Work Text:
Charles Leclerc had lived through many difficult things.
Bad strategies. Worse strategies. Team radios that sounded like prophecies of doom. Tyre degradation. Monaco heartbreak. The particular psychological violence of seeing Max Verstappen emerge from a race weekend looking like he had slept eight hours uninterrupted and made peace with God while everyone else resembled damp tissue paper.
He had survived all of it with dignity.
Some dignity.
Enough dignity.
Then Max had meowed on stream, Charles had lost a fight with a gaming chair, the internet had heard him say mon cœur, and somehow the worst part of the evening had still been Max’s bare legs.
Charles stood in the middle of Max’s streaming room, one hand pressed against his own forehead, trying to understand how his life had become this.
The stream was over. Thank God.
The room was silent except for the hum of Max’s computer, the tiny clicking sounds of notifications arriving on Charles’s phone, and Sassy purring from Max’s arms like a criminal who had successfully escaped justice.
Max was sitting in the sim rig again, headset off, holding the cat against his chest. He looked calm. Of course he looked calm. Charles had just accidentally exposed the private, supposedly casual arrangement they had both been very careful not to name, and Max looked like someone had mildly inconvenienced him at the supermarket.
“You are too calm,” Charles said, hand still covering his forehead in denial.
Max looked down at Sassy. “She is fine.”
“I am not talking about the cat.”
“She was under the brake pedal.”
“Yes, Max, thank you, I was there.”
“And you fell off the chair.”
Charles lowered his hand and stared at him.
Max blinked back.
For a moment, Charles had the terrible, inconvenient urge to laugh.
He did not laugh. He was in a crisis. Laughing would undermine the crisis.
“I fell,” Charles said carefully, “because you meowed.”
“That was not my fault.”
“You meowed in three different pitches.”
“Sassy did not respond to the first two.”
“Because she is a cat, Max.”
Max looked down at Sassy again. Sassy blinked slowly, smug and soft and completely unhelpful.
Charles began pacing.
This was bad. This was very bad. It was not simply embarrassing. Embarrassing would have been manageable. Drivers embarrassed themselves all the time. Lando had once spent five full minutes trying to push open a door that clearly said pull. George had been filmed adjusting a podium cap with the solemn concentration of a man aligning a front wing, using the helmet visor as a mirror. Carlos had called his own hair “a strategic asset” with a straight face.
Embarrassment, Charles could survive. Embarrassment was loud, public, and usually temporary.
This was quieter.
This felt like someone had opened a door into a room that Charles had not meant to let anyone see. A room he had kept deliberately unnamed, because unnamed things were safer. They could be casual. They could have rules. They could stay behind closed doors and end before anyone had to admit that somewhere between the sex and the staying over, Charles had started wanting more.
The internet had seen Charles in Max’s apartment. In Max’s streaming room. In a hoodie. At night. Panicking because Max’s legs were visible.
The internet had heard Charles call Max mon cœur.
Charles had then claimed he meant mon chœur.
His choir.
His choir.
Charles wanted to walk into the sea.
“People will forget,” Max said, scratching behind Sassy’s ear.
Charles stopped pacing.
He turned very slowly.
“People,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Will forget.”
“Eventually.”
Charles stared at him with the hollow horror of a man who had read the internet before.
“Max,” he said. “There are already clips.”
Max frowned. “What do you mean?”
“My phone has not stopped vibrating since you ended the stream.”
“That could be anything.”
Charles looked around, found his phone half-hidden beside the overturned gaming chair, and picked it up as it buzzed again in his hand.
On the lock screen alone, there were six messages from Pierre, four from Carlos, one from Alex, two from George, and a voice note from Lando that was thirty-seven seconds long and therefore legally a threat.
The group chat had also changed names.
It had been called Padel Thursday?
It was now called MON CHŒUR 🎶
Charles showed him the screen from a distance, as if proximity might make the situation contagious. Max leaned forward slightly.
“Why is there a music note?”
Charles fought back a whimper. “Because I said choir.”
“You did say choir.”
“I was under pressure.”
“You were standing in front of the camera.”
