Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Boy of my Dreams

Max arrived at the school like he arrived everywhere those days. Jaw tight. Frown on his face. Anger sitting just under his skin.

New country. New rules. New school. Dragged away from his mum. From Vic. From the only people who felt like home. Karting hadn’t worked out the way it was supposed to, and his dad’s voice still rang in his ears. Make something of yourself. As if Max hadn’t been trying his whole life to please that man.

He kept his head down, walked through the gates already planning how invisible he could make himself.

And then—Impact.

A body slammed into him, arms wrapping tight around his chest, knocking the air clean out of his lungs. He stumbled back a step, instinctively bracing for a shove, a fight, something sharp.

Instead, a voice exploded against his neck. Bright. Breathless. Familiar.

“Oh my God. Is that really you?”

Brown curls. Warm weight. That laugh. “Charles?”

Charles pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wide and impossibly green, dimples already cutting deep into his cheeks like this was the best surprise the universe had ever handed him.

“What are you even doing at my school?” Charles barreled on, hands still gripping Max’s hoodie like he might disappear. “Do you go here now? I cannot believe this. I was just telling my friends I had to quit karting—have you been racing? I haven’t seen you on the track—did you quit too? Or are you karting from Monaco? Because that would be insane—”

He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t stopping.

Max just stared, stunned. The anger vanished, retreating in the face of this… joy. This boy, who looked at Max like he was something wonderful instead of a disappointment.

Charles finally seemed to register the silence. “Max?” he asked, softer now, searching his face. Then his smile widened again, somehow. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to my friends.”

He grabbed Max’s wrist without waiting for permission and tugged him forward, already turning, already pulling him into his world. Max let himself be dragged.

For the first time since leaving home, his chest didn’t feel so heavy.

Max barely hears himself breathe. Charles is still talking. Of course he is. Hands flying, voice bright, eyes locked on Max like he’s afraid to blink and lose him again. And Max just… stares.

He thinks, absurdly, of the girl he almost kissed last year. The way her dimples hadn’t sat right. Too sharp. Too wrong. How even then he’d been wishing, stupidly, irrationally, that she’d turn into Charles somehow.

He thinks of his dad’s face when he’d been caught with that men’s magazine. The disgust. The silence that followed. The way Max had learned to lock parts of himself away without ever naming them.

And now here’s Charles. Alive. Loud. Green-eyed. Dimples exactly where they were supposed to be.

You were it, Max realises dimly. You always were. His sexual awakening. His soft ruin. Standing right in front of him, grinning like Max is a miracle instead of a mistake.

What is my life even? Max thinks.

They’re on the lawn now with two boys sprawled on the grass. Charles drops down between them, tugging Max along, still narrating everything like a tour guide who can’t stop.

“This is Oscar,” Charles says proudly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “He’s an actor. He just got a TV show. Like, a real one. His debut.”

Oscar lifts a hand lazily. “Hey.”

“And this is Lando,” Charles continues, already moving on. “He’s obsessed with cameras. Like obsessed. He’s going to be famous one day, I’m telling you.”

Lando squints up at Max, grins. “Probably.”

“And Max,” Charles says, turning back to them, voice warming, softening just a fraction, “used to be the fastest racer. Like, genuinely terrifying. And now he’s here.”

Max blinks. Terrifying? No one’s ever said that about him like it’s a good thing.

“And I sing now,” Charles adds casually, as if that isn’t monumental. “Since karting didn’t work out.”

Max doesn’t even register the words. He’s lost in the sound of Charles’ voice. The way it wraps around him. The way Charles says his name like it belongs in his mouth.

Charles sits back on his heels, suddenly shy in a way Max doesn’t expect. He looks at Max, really looks at him, chewing his lip for half a second.

“So,” he says, quieter now. “Our gang of three is kind of… a gang of four now.”

Max’s chest tightens. Charles tilts his head, hopeful. “Would you like to be part of it?”

Like Max could ever say no. He exhales something that might be a laugh, might be disbelief. “Anything you want.”

Charles beams. Full wattage. No restraint. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Max’s hand again. “I’ll show you around.”

And Max lets himself be pulled through the school, through the day, through whatever this strange new life is turning into.

Oscar watched them go, Charles already halfway up the path, still talking, still animated, Max trailing beside him like he’d been gently abducted.

He snorted.

“So this is the Max Charles was obsessed with?” Oscar said, flopping back onto his elbows. “He’s kinda… plain. I expected someone much hotter. With the way Charles goes on and on about him.”

Lando didn’t answer immediately. He was still watching Max, the way he walked slightly stiff, shoulders tight, eyes tracking Charles like he was afraid to look away.

“Oscar,” Lando said eventually, “it’s been ten minutes.”

Oscar rolled onto his side, unimpressed. “I’m just saying. Does Charles not realise how gorgeous he is? Max didn’t even smile. He’s just… rude.”

Lando hummed, thoughtful. “He seems nice. Just quiet.”

“Max looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Come on, Lan.”

“It’s a new school,” Lando added. “New country. Give him some time.”

Oscar scoffed. “You’re too charitable.”

Lando shrugged. “Also,” he said, glancing between Charles and Max again, “I think he was just lost in Charles. Poor guy doesn’t even know how much Charles adores him.”

Oscar made a face. “Typical Charles. Always getting what he wants.” He kicked at the grass. “Had to quit karting, and boom… the boy of his dreams magically shows up at his school.”

There was something sharp under the words. Something not quite joking. Lando noticed it. And, for now, let it slide.

Oscar, once he got going, did not stop.

“Okay,” he said, nudging Charles with his elbow as a group of seniors crossed the courtyard, “that one. Dark hair. Nice shoulders. Very kissable.”

Charles squinted obligingly. “Hmm. Yes. Strong jaw. But he looks like he’d talk over you.”

“True,” Oscar conceded. “Points deducted.”

They kept going like that. Walking. Sitting. Whispering. Rating boys like it was a harmless sport.

Max watched from a step behind them, silent.

Charles wasn’t interested. Not really. He looked because Oscar pointed. He commented because Oscar seemed to want him to. That was clear even to Max, who didn’t know these people yet.

Still.

It did something to him. Watching Charles casually catalogue who was hot and who wasn’t, who was kissable and who wasn’t,  that mouth forming opinions, dimples flashing when he got dramatic about it.

Lando joined in halfway through. “Okay but,” Lando said, craning his neck as a group passed, “we’re being unfair. Girls should be rated too. That blonde one? Absolutely gorgeous.”

Oscar laughed. “Only you and Max care.”

They all looked at Max then. “Well?” Lando asked lightly. “Who’s your type, Max?”

Charles turned too, curiosity open and unguarded. Max’s brain went completely blank.

Charles.
Charles, laughing like he didn’t care who heard it.
Charles, talking too much.
Charles, hugging him.
Charles.

There was no second option.

Before he could force something neutral out, Oscar pointed across the field.

“Oh! That one,” Oscar said, bright. “Football team. Very hot. Right?”

Charles’ eyes widened. “Oh my god,” he squeaked. “He really is gorgeous.” Then, without thinking, he turned to Oscar, delighted. “Max can introduce you to him, Osc.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “He’s an asshole.”

The words landed flat and blunt. Everyone stopped.

Oscar blinked. “Wow. Strong opinion.”

Max shrugged, jaw set. “He really is.”

He didn’t say more. Didn’t explain how the guy had made jokes. Taken bets. Laughed about who’d get to date Leclerc like Charles was a prize, not a person.

Charles looked at Max, surprised, then thoughtful. “Oh,” he said softly.

Oscar hummed, unconvinced. “Still hot.”

Max didn’t argue. His eyes stayed on Charles instead.

The corridor was loud with lockers slamming. Max was walking toward them, eyes already searching for one person without admitting it to himself.

He found him instantly.

Charles stood a little apart from Oscar and Lando, backed half against the wall, cheeks pink, curls falling into his eyes. A senior was leaning in too close, voice low, saying something that made Charles laugh nervously. Another boy joined them, taller, broader, cutting into Charles’ space like it belonged to him.

“You’re really cute?” one of them said. Charles smiled politely, “Merci.”
“Your accent’s… really cute too.”

Charles smiled because that’s what he did when he didn’t know what else to do, hands fidgeting at his sides. The attention kept piling on, words overlapping, eyes lingering.

His smile tightened. He glanced toward Oscar and Lando, a silent help? written all over his face.

Oscar grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. Lando followed with a dramatic double thumbs-up, clearly entertained.

Charles looked faintly betrayed. Max slowed his steps. He was close enough now to hear, but still just out of Oscar and Lando’s eyeline.

Oscar chuckled. “See?” he said, watching the scene. “They’d be good for him.”

Lando frowned slightly. “What’s your problem?” he asked. “You know… that Charles likes—”

Max stopped breathing. Likes who? His heart kicked hard, wild and sudden, like it had tripped over something precious.

Oscar cut him off. “I don’t like him. He’s not good for Charles.”

Lando turned fully toward him. “You don’t get to decide that,” he said quietly. “He’s actually really nice. If you’d give him a chance.”

Oscar scoffed. “Charles deserves someone who’s actually hot.”

Max leaned closer to listen. He needed to know who Charles actually liked. Lando’s voice sharpened. “You’re being mean.”

“Maybe I am,” Oscar shot back. “But I’m glad he’s going away on holiday. Maybe Charles can finally get over his stupid, silly crush. He embarrasses himself whenever Max is around. It’s unbearable to watch.”

The words landed like a punch. Max stood there, unseen, heart stuttering between two truths crashing into each other at once.

Charles likes me. Actually has a crush on me.
And
I’m not good enough for Charles.

