, pounding into him like neither of them should survive.
Max felt the first tear slip free, tracking down his temple, then another, hot against his skin. His thighs trembled with each thrust, Charles ravaging his prostate with the angle and force. His moaning had turned frantic, clawing up Charles’s back like he was trying to climb into his skin. “Please, please, please, Charles, fuck—fuck—fuck me—”
He tightened his legs around Charles’s back, and Charles’s eyes widened in surprise. Max’s voice came out broken, raspy and soft. “Inside, please, Charlie—”
Charles’s thrusts grew erratic as the look in his eyes turned animalistic. He bit his lip, a groan vibrating deep in his chest. “Oh, mon Max,” he rumbled. « Tu sais très bien ce que tu fais. »
(You know exactly what you’re doing)
Charles moaned and his breathing got ragged, and Max knew he was close. He kept up a steady stream of French, low in Max’s ear as he slammed their hips together, panting into Max’s neck. « Tu me donnes tout, là. » (You’re giving me everything, right now)
Max’s own wailing only got louder, his dick twitching pathetically between their bodies, leaking with each punishing thrust. Tears streamed from his eyes, and Charles kissed his face, open-mouthed and hot, licking him, grasping his hair.
« Tu veux que je te garde? Dis-moi que tu le veux. » (Do you want me to keep you? Tell me you want it)
Max felt the band low in his gut snapping tight once more and he screamed, dribbling out practically nothing, his legs pulling Charles as deeply into him as he could manage. Charles was only a handful of strokes behind, chanting his name like a prayer.
“Fuck, Max—Max, mon Max, ah—”
Charles pulsed deep inside, filling him up with come, hot and tight. Max couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. They collapsed in a sweaty tangle of limbs, panting and shaking as they remained wrapped around each other like laundry.
Max lifted a hand and threaded his fingers into Charles’s hair, absentminded at first, combing through it slowly, feeling the way Charles melted into the touch with a small, contented hum. He listened to the continuing stream of French pouring out of the man he’d never thought he’d have lying on top of him.
« Je te connais depuis si longtemps, » (I’ve known you for so long) Charles murmured, « Je t’ai toujours reconnu. Même quand tu fais semblant d’être dur. » (I’ve always recognized you. Even when you pretend to be tough) His thumbs traced over Max’s chest slowly. « Mais là… là, tu es à moi. Juste maintenant. » (But right now, right now you’re mine) He rested his forehead over Max’s heart. « Laisse-moi m’occuper de toi. » (Let me take care of you)
Max stared at the ceiling, eyelids heavy, the adrenaline of the evening ebbing into something softer, drowsier. His thumb brushed Charles’s temple, then his scalp again, the motion familiar and soothing despite how new everything else felt.
“Hey,” Max murmured, voice already rough with sleep.
“Mmm?” Charles replied, the sound vibrating lightly against his chest.
Max smiled faintly, eyes finally closing. “You’ll…tell me what all that meant,” he said, words slurring just a little. “In the morning.”
Charles smiled against his skin, a quiet, pleased thing. He tilted his head just enough to press a soft kiss there, warm and unhurried. “Of course,” he murmured. “In the morning, chéri.”
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