“Exactly. Pressure.”
The phone buzzed again.
Pierre: Are you alive or did the choir kill you?
Carlos: Charles why are you dressed like a Ferrari traffic cone in Max’s house?
Alex: I’m not saying anything but I have watched the clip six times.
George: I do think the distinction between cœur and chœur may not hold up under scrutiny.
Max tilted his head. “George might have a point.”
“That is not the point.”
The phone buzzed again.
Lando: I have questions.
Lando: Actually I have no questions. I have evidence.
Lando: Also tell Sassy good job today.
Charles locked the phone with shaking dignity.
“This is not fine,” he said.
Max looked entirely too calm. “It is only them.”
“Only them?” Charles echoed. “Max, by morning there will be edits. There will be slow motion. There will be captions. Someone will put little hearts around your head.”
Max considered this.
“Maybe some of them will be good.”
Charles made a sound that physically hurt to produce.
Max’s mouth twitched.
That was worse. Much worse. Max smiling was always dangerous. Max smiling after ruining Charles’s life was a war crime.
Charles made a wounded sound. “This is exactly why we need to be mature.”
Max looked suspicious. “Mature?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
Charles ignored that. “We need some time apart.”
Max stared at him.
Sassy yawned.
Somewhere on Charles’s phone, Pierre sent another message.
Pierre: Charles?
Charles turned his phone face down.
Max said, “Time apart.”
“Yes.”
“We are not together.”
Charles’s stomach did something stupid. It was not pain, exactly. It was more like missing a step in the dark. A drop that was too small to justify a reaction and too sudden to ignore.
He lifted his chin.
“That is exactly why we need time apart.”
Max watched him for a second too long.
Charles hated when Max did that. The watching. The quiet, sharp attention. People thought Max did not notice things because he did not always react in the way they expected. They were wrong. Max noticed everything. Max noticed when Charles was tired before Charles noticed himself. Max noticed when Charles’s left shoulder tightened after too many sponsor events. Max noticed when Charles pretended not to want the last bite of dessert.
Max noticed him now.
Charles wished, for one dizzy second, that Max would argue. That was the terrible part. He wanted Max to say, Don’t go. He wanted Max to look at him with that blunt, fearless certainty and say, Stay.
Instead Max nodded once.
“Okay,” Max said.
Charles hated him a little.
“No,” Charles said immediately.
Max’s eyebrows lifted.
“I mean—yes. Okay. Good.” Charles folded his arms. “This is good. Very mature.”
Max nodded again.
Charles hated him more.
“I am going back to my apartment,” Charles announced.
“You live downstairs.”
“Different floor,” Charles said. “Different emotional environment.”
Max looked at him.
Charles looked back.
Max said again, “Okay.”
Charles grabbed his book from the floor with as much dignity as possible. It had a bent corner now from when he had used it as a prop in the worst lie ever told by a Monegasque adult man.
He moved toward the door. Max did not stop him.
Charles paused in the hallway because he was only human and also pathetic. Behind him, Max stood with Sassy still tucked under one arm.
“Do you have your keys?” Max asked.
Charles turned.
“What?”
“Your keys.”
“Of course I have my keys.”
Max’s gaze dropped to Charles’s hands.
Charles looked down.
He was holding only the book and his phone.
Sassy purred louder.
Max reached to the small table beside the door, picked up Charles’s keys, and held them out. Charles took them. Their fingers brushed. This was normal. This was nothing. They had done things far more intimate than a finger brush many times, sometimes against walls, sometimes in hotel rooms, sometimes in Max’s kitchen when Charles had come over “for dinner” and they had both known dinner was a lie.
Still, Charles felt it.
Max’s hand was warm.
Charles snatched the keys away like warmth was contagious.
“I am leaving,” he said.
“Yes,” Max said.
“Do not look so calm.”
“I am just standing here.”
“Exactly.”
Max’s expression did not change, but his eyes softened just enough to make Charles’s chest ache.
“Goodnight, Charles,” Max said.
Charles swallowed.
“Goodnight.”