Down the corridor, Charles laughed again, softer this time, edging back as the boys leaned closer. Max couldn’t move. Oscar was right. Those boys were really good looking. 

The world felt too loud. Too sharp. Too much. And suddenly, Charles having a crush on him didn’t feel like a gift anymore.

Charles turns—and sees Max. His smile changes instantly. Deepens. Softens. Reaches his eyes in a way it hadn’t for anyone else in that corridor.

“Sorry,” Charles tells the seniors politely, already stepping away. “I need to go. My friend’s waiting.”

And then he’s hooking his arm straight through Max’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He starts talking immediately, bright and animated, as if nothing awkward had happened at all. “Oscar’s parents are out of town,” he says, tugging Max along. “So we can all go to his place and watch a horror movie. Like a really scary one. Lando’s been planning this all day, I think.”

He glances up at Max, cheeks going just a little pink. “Will you come?”

Max’s heart is already racing, pounding loud enough that he’s sure Charles can hear it.

“Sure,” he says carefully. “Anything for you.”

Oscar’s room is dim, the bed already claimed by Oscar and Lando, sprawled comfortably against the pillows. Charles and Max settle at the foot of the bed, not quite touching, a blanket thrown loosely over their legs.

The movie starts. Charles lasts exactly one frame. His shoulders tense. His foot bounces. His eyes widen at the first ominous sound.

Max watches him instead of the screen, completely enchanted.

Under the blanket, Charles’s hand drifts closer. Hesitates. A pinkie brushes Max’s.

Max hooks his pinkie around Charles’s instantly. A quiet I’m here.

Charles grips it like a lifeline and pulls the blanket up to his chin, half-hiding his face. He’s so cute Max can’t take his eyes off him.

Lando, of course, notices. He waits. Times it perfectly. Right as a shadow flickers across the screen—

A single piece of popcorn hits the back of Charles’s neck.

Charles yelps, launching straight into Max, arms locking around his shoulders. He buries his face into Max’s neck, shaking, a full-body hug. 

Max laughs, startled and breathless, instinctively wrapping his arms around him. He smooths a hand over Charles’s curls, gentle, grounding.

“It’s all good,” Max murmurs into his hair. “It’s all good, Charles. Just Lando throwing popcorn on you. You’re okay. I promise.”

Charles whines softly, the sound vibrating right against Max’s throat. It goes straight to Max’s gut. Sharp. Warm. Dangerous. He wants to hear that sound again someday. In other contexts. Against his skin. With no audience.

Oscar clears his throat pointedly. Charles startles and pulls back, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

Max doesn’t let go completely. He slides his hand back under the blanket and laces their fingers together this time, firmer. Charles doesn’t pull away. He squeezes harder. They stay like that for the rest of the movie.

One thought keeps circling, soft and anxious and hopeful all at once.

Will Charles really get over his stupid crush while he’s away?

Max doesn’t think he wants him to.

They hang out often enough that it starts to feel like Charles wants to be around Max all the time. Like he’s making up for the time he would lose when Max is away.

Video games sprawled across Oscar’s living room floor.
Board game nights that devolve into chaos because Charles refuses to follow rules.
Dinners at Charles’ house where his mum feeds everyone like they’re starving children.

And every single time, Charles invites Max.

“Come over.”
“Stay.”
“You’re free tonight, right?”

Max always says yes. And then spends the entire evening trying not to stare. He fails miserably.

Charles laughs too loud. Sits too close. Touches Max like it’s instinct. Knees brushing. Shoulders bumping. Fingers absentmindedly catching Max’s sleeve when he talks. Max’s brain short-circuits every time.

Lando notices. Of course he does.

One afternoon, when Charles is in the kitchen and Oscar is distracted, Lando elbows Max lightly. “Just ask him out,” he says, exasperated. “He’ll say yes.”

Max shakes his head immediately. “No.”

Lando squints at him. “Why not?”

“He’s just… a good friend,” Max says stiffly.

Lando rolls his eyes so hard it’s impressive. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Days blur together after that. Winter had stretched too long. An old fear, gnawing at his ribs. That time would do what it always did. Smooth him out of Charles’ life. Make him forget.

He knocks anyway. Soft. Like the door might bite. It opens.

Charles’ face changes instantly, like someone turned on a light inside him. The kind that fills the whole room. He inhales sharply, and then he is there, arms wrapped around Max, too tight, unapologetic, chest pressed close like Max might vanish if he loosens his grip.

Even his own mother hadn’t looked this happy to see him.

Max freezes for half a second, stunned, heart already sprinting. Charles always smells like vanilla, and sunshine. Something painfully familiar, like home. When Charles finally pulls back, his hands linger at Max’s sides. His eyes search Max’s face, wide and bright and disbelieving.

Then Charles leans in and presses a soft kiss to Max’s cheek. Just there. Just enough.

Max’s head tilts, uninvited. His gaze drops. Charles’ mouth is right there. That perfect cupid’s bow. Lips made for smiling, for laughing, for wrecking his entire life. Those green eyes flick up, curious, open, and so deep, that Max wants to drown in them. Max feels the moment click into place, terrifying and inevitable.

Now or never. He leans down and kisses him. Barely anything. A whisper of a peck, light and trembling. 

As soon as it happens, panic crashes in. He pulls back immediately, breath caught, eyes wide, already bracing for regret. Charles may have just missed his friend. And now, he has gone and kissed him. 

Charles’ hands slide up, arms looping around Max’s neck, and he kisses him back.

Slow. Sweet. Closed mouths brushing like they are learning each other. Warm, soft, plush. Tiny kisses traded back and forth, unhurried, reverent. Max’s heart is beating so fast it feels loud enough to be embarrassing. His hands hover uselessly at Charles’ sides, afraid to assume too much.

And then it shifts.

Charles’ tongue grazes his lips, tentative at first, asking. Max’s breath stutters. He has never felt joy like this, ever in his life. Not something that blooms in his chest and spills everywhere all at once. He parts his lips without thinking, and Charles grows bolder, tongue swiping over Max’s lower lip, pressing in like he already knows Max will let him.

Max does.

It is magic. Simple and overwhelming and devastating. Charles kisses like he means it, like he has been holding this back too. Their bodies tremble, breaths uneven, foreheads touching between kisses that keep deepening without either of them deciding to go there.

Charles makes a small sound against Max’s mouth. A soft, breathless moan.

Max wants to hear it forever.

They finally break apart, lungs burning, faces flushed, eyes dark and shining. The world feels enclosed in the space between them.

Charles smiles, suddenly shy. “That was… nice.”

Max lets out a breathless laugh, still dazed. “Understatement of the year.”

Charles giggles, a sound that lands somewhere deep in Max’s chest and settles there. He glances up through his lashes. “Can I kiss you again?”

Max’s brain supplies a single coherent thought. Shoot me if I ever say no to that.

He doesn’t answer with words. He just leans in.

This kiss is softer. Sweeter. Less like discovery and more like recognition. Like coming home after a long trip and finding the lights still on. They sway together, slow and warm, neither of them in any hurry to be anywhere else.

When they part, Charles’ eyes stay closed for a moment.

And there it is. The voice Max hates. Loud and sharp. You’re going to be shattered when he gets over this. And he will.

The fear sneaks in through the cracks.

“You really want me?” Max asks. The words come out small, fragile, like they might break if Charles answers wrong.

Charles opens his eyes and looks at him like Max has just said the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard.

He answers by kissing him again. Harder. Desperate. Backing Max across the room until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he falls onto it with a soft gasp. Charles follows immediately, crawling up and straddling him, never breaking the kiss, never giving doubt room to breathe.

Max’s hands find Charles’ waist instinctively. They fit there like they have always belonged. His whole body hums with the undeniable truth of it.

He’s sitting on top of you. He really wants you.

This is the best day of his life.

Charles pulls back just enough to whisper, breath warm against Max’s mouth, “Does that answer your stupid question?”

Max has absolutely no idea what the question was anymore. He doesn’t care. Charles is already kissing him again.

They finally come up for air like it surprises them both that an hour has passed.

Charles’ lips are pink and swollen, smile soft and unfocused, like he has just woken from a very good dream. Max clocks it immediately and has to look away for half a second, grin tugging at his mouth. He really is gorgeous. Unfairly so.

“We should go for a walk,” Charles says, voice a little shy, like he is asking permission instead of making a suggestion.

Max agrees instantly. Anything. Everything. As long as Charles keeps looking at him like that.

The beach is cool under their feet, the sky beginning to bruise into evening. Their fingers lace together easily, like they have done this before in some other life. 

Charles keeps stopping, crouching, tilting his head as he scans the sand. He picks up shell after shell, inspecting each one with intense seriousness before shaking his head and tossing it back.

Max tries to help at first. He really does. He brings over a smooth spiral, then a small iridescent one, then something perfectly intact that Max is certain must be the one.

Charles rejects them all.

“No.”
“Nope.”
“Not that.”
“Too dull.”
“Too chipped.”

By the hundredth discarded shell, Max is torn between laughing and groaning. His patience is wearing thin in the very specific way that comes from wanting to kiss someone senseless. He squeezes Charles’ hand, leaning in close.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he asks, mouth dangerously near Charles’ ear.

Before Charles can answer, he squeals. It is sharp and delighted and completely unguarded.

He crouches quickly, fingers closing around something half-buried in the sand. When he straightens, his face is lit up like he has found buried treasure. He walks back to Max, reverent, careful, and opens his palm.

The shell is perfect. Pearly white, catching the dying light, thin silver lines tracing its surface like something painted by hand. No cracks. No blemishes. Whole in a way that feels intentional.