He left before he could do anything more humiliating, like ask for a kiss goodbye from a man he was taking time apart from.
The elevator ride lasted approximately twelve years. Charles stood alone inside the mirrored box, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, book clutched against his chest, watching his own reflection try and fail to look like someone who had made a reasonable decision.
His phone buzzed.
Pierre: Do I want to know?
Charles stared at the message.
Then he typed with cold, adult composure.
Charles: I have made a mature decision.
The response came almost instantly.
Pierre: Oh no.
Charles scowled.
Charles: Max and I need space.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Pierre: Charles.
Pierre: You live in the same building.
Charles jabbed the elevator button even though it was already moving.
Charles: Emotionally, Pierre.
Pierre: Emotionally, you are still three floors away.
Charles did not answer.
The elevator opened.
His apartment was exactly where he had left it. This was rude of it.
Charles unlocked the door, stepped inside, and was immediately offended by how much it looked like his own apartment. It was beautiful. Tasteful. Clean. The kind of apartment a magazine would call elegant and Charles would call fine because complimenting his own furniture felt embarrassing. The windows looked out over Monaco. The lighting was soft. The kitchen was spotless. His shoes were where he had left them. His jacket was draped over a chair in a way that suggested he had once had a life that did not involve being known globally as Max Verstappen’s suspiciously French book.
Everything smelled faintly of the expensive candle he had forgotten to blow out earlier.
Fig and cedar.
Charles used to like that candle.
Now he stood in the entryway and hated it.
It did not smell like Max’s apartment.
This was a ridiculous thought and therefore Charles immediately tried to destroy it.
Max’s apartment was not even objectively better. It was clean, yes, because Max liked things in their place, but it was also full of evidence that Max actually lived there. Sim equipment. Cat toys. Hoodies abandoned on chair backs. Red Bull cans appearing in places where Red Bull cans had no right to exist. A blanket on the sofa that somehow always had cat hair on it even after washing. The faint, persistent smell of Max’s laundry detergent.
Clean cotton and something faintly citrus, bright in that race-weekend way Charles had started associating with Red Bull kit bags and freshly washed team shirts. Not cologne. Not some expensive Monaco detergent chosen to impress anyone. Just practical, crisp, and annoyingly Max.
“You smell like Red Bull laundry,” Charles had said once against Max’s neck.
Max had frowned, half-asleep beneath him. “That is not a thing.”
“It is. It smells like clean cotton and citrus and corporate efficiency.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means you stole detergent from Red Bull.”
“I did not steal it.”
Charles had lifted his head. “Max.”
“They had extra.”
“That is stealing.”
“It was practical.”
Charles had stared at him for a long moment, then buried his face back into Max’s neck.
“Stop smelling me,” Max had muttered.
Charles had not stopped.
Now, standing in his own apartment, Charles pulled his hoodie collar up to his nose before he could stop himself.
Cat hair.
Red Bull’s detergent. Or Max’s detergent now, apparently.
A faint trace of Max’s skin from where they had sat too close earlier, Charles pressed into Max’s side while pretending to read, Max occasionally glancing over when he thought Charles did not notice.
“No,” he said to his own empty apartment.
The empty apartment did not argue back.
He changed into sleep clothes with aggressive efficiency. He brushed his teeth. He washed his face. He plugged in his phone. He ignored Pierre’s next three messages, all of which were variations of whether the choir was rehearsing grief or denial.
Then he got into bed. His bed was very comfortable. This was also rude.
It had expensive sheets. A good mattress. Perfect pillows. No cat sitting on his feet. No half-empty Red Bull can on the nightstand. No Max stealing blankets and then denying it with the serene confidence of a man who truly believed his own crimes did not count if he committed them while asleep.
Charles lay on his side.
He closed his eyes.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
He turned onto his back.
Then onto his other side.
Then onto his stomach.
Then back onto his side.
The bed did not improve.
He punched the pillow, adjusted it, settled again, and lasted sixteen seconds.
The problem, Charles decided, was the temperature.
His apartment was too cold.
He got up, changed the thermostat, got back into bed, and immediately became too warm.
The problem was not the temperature.
The problem was the sheets.
They smelled wrong.
The problem was the mattress.
It did not dip in the right place.
The problem was the silence.
There was no soft shuffle of a cat jumping onto the floor. No tiny offended meow from Jimmy when he discovered a closed door. No Max breathing beside him, slow and steady. No half-asleep Dutch mutter when Charles accidentally took up too much space. No warm body to tuck himself around. No shoulder under his cheek. No heartbeat against his palm.
Charles stared at the ceiling.
He had made a mature decision.
He hated it.
His phone buzzed. He grabbed it too quickly.
It was Pierre.
Pierre: How is the space?
Charles turned the phone face down.
Then turned it face up again.
No new message from Max.
Of course there was no message from Max. Max was respecting his boundary. Max was probably already asleep. Max could fall asleep anywhere. Planes. Sofas. Driver rooms. Hotel beds. Once, horrifyingly, upright in a chair while Charles was talking to him about Ferrari strategy, which Charles had taken personally until Max woke up and repeated the last three sentences back to him perfectly.
Max was probably asleep.
Charles hoped Max was not asleep.
Charles hated himself. He unlocked his phone and opened his messages with Max.
The last exchange was from earlier that day.
Charles: I am coming over after lunch.
Max: Okay.
Charles: Are you going to stream?
Max: Maybe.
Charles: Should I bring anything?
Max: Yourself.
Charles had stared at that message for a full minute when he received it, which had been embarrassing even then. Now, alone in the wrong bed, it felt criminal.
He locked the phone.
Unlocked it.
Locked it again.
“This is fine,” Charles told the ceiling.
The ceiling had the decency not to respond.
Thirty-seven minutes passed. Charles knew because he checked the time every two minutes like a man conducting a very stupid experiment to himself. He was beginning to consider whether he could gaslight himself into believing sleep was optional when his phone buzzed again.
This time, the notification was from Max.
Charles froze.
Then he picked up the phone so quickly he nearly hit himself in the face.
It was a photo.
For a second, Charles did not understand what he was looking at. The picture was dark, softly lit by Monaco outside the windows and the faint glow from Max’s bedside lamp. It showed Max’s balcony from the angle of someone lying in bed. The glass doors. The smear of city lights beyond them. The reflection of the room, dim and warm.
And, in the corner of the frame, the bed.
Half of it empty.
The blanket pulled back.
A hollow in the pillow where Charles had slept before, or imagined he had, or wanted to again badly enough that his whole chest felt too tight.
Below the photo was one message.
Max: I’m cold.
Charles stared at it.
His brain stopped functioning in French, English, Italian, and every other language he had ever pretended to know during interviews.
I’m cold.
That was all.
Not come back.
Not I miss you.
Not this is stupid and you should be here.
Max would never say it like that. Max did not decorate feelings when a plain sentence would do. Max simply presented the situation as a fact and let Charles suffer the consequences.
Charles put the phone face down.
He breathed in.
He breathed out.
He lasted five seconds.
Then he picked it up again and zoomed in on the photo.
This was deranged behavior. He knew it was deranged behavior. He did it anyway.
The empty side of the bed was definitely in the frame on purpose. Max was too aware of space, too precise with angles, for Charles to believe otherwise. The blanket had been folded back just enough to expose the place Charles usually took, and at the foot of the mattress, Sassy was curled into a neat little ball of fur, smug as if she had been waiting for him too.
Charles pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.
“This is emotional terrorism,” he said.
His apartment said nothing.
Charles got out of bed.
Then he stood still.
No.
No, he was not that weak.
He was Charles Leclerc. He had discipline. He had restraint. He had won races. He had survived Ferrari strategy meetings without biting anyone. He could survive one night in his own apartment.
His phone buzzed again.
Max: Also Sassy is looking for you.
Charles grabbed his keys.
He did not put on proper shoes. He did not fix his hair. He did not change out of the hoodie that still had Max’s scent and the cat hair on it. He simply left his apartment with the grim purpose of a man going to confront his own bad decisions in person.
The elevator was too slow.
The hallway was too long.