“I want you to have it,” Charles says softly. He looks almost nervous now, eyes flicking up to Max’s face. “It looks perfect. Like you.”

Max’s heart stutters violently. Fuck.

Does Charles always say things like this out loud, or is Max just the unlucky recipient of honesty this devastating. His brain short-circuits completely. There is no clever reply. No deflection sharp enough to save him.

So he kisses Charles. Deep. Intentional. Like a confession pressed mouth to mouth. Like everything he cannot say yet, folded into the way he pulls Charles closer and pours it all there instead.

When they part, Charles’ eyes stay closed, lips parted, breath shallow. He looks wrecked in the most beautiful way, like he has forgotten where he is for a second. Max cannot stop the grin that spreads across his face. He’s going to savour this as long as Charles lets this last. 

The sun is low now, the world dipped in gold. Charles opens his eyes, and the light catches on his lashes. Tiny flecks of gold bloom in the green of his eyes, bright and stunning.

Max cups his face, thumb brushing gently over Charles’ cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly, voice rough with truth, “that it hurts to look at you.”

Charles looks at him like he’s misheard. Like Max has said something impossible.

A flicker of old images rushes through Charles’ head, uninvited and loud. Max on the track, all sharp focus and indifference. Max never glancing twice at anyone. Max, uninterested until Charles was the one who tried harder, spoke louder, showed up. Girls flirting shamelessly, clustered at games and events, cheering for Max. 

This year had been strange. Oscar and Lando calling him stupidly gorgeous like it was a fact of life. People suddenly kinder, warmer, almost careful with him. Compliments slipping into conversations, cute, pretty, gorgeous. Even family pausing to say it out loud. 

It had all felt wrong. Like a joke he wasn’t in on. And Max had still never looked at him.

Charles had convinced himself of it slowly. You aren’t his type. He let the thought harden. Every compliment after that only irritated him, what’s the point if Max didn’t think so. 

So when Max says this now, standing in front of him, hand warm on his cheek, eyes steady and sincere, Charles’ mind refuses to cooperate.

He lifts his own hand, fingers curling around Max’s wrist. “Do you really mean that?” he asks quietly.

Max blinks, thrown. Charles asks again, softer, almost fragile. “You think I’m… pretty?”

Max stares at him like he’s lost his mind entirely.

“What?” He lets out a disbelieving laugh, breathless and fond. “Charles, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Something in Charles finally gives.

The blush spreads fast, blooming across his cheeks, tipping over his ears, creeping down his neck like his body has decided to believe everything at once. His eyes shine, wide and stunned, like he’s been handed something he never thought was meant for him.

Max hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected his words to land like this, to undo Charles so completely. To realise, with a quiet jolt, that Charles had needed to hear it from him. That it mattered who said it.

Charles smiles then, small and glowing and unbearably earnest. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”

That’s it. That’s Max’s undoing. He leans in and kisses him again, slow and certain and full of everything he doesn’t know how to say yet.

Wow. Charles really does say exactly what he thinks. Great.

Max is absolutely not going to survive this.

Three days later, they are walking home from Charles’ favourite bakery, when the sky gives in all at once. Rain comes down in sheets, drenching the pavement in seconds.

They laugh, startled, and duck under the nearest awning.

Charles ends up with his back pressed to a closed shop door. Max steps in front of him instinctively, body angling just so, broad shoulders taking the brunt of the rain. Charles stays dry.

They’re the same height, roughly the same build, but Max is just a little broader, just enough that this works. Charles notices it now, the way he has been noticing everything lately. 

How Max tucks the blanket tighter around him, and leaves his own feet uncovered. How his hands are always warmer. How his palm settles at the small of Charles’ back in crowds, gentle but firm, guiding him through without ever asking.

He had fallen in love with the idea of Max. The distant, untouchable boy he crushed on from afar.

The real one is something else entirely. Quieter. Kinder. Protective in ways that don’t announce themselves. More lovely than anything Charles had allowed himself to imagine.

Max looks down at him. He smiles, small and sweet, like this moment belongs only to them.

Charles looks up through his lashes.

Their fingers find each other again, threading together easily. Max lifts their joined hands and braces them against the door beside Charles’ head, caging him in gently, reverently. 

Charles squeezes Max’s fingers without thinking. Max squeezes back. Like he isn’t going anywhere.

Something swells painfully in Charles’ chest. Warmth and ache and the long, slow yearning of wanting someone for so long and suddenly having them like this. Close. Real. Protecting him from the rain without a second thought.

He doesn’t plan to say it. It just slips out before fear can catch it. “Je t’aime, Max.”

For half a second, Max flinches.

Just a flicker. Like the words have landed somewhere deep and unexpected. Then colour floods his face, a bright, uncontrollable blush spreading across his cheeks, tipping into red. 

His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast, like he’s forgotten how to do it properly. He stares at Charles, eyes wide, rain forgotten. He’s breathing hard.

Max can’t say it back. The silence stretches, sharp and terrifying. Then Charles smiles gently, squeezes Max’s hand.

“I understand,” he says. “You don’t have to say it back. No pressure. Take all the time in the world. I just wanted you to know how I feel.”

And Max almost breaks right there.

Because he does love him. More than he ever thought he could love anyone. But loving Charles feels like standing on the edge of something beautiful and fatal. 

If Charles ever changed his mind, Max knows it would ruin him.

So he locks it away. Keeps it quiet. Keeps it safe.

They kiss constantly now. Charles can’t keep his lips off him. Steals kisses all the time. He’s obsessed with the tiny freckle on Max’s upper lip, presses kisses to it like it’s a secret meant only for him.

Max’s head goes empty every time. But Oscar’s words won’t leave him.

Just a stupid, silly crush.

Having Charles for a week like this was out of this world. Break’s over. School starts the next day. 

Max lies awake that night, heart thudding, mind racing. This was fun, he tells himself. A holiday thing. A break thing. Charles is popular. Everyone loves him. He won’t want to be seen with Max once real life starts again.

Charles would have gotten it out of his system. So Max braces for it.

The next morning, he avoids Charles completely.

Keeps his head down. Takes different routes. Sits alone. Thank God they don’t have any classes together on the first day back.

Every laugh he hears that sounds like Charles makes his chest tighten. Every passing hour feels like confirmation.

This is it, Max thinks. This is where it ends. And he prepares himself to survive it.

Max is halfway across the field, cleats slung over his shoulder, mind already shifting into the dull rhythm of practice, when a hand yanks him. Hard.

He barely has time to gasp before his back hits the cool metal shadow of the bleachers and Charles is there. Everywhere. Mouth crashing into his, breathless and urgent, all tongue and teeth and zero hesitation.

Max’s brain short-circuits.

Charles kisses him like he’s been starving. Like the entire day has been leading upto this. Then he pulls back just enough to grin, lips swollen, eyes bright. “Hi.”

Max is still trying to remember how lungs work. He’s acutely aware that the football team is filtering into the grounds. That someone could absolutely see them. That half the school might have already clocked it.

Charles does not care. He dives back in, kisses dirtier this time, slower and deeper, a soft moan slipping straight into Max’s mouth like it belongs there.

Fuck it, Max thinks.

He turns Charles around, pins him lightly to the bleacher rail and buries his mouth into Charles’ neck. The sound Charles makes — that broken, breathy whine — goes straight to Max’s spine. His favourite sound in the world. Especially when Charles gasps his name like that.

“Max,” Charles breathes, forehead dropping against his shoulder. “I missed you all day. Where were you? I kept looking for you.”

Max pulls back just enough to see his face. The flush. The open want.

“I thought…” His voice comes out rough. “I thought it was a break thing, Charles. I didn’t think you’d want me once school started.”

The words land wrong immediately. Charles’ smile falters. His eyes go shiny, hurt flickering across his face so fast it guts Max.

“You don’t want me?” Charles asks quietly, voice suddenly small. Vulnerable.

Max’s chest caves in. “No,” he says instantly. “No. I’ll always want you.”

He doesn’t think past it. Doesn’t protect himself. He’ll deal with the fallout later, when Charles eventually moves on. Right now, all that matters is not being the reason Charles looks like that.

Charles’ face lights up like the sun breaking through clouds.

“Oh,” he says softly, relief flooding him. Then he kisses Max again, sweet and deep, like he’s sealing something.

“Chéri,” Charles murmurs against his lips, already smiling. “Can you skip practice today? We can go back to my place?”

Max doesn’t even pretend to think. “I just missed you too much today,” Charles adds, almost shy. “Please.”

Those pet names are new. Dangerous. The please is lethal. Charles is going to be the death of him.

“Oh my God,” Max laughs, dizzy and undone. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Charles giggles, delighted, and kisses him again, hands tangling in Max’s hoodie like he’s afraid to let go.

They walk home holding hands, fingers locked tight. They barely make it a block without stopping to kiss again. And again. Street corners, doorways, anywhere Charles feels like it.

Because Charles can’t stop kissing him. And Max lets himself be wanted.

The gossip moves faster than the bell.

By the end of the week, everyone knows. Charles Leclerc. With some new boy. Together.

People whisper in corridors. Double-take at lockers. Nudge each other during lunch.
Is it serious?
Is Leclerc really taken?
Like… actually taken?

And Charles does absolutely nothing to stop it.

He’s glued to Max’s side like it’s where he was always meant to be. Arms looped around his waist between classes. A quick kiss pressed to Max’s mouth before the bell rings. A lazy peck after class like they’re already home.

Max pretends he doesn’t notice the stares. He notices everything.

Oscar notices too.

He snorts when someone asks him if it’s real. “Please,” he scoffs later to Lando. “He’s embarrassing himself. It’s a phase. It’ll pass.”