Max’s door was extremely smug.
Charles knocked.
Nothing happened for three seconds. Then the door opened.
Max stood there barefoot, in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair soft from where he had clearly been lying down. He looked warm, despite his claims of coldness. He also looked entirely unsurprised.
This was unacceptable.
Charles stared at him. “You are not cold.”
Max looked down at himself.
Then back up.
“I was.”
“You have blankets.”
“Yes.”
“You have three cats.”
“They are small.”
“You are Dutch.”
Max frowned. “That does not make me a blanket.”
Charles opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing came out, because Max had stepped aside and Charles could see the bedroom down the hall. The lamp was still on. The bed was still turned down. The empty half was still empty. Charles’s entire argument died with a sad little internal noise.
Max watched him.
Charles hated that Max watched him so gently.
“You texted me,” Charles said, because it was the only accusation he had left.
“Yes.”
“You were supposed to respect the time apart.”
“I did.”
Charles stared at him.
Max shrugged slightly. “I did not ask you to come.”
“You said you were cold.”
“I was cold.”
“That is asking.”
“No, that is telling.”
Charles made a strangled sound.
Max’s mouth twitched.
That was it. That was the last straw.
Charles stepped inside. Max closed the door behind him.
For a moment, they stood in the entryway facing each other, close enough that Charles could smell the clean cotton and citrus detergent again. Clean and warm and Max. It made something in him unclench so abruptly he almost swayed.
Max’s gaze dropped to the hoodie.
“You are still wearing the cat hair one.”
Charles looked down. There were indeed several pale hairs clinging stubbornly to the fabric.
“I did not notice,” Charles lied.
Max looked at the cat hair.
Then at Charles.
Charles lifted his chin. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You are thinking very loudly.”
“I am thinking Sassy will be happy.”
“Sassy is the reason we are in this situation.”
“No,” Max said. “You falling off a chair is the reason.”
“You meowed.”
“She was under the brake.”
“I am going to lose my mind.”
Max turned toward the bedroom. “Okay.”
Charles followed him because apparently this was his life now.
Sassy was on the bed. She looked at Charles, blinked once, and did not move from the pillow that was very clearly supposed to be Charles’s.
“Traitor,” Charles told her.
Sassy yawned.
Max lifted her with both hands and placed her at the foot of the bed. She allowed this with the gracious tolerance of royalty sparing a peasant.
Charles climbed into bed with all the dignity he had left. Which was not much, but he used every scrap of it.
He lay down on his back. Carefully. Stiffly. On his half of the mattress. Not touching Max. Facing the ceiling. Like a brick with emotional devastation.
Max turned off the lamp.
The room dropped into soft darkness, city lights glowing faintly through the balcony doors.
The mattress shifted as Max got in beside him.
Charles closed his eyes.
This was fine.
He was here because Max had been cold. That was all. He was performing a humanitarian service. Monaco could be chilly at night. Max had poor circulation probably. Charles had not returned because he missed him. Charles had not returned because his own bed felt like exile. Charles had not returned because Max had sent a picture of empty space and Charles had wanted to crawl into it so badly he nearly combusted.
He was simply helping.
Like a friend.
A friend who had sex with him regularly.
A friend who knew what Max sounded like when he was half-asleep and pleased.
A friend who had tried to take time apart and lasted less than three hours.
Behind him, Max sighed.
It was a small sound. Tired. Fond. Deeply unimpressed.
Charles opened one eye.
“What?” he said.
Max did not answer. Instead, Max reached over, slid a hand around Charles’s waist, and pulled.
Charles went rigid for half a second out of principle.
Max pulled again, less patient.
Charles allowed himself to be moved because fighting would have required dignity, and dignity had clearly left the building around the same time Charles did.
Max tucked himself against Charles’s back, then shifted closer until his chest was warm against Charles’s spine.
Charles swallowed, “Max.”
“You are too far away.”
“I am in your bed.”
“Still too far.”
“You said you were cold. I came back. This should be enough.”
“No.”
The bluntness of it landed somewhere dangerous. Charles stared into the dark.
Then Max buried his face in the side of Charles’s neck.
Charles stopped breathing.
Max’s nose brushed under his jaw. His hair tickled Charles’s cheek. His breath came warm against Charles’s skin, slow and familiar, and then he did something so small, so quiet, so Max, that Charles felt the last structural support inside him collapse.
Max breathed him in.
Not dramatically. Not like Charles did, with all his terrible romance and worse impulse control. Just a soft inhale against his throat, a tiny settling motion, like Charles smelled like something known. Like something missed. Like something Max had expected to find beside him and had been annoyed not to.
Charles’s eyes closed.
Oh.
That was the problem, then.
Max had missed him too.
Max’s hand flexed once at his waist. His voice was low against Charles’s neck when he said, “Better.”
It was not a question. Charles’s heart became something very stupid. He turned in Max’s hold. Max let him.
For one suspended second, they were face to face in the dark. Charles could barely see him, only the shape of his cheek, the pale gleam of his eyes, the soft disorder of his hair. Max looked relaxed now. Warm. A little smug, maybe, because Charles had come back and Max was impossible.
Charles should have said something clever.
He should have restored order.
He should have reminded Max that this did not mean anything, that they were still taking time apart, that he had only returned because Max was cold and Charles was, despite everything, a nice person.
Instead, Charles put a hand against Max’s shoulder and rolled them.
Max went easily, almost too easily, onto his back.
Charles followed him down.
He ended up over Max, one knee between his, one hand braced beside Max’s head, the other against his waist. Close enough to feel Max breathe. Close enough to watch Max’s expression change, not surprised, not uncertain, just open in a way that made Charles’s chest hurt.
Max looked up at him.
Charles looked down.
“You are horrible,” Charles whispered.
Max’s mouth twitched. “You came back.”
“Because you manipulated me.”
“I was cold.”
“You are warm now.”
“Yes.”
Charles bent and kissed him. It was supposed to be light. It was light, at first.
A soft press of mouth to mouth in the dark, almost careful. Charles kissed him like he was checking that Max was really there, really warm beneath him, really looking up at him with that quiet, dangerous softness. Max’s hand slid up Charles’s side and stopped at his back, fingers curling into the fabric of the hoodie.
Charles kissed him again.
Still soft.
Still controlled.
Max made an impatient sound against his mouth.
Small. Frustrated. Needy in a way Max would deny under oath and Charles would remember until the day he died.
Charles’s restraint snapped.
The next kiss was not careful.
Max tilted up into it, hand tightening at Charles’s back, and Charles crowded him into the mattress with a low, helpless sound of his own. The warmth between them deepened. The quiet room seemed to fold around them. Charles’s hand found Max’s jaw, thumb brushing the sharp line of it, and Max opened for him like he had been waiting since the moment Charles left.
Maybe he had.
That thought ruined Charles all over again. He kissed Max harder.
Max’s fingers slipped under the hem of his hoodie, warm against his skin. Charles pressed closer, pinning him with the weight of his body, feeling the way Max relaxed beneath it and pulled him in at the same time. Wanting and wanted. Familiar and suddenly unbearable.
“Charles,” Max breathed, barely more than a sound.
Charles kissed the corner of his mouth. His cheek. The edge of his jaw.
“I know,” Charles said, though he did not know which thing he meant.
Max turned his face back for another kiss.
A soft, offended chirp came from the foot of the bed.
Charles froze for half a second, forehead nearly knocking against Max’s.
Sassy, who had apparently decided she had witnessed enough emotional incompetence for one evening, stood, stretched with luxurious judgment, and stepped delicately over Charles’s ankle. She gave them both one long, unimpressed look before jumping down from the bed and padding toward the open bedroom door, tail high.
Max watched her go.
“She is dramatic,” he said.
Charles looked down at him. “She is your cat.”
“Yes,” Max said, and pulled him back down.
Charles kissed Max like he was starving for him, deep and devouring, tongues sliding hot and slick together. Max’s hands shoved under the hoodie immediately, palms scorching up the bare skin of Charles’s back, nails dragging just enough to make him arch and gasp into the kiss. The friction of their bodies ignited everything Charles had tried to deny in his own cold bed. He rocked down hard, feeling Max already thickening beneath the thin sweatpants, and the low, guttural sound Max made went straight to his cock.