Lando doesn’t even look up from his phone. “They’re endgame, Osc.”

Oscar scoffs again. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” Lando says mildly. “Charles is obsessed enough to never let Max go.”

Oscar rolls his eyes and changes the subject like it doesn’t bother him at all.

“So,” he says casually, “I’ve got a kissing scene coming up for the show. Want to practice with me?”

Lando freezes for half a beat. Then laughs it off. “Wow. Subtle.”

By the third cancellation, it’s no longer funny. Charles hasn’t shown up. Again.

Oscar spots him in the corridor the next day and doesn’t even slow down. His voice carries. Sharp. Loud.

“Where were you last night?”

Charles stops short. Turns. Guilt is written all over his face. “I was with Max.”

“Thought so,” Oscar snaps. “Do you even remember us? Your friends since kindergarten? Me and Lando?”

Heads turn. Lando winces. “Osc, lower your voice.”

Oscar doesn’t. “Is this how it’s going to be now, Charles? Once you have a “boyfriend”, your friends are optional?”

“Osc—” Lando tries again.

“I’m having a board game night tonight,” Oscar cuts in. “You’re invited. Max is not. Come if you want. Or don’t, see if I care.”

He steps closer, eyes hard. “Just don’t talk to me again. Since he’s all you can think about.”

And then he walks away. Charles doesn’t follow.

He turns in the opposite direction, chest tight, vision blurring. By the time Lando finds him, Charles is crying openly.

“Hey,” Lando says gently, sitting beside him.

“I’m so sorry, Lan,” Charles chokes out. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or Osc. I swear I didn’t.”

Lando sighs and nudges his shoulder. “Charles. Come on, mate. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I cancelled,” Charles whispers. “Again.”

“So have I,” Lando says easily. “I’ve disappeared for weeks when I’ve had a crush. Oscar’s just being unreasonable.”

Charles sniffles. “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t,” Lando says firmly. “He hates not being the centre of your universe anymore. That’s different.”

Charles wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “I just… I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

“I know,” Lando says softly. “And for what it’s worth? You look really happy.”

Charles looks up, eyes red. “I am,” he admits quietly.

Lando smiles, warm and real. “Then don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for that.”

Max is waiting by the gate after school, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, pretending he’s just killing time. He spots Charles immediately.

Charles is walking slower than usual. Shoulders curled in. Mouth set in that apologetic line Max has already learned to hate.

Max’s chest tightens. “Hey,” Max says softly when Charles reaches him. He studies his face for half a second. “Can we go watch a movie? There’s a new one out. I kinda want to see it.”

It’s not true. Max couldn’t care less about the movie. He just wants Charles in the dark beside him, whispering commentary, laughing at the wrong moments. He just wants Charles’ face, smiling again.

Charles’ expression crumples further.

“I can’t tonight,” he says, voice small. “I cancelled on Oscar three times already. He’ll be mad if I don’t go today.” He swallows. “Can we… can we do it some other time? Please. I’m really sorry.”

Max doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward and pulls Charles into his arms, firm and steady.

“It’s all good, schat,” he murmurs into his hair. “It’s really okay. Go have fun at Oscar’s, yeah? We can do something tomorrow.”

Charles clings to him immediately, fingers fisting Max’s jacket like he’s afraid Max might slip away.

“I do want to hang out with you,” Charles rushes out. “I really do. Oscar just said I’m being selfish and I—”

Max kisses the top of his head, slow and sure. “I understand,” he says quietly. “We’re good. Okay? Don’t worry.”

Charles exhales, tension leaving him in a shaky breath. He tilts his head up just enough to look at Max. “I’ll miss you every moment when I’m at Oscar’s,” he says earnestly. “Okay?”

Max can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face.

How is he this lovely?
How is he this honest about wanting him?

“Okay,” Max says, voice warm. He squeezes Charles once more before letting him go.

Charles is miserable.

He’s sitting on Oscar’s bed, surrounded by noise and laughter and a board game he’s barely following, his mind entirely somewhere else. Oscar keeps tossing out little comments, sharp enough to sting if you’re listening for them.

“So,” Oscar says at one point, glancing at Charles’ phone lighting up again, “is your boyfriend breathing without you, or should we call emergency services?”

Charles doesn’t even look up. Lando shoots Oscar a look. “Cut it out, Osc. He’s here. You don’t have to be this mean.”

Oscar shrugs like it’s nothing, but the damage is done. Charles feels smaller with every passing minute.

He escapes to the bathroom. He pulls his phone out.

I miss you so much.
Wish I was with you.
Can’t wait for this to be over so I can go home and call you.

The reply comes fast.

Text when you get home, okay?

It steadies him. Just a little. He texts when he finally crawls into bed, the house quiet, lights off.

Ten minutes later, there’s a soft tap at his window. Charles sits bolt upright.

Another tap. He scrambles out of bed, heart hammering, yanks the curtain aside and nearly short-circuits.

Max is outside his window, grinning like the world has never done him wrong.

“Oh my God,” Charles hisses, fumbling with the latch. “Are you insane? Are you totally insane? Get in here before you slip—”

He hauls Max inside, both of them giggling as Max lands awkwardly on the floor. Charles slaps the window shut and turns back, eyes bright, breathless with laughter.

Max thinks he’d do anything to see that smile every day of his life. Anything.

The thought terrifies him. The little voice at the back of his head whispers about falling too hard, about how much it’s going to hurt.

He ignores it.

“Keep your voice down, baby,” Max whispers, amused. “Arthur already saw me. I had to bribe him with a video game.”

Charles’ face goes bright red. “Fuck.”

He grabs Max by the jacket and kisses him everywhere he can reach, cheeks, jaw, nose. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

Max shrugs, like climbing buildings for him is the most normal thing in the world. “You said you missed me. So I’m here.” A beat. Softer. “You want to cuddle?”

They do more than cuddle at first, tangled up and laughing and stealing kisses until the world slows down again. Eventually, they settle, Charles draped over Max, warm and heavy and real.

The room goes quiet. Charles’ voice comes small, barely there. “Will you stay?”

Max freezes. Fuck.

He’d planned to leave. He’d always planned to leave. Climb back out the window once Charles fell asleep, keep the ache manageable, keep his heart protected.

How does Charles always ask things like this?

Silence stretches, and Charles shifts, misreading it immediately. “It’s okay,” he whispers quickly. “If you want to go—”

“Fuck no,” Max breathes, cutting him off. He tightens his arms around Charles. “I’ll stay. As long as you want me to.”

Charles melts into him like that’s all he needed to hear.

And Max, lying there with Charles’ heartbeat steady against his chest, knows with terrifying clarity that self-preservation never stood a chance.

The kiss is small. Almost nothing. Charles catches Max just before he has to jog out onto the field, tugging him down just enough to press a quick, soft kiss to his mouth.

“Good luck,” Charles whispers, breath warm, hopeful.

Max smiles. That stupid, crooked smile that feels like a secret just for him. “You’re my good luck charm,” he says, already backing away.

Charles watches him go, heart light, a little stupid, a little brave.

They settle into the stands. Lando’s already crouched forward with his camera, lens trained on the field, muttering about lighting and angles. Charles sits between him and Oscar, knees bouncing, eyes tracking Max every time he moves.

Oscar notices. Of course he does.

He exhales sharply, not even looking at Charles. “You really didn’t need to do that.”

Charles blinks. “Do what?”

“That,” Oscar says, finally turning, voice low and sharp. “The kiss. In public. Before a stupid school game. It’s… a lot.”

“It was just a good luck kiss,” Charles says, confused. “People do that.”

Oscar scoffs. “It reeks of desperation.”

The word lands ugly. Desperate. Lando glances up. “Osc—”

“No,” Oscar cuts in, eyes fixed on Charles now. “Someone needs to say it. You’re glued to him. You can’t go five minutes without touching him or looking at him. Waiting to kiss him.”

Charles feels his cheeks burn. “I just like him.”

“This isn’t liking,” Oscar snaps. “This is obsession. And it’s embarrassing.”

Charles opens his mouth. “That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” Oscar interrupts. “You rearrange your entire day around him. You ditch us. You hang on his every move. It’s like you’ve made him your whole personality.”

Lando lowers the camera. “That’s harsh, Osc.”

Oscar doesn’t even glance at him. “I’m being honest. Someone has to be. Charles, this is a silly crush. It’ll pass. But the way you’re behaving? That sticks. People notice. They’re laughing.”

Charles’ throat tightens. “Max isn’t laughing.”

Oscar laughs instead. Short. Mean. “Max doesn’t even look that invested. He’s just… there. No one’s going to say no to you. You’re the one making it weird.”

On the field, Max sprints, focused, alive. Charles watches him out of habit, out of love.

“Stop looking at him like that,” Oscar says suddenly. “God. Can you at least pretend to be normal for one game?”

Charles’ voice comes out smaller than he wants. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Oscar hesitates. Just a second. Then his jaw hardens.

“Because you’re setting yourself up to get hurt,” he says. “And I’m tired of watching you humiliate yourself over someone who’s going to get bored and move on.”

Lando finally snaps. “That’s enough.”

Oscar stands. “I’m going to get a drink.”

He leaves, shoulders stiff. Charles doesn’t say anything after that.

He watches the rest of the game quietly, hands folded in his lap, the earlier warmth gone. Every time Max glances up at the stands, Charles forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

When the whistle blows and the crowd cheers, Charles feels oddly hollow. Like something small and bright in him just got told it was stupid for existing.

Max barely registers the noise at first.