“Off,” Max complained against his mouth, yanking at the hoodie with impatient hands.
Charles ripped it over his head and threw it aside. Max’s gaze raked over him, hungry and dark. Then his hands were everywhere, behind his neck pulling him in for another kiss. Charles let his hand wander, then he peeled himself off of Max’s body so he could help Max out of his own clothes. Immediately his hand went back to Max’s chest, thumbs circling sensitive nipples, sliding down to grip his waist and pull him flush again. He mouthed Max’s jaw, sucking at his pulse point, tasting salt and warm skin while Max’s breath hitched sharply.
He shoved Max’s sweatpants lower, exposing the hard planes of his stomach, and dragged his mouth lower, licking and biting softly until Max was shifting restlessly beneath him. Charles palmed Max through the fabric, stroking the thick length of him until the sweatpants were damp at the tip. Max cursed under his breath, hips bucking up into the touch.
“Charles—fuck—”
The raw need in Max’s voice ignited him. Charles yanked the sweatpants off completely, freeing Max’s cock. It was heavy and flushed, already leaking, and Charles wrapped his hand around it, stroking slow and firm while leaning down to kiss him again, filthy and wet, all tongue and teeth. Max’s hand shoved into Charles’s sleep pants, gripping him tightly, thumb smearing the slickness at the head in tight, teasing circles that made Charles’s thighs shake.
They stripped the rest of the way in a heated tangle of limbs and fabric. Skin on skin, burning. Charles slicked his fingers quickly and settled between Max’s spread thighs, kissing down his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple before he pushed one finger inside the tight heat. Max clenched around him, then relaxed with a shuddering exhale as Charles worked him open with slow, sensual strokes, then deeper, scissoring, curling deliberately against that spot until Max was writhing, one hand fisted in Charles’s hair and the other clawing at his shoulder.
“More,” Max demanded, voice wrecked. “Hurry up.”
Charles added a second finger, stretching him beautifully, watching Max’s face: the parted lips, the heavy-lidded eyes, the flush creeping down his neck. The sounds Max made were obscene and perfect, low moans, broken Dutch curses, that desperate little hitch every time Charles hit the right angle.
When he couldn’t wait any longer, Charles slicked himself generously and lined up. He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, savoring the searing tightness, the way Max’s body yielded and gripped him. Max’s legs wrapped high around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper until Charles bottomed out with a shared, guttural groan.
“Mon cœur,” Charles whispered hoarsely, forehead pressed to Max’s, hips rolling in a slow, grinding rhythm that dragged against every sensitive nerve.
Max’s hands roamed down his back, grabbing his ass, urging him harder. The pace built, heated and relentless. Deep thrusts made the bed creak, skin slapping, sweat slicking between them. Charles fucked into him with rolling hips, angling to hit that spot again and again while Max met every stroke, clenching tight around him on every withdrawal.
“Harder,” Max gasped, nails raking down Charles’s back. “Like you mean it.”
Charles did. He drove in deeper, faster, one hand braced beside Max’s head, the other stroking Max’s cock in time with his thrusts. The room filled with the wet sounds of their bodies, ragged breathing, and Max’s increasingly broken moans. Pleasure coiled tight and vicious in Charles’s spine. Max’s thighs trembled around him, his body arching, muscles fluttering hot and rhythmic around Charles’s cock.
Max came first with a choked cry, pulsing hard over Charles’s fist, clenching so tightly it dragged Charles over the edge right after him. He buried himself deep, hips stuttering as intense waves of pleasure crashed through him, spilling inside Max with a low, wrecked moan against his neck.
They stayed locked together, panting, trembling. Charles kissed him softly through the aftershocks with lazy, lingering kisses that tasted like sweat and relief. He finally pulled out carefully, cleaned them both with a towel, then collapsed half on top of Max, boneless and sated.