The whistle. The cheers. Someone, clapping him on the back hard enough to sting. He’s still buzzing from the game, lungs burning, legs loose and electric, that clean, bright feeling he only gets when everything lines up just right. Four goals. Coach grinning. Teammates loud, stupid and happy.

And then there’s a girl standing too close. He doesn’t clock it as flirting at first. She’s talking fast, smiling, hair tucked behind her ear like it means something. Saying his name. Saying “That last goal was insane” and “You’re really good, you know?”

Max nods. Says thanks. Thinks about water. Thinks about finding Charles.

He doesn’t see Charles in the stands. Doesn’t realise Charles missed every single goal because of Oscar’s words. 

By the time Max weaves through the crowd, towel over his shoulder, adrenaline still humming under his skin, Charles is already wound tight.

Max smiles when he sees him. Automatically.  “Hey,” Max says, leaning in. “Did you—”

Charles cuts him off. “So that was nice.”

Max blinks. “What?”

“The little post-game chat,” Charles snaps. His voice is sharp, brittle in a way that makes Max’s stomach drop. “You looked like you were having fun.”

Max glances back instinctively, confused. “Her? She’s just in my math class.”

Charles laughs, short and ugly. “Right.”

Something shifts. Max can feel it. That sudden tilt when the ground stops being solid.

“Charles,” he says carefully, “what is this about?”

Charles steps closer, eyes bright and furious and wet all at once. “Are you just… having fun with me?”

The words hit like a shove. “What?” Max says, genuinely stunned. “No. Why would you—”

“You’re not even interested in me,” Charles barrels on, not letting him finish. “You’re just there. I can deal with you not loving me yet, okay? I can. But flirting with someone in front of me like that—”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Max says quickly, heart starting to pound. “I swear. I didn’t even—”

“—are you bored already?” Charles finishes, voice cracking on the last word.

Max feels the cut then. Sharp and deep and unfair.

“I scored four goals,” he blurts out stupidly, because he doesn’t know what else to say, because part of him is still a boy trying to offer proof. “I was just talking to someone after the game. I wasn’t thinking—”

“Exactly,” Charles says. His eyes are glassy now. “You weren’t thinking about me at all.”

That’s when Max realises there’s no right answer coming. He reaches out without thinking, fingers just brushing Charles’ sleeve. “Hey. Look at me. I would never—”

Charles jerks away like the touch burns.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, already stepping back. “Just don’t.”

Max opens his mouth again, panic climbing fast now. “Charles, please. I didn’t do anything wrong. I would tell you if—”

“Whatever,” Charles cuts in, voice trembling but hard. “Clearly I’m the only one taking this seriously.”

And then he turns. Just like that. Walking away fast, shoulders tight, wiping at his face like he hates himself for it. Because he does. Oscar’s words got to him. 

Max stands there, watching Charles disappear into the crowd and feels something ugly twist in his chest. Confusion first. Then hurt. Then fear.

Because he didn’t flirt.
Because he didn’t cheat.
Because he was proud and happy and wanted to find Charles, and instead somehow managed to lose him in the space of one conversation.

He stays where he is, hands clenched uselessly at his sides, thinking the same stupid thought over and over: I don’t know how to love him without hurting him.

And worse, quieter, heavier: I don’t know how to stop him from hurting himself with me.

Lando finds him by the lockers.

Max hasn’t moved. He’s still replaying Charles’ face. That crack in his voice. The way he walked away.

“Hey,” Lando says, breathless, stopping in front of him.

Max looks up. One look at Lando’s face and his chest tightens. “What?”

Lando doesn’t joke. That’s how Max knows it’s bad. “Oscar was awful,” Lando says flatly. “Like… really cruel.”

Max’s jaw tightens. “What did he say?”

Lando exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. “He kept going on about how Charles looks desperate. Obsessed. Like he can’t act normal around you. He didn’t stop, Max. Every time Charles tried to defend himself, Oscar cut him off.”

Max’s stomach drops.

“He laughed about it,” Lando continues, quieter now. “Said it was unhealthy. Embarrassing. Charles just… shrank. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Max stands up abruptly. “He picked a fight.”

“I know,” Lando says quickly. “That’s why I came looking for you.”

Max drags a hand down his face. “I didn’t do anything. I swear I didn’t.”

“I know you didn’t,” Lando says, voice firm. “Charles knows that too. But Oscar got into his head. He always does.”

Max swallows. His throat burns. “He walked away from me.”

“Yeah,” Lando says gently. “And if you don’t go after him, he’s going to go home and cry himself to sleep. Not just because of you. Because it would mean what Oscar said was true.”

Max’s heart thuds painfully. He pauses for half a second, guilt and fear colliding in his chest. “Thanks,” he says hoarsely.

Lando meets his eyes. “Go. And don’t let him be alone tonight.”

Max doesn’t answer. He’s already running.

Max texts him the whole walk home.

Are you okay?
Please talk to me.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
Charles.

Nothing.

The messages sit there. Delivered. Read. His chest tightens every time he checks. Finally, desperate, thumbs shaking:

Come on, baby. Talk to me.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Go call her baby.

It hits like a slap. Max stops walking. He stares at the screen, heart pounding, panic blooming fast and sharp. He types, deletes, types again.

There is no her.
There’s only you.
Please.

No response.

The lights at Charles’ house go out just as Max reaches the end of the street.

Decision made. He waits. Counts seconds. His hands are cold when he finally crosses the yard, quieter than he’s ever been in his life. He reaches the window, heart hammering so hard it feels like it might give him away.

It isn’t latched. He pushes it open slowly, slips inside like he’s afraid the room itself might reject him.

Charles is curled on the bed, facing the wall. His shoulders hitch. There’s a damp, broken sound in the air that makes Max’s throat close instantly.

“Charles,” Max whispers.

Charles flinches. He sits up groggily, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand, eyes red and unfocused like he’s been crying himself to exhaustion. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and just… looks at Max. Like he’s not sure if he’s real.

“Why are you here?” Charles asks softly. Not angry. Just hurt.

Max’s chest caves in.

He drops to his knees without thinking, right there on the floor. He reaches for Charles’ hand with both of his, clutches it tight like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“I’m so sorry,” Max says, voice breaking. “I swear to you, I didn’t flirt with anyone. I didn’t even see her the way you think I did. I only ever see you.”

Charles blinks, tears spilling over again. “Then why does it feel like I’m stupid for caring?”

“You’re not,” Max says immediately, fiercely. “You’re not stupid. You’re not embarrassing. You’re not too much. I like that you care. I love that you care.”

The word slips out before he can stop it. They both freeze.

Max swallows hard but doesn’t take it back. He squeezes Charles’ hand tighter. “I love you. And I should’ve said something sooner. I have always loved you. I was just afraid to say it. I should’ve gone after you immediately. I hate that I let you walk away thinking any of that was true.”

Charles’ breath stutters. “Oscar said—”

“I don’t care what Oscar said,” Max cuts in gently but firmly. “I love you, Charles. Do you understand? I care about you. And I care that you were hurting. And I never want to be the reason you cry yourself to sleep. Ever.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and fragile.

Then Charles leans forward, resting his forehead against Max’s. “You really climbed my window, again. You must really love me.” he whispers, voice wrecked.

Max lets out a shaky laugh that turns into something close to a sob. “More than you would ever know. I would’ve climbed the roof if I had to.”

Charles’ grip tightens on his hand. “Don’t leave me thinking things alone,” Charles murmurs.

“I won’t,” Max promises immediately. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Charles exhales, long and broken, and finally pulls Max up into his arms. 

It doesn’t stop. That desperate comment. Charles learns, quietly, how to fold parts of himself away.

He stops kissing Max when Oscar is around. Stops reaching for him. Stops lighting up in that obvious, unguarded way that always seemed to irritate Oscar most. He tells himself it’s easier this way. That it’s kinder. He can keep everyone happy if he just shrinks a little.

So he and Oscar hang out again. Just them. Like before. Max drifts toward Lando instead. Short films. Cameras. Scripts.

Max notices things, though. Always notices things.

The way Charles’ laughter sounds thinner.
The way his shoulders tense before Oscar even speaks.
The way he nods along when he should be pushing back.

One afternoon, Oscar is already in a mood. It’s about something stupid. A missed message. A plan changed. A tone Charles used that Oscar didn’t like.

“You always do this,” Oscar snaps. “You say sorry, but you never mean it. It’s exhausting.”

Charles opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I said I didn’t realise,” he tries, softly. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Oh my god, stop,” Oscar cuts in. “Everything with you is feelings, feelings, feelings. Do you ever think about how annoying that gets?”

Max hears it before he sees it. He looks up just in time to catch the flicker on Charles’ face. That split second where his eyes go glassy. Where he swallows hard like he’s trying to push something painful back down.

Max doesn’t think. He just steps in. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

Oscar turns, startled more than anything. “Excuse me?”

Max repeats, voice steady but sharp. “You don’t get to talk to him that way.”

Charles’ head snaps up. “Max,” he says quickly. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Oscar laughs, short and incredulous. “He’s been my friend since we were four. I’ll talk to him however I please.”

Max doesn’t even look at him, eyes locked on Oscar. “I don’t care how long you’ve known him. No one gets to talk to him like that.”

“And you’ll tell me how to talk to my friend?” Oscar scoffs. “Mr Three Months?”

That lands. Charles feels it like a punch. 

“Don’t talk to him like that, Osc,” Charles says quietly. There’s no apology in his voice this time. No softening. “I mean it.”

Oscar looks between them. Takes them in. The way Max is standing slightly in front of Charles without even realising it. The way Charles isn’t backing down.

Something ugly flickers across Oscar’s face. He snorts. “Wow. You two really are made for each other.”

And then he walks away. The silence he leaves behind is thick.

Charles stares at the floor, heart pounding, shame and relief tangled up so tightly he doesn’t know which one hurts more.

Max turns to him immediately. “Are you okay?”

Charles nods automatically. Then stops. Shakes his head instead. “I didn’t want you to fight my battles.”

Max’s expression softens, but his resolve doesn’t. “I’m not fighting your battles,” he says gently. “I’m standing next to you.”

Charles looks up at him then. Really looks. His chest loosens a little at that.

Lando doesn’t let Oscar get far. He catches up to him near the lockers, breath still a little sharp, frustration buzzing under his skin.

“What is your problem, Oscar?”

Oscar turns, already defensive. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” Lando snaps. “I’ve never once seen you talk to Charles like that. Ever. You hurt him.”

Oscar scoffs, folding his arms. “Do you really think Charles has been completely present with us since Max got here?”

Lando blinks. “So?”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. “So he’s gone. He’s always gone.”

Lando exhales sharply. “It’s first love, Osc. Come on. Do you not understand that Charles has been talking about Max for years? Since he was ten. Ten. He gets to be with him now. Why won’t you let him be happy?”

Oscar’s voice cracks before he can stop it. “What about me?”

Lando stills. “…What about you?”

Oscar looks away, eyes fixed somewhere over Lando’s shoulder. “I missed so much school because of the stupid show. I come back, and everything’s different. And when I’m finally here, he doesn’t want to hang out with me anymore.”

Lando softens despite himself. “Have you tried telling him that without going off on Max?”

Oscar shakes his head. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“At the rate you’re going,” Lando says quietly, “you’re going to.”

Oscar snaps his gaze back. “You think he’d pick Max over me?”

Lando doesn’t hesitate. “If you really are his good friend, you won’t make him choose.”

Oscar swallows. “I just don’t like Max.”

“I know,” Lando says. “But you’ve never even given him a chance. And honestly? Only a blind person couldn’t see how happy he makes Charles. He’s not stealing him. He’s not isolating him. He’s just… there. And he’s good to be around.”

Oscar’s voice goes small, bitter. “Even you’re Team Max now?”

Lando shakes his head immediately. “No. I’m Team Charles. And right now, you’re the only one turning this into a competition.”

He steps closer, voice firm but not cruel. “Max just wants Charles to be happy. And he’s succeeding. You’re the one making Charles cry.”

Oscar has no comeback for that. He looks away again, shoulders sagging, the fight draining out of him as the words land.

Charles barely waited for the door to close before he climbed onto Max’s lap, knees bracketing his hips, hands fisting the collar of Max’s shirt as he leaned in to kiss him. It was familiar. Easy. Soft mouths, warm laughter pressed between kisses. Oscar wasn’t here. And he gets to be with Max. 

Max’s hands settled at Charles’s waist out of instinct. And then his fingers brushed bare skin. They both froze.

Charles felt it everywhere at once. Heat blooming under Max’s fingers. A shiver that rolled down his spine and settled low, heavy, dizzying. He froze, breath caught halfway between courage and fear. Max felt it too.

The softness of skin, the way Charles went perfectly still, like a deer listening for danger. He could feel Charles’s pulse under his palms. Fast. 

Charles went pink immediately. Not a shy flush. A full, blooming red that crept up his neck and into his cheeks. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t move at all.

Max’s grip tightened, just slightly. “Hey,” Max murmured, barely a sound.

Charles’ eyes flicked down, then back up. He reached for the hem of his shirt with fingers that trembled just enough to give him away and tugged it over his head. Max’s chest tightened before the fabric even cleared Charles’s shoulders.

When it did, when Charles sat there bare and flushed and trembling just slightly, Max forgot every coherent thought he’d ever had. Charles looked unreal. Like something carved from warmth and light. Like something that shouldn’t exist outside of dreams.

Charles couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Oscar’s voice echoed somewhere unwanted and sharp. Desperate. Too much. 

But when he glanced up again, Max wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t startled. He looked wrecked. Like he’d just been handed something holy and didn’t know where to put his hands.

“You’re so beautiful,” Max said, voice low and desperate. “It does hurt to look at you.”

Charles made a small, helpless sound. A whine he didn’t even try to stop. Those words. He believed Max in a way he’d never believed anyone.

Max lifted one hand, slow enough that Charles could stop him if he wanted. He didn’t.

Fingers traced Charles’s side, reverent. Not claiming. Learning. Mapping warmth and bone, and the slight rise and fall of breath. Every freckle felt like a secret. Every reaction felt like a gift.

Charles leaned into it without realising. His head tipped back. His lips parted. His hands slid into Max’s hair just to feel something solid beneath his fingers.

Max watched him like this was the most important thing he’d ever see. “Okay?” he asked, barely louder than a breath.

“Yes,” Charles whispered. “Please.”

Max leaned forward, mouth replacing touch along the same path. A kiss pressed where his fingers had been moments ago. Another. And another. Warm lips. Lingering breath. Nothing rushed.

It wasn’t hunger. It was awe.

Charles felt each kiss like a promise. Like he was being seen slowly, thoroughly, without fear. He clutched at Max’s shoulders to stay upright, to keep himself anchored as sensation washed over him in waves.

Max felt Charles melt. Felt the way his body softened, trusted. Every kiss was deliberate, unhurried, like time itself had decided to be gentle with them.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel desperate. He felt chosen. Cherished. 

And Max, holding him there, thought with a quiet certainty that settled deep in his chest:
This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

Max moved them with gentleness while guiding Charles back until the mattress caught him, soft and steady, the bed sighing beneath their weight. Charles went willingly, a little breathless, trusting without thinking about it. 

Max hovered for a second, eyes taking in every detail. The rise of Charles’s chest. The way his lashes fluttered when he realised Max was really looking. 

How his hands curled instinctively near his own ribs, like he didn’t quite know where to put them. Max intertwined his fingers with Charles to give him something to hold onto. 

“Tell me if I do anything wrong,” Max said quietly.

Charles shook his head, already smiling. “You won’t.”

His lips brushed Charles’s shoulder first, just a whisper of warmth. Charles gasped anyway. Max felt it in his own chest, that sound, like he’d struck a tuning fork, and something inside him rang true.

He kissed there again. Longer, wetter this time. Then traced downward, following bone and muscle and heat, committing it to memory. Every time Charles reacted, Max paused. Adjusted. Learned.

This was important work.

He discovered quickly that Charles’s throat was sensitive, that the hollow beneath his collarbone made him arch just slightly, that the curve of his waist drew a sharp breath every time, his lips on his nipples made Charles moan. 

Max returned to those places again and again, lips moving with purpose, reverent, as though repetition was a promise rather than indulgence. Charles melted under it.

His hands slid into Max’s hair without urgency, fingers threading and unthreading, grounding himself in the here and now. His breaths grew uneven, soft little sounds escaping him without permission. Each one made Max slow down even more, savouring.

“You feel like music,” Max murmured against his skin.

Charles laughed weakly, then sighed when Max kissed the same spot again, as if testing the truth of it.

Over and over, Max’s mouth mapped him. Charles moaned, shame leaving him completely. 

And Max, pressing his lips to familiar places again and again, thought only this:
I could spend a lifetime learning you and never get bored.

“Kiss me”, Charles breathes out trembling, voice filled with desperation. 

Max paused. Not because he didn’t want to. But because he wanted to do it right.

He kissed Charles’s waist once more, softer this time, like an apology for how intense it had gotten, and then he moved up slowly, deliberately, until their faces were level again. 

Their lips met in a kiss that was unhurried and warm. 

Charles sighed into it, his hands settling against Max’s back like they belonged there. The kiss deepened a little, only because Charles opened up.

When Charles trembled, Max felt it immediately. He adjusted without thinking. One arm wrapped around Charles, firm and steady, anchoring him. 

The kiss softened, slowed, turned reassuring. Max brushed his thumb along Charles’s cheek, grounding him with touch, that said I’ve got you.

Charles’s eyes fluttered half-closed, dazed but safe. “Never stop kissing me,” he whispered. 

Max pressed his forehead to Charles’s, breathing him in. “I won’t.”

He kissed him again. And again. Gentle kisses along his jaw, his temple, the bridge of his nose. Affection laid down piece by piece, like a promise being built slowly.

Charles smiled, small and content, curling closer. For Max, that was everything.

“You okay, schatje.” 

“I want you to kiss me everywhere.” Charles said, a shy pink creeping up his chest. Max’s smile was so warm like he had been handed the keys to heaven. 

Oscar’s knock is sharp and familiar. 

Charles exhales, long and tired, his forehead dropping briefly to Max’s chest. “Fuck,” he mutters. “He’s going to go off on me again.”

Max smiles, soft and steady, squeezes Charles’s waist once, grounding him. “I’ll be right here,” he says quietly. “Go talk to him.”

He pulls his shirt back on, runs a hand through his curls, and opens the door.

Oscar stands there with his arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes a little too bright. Whatever speech he practiced is already slipping.

“Hey,” Charles says first. “If you’re here to yell—”

“I’m not,” Oscar cuts in. Then, softer, “I don’t want to.”

That throws Charles off more than shouting ever would. They stand there for a second, awkward and heavy with things neither of them have said right.

Oscar sighs and looks past Charles, into the room, just enough to clock Max sitting on the bed, he looks wrecked. Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t stare. Just exists.

Oscar looks back at Charles. “You’ve been… gone,” he says. “And I don’t know how to say that without sounding like an asshole.”

“I didn’t mean to disappear.”

“I know,” Oscar says. “That’s the worst part. You never mean to.”