Max’s hand stroked slow and possessive up and down Charles’s sweat-damp back, fingers tracing the faint scratches he’d left.
“Better,” Max murmured, voice rough and warm against Charles’s hair.
Charles smiled against his neck, already drifting into sleep. “Yes.”
Max lay beneath him with the satisfied heaviness of someone who had won an argument without technically starting one. Charles’s face was tucked into the side of his neck. The room smelled like detergent, cat hair, and Max. Charles could finally sleep.
This was humiliating.
“This does not mean the time apart is over,” Charles mumbled.
Max’s hand moved slowly up and down his back.
“Okay.”
“I am serious.”
“Yes.”
“We need boundaries.”
Max hummed.
Charles lifted his head enough to glare at him in the dark. “Do not make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“The sound where you agree but you do not agree.”
“I said okay.”
“You said okay like you know I am weak.”
Max’s mouth curved.
Charles gasped softly. “You do.”
“You came back after two hours.”
“It was nearly three.”
“Very strong.”
Charles bit his shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
Max laughed quietly, the sound low and warm under Charles’s chest.
Charles hated him.
Charles loved—
No.
Absolutely not.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Charles ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Max’s hand paused on his back.
“Your phone.”
“It is nothing.”
It buzzed a third time.
Max reached without disturbing Charles much, which was unfairly skilled of him, and tilted the phone just enough to see the screen.
“It’s Pierre,” he said.
Charles buried his face back into Max’s neck. “Ignore him.”
The phone buzzed again.
Max’s chest shifted under him with a silent laugh. “He does not seem very ignorable.”
“He is extremely ignorable.”
The phone buzzed again. Charles groaned, reached blindly for the phone, and dragged it against Max’s shoulder to read.
The messages glowed in the dark.
Pierre: How is the emotional space?
Pierre: Charles?
Pierre: You went back, didn’t you?
Pierre: You lasted less than one movie.
Pierre: I hate being right.
Charles stared at the screen.
Max read it over his shoulder.
For one blissful second, Charles thought Max might be too sleepy to react.
Then Max made a small sound into his hair.
Charles closed his eyes. “No.”
Max made the sound again, worse this time, caught somewhere between a laugh and a pleased little hum.
“Max.”
“You lasted less than one movie,” Max said, voice warm and rough with sleep.
Charles dropped his forehead against Max’s shoulder. “Pierre is exaggerating.”
“He used numbers.”
“He is French. We are dramatic with numbers.”
“You are not French.”
“I am emotionally French right now.”
Max’s arm tightened around his waist. His chest kept moving under Charles, quiet little bursts of laughter he was not even trying very hard to hide.
Charles pinched his side.
Max laughed properly then, soft and helpless, the sound spilling into the dark like he had no defenses left.
“You are very happy with yourself,” Charles accused.
“Yes,” Max said.
“At least pretend to be sympathetic.”
“No.”
Charles made a wounded noise and buried his face back into Max’s neck.
Max’s hand moved over his back, slow and lazy. “You came back.”
“I was cold too.”
“You told me I wasn’t cold.”
“I changed my mind.”
“That is not how temperature works.”
“It worked enough.”
Max went quiet for half a second.
Then Charles felt his smile against his temple.
“Yes,” Max murmured. “It did.”
Charles dropped the phone face down on the nightstand and settled back on top of him with wounded dignity. Max wrapped an arm around his waist.
For a few seconds, there was only the quiet of the apartment, the soft city glow beyond the balcony, and Max warm beneath him.
Charles shifted closer, already half-asleep. “Do not tell Pierre.”
Max’s hand moved once over his back, slow and heavy. “I didn’t text Pierre.”
That was true.
That was horribly, wonderfully true.
Charles smiled into his neck despite himself.
His phone buzzed one final time on the nightstand.
Neither of them moved.
In the morning, Charles would find Pierre’s last message waiting for him.
Pierre: Tell the choir I said goodnight.
But for now, the phone stayed ignored, the city stayed quiet, and Charles finally slept where he had wanted to be all along.
The time apart, officially, lasted two hours and forty-six minutes.
Emotionally, it never stood a chance.