There’s a beat. Then Oscar’s voice cracks just slightly. “I miss you. I miss us. And every time I see you with him, it feels like… I’m already being replaced.”

Charles steps closer, instinctively. “Osc—”

“I know, I know,” Oscar says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re allowed to be happy. I’m not trying to take that away from you.” He laughs once, humourless. “I just didn’t realise how scared I was of losing you until I already felt like I had.”

Charles’s shoulders sag. The anger he’s been bracing for never comes. Just this quiet ache.

“I’m not leaving,” he says firmly. “I’m just… learning how to love Max right and still be your friend.”

Oscar looks at him for a long moment. Really looks. “You’re different with him,” he admits. “Not bad-different. Just….”

Charles smiles sadly. “He makes it everything easy.”

Oscar nods, slow. “Yeah. I can see that.”

“I’m trying,” Oscar says. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just… don’t know how to fit into this yet.”

Charles reaches out, grips his arm. “We’ll figure it out. But you have to stop making me feel small when I want to be with him.”

Oscar winces. “Fair.”

From behind Charles, Max moves a little. Oscar glances at him again. This time, he doesn’t scoff. “Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “I’m not great at this. But… thanks for not making him choose.”

Max nods once. “I won’t.”

Oscar exhales. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll… give you space. I just needed to say that.”

When he leaves, Charles closes the door slowly and leans back against it, eyes shut.

Max is there in seconds, arms around him, familiar and safe. “You okay?” Max asks.

Charles nods into his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think we just grew up a little.”

Max kisses his hair. “Proud of you.” Charles smiles.

Max goes home buzzing in a way that won’t settle. Restless. Horny in the sharp, urgent way. A low hum under his skin. Charles’s voice. Charles’s hands. The way Charles had looked at him like asking wasn’t shameful, like wanting was allowed.

Max lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying it all in fragments that won’t line up properly. Charles on his lap. Charles, blushing so hard. The way he’d whispered kiss me like it was both a request and a truth.

His thoughts drift. Wander. Get dangerous. 

He imagines what it would feel like to kiss Charles everywhere, just like he had asked. Imagines what it would feel like if Charles didn’t stop at asking. Imagines the weight of him, the heat, the way Charles trembles when he’s overwhelmed. The images blur into feeling more than pictures, and Max groans softly, rolling onto his side, embarrassed even alone.

“Get a grip,” he mutters to himself, pressing his face into the pillow.

He doesn’t sleep much.

The next day at school, Charles finds him immediately. 

“Hey,” Charles says, bright, easy, leaning in close like always.

Max freezes for half a second too long.

He looks anywhere but Charles’s eyes. At the lockers. At the floor. At the space just over Charles’s shoulder. His neck is warm. His ears burn.

Charles tilts his head. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Max says too fast. “Totally.”

Charles watches him like he can see the thoughts Max is trying to shove back into his skull. A slow smile creeps onto his face. Curious. Knowing.

“You’re being weird,” Charles says softly.

Max swallows. “Am not.”

Charles steps closer, lowering his voice. “Did you… dream about me last night?”

Max’s entire system short-circuits.

He finally meets Charles’s eyes and immediately regrets it. Those green eyes are warm, teasing, unreadable in the way that means Charles already knows the answer.

“Shut up,” Max mutters, mortified.

Charles beams. Completely, unapologetically delighted. “Oh,” he says, pleased. “I did too.”

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face as Charles laughs and hooks their fingers together like this is the most natural thing in the world.

And Max realises, with equal parts dread and wonder, that he is absolutely doomed.

They’re sitting on the low wall behind the gym, legs dangling, backpacks forgotten. It’s that awkward after-school quiet where everything feels too honest.

Charles is kicking his heel against the bricks, glancing sideways at Max every few seconds.

“You’ve been weird,” he says finally.

Max groans. “Please don’t start with that.”

“I’m not judging,” Charles says quickly. “I’m… curious. There’s a difference.”

Max rubs his face. “I just— God. This is embarrassing.”

“Oh. Now I have to know.”

Max shoots him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” Charles admits, smiling. “Okay. A lot.”

Max stares at the ground for a long moment, then blurts, “I thought about you. Like. A lot. Yesterday.”

Charles slowly turns to him. “Oh?”

Max’s ears go red instantly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Charles asks innocently, leaning closer. “I’m just listening.”

Max exhales sharply. “I had this stupid fantasy. And now I can’t look at you without wanting to crawl into a hole.”

Charles’s grin widens. “Was I nice to you in this fantasy?”

Max blushes. “You were unbearably HOT.”

Charles beams. “That tracks.”

“You wouldn’t stop smiling,” Max continues despite himself. “And you kept saying my name like it was….”

Charles softens a little at that. “It turned you on… the way I said your name?”

“Yes,” Max says immediately, then groans again. “See? This is why I shouldn’t talk.”

Charles nudges his knee. “You’re doing great. Keep going.”

Max glares. “You’re fishing.”

“I am absolutely fishing,” Charles says cheerfully. “And you’re biting.”

Max sighs. “You looked at me like…. And I thought—” He stops, embarrassed. “I thought maybe you’d get bored of me. And then I woke up feeling stupid.”

Charles goes quiet for half a second.

Then he smiles, gentle and warm. “Max. If I ever get bored of you, I’ll let you know. Loudly. With a PowerPoint.”

Max laughs despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

Charles leans in, bumping his shoulder against Max’s. “For the record,” he says lightly, “you’re allowed to fantasise about me.”

Max blinks. “I am?”

“Absolutely,” Charles says, very serious now. “No guilt. No shame. I’m very fantasise-able.”

Max laughs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Charles grins, leans in and whispers into his ear. “And if you ever want to tell me about it again…” He shrugs. “I won’t complain. I want details.”

Max’s face goes pink all over. “God, you’re going to ruin me.”

Charles smiles, soft and pleased. “Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”

They’re sitting on the steps outside the theatre wing, backs against the wall, Charles half-curled into Oscar’s side like muscle memory never forgot how.

Oscar stiffens for half a second, then lets it happen.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Oscar says, not looking at him.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Oscar scoffs. “You vanished.”

“I didn’t vanish,” Charles says quickly. “I just—” He falters, then leans in closer, fingers gripping the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie. “I missed you. So much. And every time I saw you, it felt like you were already mad at me.”

Oscar finally looks at him. Charles’s eyes are bright, too earnest, too open.

“You didn’t tell me anything anymore,” Oscar says. “Everything was just… Max.”

Charles nods immediately. “I know. And that’s the problem. I wanted to tell you everything. I wanted to talk about him. About how weird and scary and amazing it feels. And you felt so far away that it made it worse.”

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re clinging,” he mutters. “You know that, right?”

Charles winces. “Yeah. I do. But I cling when I’m happy too. Not just when I’m scared.” He tightens his hold just a little. “You’re my best friend, Osc. You don’t get replaced. Ever.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. “It feels like I did.”

“I didn’t mean to make it feel that way,” Charles says softly. “I swear. But you pulling away is ruining it for me. I feel like I have to choose between being excited about Max and not losing you.”

Oscar swallows. That lands. “I just wanted you to still want me,” Oscar admits, voice lower now. “Like… before.”

Charles shifts so he’s facing him properly, knees knocking together. “I still do. That didn’t change. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like I was apologising for being happy.”

 “Okay,” he says. “Tell me.”

Charles lifts his head, surprised. “Tell you… what?”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite in it. “About him. You’ve been vibrating for weeks. I might as well hear it properly.”

Charles’s face lights up immediately. He tries to hide it. Fails.

“Okay,” he says, breathless already. “But don’t laugh.”

“I won’t,” Oscar says. “I promise.”

Charles smiles, small and fond, like he’s opening something precious. “He’s really quiet when he’s nervous. Like, he gets all stiff and forgets to blink. And then he says the most blunt thing you’ve ever heard and immediately regrets it.”

Oscar snorts despite himself. “That tracks.”

“And he listens,” Charles continues, warming to it. “Like actually listens. Not waiting for his turn to talk. If I say something once, he remembers it forever. He remembered my favourite ice cream flavour from when we were ten.”

Oscar goes still. “Seriously?”

Charles nods eagerly. “And he’s so careful with me. Even when he’s being sarcastic or grumpy, he always checks my face first. Like he wants to make sure I’m okay before he keeps going.”

Charles hesitates for half a second, like he’s checking himself. Then he exhales and just… keeps going. “And kissing him,” he says, softer now, almost shy. “It’s not like I imagined it would be. It’s not messy or rushed. He’s… careful. Like he’s asking permission even when he doesn’t need to.”

Oscar tilts his head, listening. Really listening. “You notice everything.”

Charles says quietly. “He’s gentle even when it’s intense. He cups my face like I’ll disappear if he doesn’t. And when I get flustered, he pulls back instead of pushing. It makes me feel… safe.”

That word hangs between them. “I wanted to run to you after the first time,” Charles admits, laughing softly at himself. “Like immediately. I kept thinking, Osc has to know this. That it’s not just in my head anymore.”

Oscar glances at him. “Why didn’t you?”

Charles shrugs. “I thought you’d think I was being dramatic. Or that it was just… hormones.”

Oscar winces. “Yeah. I might’ve.”

Charles smiles, not unkind. “I know. But saying it out loud to you now makes it real. Like… it’s not just mine anymore. It’s true. He’s real. What I feel is real.”

Oscar is quiet for a long moment. “He sounds… good to you.”

“He is,” Charles says immediately. “He’s so cute when he gets shy. He pretends he’s not, but he is. And he always checks if I’m okay. Even when we’re just kissing.”

Oscar looks away for a second, then back. “Does he make you happy?”

Charles doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes. So much it’s scary.”

Oscar sighs, long and slow. “Okay.”

That’s it. Just okay. And that’s enough for Charles. “Thank you for listening.”

Oscar hesitates, then pats his arm awkwardly. “Yeah. Well. I wanted to understand.”

Charles smiles, eyes closing for a second. “I think you would like him,” he says softly. “If you let yourself.”

Oscar looks away, then back, something complicated passing over his face. “I’m glad you told me.”

Charles leans in again, resting his head on Oscar’s shoulder. “Me too. It feels like… now it’s actually happening.”

And for the first time in days, Charles doesn’t feel like he’s holding two worlds apart.

It happens awkwardly. Of course it does. Max is at his locker, shoving books in with more force than necessary, when Oscar appears beside him like he’s been there the whole time.

“Hey,”

Max stiffens. “Hey.”

A beat. Two boys who have spent weeks orbiting the same person, never quite colliding.

Oscar clears his throat. “Charles told me… stuff.”

Max’s jaw tightens. “Right.”

“About you,” Oscar adds quickly. “About how you are with him.”

Max risks a glance. Oscar isn’t smirking. Isn’t rolling his eyes. He looks… uncomfortable. Which somehow makes it worse.

“He likes you,” Oscar says flatly. “A lot.”

Max smirks. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Another pause.

“I was kind of a jerk,” Oscar admits, staring at the floor. “About it. About you.”

Max blinks. That was not on his bingo card. “You didn’t give me a chance,” Max says, not unkindly, just honest. “You decided things for him.”

Oscar winces. “I know.”

Max shuts his locker, finally facing him properly. “I’m not trying to take him away from you. Or break your friendship. I just… want him to be happy.”

Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “For what it’s worth… I was wrong. About you being a silly crush.”

Max’s heart stutters, just a little.

“And,” Oscar adds, quieter, “you do make him happy. It’s really annoying. It’s gross.”

Max smiles before he can stop himself.

Oscar notices. “Okay, wow. Don’t make that face. I take it back.”

They both laugh, tension cracking at the edges.

“I’m still figuring my stuff out,” Oscar says finally. “But I don’t want to make him feel like he’s punished for being happy.”

Max nods.

Oscar sticks out his hand, hesitant. “Truce?”

Max looks at it for a second. Then shakes it. Firm. Real. “Truce,” he says.

And somewhere down the corridor, Charles is watching them with barely contained hope on his face, like this small, clumsy effort might actually mean everything.

Charles appeared from the path like a storm cloud in human form.

His bag was slung low, curls a mess, mouth pulled into a deep, theatrical frown. Max clocked it instantly. The shift in his posture. The way his shoulders slumped just a little too much. He wanted, instinctively, to reach out. To pull Charles closer. To make him smile.

Charles leaned just slightly toward Max and then stopped himself, glancing at Oscar instead. Things were still fragile. He didn’t want Oscar to feel like he was being pushed aside. 

So he sighed loudly and announced to the group, “He hated my composition.”

Oscar looked up, smirked immediately. “Well,” he said, pleased, “it’s the first time Mr Byers hasn’t thought something you did was perfect. That probably means he wants you to improve. Maybe you should actually listen to the feedback for once?”

Charles groaned, flopping backward onto his elbows. “He said it’s too… nice. Too cheerful. Too sappy. Like there’s no depth to it.”

He yanked at a blade of grass, then another, sulking openly.

Lando rolled onto his side, propping his head up. “You’ll figure it out, Charles,” he said gently. “You always do.”

Charles didn’t answer. Just kept pulling at the grass, frown deepening.

Max watched him for a beat. Then, quietly, like it was just for the two of them, he asked, “Do you like it?”

Charles turned to him immediately. The sulk melted. His face transformed, eyes lighting up, hands coming alive as if he couldn’t help himself.

“I love it,” he said, words tumbling out. “It’s joyful and melodic and really pleasant. It feels like sunshine on your face, like when it’s warm but not blinding, and you don’t want the moment to end—”

Max smiled, small but certain. “Then that’s all that matters,” he said. “Fuck his opinion. It’s your composition. You decide what it should be.”

Charles blinked. Then his mouth curved up, dimples carving deep into his cheeks, the storm gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Right. I will.”

Oscar watched the exchange in silence.

Watched how Max hadn’t tried to impress, hadn’t joked, hadn’t competed. He’d just… listened. Asked the right question. Given Charles exactly what he needed without taking up space.

Something in Oscar shifted, slow and uncomfortable.

Max wasn’t disinterested. He wasn’t just there. He cared. And not in a loud way. Not in a way that demanded attention.

That care, though. Only for Charles.

Max barely had one knee on the windowsill before Charles started. “Take off your shirt.”

The command was firm, it hit Max like a physical thing. His whole body went still, breath catching somewhere high in his chest. For a second, instinct screamed at him to joke it away, to deflect, to stall.

Instead, he nodded. “Okay.”

He tugged the shirt over his head, movements awkward from the narrow space, fabric snagging briefly before it came free. Cool air kissed his skin. Vulnerability followed close behind.

Charles was already on his knees at the edge of the bed, watching him with an intensity that made Max’s pulse spike. Hunger, greed. And focus. 

Like Charles had decided something important and nothing was going to distract him now.

He stood there, shirt in his hands, unsure where to put them, where to put himself.

Charles reached for him. “Come here,” he said, an invitation and a demand. Max obeyed.

His hands came up slowly, deliberately, fingertips hovering before they touched. When they did, it was feather-light. A question. A promise.

Max shivered.

“Can I?” 

Max nodded, throat tight. “Yeah.”

Charles shifted closer, close enough that Max could feel the heat of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He lifted Max’s arm gently, like it might break if handled wrong.

“This one,” Charles murmured, tracing a thin mark along his bicep. “What happened?”

Max exhaled through his nose. “Dad. Grip was wrong. He got angry.”

Charles’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Were you scared?”

Max hesitated. Then, quieter, “I was mostly scared it wouldn’t be the only one.”

Charles swallowed. He leaned in and kissed the scar, slow and deliberate, lips pressing like a vow. When he pulled back, his hand stayed there, protective.

“You were always enough, Max” he said simply. “You’re enough for me.”

Max’s breath shook. Charles moved on.

A faint bruise-shadow near his ribs. Older. Almost gone.

“And this?”

Max said. “He made me carry the kart by myself. I dropped it. He said I was weak.”

Charles’s fingers curled, careful, like he wanted to shield the memory itself. “Did anyone help you?”

Max shook his head.

Charles kissed it desperately. Then again. And again. Softer each time. “I would’ve helped you,” he whispered, like he was talking to a younger version of Max who might still be listening.

Another scar. Lower, near his hip.

Charles paused longer this time. “This looks bad.”

Max’s mouth twisted. “He made me keep racing when the seatbelt… broke. I said I couldn’t breathe properly.”

Charles looked up at him sharply. “And?”

“And he said pain builds champions.”

Charles’s eyes burned with tears. He reached up, cupped Max’s face without thinking, thumb brushing his cheek. “You were a child,” he said, voice breaking just a little.

Max leaned into the touch before he could stop himself.

Charles kissed that scar like it mattered. Like it deserved an apology. Like Max deserved one.

Each question came gently.

Did it hurt?
Were you alone?
Did anyone tell you to stop?
Did you want to cry?

And Max answered.

Sometimes with words. Sometimes with nods. Sometimes with a shaky breath that said more than either.

Some scars were pale ghosts, barely there anymore. Others were newer, angrier, still carrying heat beneath the skin. Each time Charles asked. Each time he listened. Each time he kissed them better.

Max had never had anyone do this.

Never had anyone slow down for his pain. Never had anyone treat his body like it was worth understanding.

With every answer, Charles touched him like he was rewriting something. Fingers first, light and reverent. Then lips, warm and unhurried, following the same path as his hands, like memory and healing layered together.

When Charles reached a mark near his shoulder, fresher, Max’s voice came out rougher. “Yesterday.”

The word sat heavy between them. Charles’s hands stilled.

Then he leaned in, resting his forehead briefly against Max’s chest, like he needed a second too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He kissed that scar last. Longest. Like an apology written in warmth. Max’s guard cracked quietly.

A sound slipped out of him before he could stop it, low and helpless, his body leaning into Charles without permission from his brain.  And Charles smiled softly, like that sound was a gift.

Max stopped bracing. Stopped waiting for it to turn into something else. He let himself feel it.

He felt exposed. Seen. Safe.

Charles smiled up at him, soft and devastating. “You can make noise,” he said gently. “I want to hear you.”

That did it.

Max’s fingers tangled in Charles’s hair without thinking, breath coming uneven now, every brush of lips sending sensation spiraling. 

He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t bracing. He was responding. Trusting.

“You can tell me everything,” Charles said against his skin. “I will always listen. I won’t leave.”

Max believed him.

Charles kissed up his chest, not rushed, not claiming, just learning. Max let himself whine this time, quiet but honest, because he wanted Charles to know. Wanted him to feel it. How much he wanted this. How much he wanted him.

When Charles finally looked up, eyes dark with something tender and fierce, Max didn’t hide. He met his gaze.

By the time Charles rested his forehead against Max’s chest, arms wrapped loosely around him, Max was shaking. Not from fear.

From relief. From being seen. From being touched like he wasn’t something to be hardened, trained, or endured.

Just something precious.

Charles stayed there, holding him, breathing with him, until Max’s heartbeat slowed.

Then, softly, like a promise meant for both of them, Charles whispered, “I’ve got you now.”

And for the first time in his life, being adored didn’t feel dangerous. It felt like coming home.